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woman with whom I have shared so much over the last 36 years, and not wanting to stay for fear the redemption would be repealed.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!