Unexpected Grace

Nancy looked at me over her right shoulder as she bent over the sink, pausing in her task of peeling par-boiled tomatoes and cutting them up for salsa, and asked, "Since when does your hobby become my full-time job?" Looking as innocent and confused as possible (actually, a normal state for me most of the time), I responded, "What are you talking about?"

It was then that she turned around, a half cut tomato in one hand and a medium knife in the other, and gave me 'the look'. You know 'the look'. 'The look' is somewhere between amused benevolence and irritated henchman. Nancy looked at me for a full fifteen seconds as though wondering from which parallel universe I had suddenly emerged (and, when you are receiving 'the look', fifteen seconds is a long time during which you know intuitively you are NOT to speak), then she said, "You are the one who loves to garden. You are the one who writes about the garden. You are the one who waters the garden. But, I am the one who has to take everything you bring out of the garden and prepare it for the table, can it or freeze it, so we can have it in the winter. It's just like the two dogs we have. You had to have them and told me how you would take care of them and, now, I'm the one who regularly vacuums the floor." And, there she stopped. She didn't have to say another word. I knew what she was saying, though that isn't exactly the way I perceive such things . . . still, I knew this wasn't the moment to make my case, especially when she suddenly started laughing, and said, "But, that's why I love you!"

Ah, sweet, grace-filled redemption!

'The look' melted away, Nancy turned back towards the sink to continue the process of preparation, and I was left standing, not wanting to leave as I pondered just how much I love this woman with whom I have shared so much over the last 36 years, and not wanting to stay for fear the redemption would be repealed. Uncertain which way to turn, I walked up behind her and gave her a hug, then went on to the job that had beckoned me in the first place.

There is something incredibly sweet, powerfully tender, and amazingly broad and deep about receiving grace undeserved. I knew what Nancy was talking about, yet to acknowledge that would have commensurate with having to say, 'You are absolutely correct and I have been remiss in my duties', which no self-respecting man would ever say, though we know we should. (Just kidding!!) Still, there are times words simply are inadequate. There are times the best thing a man can say, I can say, is nothing, which is why I hugged her. Hugs are the non-verbal way of covering a lot of ground, of receiving and acknowledging grace and forgiveness, of binding over the wounds which are obvious to the world, of moving towards peace and understanding, of expressing a depth of love the rest of the world would never be able to perceive. Hugs are a gift of God and are best served warm and often.

How do I know this? We have all been hugged by God. Not everyone acknowledges it, not everyone knows it, but we have all been hugged by God. The Living Word came silently one night and entered into the milieu of our living, received the incredulity of our gaze, took on the ignorance of our behaviors and, then, impossibly, gathered our pain and hurt into God's own arms and did for us what we could not do for ourselves: God buried the past in the embrace of our future as a stone rolled away from an empty tomb. God hugged us into new life then, and continues to do so each day through Jesus Christ and the Spirit.

Ah, sweet, grace-filled redemption!

I believe this is what heaven must be: Forgiveness we never expected to receive, followed by a hug we never imagined possible. Kind of like the story of the Prodigal Son coming home to his Father. Maybe that is why Jesus told that parable.

Thank you, Nancy, for embodying it for me - and thank you God, for a wife who knows You by name and lives your example each day. May it be so for us all.

Herb's Birthday

On the day Nancy, Matt, Ray and I moved to Culver, Indiana where I had accepted a call to serve Grace United Church of Christ as their Pastor & Teacher, we found ourselves overwhelmed by the task facing us. No, I am not speaking of the Grace UCC faith family, they were, and are, a great congregation! I'm speaking of unpacking our meager goods and possessions in a foreign land.


Having never lived anywhere away from our home town, Nancy and I were filled with more than just a bit of trepidation as to what this move would mean for our family and unpacking our boxes only made 'home' even farther away. Matt and Ray saw our move as just another adventure and Ray wanted to know what part of the parsonage was ours to live in . . . for up to that moment Ray had only known life in an apartment building shared with others who lived in the same building. The concept of having a whole house for just our family to live in hadn't even crossed his radar. As he said it, "We lived in the Governor's House in Marissa and now we get to live in our own house!" (We lived in government housing for eight years while Nancy and I completed our education, thus his comment.)

While the kids explored the neighborhood, we set at unpacking and settling in. On one of my forays outside I heard someone calling me from across the yards, "Hey, neighbor! My name is Herb Kissell and my wife, Dottie, and I were wondering if you would like to join us for dinner this evening. I've got plenty of meat on the grill and you all would be welcome to join us!" There is much more to this story which will be saved for another time, but those first words Herb Kissell spoke to the newest of the resident aliens in Culver, Indiana will never be forgotten, for Herb and Dottie not only saved our lives that evening, in doing so, they became some of the best friends we have. Herb & Dottie, along with their children, Jon, Paul, Angie, and Andrew . . . along with their dog, Bud, taught us the meaning of community, the necessity to look out for each other, and introduced us to the joy which is found in backyard friends and family . . . lessons we have never forgotten and will always cherish with their lives in our hearts.

Today is Herb's birthday and I figure the best gift I can give him (besides a handle of Jim Beam!) is the gift of reminding him how much his life has, and continues to, transform others. Herb grew up in the shadow of Notre Dame in South Bend and he learned from his parents the need for faith lived well, the priority of Christianity practiced next door, and the power of open arms ready to embrace another as he has been embraced in Christ. Since first we met, I don't know that I can name you another person who connects with so many with such ease. That evening we first sat at their dining room table stays as close to my heart as does the story of Jesus with the disciples in the Upper Room for, truly, those events are more alike than different, if for no other reason than in both places the table always has room for more and feeds the soul as much as the body. We should all be so named and known, both by the Christ of our faith and by Herb Kissell of Culver, Indiana.

Herb is a year older than dirt and, not that I'm anticipating anything or hurrying things along, but I have a sneaking suspicion that, when Herb's time comes to meet our Maker, he will be very, very much at home in what happens there because he has always practiced it here on earth . . . and I and our family are among the blessed recipients of his care. I only pray to be able to pass on the gift as I have received it, for that is the truest compliment I could ever give, both to Christ and Herb. As I remember those moments this day, so I live to serve each day.

Happy birthday, my friend! You are a gift of God!

Stopping the Insanity

It is said that the definition of insanity is, "Doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results."

The other day as I was driving to the hospitals in Belleville, Illinois, I stopped at a light and, as I glanced across the lanes of traffic, a young lady who was also waiting at the light in another lane opened her window and threw out a wad of papers. I'm not talking about a chewing gum wrapper, I'm talking about standard sheets of paper, wadded up and unattached to each other. Blithely she rolled her window up and drove away, the papers scattering in the wind whirling through the intersection.

I sat transfixed, hardly believing what I had seen, when the light turned green and traffic, myself included, moved on. In my rearview mirror I watched the papers continue to scatter in the hustle and bustle of the daily grind and wondered aloud, 'Is it a wonder we are where we are?'

Now I realize that this young lady (a term I am using very loosely here) does not speak or act for all of society yet, hers is a voice, hers is an action, an indicator of assumed collective moral acceptability. It is as if she looked around at all of us at that intersection and proclaimed, 'My trash is your trash.'

Have I ever done stupid things, unthinking things before? Absolutely! There are moments of my life and behaviors I would dearly love to be able to 're-do'. Have I ever 'dumped the trash of my life in a public setting and just drove away' hoping someone else would take care of it? Absolutely. Shame-faced, absolutely. Still, there was something about this person's demeanor which caught me and stays with me even today: She didn't care. She flat-out didn't care who saw her, where her trash went, or what the ramifications on others would be. She didn't care . . . and you could see it in her face. She had other places to be, other things to do, bigger responsibilities to bear. Trash wasn't in her job description.

The definition of insanity is, "Doing the same thing over and over again, expecting the same results."

It would be insane of me to expect this young lady to change. Some would say it would be insane of me to have stopped in the middle of traffic and picked up the paper and, honestly, I wish I had, because that may be the only way to stop the insanity. We have to change the behavior and, if changing the behavior of others is not realistically possible, we have to at least change our own behavior. Isn't that what the story of the Good Samaritan is all about? One person changed what everyone else said was alright to do then, all of a sudden, a new paradigm of understanding was born. Heaven broke in, even if only for a moment.

I'm feeling ready to stop some insanity and let heaven break in. How about you?

There Is A Look In A Farmer's Eyes . . .

There is a look in a farmer's eyes . . .


Over ninety-nine percent of our nation, and much of the world, depends on the vocational determination, raw strength, faith, love and vision of farmers, who are less than one percent of our population. Think about that. Cultural financial icons, whom the economic lords deem the privileged '1 percent' of our nation, don't have enough money in their scattered accounts and investments to equal the driving power of the less than one percent who feed the world. Think about it. When was the last time you ate a dollar bill and felt filled by it? A hundred dollar bill? Maybe a thousand dollar bill would fill you? There isn't a stock market broker or company on Wall Street more powerful, more reliable, or more capable of meeting your body's truest need than a farmer . . . yet, our world worships the ground financial advisers walk on, providing them with compensation packages that, at best, could be considered as bizarre, all in the name of 'market value'.

Well, what is the market value of the food you eat, the nutrition your body requires, the sustenance you depend upon? What is the essential price you would pay for the fuel you need to see you through the day? Time after time, we have seen the pictures of the 'poor, poor souls in other lands' whom nature has deprived of favorable weather and a lack of education has cheated out of the means to meet their needs - and time after time we have commented, 'How sad. How very, very sad and unfortunate.' Though many work tirelessly to meet the needs in such places, giving generously of themselves and their resources, seldom do we in these privileged United States spend much time relating to their stories as one which might become our own. Yet, such a time of relating may be closer than we dare imagine . . .

There is a look in a farmer's eyes . . .

I think it was in 1983, our family farm near Marissa, Illinois was part of an area which received very little rain throughout the growing season. In October of that year, as I was preparing a nearby field for wheat sowing, Dad drove the combine into an 18 acre field of corn adjacent to where I was working and began to shell corn. He shelled both headlands and made, as I recall, four rounds in the field before he had enough in the hopper to unload into the waiting truck. As he emptied the hopper, I pulled my rig alongside his and waiting for him. Idling the combine, Dad stepped out of the combine cab, tears running down his cheeks, and said in a halting voice, "This is bad. It's been a long time since I have seen something like this." Then, he could say no more. He didn't have to, his silence spoke volumes. I have never forgotten that moment and now, facing a drought in the Midwest of nearly unprecedented proportions, both geographically and economically, with another four days of 100+ temperatures and no chance of rain expected, I am bracing for what I fear many, many among us will see in a farmer's eyes.

There is no way to convey to ninety-nine percent of the nation, much less the world, what less than one percent of the population is anticipating but, suffice it to say, the look in many a farmer's eyes in this region should give one hundred percent of the people in the world reason to pause. There are changes coming in the food supply, if for no other reason than what once has been taken for granted as being abundantly available, in all likelihood will no longer be true. The drought and heat of 2012 may well be written into the annals of history as a watershed moment (pardon the pun) in both American and world development. Shrewd and diligent market analysts are already driving up the commodity markets in anticipation of what will not be produced this year . . . and if you think the rallies on Wall Street over the last couple of months regarding bank loans were huge, imagine the anger and resentment which will be kindled over rising food prices and shorter funds on which to live.

There is a look in a farmer's eyes . . .

The look in the farmer's eyes in this part of the world has much to do with disappointment, frustration, anger, faith, hope, pride, and a brooding sense of failure . . . all centered in their heartfelt vocational call to provide nourishment for the world in a changing environmental climate. It is a look with which many of us can relate and one which deserves our deepest respect and support.

Yet, among us are those whose eyes gleam at the notion of riches to be made in a market of shortage. Some would call them 'market savvy', some might call them profit-takers, some might even call them knowledgeable and calculating yet, regardless of what they are called, the lives of many will intimately depend upon the decisions of a few - and the less-than-one-percent who grow the food are going to be a part of the ninety nine percent who will have to stand, hat in hand, hopeful to afford to live as once they lived. For you see, in the farmer's eyes is reflected the ever present reality that they sell their commodities wholesale and buy everything they need retail. In years such as this, what you see in a farmer's eyes is the injustice of their vocation reflected against the hope of their deepest faith. In years such as this, the injustice shines more brightly than ever and despair threatens the thinnest threads of hope.

There is a look in a farmer's eyes . . . and we all would be well served to heed it. For in recognizing the challenges which those who produce our food face this day, we can be responsibly proactive in both, seeing to equitable distribution of resources for all and fairly supporting those upon whose labors our very lives depend . . . and I am not talking about the stock market.

There is a look in a farmer's eyes . . . I pray you see it, too.

After Aurora

My prayers are with the victims and their families and friends of Aurora, Colorado. I am praying, also, for the shooter and his family and friends. Such pain and heartbreak. Such indescribable isolation and grief for all.


Over the course of the last few days I have listened intently to the news broadcasts about the events of that night in a place which seems so far away, yet brought next door through the technology of our day. Time after time, the horrific details are presented by newscasters trying to view a tragedy from every possible angle and, time after time, the unblinking eye of the camera is simply incapable of capturing the crimson of the blood, the torn flesh, the fading horror of the screams, or the acrid smell of a gunpowder filled auditorium. Truth be told, I'm not sure many of us could stand it if they could.

We are the incidental observers of disaster, wanting to know every detail, wanting to assist where we can . . . and desiring to place blame as quickly as possible, so as to assuage our personal and corporate consciences of any connection to what has happened. If we can blame the shooter, if we can name the company who supplied him with his protective apparel, if we can identify the places from which he bought his weapons, and if we can take a stance against the way this person acted, then maybe we have named the evil and sheltered ourselves from it ever touching us or being related to our lives. "Could it be me? No, it couldn't be me!" is our collective mantra, much like the disciples on the night Jesus was betrayed.

Guns. "If we could just outlaw guns!", a number of people of said. I suspect there were quite a few folk around in the days our Lord walked the earth who thought similar things about crosses. "Damn crosses! Those things should be outlawed!" I suspect, too, if we could have things our way, the same would be said about incendiary devices, tanks, bombs, landmines, drones, missiles and warships, much as in days gone by people said the same about arrows, spears, jagged war clubs and even pointed stones. 'If only we could take away or properly regulate access to such things, everything would be alright.' Thus, was birthed the party planks upon which politicians of every age have stood. Still, the problem remains that no-one is certain how to name or address: the human condition.

Since Cain rose up against Abel and slew him over a perceived slight, humankind has been in the business of killing. Killing for property, over mates, for money, for power, over food, even for the notoriety it can bring . . . you name it, humanity has and will kill for it. Weapons are a means to an end. It matters little which weapon is at hand when one person or a group of persons desire a way to make their point or to accomplish their task. Pointing our fingers at guns and saying, 'There, that's the problem!' when something like Aurora, Colorado occurs is like picking up a book of matches or a lighter when an arsonist works their evil and saying, 'Here! This is the problem!'

No, my friends, the problem is far deeper than either guns or matches. Fact is, I am not nearly qualified to name it, but I know it when I see it. You do, too. The problem manifests itself in many ways, insidiously weaving itself into and through the very fabric of every one of our lives, so tightly so, that to name it is to implicate the sin of our own living and that would simply be too painful. So, it is easier to legislate the means by which evil does its work, then to identify the complicity we have in the issue.

That we not get lost in the depth of despair of such a truth, God comes to us in Jesus. God takes on our humanity. God shows a higher way, a more intimate manner to live in relationship with the other. God honors the spirit in each one with the Holy Spirit for each one . . . and we are called the do the same.

Where honoring the integrity of God's creation in each other breaks down, crosses rise up. Guns are fired. Matches are lit. Food is not shared. Medical attention is not given. Water is not poured out. Strangers are not welcomed. The sick are not given care. Good News is not spoken to the imprisoned . . . and we can name such moments with terms like Holocaust, World Wars Ruanda, Ethiopia, Apartheid, World Trade Center, and now, Aurora, Colorado . . . and in the end, both victim and aggressor are left diminished, grief-stricken and despairing. For the victim, the violence of being selected and marginalized is crushing and, for the aggressor, the violence is seldom enough.

Yes, I guess the press and the masses are right. It is easier to address gun control and what kinds of weapons are available to what kinds of people, than it is to say we are a part of the problem. Yet, it is in the moment of confession, in the humility of admitting we are complicit in the crosses of every age, of this age, that finally, fully, we can become a part of the solution. It is not until we dare to see the other with the eyes of Jesus that we will ever be truly free and it will not be until we dare to walk the faith with Jesus that we know the joy of fully living. In such moments true change occurs in creation, but until we move there we will never know.

My prayers are with the victims and their families and friends in Aurora, Colorado. May God's Peace, Love and Grace keep each of them. And, may God forgive the part of James Holmes that is in every one of us . . . which deepens my awe of the Christ who said, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

Refreshed!

I have been watered by the children.


Ever go into your garden or out onto your lawn and know just by looking at it that it needs water? Such has been my life and spirit lately. I have needed watering. I have been found wanting for refreshment and nurture. I have been dry of heart and short of stamina in my spirit for some time now, but only recently have been able to name it. In talking with my wife, Nancy, a week or two ago about a growing urgency for some prolonged time away, her immediate response was, "Well, I could have told you that. You haven't taken more than a couple of days here or there since last November and you are starting to get short with everyone, including me."

Well, there it is . . . I am in need of watering, much like the crops in the fields of this region in the midst of the drought. Jesus went up to the mountain to get away, even stole away a few moments to sleep in the front of the boat during a storm . . . and I don't have the good sense to do the same.

Then I received a phone call from a friend and colleague in ministry, Rev. John Holst, whose daughter is organizing special programs for a Science Camp at DuBois Conference and Retreat Center, our Illinois South Conference, UCC, church camp near DuBois, Illinois. John called asking me to put on a one hour program for 4th and 5th graders focused on a faith based understanding of the drought. I told him I thought I knew a few farmers who could do a better job, but he persisted in his request for me to do it since he thought I could give it a faith based understanding. I thought, 'Who better to talk about a drought than one who is feeling pretty dry.' So, this morning I journeyed to DuBois Center and met with 14 young folks who stole my heart and managed to water my thirsting soul.

Fourteen pre-teens in their second day of camp, feeling their awkwardness with each other as strangers, yet wanting to coalesce as a group, bonded by their knowledge and experiences, hungering only for more than what the world offers, and led by an incredibly international group of young men and women, met with me after their morning 'Blast' of Bible study and craft time. Fourteen young folks with the temerity to sign up for a Science Camp in a Church Camp setting. Fourteen young folk who, in their home and school settings are the ones who will be voted by their classmates and families alike, "The Ones Most Likely to Succeed". Fourteen children of God who, quite truthfully, scared the bee-jeebers out of me for what they already knew and would be expecting of me in talking about the current drought . . . and this morning I faced them with only a half dozen dead soybean plants and one dried up corn plant in hand - and the Spirit of God at work in this place.

We started out planting Marigold seeds in moist dark soil near Oak Lodge, seeds which had been left on the concrete floor some minutes before by 'Doc' who had told them the Parable of the Sower. All had assumed those seeds would have no life and each had walked all over them, leaving them to the wind, the birds or whatever else might pick them up. Then, while they were working on crafts, I gathered them up in my hand, poured them back into the discarded Marigold package and waited for their attention. Once we were together, we took the recovered seeds and gave them the home they needed . . . and then the campers did the same with me.

The world, as seen through the eyes of 10 and 11 year olds, is an incredible world, indeed. They already understood drought, yet spoke in terms of hope. They understood the loss of crops and still believed in and spoke of 'God provides', Manna. They embraced the notion that less than one percent of our nation is actively engaged in agriculture, but also owned the reality that all people must share God's abundance and care for each other, no matter the vocation. They set their sights higher than the trees and sank their roots deeper than the span of those limbs below the ground. They announced the nurture of God's baptismal reign with waters of blessing, flowing mightily along the banks of my cracked and creviced soul, rescuing me from the heat and strain of days too long without relief.

I have been watered by the children, both in their laughter and questions.

I went to teach and was taught. I went to nurture and was saved. I went to lead and was led beside still waters. I went to share faith and, there, found mine restored.

I have been watered by the children and, though I know my own deep need for intentional Sabbath yet remains, now feel ready to serve another day. Thank you, DuBois Science Camp campers! More than ever I could have imagined, God is at work in you bringing rain where most it is needed. The drought may not be over in our region, but you have quenched this thirst of this one soul and I am grateful.

I have been watered by the children . . . and I pray you will be, too!

Grandpa's Grief

A couple of days ago my memory took me back to a place kept tucked away in the powerful images of childhood: I found myself sitting on the front porch of my childhood home, holding the hand of my Grandpa Triefenbach as he rocked gently back and forth upon the glider with big tears in his eyes. He had just received word that his best friend, Bill Deupke, had died and, as most stoic Germans do, he had gone to a place where he thought there was no-one else present to see his tears . . . and that is where I found him. The young boy I was I didn't know you shouldn't intrude on such moments, so I just went up the steps and asked, "What's wrong, Grandpa?" His lower lip trembled, the tears flowed even harder and not a word was spoken. Not receiving the answer I wanted, but sensing Grandpa's distress, I climbed up on the glider and sat beside him, holding his right hand in both of mine, allowing the world to go on by and for time to find its place of healing. Comfort would not come to Grandpa for quite a while and, being the kid I was, I stayed only until I sensed he wanted me to leave more than he wanted me to stay. Grandpa's grief and pain ran deep that day and, though I didn't understand it then, now I know that 'look' by name. Thinking back on those moments, I wish I could have been a better grandson, the one with just the right words, with just the right comfort, the one who could make it all better, yet those were not the gifts which were mine to give as a child. Mine was to sit there with him when all his world was darkness and loss. Mine was to be the accidental observer of death's long tentacles and, there, offer the innocent love only an adoring grandson can give.


Grandpa didn't live long after Bill's passing and today, looking back, I have a better sense of why: There is only so much a heart can endure.

The gift of Jesus, both in His life and teaching, extends to us the truth of our connectedness to all of God's creation, to all of our sisters and brothers around the world. We cannot ever journey alone in this life for we were never created to be alone. "No man is an island" is more than the title of a poem or a song, it is the steady reminder of our intimate weaving into the fabric of God's design. Each of us needs the other to fully live into the potential God has intended from the beginning. An afghan without all the yarn, without all the loops, is just pieces of fabric dumped in the corner, unusable by anyone. So, too with each of us.

Yet, among all those we know there are those who know us best, those with whom our lives are most tightly attached, those with whom we share the most joyous and the deepest of difficult times. These are the ones we call 'best friends', for they are among those we count on one hand. They are more than 'acquaintance', more than 'friend', and sometimes even more than 'sibling'. Sisters and brothers may share blood, but best friends share the DNA of life's journey, imbued with all the love, laughter and tears that may include. Even geography cannot separate us from the love of God . . . our best of all Friends, and as it is in heaven, may it be so on earth.

In the heat and intensity of Grandpa Triefenbach's tears I see my own life, my own relationships, my own friends. From his grief I am learning to count the blessings of those with whom I still share each day. From his broken heart I am taught, not to distance myself from others, nor to insulate my life from such pain, but to embrace the kind of caring which offers my heart to others in the same way, for therein is the greatest of gifts: To be loved as we love, to risk being mortally wounded for the grace to be received in the sweetness of caring so deeply.

Only those who have cried such tears, who have felt the pain of a broken heart, will ever be blessed to know exactly why God sent Jesus to roll away the stone of the tomb. The best of all Friends desires us to mourn no more. "What a Friend We Have In Jesus" . . . Thank you, God, for such friendship - and 'Thank you, Grandpa' for holding my hand and giving me such a gift that day, not so long ago. May it be so for us all.

You Are Not a Doctor's Diagnosis

In honor of a dear friend of mine:


A doctor's diagnosis has never defined you. Never has, never will.

When you were born, the doctor may have said to your sainted Mother, 'My condolences . . .' or 'It's a boy, but not sure how he'll turn out . . .' or even, 'Try taking this one home to show the neighbors . .', but no doctor's comments, no doctor's observations, and certainly no doctor's diagnosis ...has ever defined you. You have been defined by the God of your faith from the first.

You have also been defined by the choices you have made and by the man you have chosen to become. You have been defined by the love of the wonderful woman with which you have chosen to spend your life. You have been defined by the heart of love you shared with your daughter all her days. You have been defined by the sharpness of your wit, the keenness of your wisdom, the audacity of your will for life, your passion for the earth and all that dwells therein, and by your strength of character which has served as your moral, ethical and religious compass all your days. But, you have never been defined by a doctor's diagnosis. Never have, never will.

The most any doctor can do is articulate what your body is or is not doing. A doctor cannot diagnose your life. You, in the hands of God, are the only one who determines the veracity of your life, the power of your living, the authenticity of your existence, the reality of your being. A doctor's diagnosis can only speak to the parameters within which your body can express the fullness of your soul and, even then, a doctor's diagnosis cannot possibly perceive the internalized reservoir of pure grit and determination your heart seeks to express in the person you are still becoming.

You are not the sum of an X-ray, a cat-scan, an MRI, a pet-scan, or any other imaging technology through which you journey. You are not the sum of what a surgery can remove or chemotherapy and radiation can treat, neither are you are the assessment of a doctor's consult or a oncologist's best seasoned reasonings.

You are a gift of God, not a diagnosis. Twenty-five years ago, when first our family was blessed to meet your family, when first you and I met as Pastor and parishioner, we quickly became good friends, best friends, precisely because you are who you are, not because of what anyone else said you were, nor because of what any doctor might have diagnosed you to become. We have shared the mountain-top highs and the lowest of valley experiences in the mutual respect, the earthy understandings, and the wonder of faith that has been our blessing to savor together. We have argued politics, debated parenting techniques, cried over disappointments, laughed about 'not being able to fix stupid' (in others, of course!), and always, always looked forward to the next time we could be together walking trails, sharing a drink, telling another story, enjoying the quiet of a new day, or simply watching the beauty of the night sky in awe. You are to me the best friend a man could possibly be purely because no-one on earth is like you.

In your trueness to self, you have chosen to be true to others, but you have never allowed yourself to be defined by them, as much as your incredible wife might like to have tried . . . and now is not a time to start, my friend.

In what has been diagnosed, God is with you in whom you are still becoming. In the things which will need to be done, your family will lend to you their strength, love and support to continue being who you have been all along. In the midst of the questions and challenges before you, your friends and faith family will gather you in the prayer, peace and embrace that only those who know you best can bring to you as you continue to live your days fully and well. Now is not the time to stop 'being'. Now is the time to live more fully the person you have been becoming all along. For, truth be told, that is all God has ever wanted for you, for any of us . . . to be authentic to our 'self' as only each of us can be, regardless of what others may say.

Some may diagnose your life, some may curse it, others may praise it, yet, if you are true to the life you are given to live, no one can ever take it from you . . . for, as you have taught me all along, life is God's from the beginning and so it shall be forever. That is the good news of the Gospel.

I love you, my friend, for all that you are and are becoming - and always will.

Fireworks Cancelled

The farmers in this area are praying for rain and for cooler temperatures. Today is our eighth day of 100+ degree heat with no appreciable rain. It was 105 degrees yesterday and is anticipated to be 107 degrees today. Fireworks displays all over the region were cancelled for the July 4 celebration yesterday and severe drought and NO FIRE warnings have been posted in nearly every community . . . and, still, there were several folk who thought it was okay for them to shoot off their personal stash of fireworks over the last couple of days. What is up with that?


I have been told by those qualified to announce such an analysis that I have a highly developed sense of right and wrong, though those who know me well will tell you that such a 'gift' hasn't always served me when most I needed it. Yet, at least in my life, the more the chips are down, the more intense I become in advocating for those most in need, in petitioning for those most at risk, in protecting those most vulnerable. I don't always succeed, nor am I always even-handed about it, but I try. At least I try.

What I don't understand are those who believe the rules are meant for everyone other than themselves, especially when so many lives and so much property is in danger. I cannot fathom setting off fireworks when entire fields of crops and timber are as dry as tinder. I cannot fathom lighting the fuse to bottle rockets when lawns are brittle and otherwise fairly harmless sparks now have the power to burn the landscape to a crisp. I cannot imagine what gives one person permission to do whatever they want when the greater part of the community would be the ones who suffer.

Last night, as Nancy, Ched and I watched the last of a Cardinal baseball 'Winner!', while constantly hearing fireworks being set off in the neighborhood, one of Ched's friends at the Air Force Academy texted him, "Those who read the Fire Warning articles are not the ones who most need the information." Doesn't it seem to be the truth? The ones who believe themselves entitled to do what they want and exempt from the guidelines by which others must live are not the ones most likely to read such a warning, nor care about the implications of not reading at all. Yet, the question remains, 'What to do about them?', after all, they are God's children, too. (And, truth be told, have not every one of us been 'them' at one time or another in our lives?)

The way I read the Bible, God is fairly clear about how the faith community is to respond: In Jesus we are taught to live in relationship with others, to value community, to consider our covenantal life with the world as our response to God's covenantal Life with all creation, and to be faithful to who we are created to be, regardless the choices others make. We are not judged by the choices of others, but by our capacity to be true to who we are created to be. Another person's choice to set off a bottle rocket is exactly that: their choice. When others chose to run away from Him, when others chose to deny Him, even when others chose to nail Him to a cross, Jesus chose to be exactly who He was: Faithful to God.

Maybe the deeper questions around those who set off fireworks in a drought have more to do with understanding our shared citizenship in the world (or lack thereof) than with finding a way to stop them. Maybe it is time to claim our citizenship in the Kingdom by proclaiming the Good News to all the nations, teaching them to obey all that He has taught us, extending grace and hope to those who feel themselves already marginalized . . . . Maybe it is time to stop fuming over the poor choices of others and focus on being true to self in God.

Yet, you know God, sometimes it would feel really good and be really satisfying to turn the nozzle on the hose to 'Flood' and wash they and all their fireworks away, laughing maniacally as they holler out for mercy, floating away in a sea of their own doing! But, then I remember You sent Jesus for me, rather than wash me away . . . and I am humbled by your Hope in me. Help me to hope in others in equal measure!

Listening in Heat and Drought

What does one say to a farmer in 108 degree drought conditions as they watch corn stalks roast, soybeans wilt and alfalfa wither in the fields?

You say nothing. You 'stand with' always. You pray unceasingly.

My Dad is telling stories of 1954 when it got up to 112 degrees and the corn turned white, in one day. There's a lot of that going on right now . . . remembering. Remembering when, in a time gone past, crops didn't produce, livestock struggled, income shrunk, families went broke, farms were vacated, neighbors helped one another, friends shared resources, and the faith community became that one refuge of respite in the midst of the storm. Remembering when prayers were lifted up and rains did not come falling down. Remembering when the coolness of the servant soul was tested by the heat of the Summer sun. Remembering when the hopes of Spring planting hit the wall of weather's reality. Remembering . . . and wondering what these days will bring.

On days like this, I try to do a lot of listening for it's in the telling of stories that the balm is remembered in Gilead. I am not God, nor am I in a position of defending God when things aren't going well (Though, Lord only knows that everyone and their brother wants to take credit for 'having influence with God'when everything is going well and prosperity is the gospel upon which kingdoms are built!), yet as a servant of Jesus Christ I am called, in season and out of season, to witness to the Presence of God, the nearness of the Kingom, even when the world seems painful and despairing. I am called to 'stand with' those in deepest distress, not with words of explanation, but with the same heart of compassion Jesus shared with the lepers, the tax collectors, the sinners, and the oppressed.

Sometimes, when words finally fail, the Spirit can break in - making new the hope that was left back in the land so long ago.

It is going to be hot and dry today . . . again. The God who was with you in the days of adequate rainfall and moderate temperatures is with you also in the days of drought and heat. Listen.

Ched Is Home

Ched is home.


In our thirty six years of marriage, Nancy and I have learned that there are few words sweeter to say . . . not just about Ched, (Though having him home is abso-tively su-onderful!) but about each of our children. To say, "Matt is home", or "Ray is home", or "Ched is home", is to savor a moment in time that always seems to pass far too quickly.

Each of our boys now have their own home settings, certainly, and with Matt and Ray, each has their own family obligations, yet, when they walk in the door of our home, they have come home to our hearts. The same would be true no matter where we lived. The ones birthed in the love two people share become co-inheritors of that family legacy. It gives me a deeper appreciation for the father of the Prodigal Son, who ran down the long lane of his estate to meet his youngest son as he returned home: 'The one once lost to whatever the world has to offer has now returned to spend time in the home of my heart.' Such moments are rarely rational to the casual observer and motivations are oft-times questioned, still, to the parent, 'Our child has come home' are the words of sacred liturgy few worship services are blessed to speak.

Hugging my Dad yesterday as we gathered for a different family celebration, I confess to hanging on just a little longer, to saying, "I love you" with a lot more meaning, and to appreciating a whole lot more all that he has done for each of us boys over the years. Even trying in these moments to give language to what only the heart can express leaves my eyes a bit teary in the failing of my words, for I wonder how many times my Dad and Mom said exactly the same thing of me . . . . and I went merrily on, not understanding how much my most casual visit meant. And, if so for we who are here on earth, how much more is it so for God, the Parent of all creation?

Ched is home . . . and I will cherish these days for the gift they are. Thank you, God, for this simple and powerful blessing. May I return the joy in being Home in You, always.

Marriage: A Covenantal Gift of God

I was incredibly blessed to officiate the marriage of our niece, Melissa Wagner, to Corwin Kelly last evening at the Drumm Farm Golf Club in Independence, Missouri. It was the perfect evening, on the perfect place of a golf course, with just the right number of family and friends gathered around, with beautiful music, great food, a great set of attendants, and, of course, a storybook love shared by two incredible people. God is at work here and we are the privileged observers.

The older I become and the longer I am in ministry the more convinced I am that marriage is, indeed, a sacred and holy covenant between two people, a covenant which begins in God, not in the government, nor the church. Biblically speaking, God is the Holy Covenant-Maker. Humanity, at best, tries to keep covenant with God in every moment and aspect of our living. When two people come together in love what is seen in each other, what is seen by those around them, is the presence of God at work in covenant. God binds two hearts together in Spirit and blesses them in grace and mercy, a covenantal process which begins long before two people ever share a marriage vow. God does not need our legalities, our ceremonies, or our approval. God does as God has always done in the midst of humankind: God creates in love and binds in Self-sacrifice for the other. Everything else we add as human-folderol, the vanity of believing we have control and authority over what God is doing, all in the name of maintaining cultural norms and acceptability. Truth be told, if God wanted humanity in charge of maintaining cultural norms and acceptability, Jesus would not have been necessary . . . which may say something about why He was crucified . . . and why God raised Him on the third day.

Reflecting on Cory and Melissa's wedding, I am awestruck and totally amazed at God's breathtaking work, none of which had anything to do with the ceremony and all of which had to do with the two of them. Hollywood is incapable of capturing the essence of what we are honored to view as two people look into each other's eyes and see God's perfection manifest. Such is what humbles me nearly every time I officiate a wedding: Though a servant of Christ in the Church and, for the sake of this one moment in time, a minion of the State as an officiant, I am first and foremost blessed to see God transforming life, embodying dreams, fulfilling visions, and starting new creation. Words may be spoken, vows may be shared, but what God is doing requires no other affirmation than what one person sees in another's heart and trusts 'till death do us part'. It's not sappy, it's true. I know, for I'm married, too.

God bless you, Melissa and Cory, in what God is doing in and through you. May you always find God's Peace strengthening you, not in the vows you have spoken, but in the Covenant you keep for the sake of the other. Such is the love God has for you - and for all who believe.

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

"Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take . . . "


Evening prayers . . . the words of which taught my young mind and heart the transiency of life and the need to trust all our days to be in the Lord's hands. These words are followed by petitions for blessings to surround family, friends, the church, and anyone/anything else which might be on your mind.

This prayer, along with "Come, Lord Jesus, be Thou our guest and let this food to us be blessed. Amen." were the two prayers that shaped my early prayer life most profoundly and consistently, primarily because they were spoken every day and, often, with my parents.

How many parents still pray with their children? How many children witness their parent's bowed heads, folded hands, and heartfelt words? How many times do young eyes see and developing ears hear a humble cry, a faith-based appeal, or a praise of thanksgiving rendered unto God? How many children grow up with the sense of God's imminence because someone who loved them sat with them and prayed with them? How many parents or even grandparents dare to render devotion and worship of Something/Someone greater than themselves with those who are depending on them to give them real survival skills?

"I can do it myself!" are the words of child wanting to take on the next big step and prove to another their abilities. "I can do all things in the One who saves me" are the words of wisdom and faith which are grounded in life's toughest experiences. Which are the words, the actions, you are teaching the most impressionable around you?

Thank you, God, for parents, grandparents, a church family and a loving community, all of whom taught me to love and trust You! Grant me the wisdom, faith and pace to do the same for those who most depend upon me. Amen.

Prayers for Friends

This morning my soul is troubled for two young friends who are struggling mightily with their health. The questions they and their parents ask of God, of their mortality, and of their worthiness to be 'normal' (elusive as that may be for all of us), are both legion and eternal. Personally, my heart aches for they and their parents in these days of such severe trials, and pastorally, my soul cries out to God to hear their cries, to make it better, to tend to their pain.


Sometimes the hardest part of hearing those first words of Psalm 22 cross Jesus' lips upon the cross, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" is remembering to continue reading the Psalm after verse one. Much like it is when someone tells a familiar story and after the first couple of words you instantly know the whole of the story, so it is with Psalms among God's people: The first words spoken invite the listening audience to re-member the whole of the story. In the midst of great pain and undeserved suffering, in the stir of angry crowds and vitriolic language, and in the trial of both body and soul in such a public arena, Jesus' call to God in the speaking of these words is both petition and confession: 'This is a hard spot to be in, God, I don't deserve it', and yet, 'I trust You, God, with all that I was, all that I am, and all that I ever will be. My life is in Your hands for all eternity. Use me to your glory.' (Read Ps. 22:25-31)

There is a part of every one of us which wants to assign a reason for what is happening, to issue blame, to understand the rationale. There is language in our culture which shifts the outcome of our mortality to God with phrases like, 'God won't give you more than you can bear', or 'God is testing you', or 'You must have done something to offend God', or 'God must have really wanted them in heaven' . . . . all of which makes God the 'bad Guy' (not that God can't take such accusations) and takes away the power of the cross and an empty tomb. You just can't root that sort of language in Jesus or the Gospels, it isn't there.

What is found in Jesus, what is written in the Gospels, is the good news itself, especially for those who suffer in this world: God has heard your cries and is come to meet you where you are and walk with you in it all. You are not alone, which is the nearness of the Kingdom embodied. Were that not true, Jesus would not have endured the cross in faithfulness to God. Everyone there waited for Him to step down from those wooden beams and steel nails of pain and say, 'No more!' Yet, what Jesus did was even more profound: He took on our daily suffering, He took on our questions, He took on our deepest anger and confusion . . . and endures with us every moment of it all and, that we not lose faith in the midst of it all, He walked out of the tomb and emptied death of its oppressive power.

God is not giving you pain to bear, God is bearing the pain with you in Christ. God is not testing you, God is undergoing the frailty of mortality with you in Christ. God has not taken offense with you, God is expressing favor for you in Christ. God does not take you away from your life, your friends, your family, prematurely just for the sake of having you next to God in heaven, but when the world conspires against you, when your body doesn't heal they way we would hope that it does, or when accidents in this life occur, God in Christ claims your very life as God's own and holds you in God's arms of deepest compassion, much as a parent holds a child in their lap and presses them against their breast.

I pray for my friends this day, even as I pray for all those who endure life's challenges, that there be healing, peace and assurance from the very hand of God through the Holy Spirit in the love and nearness of Christ. And, I pray the faith, strength and love to be the best friend I can be as a disciple of Christ, whose Good News is Life itself. Always.

It's Raining

It's raining. There are few words which will, in the driest of times, stir a farmers heart like those two little words: It's raining.

Driving back from a St. Louis hospital this morning(in the rain, hee-hee!) one of the local radio personalities was bemoaning the overcast, rainy weather we are having and I thought, "It's clear you don't earn your living from the land, nor do you know the difference this rain makes in the quality or cost of the food you buy." I know, I know, most people can only see their own self-interest and what affects it, yet, as dry as it has been one might think a word of joy might be appropriate . . . .

So, rather than bemoan the voice of uninformed ignorance, I take this moment to thank God for prayers answered. I thank God for hearing the cries of the truly 1% of the American population (American farmers) who live in this neck of the woods. I thank God for tending to the needs of the 100% of the people around the world who depend on their labors, their furrowed brows in such times, their clasped hands in humble connection with our Creator, and their unending faith even when prayers for rain are not answered. I thank God for the luxury of praying for the health of crops which grow in responsive joy to the Care they are given. And, I thank God for the grace given to such poor 'schlookers' like me who don't deserve such an abundant gift, yet from whom no good gift is withheld.

Thank you, God, for the rain today. Like the sound of an empty tomb when death is thought to hold sway, it is sweet music to my ears and the kindest of gifts You could offer for the people of the land with whom You work each day. We sing Your praises!

Thoughts on the Farmers Among Us

Driving through the country on my way to a hospital this afternoon, the mounting heat combined with the ongoing dry conditions in our region left me feeling really worried for the farmers. The corn is starting to whorl and the beans are looking a sickly lime green. Dust-devils spin their way through acres of field and pastures, giving the sky the tannish-hue of baby poop. The birds are perched in shaded protection, leaving only the occasional Turkey Vulture to scout the roads for a wayside buffet. Livestock are seeking out the remaining mud puddles of winding creeks and watering trough overflows. Even the barnyard dogs have left their watchful positions, seeking the cool earth underneath hibiscus plants and grape arbors.

It is a worrisome time for those who have invested so much to feed so many and, despite the very best of varieties and tillage practices, still find their gaze lingering on the sun drenched skies, piercing the blue for the prayer of a cloud bank. It is as if a faucet has been turned off. Those who have never farmed will never fully understand the intimate connectedness of a farmer's hand with that of God in tending to all of God's creation and, for those who deny either the connectedness or God . . . . well, they are denying even their own existence for wont of the 'logical' explanation.

The farmers I know are the true high priests of the faith, for they are constantly on bended knee before the One who calls them to labor mightily for the sake of the other. Theirs are the hands that feel the soil and know its worth, whether in need or in abundance. Theirs are the eyes that can scan the earth and see the vision of Eden proclaimed before them. Theirs are the ears which hear the most ancient of Voices call them to labor in the fields which were long before them and will survive long after them. Theirs are the taste buds which savor the wonder of a sprig of alfalfa in the same way they marvel at the first of tomatoes, the sweetness of new potatoes, and the humbling awe of grape jelly made from the sweat of their brow. Theirs is the sense of smell which can discern the ripeness of wheat, the warmth of the soil, the nearness of rain, and the majesty of country lilacs . . . all without having to take a step off the front porch of their home.

Farmers are the ones among us who should be the honored guests in every home, yet are most likely to be among the lowly who enter from the back door and settle at a seat in the kitchen, a glass of water or a cup of coffee their only request. Farmers rise with the emerging sun to meet the pressing need and are often found lingering on the smallest of chores long after the moon has claimed its spot in the sky. Farmers speak the liturgy of Body and Blood in the birthing of calves, their care for foaling, and their attention to lambing. Farmers baptize in water and Spirit all that is holy in the presence of God as they nurture the tenderest of shoots with the same passion and conviction as given to the tallest of trees and the broadest of fields. With sweat marked caps and grease spotted shirts and pants, farmers take on the yoke of Eternal Ordination unlike any the Church could ever know, for they are called and equipped for the highest of service in the feeding of God's children and the care of God's creation. No priestly stole is necessary, for the simple folded hands of a farmer in prayer are sign and seal to all who would observe that these are a special people in the sight of the One who sets them apart for service.

I have no doubt in these driest of days, God hears the voice of the farmers and will tend to their cries. There is a balm in Gilead and we, who so depend upon the faithfulness and labors of farmers, would do well to pray for them and with them in equal measure. The Service of Word and Sacrament begun in the Spring moves steadily towards the Benediction of Winter's lingering response. God bless us, everyone, in this life of worship, but especially the farmer, God's truly chosen and appointed servant.

Storm Cabbage

Two days ago, Nancy took a head of cabbage to my Dad's home and another to my brother's home, a 'sharing of the gifts', if you will. The heads of cabbage are nearly as big as bowling balls and are as sweet and thick as cabbages could hope to be, (said as modestly as a gardener might) some of the best we have ever raised and . . .

These heads of cabbage were the 'storm cabbages'. They were ravaged by the intense hail storm we had some weeks back and I was ready to pull them out and start over, so complete their 'destruction'. God's creation is simply remarkable in its capacity to regenerate and begin anew and we, you and I, are constantly invited to be witnesses to such a profound truth expressed in such organic a manner.

Which got me to thinking about the ways we threaten and coerce each other, not just globally, but also locally and even personally. Do we really believe that we hold such power over others and creation? Do we really believe that we are the 'master' of our fate and control the fate of others? Do we really believe that ours is the final voice that matters? Do we really believe that we can rain down the power of hail - or of bombs - or of legislation - or of special interests - or of political correctness - or of abusive relationships - or of isolationist self-interest, covering the ground, filling the sky, polluting the air . . . and our Creator God won't have the final word about the outcome?

The cabbage tastes good. Our 'storm cauliflower' was delicious. Our 'storm banana peppers' are incredible and our 'storm tomatoes' are not far away.

Perhaps we would be well served to study the world around us and ponder our place in the universe in considering our relationship with each other. We are not as big as we think, neither are we as determinant as we believe. If plants like cabbage, cauliflower, peppers and tomatoes can arise from their grave of hail and produce abundantly, what else might God be capable of despite us?

Just when we think we are at the top of the food chain . . . we find God already is. I love it . . . and pray you do, too.

Jesus Laughing

Humor is a gift of God and it is often the only thing that gets me through the tough stuff. I'm not talking about the profanity laced bits that fill our airwaves, burning our ears and searing our souls, no, I'm talking about the kinds of things that made true comedians like Bill Cosby and Jeff Foxworthy icons in our age. Everyday happenings, mixed in equal portions with irony, with a sprinkling of the 'wink of an eye', and you have the recipe for the kind of thing that will make me guffaw and nose snort for hours on end. Humor is a gift of God.

Jesus used it all the time. Remember when he was being tested about paying taxes and His reply was, "Bring me a denarius and let me see it.", then said to them, "Whose head is this, and whose title?" They responded, "The emperor's." Jesus responds (with a wink and nod, I think), "Give to the emperor the things that are the emperor's, and to God the things that are God's." Now that's great humor based on irony! Or the question raised with Him about the woman who married seven brothers, each after the one before them died, and having no children by any of them? They wanted to know whose wife she would be in the resurrection. Jesus' response left the crowds chuckling because they (and we?) assume heavenly orders are just like earthly experiences. (God, I hope not!) (Check it out in Mark 12:24-27) Or the time when the disciples left Jesus praying on one side of the lake and took off in a boat to the other side of the lake . . . and He came walking over the water to meet them? They were frightened and Jesus must have been giggling . . . they just didn't get it. (The movie, "Bruce Almighty", used this scene very effectively.)

Humor. Doesn't it make you wonder what God thinks about how seriously we take ourselves with all of our politically correct language and culturally correct clothing, while not giving two hoots about feeding the poor and clothing the naked and giving a drink to the thirsty and welcoming the stranger and sharing good news with the imprisoned?

In my office, on the wall directly in front of me, is a picture of Jesus Laughing. I see it every day and it reminds me that I am not always as right as I think I am, I'm not as pure as I want to be, I'm not as kind as I should be, and I'm not as certain as I put on, yet, in the midst of it all, it is God's grace which saves me, Christ's love which encompasses me, and the Spirit's Presence which guides me. God is the constant upon which my life should be built, not my self-assured arrogance. Jesus Laughs . . . and so should we. (I wonder how this would play in Rome?)

Maybe if we could learn to laugh a bit more at ourselves and trust the good-natured laughter of God, we could see the other more as friend and less as adversary - and, in so living, would point our lives to the One who is the Saving Joy for all to share.

Laugh with Jesus a bit today and see if it doesn't make a difference.

Moving On

It's time for my annual physical. Actually, it is past time, but why do today what can be put off till tomorrow? (Especially when what has to be done includes the drawing of blood!)

So, there I was at 7:00 this morning in the lab of the hospital with this really nice lady looking down her nose at my blood draw order muttering out loud, "Well, you put this off as long as you could." What did she want me to say? Something like, 'Well, you know, I am a man' or 'I would have put it off longer had I known how put out you would be' or even, 'Had it not been for my doctor requiring it, I would have waited for the mortician to handle it'? But, no, Christian that I am and guilty as charged, I simply relied on the obvious, "Have you been talking with my wife? Because she said the same thing to me just the other day.", which brought a smile to her face and prompted her to say, "When it comes to dealing with men, we women all work from the same handbook . . . . and you will never get a copy of it!" Great retort, ice broken, tension defused, guilt assuaged, and nerves relaxed.

I really do not like having blood drawn and, I think, with good reason: Several years ago, while giving blood at a Red Cross event, the nurse tending to me groused a bit about how slowly I was pumping blood into the bag so, to increase the rate of flow, she adjusted the needle in my arm, not once, not twice, but three times. After the last time, I asked her to take the needle out of my arm, moved to the snack table and promptly passed out. Do you have any idea how much chewing gum is stuck to the bottom side of most serving tables? A lot! And that was the first thing which registered in my mind as I came to.

The nurse was really nice about it at this point. Not wanting to have any culpability in what had just transpired, she suggested that maybe I would be better served at the next blood drive to make sandwiches instead of give blood. Thus, my dilemma with any kind of a blood draw . . . I immediately go to the refrigerator for solace to calm my mounting nerves, wanting to prepare a sandwich rather than contemplate researching the amount of chewing gum on the bottom of tables. Is it any wonder that I wait as long as I can to have a physical?

Ah, but isn't this what we do to God all the time? God offers us peace in relationship, extends healing in our broken living, redeems life from death, and all that we can think about is the hurt we experienced one time or another at the hands of one of God's 'helpers'. We allow a bad experience in one worship setting to become the excuse for not becoming a part of any worship family. In harboring resentment towards another person, our spiritual well-being and our relationship with God falls victim to neglect. And the biggest loser? Ourselves, for we have abdicated responsibility for our life, our health and our love in God to the hands of another, which is way too sad.

Those who really know me and know my story lovingly cajole me about being a woosie when it comes to giving blood. Maybe they are right. All that I know is that, if I stop and think about it, I can still remember the feeling of that needle being moved around in my arm and the subsequent aftermath. I can still remember . . . .

The lady who drew my blood today was a pro. I never felt a thing, not even a sting. Perhaps it's time to start forming new memories and stop allowing the past to hold me and my health hostage. Perhaps it's time to live the present moment with the confidence of one not bound by the behaviors of others. How about you?

It's Sunday

It's Sunday.


"I don't want to go to church. I don't have to go to church. You can't make me go to church. I have better things to do than go to church."

"Dad, what do you mean, 'Am I a Christian?' Of course, I'm a Christian! I've been baptized, I've made First Communion, I've been Confirmed, and whenever something happens in our family I know that the church is the first place I can go. But, that doesn't mean I have to go to church on Sunday. After all, sitting in a church no more makes me a Christian than sitting in a garage makes me a car."

"Mom, yes, even I take really good care of my car. In fact, that's one of the things I want to do today: I'm going to wax my car. If I go to church, I won't have time to wax my car. And, yes, I do regularly change the oil, make sure the coolant is right and check the transmission fluid, all because I don't want my car to break down. But, how will I get that done if I spend all my Sunday mornings in church?

"No, my car doesn't mean more to me than my life. I just want to take care of it. I just want to make sure all my friends know that what matters to me has my attention. I just want to make sure my investment lasts . . . . . ."

. . . .which is precisely why God invited you to worship today: to make sure God's investment in you lasts.

It's Sunday.

Which is worth more? Your car or your life?

Pray to see you in church . . . to wipe away the dullness of broken living, to top off the essential fluids of God's Word to guide you in your days, and to fill you with the Sacraments to strengthen your daily journey. Make sure God's investment in you lasts.

It's Sunday. Where will God find you today?

Atheists and Gardens

A friend of mine poses the question, "Can you be a gardener and an atheist at the same time?" This question arose out of, both, her obvious enjoyment of gardening and her sense of connectedness to a Creator God.

As I pondered her question, the thought occurred to me that, "Yes, you can be a gardener and an atheist at the same time." Here's why: An atheist believes there is no God. Yet, what atheist's don't understand is that God doesn't deny their existence. That is called, 'free will'. The atheist has free will not to believe in God and God has free will to know and love the atheist anyway . . . which must just burn the atheist's butt on a regular basis!

God didn't send Jesus to save the faithful, the healthy don't need the physician. God sent Jesus (and those who subsequently follow Him and bear His name) to live in faithfulness in the midst of a world that doesn't know or love God. The atheist plants his/her garden, the rains water it, it grows and produces abundantly, and the atheist thinks, "I am god. Look what I've done." God sees the planting, observes the labors of one of God's children, sends the rain in due time, the plants thrive, the garden is harvested, and, even as there is no acknowledgment of God's part in all this, God smiles when God's children are fed, regardless of what the children believe or think. God knows who is God and can only act as God. God is not dependent upon our recognition or approval that God is God, even when we deny God in the garden. Oddly enough, isn't that where Judas betrayed Jesus and Jesus' disciples denied Him as they ran away? In the Garden of Gethsemane?

We are who we are and we believe what we believe, even when in the garden, but, God is always God . . . . and it rains on the just and unjust alike precisely because God is God. Atheist's may garden and atheist's may deny the existence of God . . . but thank God that God never denies either us or our gardens! For if we were cared for by God only on the basis of our faith, how hungry would our world be?

The real shame of the atheist gardener? They will never see or understand true Love that claims them fully, always, even in the garden of their discontent . . . . which doesn't make those who have faith in God 'better', it just makes God's choice to be steadfast in love more dynamic and profound. The atheist's loss, the believer's gain, God's ongoing grace . . . all revealed in a question about a garden.

Have a blessed day in the garden of God's goodness to you!

Life Happens

Life happens.

Let me explain: I firmly believe that each of us is a gift of God, whose final sum journey is inconceivable to consider from its beginning. Yet, it is in the course of those days which we name as 'life', that we encounter the life journey of others and from those encounters, some chance, some intended, we experience that which 'happens'.

Life happens.

Birth happens, growth happens, language happens, family relationships happen, community relationships happen, education happens, world events happen, economic events happen, and intimate relationships happen. On a more focused scale, love happens, anger happens, prejudice happens, hatred happens, division happens, unity happens, connectedness happens, teamwork happens, vision happens, dreams happen, and completeness happens. And, in the midst of all that happens in life are the accidents, the stumbles, the inadvertent words, the pain in the patooties, the recalcitrant children, the unheeding parents, the nosey neighbors, and the effects of all sorts of ongoing wars, both global and local.

Life happens.

Which is exactly where God meets us in Jesus Christ . . . where life happens. There is nothing inside or outside of your life beyond the presence of God. As life happens to you, God is with you in the happenings. God does not inflict you or test you or see how much of life's happenings you can stand . . . that is not the God we come to know in Jesus. God is with you in your leprosy, in your challenge, in your oppression, in your hope to lead, in your fall from grace, in your standing up and in lying down, in your betrayal, in your trial, and in your crucifixion. God is with you as life happens because, from the very beginning of time, God has wanted nothing more than to share the happenings of life with you - and when that happens, Life Really Happens. The tomb is empty. Death is defeated. All that this world can cause in your life to happen gives way to what God Happens.

Life happens. Have faith in the midst of it all, for the fullness of joy this world cannot see or know awaits those who dare to trust that God Happens Always. That is the Kingdom, that is Eternity, that is the truest of Love. God Happens Always. Always has. Always is. Always will be.

Allow your life to happen in God today.

I Haven't Forgotten You

"I haven't forgotten you" are some of the kindest words a person might hear. "I haven't forgotten you" may be the primary reason for the success of Facebook among the many Friends who have re-connected after years of separation . . . and may prove, too, to be the reason for the lack of success of FB on the Stock Market as Friends prove less inclined to shop FB and more inclined to use it as a tool for networking.

"I haven't forgotten you" is the look on anthers face when they see you, more than their ability to recall your name. It is that sense of shared history, shared story, shared understanding, shared journey which connects soul to soul, heart to heart, and life to life. "I haven't forgotten you" is that intimacy which connects lives by the merest of handshakes, in the slightest of nods, in the tenderest of attentions. "I haven't forgotten you" is the language of shared life-womb experience and brings home the security of never, ever being alone wherever one may go.

"I haven't forgotten you" are some of the kindest words a person might hear . . . and as much as you and I like to hear them, when was the last time you spoke those words to God? With the merest of handshakes? In the slights of nods? In the tenderest of attentions? When was the last time you looked God in the eye and, in that moment, you knew as you are known?

Today would be a great day to begin a new for, truly, God hasn't forgotten you.

Have a blessed day, my friends!

This Memorial Day - Remember

"'Remember': to bring to mind or to think of again.", according to Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary. 'Remember'.

It is Memorial Day Weekend and I have been hearing for weeks about what Wal-Mart wants me to remember, not to mention, Target, Macy's, several auto dealerships, Walgreens, and Sam's, yet I know that what they want me to remember is not what I need to remember. What I need to bring to mind or to think of again is not something so easily quantified or put on the auction block. No, what I need to remember has to do with the sacrifice of others for my life . . . which makes what Wal-Mart wants me to remember far easier, but much less beneficial. To ponder the gift of one's life for another is inconceivably difficult, so complete and final the gift. Yet, there it is: this weekend we remember those for whom the only acceptable gift was the gift fully given in self . . . and we are the grateful, if not a bit uneasy, recipients.

The tendency in my lifetime has been focus on those who have given of themselves in service to our country in WWI, WWII, Korea and Viet Nam, but then, that just names the context of my growing up. Today, kids under the age of 12 have only known war . . . and the names of those who died in such a wars . . . and those before them remember The Gulf War, Libya, The Second Gulf War, Grenada, and a wide variety of places where the United States has been 'present' for others to the current day. War has a cost and that cost is flesh and blood.

This weekend we remember flesh and blood whose names we may or may not know, but whose very existence has made our existence easier, maybe even possible. We remember precisely because we cannot afford to forget, for to forget is to dismiss their sacrifice, to disparage our heritage, and to spit upon the very history we cannot afford to again repeat. We remember because, in their self-giving, someone who did not know us, still chose to live and die for us. We remember, for affluence and time often foster an amnesia that dooms those who forget their root to repeat their past behaviors. We remember for we are eternally grateful.

'Remember', for you have been remembered. 'Remember' and live for those who, like you, need someone to live for them. 'Remember' . . . that in thanking those who have served and those who have given their lives completely, we might come to a broader and deeper understanding of the life and freedoms we so enjoy.

Remember, giving thanks to God for the luxury of such a time of remembering, then live towards that day when all people might know it as well and Remember.

My Boys Didn't Believe Me

My sons didn't believe me and I was crushed. Actually, they made fun of me which hurt all the more and I couldn't understand it.

Yesterday evening, playing golf in the Thursday night Men's League at the White Oak Golf Course in Marissa, my tee shot on #2 rolled up to the 100 yard marker, just a bit to the right of center on the fairway. I had never hit a shot that far on that fairway before and, knowing that both of our older boys regularly hit it that far and even farther, I stopped and took a picture of the ball with the yardage marker in the background with my cell phone, saving it to send to the boys and Nancy later. After the round was over (No, I will not tell you my score for the round, but suffice it to say, I always get my money's worth.), I took a few moments to bring the picture up from the Gallery, prepared it to Share, and added a message explaining the picture.

It didn't take long for the responses to come in: (Matt) "Yeah, I'm not believing you hit a 420 yard drive . . . from the men's tees. Those senior tees are treating you well!"; (Ched) "Oh wow. Hell of a tailwind, eh?"; and, not to be left out of the fun, (Ray) "Did you tee off from the green and play the hole backwards?" Nice guys, my sons! I wasn't sure how to respond, but just laughed it off granting each of them the amnesty of having a good time at their Dad's expense. Thursday night crowds can be tough on the golf circuit. (Mind you, Nancy didn't say anything through all of this, loyal and dutiful wife she is.)

Later in the evening, as Nancy and I were getting ready for bed, my cell phone rings and it was Matt. Curiosity was killing the cat, I thought as I waited to see where the call was going to go. And, as always with Matt, it didn't take but a moment: "Okay, Dad, tell me where you were, what hole you were on and how the ball flew that far." "What do you mean?" I replied, "I was at White Oak, on #2, and my drive went to the 100 yard marker, and I parred it. What's so hard to believe about that?" Matt said, "Well, there's nothing hard to believe about that, but what you said in your text with the picture was, "My drive on 4. That's the 100 yard marker across the way. Par."

Suddenly it all made sense! I had inadvertently typed in the wrong hole number, which is no small difference. Number 2 is a 398 yard hole, making my drive 298 yards. Number 4 is a 523 yard hole, which would have made my drive 423 yards, leaving the likes of Tiger and Phil in the dust. No wonder my boys were making such fun of me! After laughing at the irony and humor of it all, I hung up with Matt and texted Ray and Ched and explained the gaff, taking them off the hook for their apparent lack of faith and making fun of my own texting ineptitude.

Finally, laying down and watching the last of the Cardinal game and the news, smiling at the exchange between the boys and myself, I began to relax. Somewhere in the twilight of sleep it occurred to me: 'The boys really didn't believe me! Not that they should have, given the context of the situation, but the boys really didn't believe me!' Coming fully awake, I pondered the thought of that, then smiled all over again, 'We've raised our boys well and they question everything which seems out of the ordinary or out of line. And, if they can do that with that own Dad about a golf story, how much more likely are they to do that in the things that really matter?'

My sons didn't believe me . . . and that is quite alright. I slept well last night and I hope you did, too

Standing in the Garden

I find myself standing in the garden more these days, not particularly doing anything constructive, though once in a while I do threaten a weed or two with the blade of my hoe . . . mostly I just stand there and admire God's handiwork and watch the birds flit about in the trees. I don't answer the phone, I don't text, I don't check FB, and I do not wonder what else I should be doing. The garden has turned into my technology 'dead-zone' and consequently has become my safe harbor.

More and more, 'days off' at the farm have become farther and fewer between. It's no-one else's fault, I own my work ethic, yet I am beginning also to own my spirit's need for peace, my body's need for rest, and my heart's need to savor the journey. This time between Advent and Pentecost is always something of a maddening period for Pastors, especially for folks like myself who have been raised to believe that idle hands are the devil's workshop, which is only further complicated by being something of an 'A' type personality. There is always more to do, one more person to call, one more committee assignment to finish, one more service to write, one more person to visit, one more meeting to attend . . . and one more day becomes history, lost to the white noise of 'accomplishment'. While in service to God I sacrifice the joy God intends for me to know in life for the satisfaction of believing I can bring the Kingdom in on my own. A sad and not very faithful commentary for a Pastor to write about themselves, but there it is, God help me.

So, this evening I'm going to stand in the garden for a while. I may even move our patio table and chairs near it so I can sit there for a while with a glass of iced tea with lemon, no sugar thank you. If you happen to drive by and want to sit and visit, feel free, but let's just talk about the goodness of God's creation (Lord only knows we can't fix the State of Illinois!) and, there in those moments, treasure what most God wants for all people in laughter, grace, understanding, connectedness and peace.

As the garden heals from the recent hail storm, so it also is becoming a balm to my weathered soul. The vegetables yet to be harvested are already nourishing my deepest longings. I pray you have a garden to stand in, too.

"What's Love Got to Do With It?"

"What's love got to do with it?", sang Tina Turner as she reflected on her own life and journey and, for whatever the reason, that tune just keeps going through my mind this morning.

"What's love got to do with it?" as the American people reach a critical decision point regarding politicians who are worried more about their benefits than being a benefit to others; as the American people ponder the choice between the competing ideologies of political parties and Presidential candidates; as the American people in Illinois try not to get too mired in the finger pointing tactics of Springfield politics (otherwise known as Chicago politics to downstate constituents) and work to fund the essential human services and commitments for the people most in need; as the American people peer through the smoke and mirrors of political spin doctors, attempting to discern truth and act decisively for the sake of the nation; or, as the American people strive to create jobs in a toxic taxing environment, hoping all the while to provide sisters and brothers with essential opportunities to grow in self-respect and integrity.

"What's love got to do with it?" as the hierarchy of the Catholic church takes aim at controlling the women of the church, not just the nuns, but all women, in a time when the behaviors of old are just that, 'old'; as the Church universal struggles to find its voice of authentic Christian witness in the midst of a world torn by hatred, prejudice, fear and mistrust; as local congregations walk the walk of faith where they are, as they are gifted, only to be told that, because of dwindling numbers, their ministries are not financially prudent; as people in the pew turn their heart and soul to God for the Word of Relevancy and Challenge, instead of the tempting nectar of modernity so often offered as a placebo; or, as the identity of the Christian community is hijacked by so-called 'evangelicals' who presume to know exactly what God wants and where, shrouding their personal attack agendas with the language of 'who is in and who is out'.

"What's love got to do with it?" when one person sees a white man and thinks, 'racist', or another person sees a Latino and thinks, 'alien', or another person sees a black man and thinks, 'entitlement'; when one person sees a Middle Eastern woman and thinks, 'terrorist', or another person sees an English woman and thinks, 'snob', or another person sees an Asian woman and thinks, 'war'; or, when one person sees a farmer and thinks, 'ignorant', or another person sees a corporate executive and thinks, 'rich', or another person sees a blue collar worker and thinks, 'too bad'.

"What's love got to do with it?", Tina Turner sang, yet the tune and lyrics beg the answer yet today. Jesus gave one new commandment to the disciples, "Love one another." Love has everything to do with it: with our attitudes, our responses, our daily attention, even our moment by moment decisions, all in relationship with each other. When we fail to love as we are Loved, we have despised our humanity and subverted God's intention for our own will.

Love has everything to do with it. Thank you, Tina Turner, for reminding me of that today. I only pray that we, as members of the world community, find in ourselves the strength and will to reclaim the very purpose for which we are born in caring one for the other.

Love has everything to do with it.

Things To Which I Cling Tightly

Things to which I cling tightly:

The love of God which surrounds me; the forgiveness of Jesus who befriends me; the presence of the Holy Spirit who guides me; the love of a woman who knows my foibles and stays with me anyway; the gift of three sons who, in spite of the challenges of growing up as 'preacher's kids', still regularly pick up the phone and say, "Hi, Dad, how are you?" and wait to hear... what I say because it matters to them; the adoration of three granddaughters who know that all they have to do is look at me and say, "Papa, I love you!" and they will get anything they want, yet embrace me with kisses not wanting anything more than kisses and love in return; the steady friendship of those who know me as 'Don' and require nothing more than me being me; the wonder of the gift of a call from God that carries me in every moment; the ecstasy of the Church striving mightily and humbly in serving God; the joy of the St. Paul UCC, Lebanon, faith family who tend to my spirit and ministry with arms of grace beyond my deserving; the blessing of Grace UCC, Culver, Indiana, who saw more in me than I ever saw in myself; and, the connective tissue of Lebanon, Illinois, whose communal understanding crosses every boundary with such completeness that even a stranger such as I find a home and place in the midst of daily life and service here.

Such are the things to which I cling tightly this day. How about you?

Birthdays

What is a birthday?


Today I have telephoned birthday greetings to my younger brother, Bruce, and my cousin, Sharon, and sent Facebook greetings to our friend, Donna Wood, and to a good friend and classmate of Ched's, Barrett Stehr . . . all of which got me to pondering on 'birthdays'. What is a birthday, anyway?

We celebrate the day each of us caused our mothers great pain . . . yet, on the other hand, we celebrate the day that, after nine months of a 'free ride', our mothers were finally able to shoot us out into the world and no longer have to carry us.

We celebrate the day that a doctor or nurse spanked our bare behind, causing us to cry, while everyone stood around and said how cute it was . . . yet, on the other hand, we celebrate the day that, upon finding our voices, we have for the most part never since shut up.

We celebrate the day that our father's, having just learned of our birth, started handing out cheap cigars to anyone who would smoke one with them as they bragged about this new life in the family . . . yet, on the other hand, we celebrate the day that our fathers, having now just met us for the first time, continue to smoke cigars just to cover the stench of our poopie diapers.

We celebrate the day that many of our family and friends gathered at the window of the Nursery in the hospital to coo and make over our recent arrival . . . yet, on the other hand, we celebrate the day that our friends and family started the public tradition of staring and making strange faces at us, regardless the circumstance, expecting us to continually tell them how much we appreciate their attention.

We celebrate the day that our siblings first get a chance to hold us and have their pictures taken with us . . . yet, on the other hand, we celebrate the day our siblings begin to run the other direction every time they see us, praying that they won't have to take care of us and put us with us in front of their friends.

What is a birthday, anyway?

We mark our age in years, our intelligence in ACT or SAT numbers, our personality type in Briggs Myers identifiers, and our maturity in shoe sizes. We add candles to our cakes until we are old enough to know better then, rather than call the fire department to put out the increasing flame, we just quit using candles as though no more years are being added. We can't wait for birthday gifts when we are young, can't figure out what to do with the novelty gifts when we are older, tell folks the best gift is their presence when we are middle aged, then, when we are old, we figure everyone forgot about us when they neither show up, nor send a gift. We post our birth date on social network websites, then complain about people knowing too much about us. We give our birth date information to every credit card company and loan officer we meet, then bark if the government seems intrusive by asking for the same information. Men cannot ask women how old they are and women really don't want to know how old men are (mostly because men rarely act their age anyway). And, birthdays are that one day in time when we are expected to be cordial to people who wish us well, even when we wouldn't give the time of day to the one addressing us (in all Christian humility, of course!).

So, what is a birthday?

It is a contradiction in terms providing florists, card shops, retail stores, bars, and ice cream places with ample opportunity to make a huge profit from our schizophrenia. It is a day for family, friends, co-workers, social network folk, and even strangers to make fun of us, all perfectly certain that 'as a good sport' we will take their abuse without a word. It is a day for siblings to chastise us, parents to rue us, and neighbors to torment us. Yet, the one thing which is most clear to me this day as I ponder 'birthdays' and their meaning: I am extraordinarily pleased for the opportunity to have one each year.

In all that a birthday may or may not be for you, I pray you enjoy each one fully, for truly, each is a gift of God.