Fireballs in the New Year

"In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, "Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and we have come to pay him homage."" (Matthew 2:1-2 NRSV)

In recent days, across much of the United States, fireballs have been sighted crossing the skies. For many it has been something of a concern, for others it has been a novelty, yet for all of us these 'fireballs' (meteors) are an ongoing reminder that we are a part of a cosmic community, a vibrant and fast moving universe. We are susceptible to, and affected by both, energy and gravity, pushing us on to greater things while wearing away our outer nature with the frictional heat of resistance.

The star which the wise men observed at its rising called them toward the Gift which it announced yet, as they were moved by its' energy, they met the heat of resistance in the person of Herod and the politics of government and religion, alike. The wise men were not themselves encumbered with the fear others displayed, but that fear bore down on them in their quest to reach the one, ". . who has been born king of the Jews . . .". They became as 'fireballs' in the land of Israel, in the Roman empire, and many were wondering what foreboding the wise men announced in their pilgrimage. Some were committed to destroying the One they sought - and followed their trail across the skies to the village of Bethlehem, killing all the children under the age of two, according to when the wise men said they first saw the star. Others were not sure what to think of this news the wise men brought, but all the world was affected, all the world was to be transformed . . . not by the wise men, no, they were just the fireballs, the messengers. Rather, the world has been forever transformed by the One who comes, of whom angels sing and over whom stars still brightly shine. The cosmic community, the vibrant and fast moving universe, will never be the same - regardless of how we lash out at it or put our foot down in resistance. The more we object, the more His love shines brightly, and our outer nature is worn down with the frictional heat of Grace and Mercy. Not even Herod could impede God's Vision. Not even Rome could darken His brightness . . . and to this Jesus the nations still turn.

The wise ones among us still move towards His Presence.

Regardless the challenges, regardless the hatred, regardless the fear, the wise ones among us still move towards Jesus and, in moving towards Jesus, are found to be feeding the hungry, giving a cup of water to the thirsty, clothing the naked, welcoming the stranger, caring for the sick and visiting the imprisoned. The transformed among us, themselves, become as fireballs announcing a new reign of justice, witnessing to a cosmic community of equity, testifying to a vibrant and fast moving mercy, all of which is begun first and will continue forever in God. The wise ones are not the Announcement, any more than the star, itself, was the Good News. They are the ones who point to the nearing Kingdom - and how others receive that news will greatly vary, depending on their need, their circumstance, their insecurities, their power or their authority, which speaks volumes of why the shepherds rejoiced in His birth and Herod sought to kill Him. Nonetheless, Jesus is born . . .

Have you seen? Have you heard? Are you moving towards Him? Are you moving away? Are you in fear? Are you transformed? Has His light brought you Good News? I pray in this New Year you receive Him with Joy in your heart and Love in your soul. I pray you become a fireball for Christ. There is no greater call for any of us. A Blessed New Year to all!

Christmas Eve

One of the members of my parish just 'flew' through my office announcing all that they have to do to get ready for their family Christmas gathering tomorrow. Then, just before heading out to complete their shopping, one more phrase drifted into the office as the door was closing, "See you tonight!"

"See you tonight!" was this person's code language for, 'See you at Christmas Eve Services', but it started my mind wandering towards Bethlehem:

What if "See you tonight!" also meant, 'See you in the fields tending sheep outside of Bethlehem?'

What if "See you tonight!" also meant, 'See you in the fields to hear angel choirs?'

What if "See you tonight!" also meant, 'See you in the glow of a New Star?'

What if "See you tonight!" also meant, 'See you at the Stable?'

What if "See you tonight!" also meant, 'See you at the foot of a manger, on bended knee?'

What if "See you tonight!" also meant, 'See you there, with Mary and Joseph and the Baby?'

What if "See you tonight!"also meant, 'See you in the rejoicing after we see Him and go out from that place rejoicing?'

What if "See you tonight!" . . . well, you get the idea.

Who could have seen this coming on that night so long ago? Certainly not the Mary and Joseph. The shepherds were as surprised as anyone. The few folks around who were drawn to the stable in the next days because of the shepherd's story missed it completely. No, no-one could have anticipated what would happen in the dark of this one night, yet happen it did. God chose to come to us, to dwell with us, to embody the journey, to define the hope, to place flesh on the Vision . . . and God chooses to come to you still . . .

And those who are praying, those who are watching, those who are waiting, those who are crying out, those who are found at the margins, those who are 'in the fields' . . . will be the ones to see, to hear, to be witnesses all over again. "See you tonight!" is the language of the hopeful, the faithful, the eagerly anticipating. "See you tonight!" is both Trinitarian Declaration and Benediction, calling the congregation of God's people together and sending them out with Good News.

"See you tonight!" is God's own invitation for transformation.

Are you ready? Is your heart open to what God is doing? Is your soul ready to receive that which earth cannot give? Have you even set time aside to gather in worship of His arrival?

"See you tonight!" . . . I pray I do. "See you tonight!", in the Presence of Love.

A holy and blessed Christmas to all! 

Countdown to Christmas

Countdown to Christmas . . .
The children are upstairs in the Sanctuary practicing their Christmas Pageant one more time for tomorrow's 10:30 a.m. service, churches throughout the region have their advertisements running in all the local papers and news outlets inviting the faithful and the 'once-or-twice a year visitors' to attend their services on Christmas Eve, pastors are polishing that 'masterpiece of a message' which they intend to unveil for those who attend Christmas Eve services, the Candlelight candles and glow sticks are all prepared and ready for distribution, Communion elements have been secured in ample supply for all the folks who will make their way to Bethlehem and continue on to the Jerusalem Table, choirs, bell choirs and special soloists or ensembles are practiced within an inch of their lives to 'Wow!' and impress the gathered congregations, and the ushers and greeters have practiced their congregational welcomes and directions so that everyone who attends knows they are 'special' and Communion doesn't get drug out by folks who don't know where they are going causing the service to go long . . . all to . . . finish that one last thing on the Christmas list: Worship.
It's the final Countdown to Christmas and, personally, I think the shepherds are the lucky ones when it comes to worship: the angels sang an invitation to them, no newspaper ads and no glitzy television ads to confuse them as to where to go, no candlelight services and no special sermons trying to outdo what other congregations are doing, no other 'special' musical selections trying to outdo the angels, no ushers or greeters showing them where to sit and telling them what Communion line to be in (Ah, yes, Communion comes much, much later in the Story, doesn't it!) and no pressure to have that one special gift ready to present when sliding an offering into the plate in the service (enough not to look like a cheapskate, but not so much as to appear gaudy before others). Just Jesus.
Just Jesus, announced by a star and angel choirs. Just Jesus, lovingly held and nurtured by Mary and Joseph. Just Jesus, surrounded by the animals of a stable. Just Jesus - and that alone, He alone, was enough to send them back out into the fields glorifying and praising God for all that they had heard and seen. Just Jesus.
Being something of an 'A-type' pastor who is a self-confessed part of the 'every-little-detail group', I pray for you, Just Jesus, in these days nearing a Stable and a Manger. I pray for you, Just Jesus, in preparing for your family gatherings. I pray for you, Just Jesus, in seeking out that one place to worship with the gathered community. I pray, Just Jesus, for those congregations so immersed in Christmas Eve plans that Christmas Joy is like a foreign land. I pray, Just Jesus, for those pastors who carefully craft their Christmas message - for there truly is no other Message. I pray, Just Jesus, for you . . . that your heart is full of Wonder, that your soul is overflowing with Hope, that your days are guided by His Peace, and that your life is blessed in abundance with His Love. Just Jesus.
May He be enough for us all as we continue the Countdown to Christmas. Just Jesus.
Blessings on the journey.

Wise People Still Search

A wise man entered the town of Bethlehem, Illinois, seeking the Christ Child which he heard had been born near there.
Not certain as to where he might find such a Gift, he stopped at the Gas N Go and inquired if the clerk might have heard or seen such a thing. She thought him weirdly dressed, clearly not 'from here', and a threat - and had the manager toss him out.
Unruffled by the rude clerk the wise man pressed on, choosing to stop next at the local 'Home Cook'n' restaurant, where first he asked the hostess if she had heard or seen anything (and, of course, she hadn't), and then moved on to the table of local retirees who were there enjoying their $1 bottomless cups of coffee and solving the problems of the world. He asked if they, perhaps, had seen something of a bright light the night before or heard heavenly choirs or maybe had witnessed something of farmers coming in from the fields to see this Child. They quietly, quizzically, looked around at each other, taking a few moments to assess if any around the table believed anything of that which this stranger was asking them. The quiet consent of an 'informed disbelief' settled over the table and, being unwilling to discredit this odd man in public, they just went back to discussing the pluses and minuses of the Affordable Health Care Act, turning their backs and their attention away from the temporary distraction.
Rebuffed, but not dismayed, the wise man headed towards the door when, from a side booth, a voice pierced the morning air, "I saw the light of a nearby planet early last evening and when I stopped my tractor to look at it, I heard voices in the night drifting to me over the fields. It was the oddest damned thing. I couldn't help myself, I started the tractor back up, picked up the disc, folded the wings, and drove towards where I heard the voices singing. Oh, it wasn't here in town. I found them down County Road 700 North, about a mile and a half from here. Two homeless people and a newborn baby all huddled up in an old abandoned farm place. The neighbor keeps a few cows and sheep there in the barn, but there's no house there."
Sliding into the seat opposite the storyteller, the wise man waited for her to continue. "They said they had stopped here in town and asked for help at the Gas N Go and got thrown out for vagrancy, then they had come by here looking for a bite to eat and were directed to the dumpster out back and told to get out of town by the Sheriff. Then they just walked as far as they could before the Missus went into labor and delivered a Son.
You know, I would have thought they would have stopped by the church down the street . . . and I told them as much, but they said the lights were out, and when they knocked on the parsonage door, they were told to come back in the morning to apply for help from the ministerial alliance fund. The church quit putting up transients long ago, because too many took advantage of them and they just couldn't justify helping 'out-of-towners' when there were so many in need locally.
We are an odd lot around here, you know, so up on our Christian values and morals and such Scrooges with our lives and wealth. Kinda makes me ashamed of some of the things I've done over the years.
And then the real kicker was when that mother just laid her newborn Baby in my arms as though He was just waiting for me to hold Him. I swear to you, I couldn't look away from His face. He just shone so bright there in the dark. To tell you the truth, I'm not sure whether I was holding Him or He was holding me. All of the crap of my life just seemed to melt away there, looking into His eyes. I almost couldn't stand it.
There were a few others from around the fields who came in, too. Some on tractors, some walking, a few on four-wheelers, but all of us from the countryside. No townies. And we all just stood around in awe until the dad said they really needed to go. Old Maggie ran back across the road to her home and got some sandwiches and put some soup in an old thermos for them, and Orville offered them a lift in his grain truck if they could just wait for a bit for him to go home and get it. They couldn't, but they thanked him and all of us for sharing this special moment, then just walked on down the road as though driven by something none of us could understand."
"You don't know where they are now?" the wise man asked.
"No," the storyteller said, "but, I suspect if you head on North out of town and get away from all of us 'know-it-alls', you'll have a better chance of running across them where maybe they've found a place they're welcome. I wish you good luck in your search."
"What are you going to do now, now that you met them?" asked the wise man. "I'm not sure," said the storyteller, "but I think I am going to go back out and finish disking the field I was in last night. I wasn't sure what to do when they walked away, but felt compelled to come here and wait. Can't tell you why, but when you walked in I knew I had to tell you the story. I think you're the one I was to talk to. Now I can go back to what I was doing, but I don't think things in my life will ever be the same."
Then she got up and walked away leaving the wise man to wonder about what he heard.
"Someday I'll find Him," he thought, "and I pray I am only half as awed as that woman who got to see Him the night when He was born." And on walked the wise man, searching still for the One who transforms with a look.
May you find Him in your heart and may your life be changed forevermore.

A New Beatitude

A new Beatitude for the modern age:
'Blessed are those who dwell among folk with remarkable camera skills, for they shall see the Presence of God anew.'
This morning I am inspired by two among God's children who have such gifts, Father Jerry Schweitzer and Stephanie Liefer, (FB name, Kirk Stephanie Liefer). Seeing the world through their eyes is an exquisite experience of wonder and faith, and to open one's day by glimpsing creation through the lens of their understanding is ...to see the face of God again and again, making Holy the moments into which we journey together. These two people are as diverse in background as one could imagine, yet are as kindred as the Baptismal waters through which they wade every day, for shared in their DNA is that of being God's children who are open to the movement of the Spirit and willing co-conspirators in announcing the nearness of the Kingdom. Oh, there are many among us who are quite capable of capturing that occasional moment with similar skill, but to be consistent about it, to be immersed in the passion and open to the wonder, those are gifts given to a few . . . and the rest of us are blessed recipients of their grace.
Maybe that is why God sent to earth Jesus: to allow humanity to see God face-to-face through the eyes and heart of One open to God's Imminence. Emmanuel, God With Us, opens our eyes to see God in the wonder of a sunrise, in the beauty of an snowy morning, in the majesty of a lame man walking, in the surprise of woman made whole, in the loveliness of a child being given new life, in the marvel of a dead man being released from his grave clothes, in the awe of sins forgiven, even . . . perhaps especially, in the splendor of His own empty tomb. 'Come, come and see God as I know God,' says Jesus, as He touches the leper and embraces the adultery of our living. 'Open your eyes and perceive how close God is,' speaks the Child, as even the hem of His robe heals the nations and causes to cease the flowing blood of long held wounds and despair.
'Blessed are those who dwell among folk with remarkable camera skills, for they shall see the Presence of God anew' . . . and blessed are those who walk in the One Who creates the vistas, Who shapes the wonders, Who opens the eyes of the unseeing, and inspires among us those to share the Vision . . . for to them a Child is born, a Son is given. To them the Kingdom is announced by angel voices. Thanks be to God!
An Advent pondering on the journey to Bethlehem.

Dad Called This Morning

Dad called this morning.

Seeing Dad's name on the Call I.D. as I moved to answer the phone, I quickly thought, "I wonder what's up?" Dad isn't the sort of person who just calls to see how you are. He assumes you are okay until he hears differently. No, usually when Dad calls he is on a mission and this morning was no different.

"Morning, Don, how are you?" is how he began and we chatted a bit about the snow and cold before he asked the particular question for which he was seeking an answer, "Is Ched going to be home for Christmas or do I need to send his gift out to him at the Academy?" There it was, Dad was inside his home, tucked in his office on this cold Winter's morning, working on Christmas cards and Christmas gifts for his grandchildren and he needed to know where they were going to be when the Wagner family gathered for Christmas. Dad, like his father before him, keeps very close tabs on his grandchildren and great-grandchildren, always desiring them to know that they - we - are connected by love and caring every day of our lives. We are family - and Christmas is one of those times in the year when special care is taken to update the mailing list and find out what is happening in each of their lives.

Our conversation immediately sent me back over fifty years ago to memories of my grandfathers, Grandpa Wagner and Grandpa Triefenbach, both of whom lived with us on the farm as I was growing up and both of whom cared deeply for their children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and, in Grandpa Wagner's case, great-great-grandchildren. These are people who lived when life was not filled with the 'stuff' of our current age. If you wanted to talk to someone, you went to their home or met them at a social gathering or at church. If you wanted to know what the weather was going to do, you looked up at the sky and combined what you saw with what you observed in the animals on the farm and what you were feeling in your bones. Most often, to go to work was to walk across the yard to the barn or shed, to check what money you had you looked in your wallet or opened the sock drawer and to send word to family who lived 'away' from where you were you sat down and wrote a letter and took it to the Post Office - and waited weeks for their reply. To say my grandparents grew up in a much different time than today is like saying Jesus was Jewish . . . it is just stating the obvious, yet often overlooked, truth.

Still, the one thing that links the generations through the current day is the deep sense of 'family'. At age 97, when Grandpa Wagner had a stroke and knew he could not take care of himself and, being the strong, proud man that he was, he didn't want his kids 'to be burdened' with his care either, he sought out the care of a nearby facility, the New Athens Nursing Home, to tend to his needs. Visiting Grandpa was a regular part of our family's practice, underscoring for him in his final years that which he had established with all of us throughout his entire life, 'You are never alone. We are family.' Walking into Grandpa's room in the Nursing Home was to walk into the Wagner family history for there, on every wall, were the pictures of his children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren, but the pictures weren't there just for display . . . no, no, no, the pictures were there so that he could practice naming his descendants each day and, in so doing, keep his mind sharp. It must have worked because whenever we would visit he would ask about everyone by name, nearly right up to the time when he passed from this earth at the age of a hundred and a half year's of age.

Should it surprise me then that, early one morning, not long before Christmas, I would receive a call from my Dad checking in on his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren? I would expect no less. My Dad learned from the best and, perhaps, that is the greatest gift of the season: In inquiring of his family, Dad reminds each of us that, 'You are never alone. We are family.' Maybe that has something to do with why he and Mom made the church community such a central part of our family life and tradition . . . they were instilling in our hearts the abiding and resounding echo of God's inquiry concerning all of humankind through the Gift of Jesus: Early one morning, God called out to all the earth, and said, 'You are never alone. We are family.'

Pushing the 'Off' button on the phone after saying our final, "Good bye" and "I love you!", I smiled and thought, "I have a lot to live up to in my Dad . . . and I am blessed." I pray our children and grandchildren know that, by the way I live and the care I extend to them, 'You are never alone. We are family.' I pray they know the legacy into which they live is the love of family which spans the generations and includes the depth and richness of a vivid faith history. Yet, more than all of this, I pray they know the One whom, in Jesus, speaks those words to every generation and calls us to extend such love to all people for, truly, 'You are never alone. We are Family.' is the soul of God into which we are born anew each day and we can ask no more of Christmas than to celebrate such a Gift being made known.

Advent blessings on the way. Call someone, as God calls you, and let them know, 'You are never alone. We are family.' 

 

I Have Seen Christmas

I have seen Christmas - and it cannot be bought.
I have seen Epiphany - and it is more than a light in the sky.
I have seen Easter - and it cannot be found in a lawn or under a bush.
I have seen Pentecost - and it is more than fire and wind in the air.
I am seeing Jesus . . . and He is more than I can imagine, more than I deserve, yet, we are all wrapped in His grace, sent out in His power, and gifted by His Spirit.
I am seeing Jesus . . . and all else is becoming less and less, for Jesus is the 'More in Life' I truly need.
How about you in this Advent journey?

Remembering Nelson Mandela

Like millions around the world, I am remembering Nelson Mandela today and giving thanks for his life on this earth. A few things I have learned from Nelson Mandela are:
+ God does not desire our occasional nod to the faith whenever it is we remember or have time to attend worship. Mandela teaches us that life lived in faith is worship and to so worship is to walk with God continually, which is God's greatest desire and reason for sending Jesus.
+ Most of us view the 27 years of relative solitary confinement in which Nelson Mandela was interred as an interminable sentence and one few among us could have endured. Mandela teaches us there are some things so meaningful in God that nothing on earth, including the walls of a jail, can stand in their way, justice and equality chief among them.
+ To offer solace to the widow of the man who confined you is to reshape the vision of how one human being is to treat another and expands the meaning of true forgiveness and mercy.
+ To those who initially opposed Nelson Mandela and the freedom movement, including the United States, while supporting the apartheid regimes of South Africa, Mandela offered understanding, inclusion, and grace, modeling the One who from the cross offered the words, "Father, forgive them for they know not what they do."
+ The sign of a great leader is not the winning of an election, but transformation of the souls around them.
+ Nelson Mandela's legacy in this world is a paraphrase another great example who walked this earth among us, Mother Teresa, 'Not all of us can do great things, but all of us can do small things with great love.'
+ Nelson Mandela never claimed perfection in his life, but lived for mercy among all with whom he journeyed. We can do no less.
+ Nelson Mandela never demanded power, respect or authority, nor was it given him for most of his life. Yet, in the final analysis, I suspect the human race will discover that Mandela lived every single day of his life in the Power, Respect and Authority of the One to whom he bent his knee and in Whom he gained continual confidence and strength, regardless how humanity regarded him. Of such may be his greatest gift, freeing all people to live equitably, unafraid of how others might perceive them.

On this Advent journey, what is it you are expecting, hoping, praying to find in Bethlehem? Take a moment and learn from those who, like Nelson Mandela, spend a lifetime in adoration of the One who comes, then go and do likewise: Serve.
Thank you, Nelson Mandela, for a lifetime of teaching tolerance, acceptance, and the gracious care of God for all. Rest now in the arms of the One who frees you from all chains which ever could bind you on earth.

The Boy's Rooms

I can't tell you what it was that made me do it, but something inside seemed to drive me to walk through each of our boy's rooms in our home and just look around and listen. The nest has been 'empty' now for over three years and, though there is still an occasional visit home, for the most part those rooms sit quiet and undisturbed for the greatest part of the year. Still, my soul needed to see, to hear, to remember . . . to treasure.

One room is now our 'office', complete with a computer desk, file cabinet, chairs and toys for the grandkids to play with when they visit. We don't need to tell them where they are, they know and often head for them as soon as they enter Nana and Papa's home. Another room upstairs is still a bedroom, complete with many of our youngest son's Boy Scout, hand-crafted, sailboats and derby cars. The other room downstairs is, also, still a bedroom and is the place Ched calls 'home' when he is on leave and this room is complete with his plaques, trophies, books and posters from his High School years. Most of what our oldest son, Matthew, accumulated while he was growing up here has now gone into his home. The same is true of our middle son, Raymond's, belongings. Only Ched's personal effects still linger in the downstairs bedroom and will continue to do so until he moves to his first assignment.

Still, as I stand in each of their rooms, I can hear their voices, their laughter, their complaints, their questions and their music. Still, I can smell their colognes, the leftover food they took in their room while cloistered away from their embarrassing parents, their gym clothes, and their sweaty athletic socks and shoes. Still, I can see their clothes strewn about, their school books dropped in the corner, and their unmade beds. Still, I can sense their presence over the years, feel their hugs, and they way it made my heart feel each time they said, as they ran out the door, "Love you, Dad!"

They have all grown up and left our home but, still, so much of them remains and, for such remnants of heart and memory, I give God thanks. Of such does the past shape our present and of such does our present craft the future. In each of these remembering's I am consoled that God is at work and, though often unnoticed and unrealized, each bit of these memories has conspired to inform who they, who we all, are becoming today. God is at work.

Maybe that is why the seasons of Advent and Christmas are so important for the Christian identity. Such specific dates are really irrelevant, as are the itemized listings of who was present and who was not and why, but what remains over all the years is this one simple and profound truth: Emmanuel, God With Us.

Each Advent we journey towards Bethlehem telling and retelling the Birth Narrative, trying to remember every detail and watching, again and again, for the signs of Imminence which God gives. Each Advent we listen for the voices and keen our senses for the sights and smells of Emmanuel's arrival. Each Advent, as wide-eyed children waiting for the Greatest of Gifts, we lean forward in anticipation of God's hug embracing our life and holding us close. Each Advent we look towards the home in which the eternal 'I love you' is birthed - and there cling to Hope such a birthing brings. Each Advent . . . we remember, we treasure, and we move forward in the Peace which quiets the soul and strengthens our resolve to be found ready to receive Him.

Each Advent we stand at the door of the Room . . . and are humbled by that of which we are a part because of God coming to us . . . Emmanuel.

Nancy and I are mightily blessed for so many reasons yet, of all these things, that which we treasure most deeply are the moments our boys and their families come home and the silent rooms are silent no more. Could it be that is exactly how God feels when we gather as the Church in worship, when we circle the Table, when we tell the stories, and when we are as one family in laughter, love and care for one another? Could it be that is exactly how God feels when we say, 'Thank You for the Gift!' or 'We love You!'? Could it be that there, right there in the heart of Bethlehem, we encounter the Truth of how much we are valued by God, regardless of our willingness to come home?

It is certainly something to ponder in these days of Advent, on the journey, telling the Story, remembering and looking forward. Thank you, God, for the Gift of Emmanuel. May we ever delight in His Presence in the home of our hearts.



Ground-Breaking Education

There was a Ground-Breaking Celebration yesterday in Lebanon for the new Grade School which is to replace the current well-aged and nearly crumbling structure. Though my work at the church yesterday prevented me from attending the celebration, I wish I had been there. Each of our children have passed through that building and benefited from those whose gift it has been to teach there and, by extension, Nancy and I have benefited from the instruction and presence of a place and time that has made it possible for our dreams for our children to come to fruition. Yet, not everyone feels this way.

It has been interesting to hear and read the response of some in our community this day who believe that, ". . . since we don't have kids in the schools we shouldn't have to pay for it.", conveying their disdain of their tax dollars being used for services they don't 'personally' receive. Hmmmmm, this got me to thinking . . . .

If one were to extrapolate that notion, I suspect these people are probably paying far too little in taxes. Let me explain: If we were to move to a system of paying taxes to support the services from which we receive direct benefit then, in all likelihood, we would have to be paying to get up in the morning and choose which cereal we eat, what coffee to drink, watch 'free' public television, get on the roads/streets/highways to go to the doctor/work/see our kids/shop, turn on the lights with electricity made possible by utility lines located on public grounds, and the list goes on and on. How do you historically extrapolate the value of an education? That your parents, and their parents, and their parents, and their parents before them could read because someone took the time to teach them how to read . . . or that you can figure out your grocery bill because someone taught you how to add, subtract, multiply, and divide . . . or that you can hold a job because someone, somewhere, taught you how to work hard and how to solve problems with creativity . . . is all the result of someone, somewhere, supporting the notion of education for the benefit of future generations - and provided an appropriate environment for that to happen. Each generation takes their turn in making possible for future generations what those before did for them.

From a religious perspective, what is the value of grace? What is the value of mercy? What is the value of forgiveness? What the value of light in the darkened sky? What is the value of shade from the hot Summer sun? What is the value of a windbreak from the Winter wind's howl? What is the value of water when you are thirsty? What is the value of food when you are hungry? What is the value of a cool breeze in July? What is the value of Spring rain? What is the value of Fall color? If God taxed humankind for such things, what would you and I have to pay? And, of these things, from which do you and I directly benefit? And what have we offered God in return?

If we are really to buy into the notion of 'paying taxes only for the services we personally receive', who among us could afford the life we live or the one we pray to live? Look around the world and take measure of nations and peoples who have little or no education. What is their lot in life? What choices and opportunities do they have? What dreams might they pursue? In this nation, we refer to such places as 'Third World Countries' for a reason: It is precisely because the cost of little or no education is immeasurably higher in human life, spirit and potential.

The very argument that some should be exempt from paying taxes for services from which they don't directly benefit regarding our educational system is an argument of convenient prosperity: they have already derived their benefit from the system and assume they no longer need it, therefore they no longer need support it for others. Oddly enough, those who make such an argument probably need the educational system now more than ever before, for clearly they have missed the civics lesson on mutual accountability and shared responsibility for the public good in advancing cultures.

Now, lest I be misunderstood, I am not giving a blank check to taxing bodies to do with whatever they want in providing buildings, lands, classes and equipment for a 'state of the art' educational system, but I am advocating that we all, everyone of us, have a vested interest in supporting the quality and place of the American educational system in this community. Not only does Lebanon need to keep moving forward in providing the best possible environment and educators for our children, but the world is depending on our doing it. If you don't believe it, do a careful review of those whom have graduated from Lebanon over the years . . . then assess the difference each of them has made in the world. Truly, it is incalculable.

When it comes to the place of education in our world, your children are our children and our children are your children . . . and the children to come are our children . . . just as those who were before us viewed and supported us as their children. Transforming Washington, D.C. or changing world power politics or making global advancements in the treatment of diseases begins - and is sustained by - the local educational system, and we are all continual recipients of what happens there. It is our privilege to continue providing such a gift to generations to come. 

Pre-Thanksgiving

It's the day before Thanksgiving and my lovely bride of twenty amazing years, and seventeen more which she tells me were 'just okay' ( I swear, I thought they were all amazing! Oh, well . . .) is home enjoying a cup of coffee with me without having to rush out the door to teach school. 'So, this is what retirement is like.' I reflectively thought, 'You don't have to get up at the butt-crack of dawn, you can sit at the counter and eat your breakfast with your wife, you can pass the sales circulars towards her even as you grab the sports pages, and you can allow the news on the television to take the place of any sort of personal discourse you might be tempted to have. You can look at each other with that sort of 'how 'ya doin', 'come hither' look which has one eyebrow raised in anticipation, then you can look away and promptly forget why you raised, and maybe even strained, that one eyebrow. You can make the big leap of moving from the kitchen counter stools to the recliners so that watching the news on TV isn't such a labor (of having to sit up and all), you can catch a couple of extra 'Z's' if you want and, this is the big one, you can plan your day as you choose, instead of having it laid out for you as you live your life reactively to the needs of your job, those around you, and your family.'

'So, this is what retirement is like.', I reflectively thought, just as Nancy burst into my fantasy with the words, "And what is it that you scheduled at 10:00 this morning?" Oh, yes, a meeting. I planned another meeting, albeit a short one, but another meeting on the day before Thanksgiving. Is there no end to how much we perceive that we are the necessary cogs which make the wheels of the industrial age move on from day to day? How could I have done that, however inadvertently? Our youngest son, Ched, is home from the Air Force Academy and who knows where he will be next Thanksgiving, after he has graduated in May. Nancy is home from her vocation of teaching school in the nearby town of Marissa and will be needing some help to get things ready to celebrate Thanksgiving - and all of my other worship planning work is done for next Sunday.

"So, why did I plan this meeting?" is probably a very similar question to the ones asked by those who didn't make it to the stable in Bethlehem to see the Child and His parents. It is a resounding echo of questioned self-certainty throughout the ages, asked by men and women alike, as time and time again opportunities for sharing of ourselves with family in those 'important moments' of human history give way to our own need to express our perceived importance by, again, being away, taking care of 'more important things'.

Such is the world into which Jesus comes. He comes into the world of our perceived self-importance. He comes into the world where our jobs supersede our relationships. He comes into the world of our thoughtless planning. He comes into the world which knows Him not. He comes into the world - and that is all that really matters - affording us another opportunity to regard Him, ourselves and those around us much, much differently. He comes - and quiets our busy-ness and stills our meetings. He comes - and angels sing - and those who are not in meetings get to hear them. He comes - and the world, our world, His world, is forever changed.

Don't let, "So, why did I plan this meeting?" become the phrase which keeps you away from family and friends, either at Thanksgiving or at Christmas. Slow it down, savor those around you and take a lesson from the birthing of Jesus: Only those who weren't too busy with other things, like meetings and such, were granted the privilege of meeting Him there in Bethlehem, face-to-face. May we all be so blessed this year.  

 

Sometimes I can be so callous

Sometimes I can be so callous.
Driving to the hospital today to see someone, I was following a person who was driving significantly below the speed limit. As Nancy would tell you, I have a tendency to be a tad impatient with those who are extra careful in their driving, especially if they are driving slowly so that they can text, talk on the phone or just look around the countryside. The person I was following today was going so slowly I thought, "Murphy's Law: The faster you want to get somewhere, the more likely you are to be following Aunt Bea on her way to pick up Opie at the lake fishing with Andy." It was that kind of slow.
Mile after city mile I followed and mile after city mile the person stayed right ahead of me until, finally, we both turned onto a four lane street and I could get around them. It was as I indignantly passed this person on the left that I could see who it was that had held me up all those many minutes. This person could have been my Grandma, complete with thick glasses and doing their best to keep up and drive straight while looking through the steering wheel of her vehicle. It actually could have been Aunt Bea, but I think she died some years back.
Sliding swiftly and confidently by her, I thought, "Nice, Pastor Don. Nice way to care for those who struggle for their daily existence." She was probably on her way to see an old friend, taking the back streets as I was, trying to stay out of everybody's way, not wanting to be stuck at home, and not ready to give up her keys . . . and all I could do was think of a new version of Murphy's Laws. Sometimes I can be so callous. Sometimes I can't see the forest for the trees. Sometimes I am the most in need of forgiveness.
The absolutely incredible part of the Bethlehem story is that the One who comes, comes both for Aunt Bea and the one who can't wait to get around her. The One who comes opens the door of a stable to incredulous shepherds and doting Magi alike. The One who comes understands one person's need to drive slow and another person's need to hurry - and there, somewhere in the middle, invites everyone to savor a different pace, a better vision of each other, and a deeper understanding of how God wants us to live together. The One who comes softens the calloused heart and eases our stiff-necked living. The One who comes leads us away from the trust of our own abilities and understandings into a relationship filled with respect, integrity, love and honor. The One who comes . . . takes away our anxiousness while introducing us to the imminence of the Kingdom. The One who comes . . . causes an over-zealous pastor to smile and wave (with all his fingers) at one whom, just moments before, he was ready to curse.
Come into my heart this day, O Jesus, for I can sometimes be so callous. Come into my heart this day, O Christ, for I can sometimes be so sure. Come into my heart this day, O Savior, for I cannot sever these shackles of slavery on my own. Come into my heart this day, O Lord, for I cannot wait . . . I cannot wait . . . oh, yes, yes I can . . . Was it you I passed this day in my hurry from here to there, O God?
I can wait, and will wait, that You might shape me to be the person You need, the person I need to be, in Jesus' name. Amen.


Friends, always

The drive up to the Steve Richie Nature Preserve and the home of Connie Richie was hurried, yet long. Six hours of wonderful conversation with my hunting partner and oldest son, Matt, are all treasured, but when you just can't wait to get to where you want to be . . . well, for both of us, we couldn't get there soon enough. Couple that with the approaching storm front of Sunday afternoon, November 17, which we were about one hour ahead of all the way across the state, we knew we needed to make good time.

We arrived around 2:00 p.m. Indiana time in the midst of howling winds and the approaching storm front. So, to wait for the storm front to pass through or to head on out and see if the deer were moving? What are hunters to do? Of course, we geared up, scented down, gathered our guns and headed out to the stands which we had already identified on the trip as probably giving us the best chance.

I think we were in the stands a grand total of about twenty minutes before the first of the rains started to fall in that area. Rain to a hunter waiting for a deer means little. It was the bolt lightning striking about a half mile away, the resounding thunder rumbling the ground like a freight train and the sudden darkening of the skies which made us both scamper down from our perches on steel stands about twelve feet in the air. Hunting deer is one thing, being the target for a bolt of lightning is quite another. A hurried trip across the forty acres back to the house, shielding ourselves from horizontal rain, a fanatic wind and lightning cracking the skies open like a searing sword, we slipped onto the front porch just in time to meet Connie at the door telling us a tornado was on the ground less than twenty miles away. Whew! Timing is everything. We peeled off our camouflage coveralls, hung them up to dry and sat with Connie at the kitchen table with a hot cup of coffee and enjoyed catching up as the weather pushed through.

After the storm, it was back to the field. Oddly enough, deer are a lot smarter than hunters. They stayed bedded down. The wind was still howling, the skies were threatening, yet there we were . . . waiting and waiting and waiting. Nothing moved and darkness gathered the countryside into her loving embrace. Night.

Tomorrow, we thought.

We were on our way into the field by 6:30 a.m., each headed to our stands in the unrelenting winds which were blowing somewhere between 25 and 30 miles per hour, with gusts ranging much higher. There were moments we were holding onto the stands more than looking around. These really were very smart deer. Nothing moved all day long . . . except for Matt and I, who went in about mid-morning for a cup of coffee and a strategy session, then early in the afternoon for lunch, then back out each time.

Around 5:00 in the evening, I was getting ready to descend from my perch on a stand near the creek when, out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement about 75 yards from me. It was a buck who, whether out of boredom from not moving much for the last 24 hours or for the sake of hunger, was making his way toward the harvested corn field nearby. I froze waiting to see if he saw me stretching as I stood up and would go another way or missed me and would continue down the path. I got lucky, he continued down the path. Tightly packed with trees and brush I had to wait until, at the moment when the buck stepped between two trees, the winds steadied, and my nerves allowed me to focus through the scope, I pulled the trigger. He dropped immediately. A hunter can ask no more. I gave thanks to God for the gift of food soon to be on the table and a safe hunt, then I texted Matt and let him know that I had a deer down and would need his help. Darkness was, again, sliding into the world around us and we didn't have much time to get the deer before it became much harder.

Matt and I walked into the field where the deer lay. I led the way with flashlight and by my memory of how that particular area of field lay. Again, thank you, God, we walked right to the spot. Matt looked at the deer and then gave me the biggest hug - and then it all hit me . . . like a flood of emotion welling up over the past year, the moment suddenly caught my heart and wrung me out without compromise.

It was two days short of one year from the day that my friend, Steve Richie, died of complications due to pancreatic cancer. Matt and I were there that day. Steve had insisted that, even though he was recovering from a surgery to remove the pancreatic cancer tumor, we should hunt as we always had with him in all those years before. We had visited with Steve in the hospital, laughed with Connie and the staff over the inside jokes and stories which Steve, Connie, Matt and I had shared over the years, and Matt and I had hunted. In the night before we were to return to Illinois, Connie received that 'early morning call' which no spouse wants to answer. She and I drove to the hospital in the darkness of the night as Steve's condition worsened, leaving Matt to gather our things, put away gear, and drive up to the hospital later in the morning. The look on the faces of the doctors as we arrived at the hospital said it all and, though they offered a slim margin of hope, we knew the truth was not far away. Steve died that afternoon . . . as Matt and I were driving South to Illinois.

In the days since those moments, Connie made clear that neither Steve, nor she, would put up with any changes: Matt and I, and Ray and Ched if they wanted, were to continue hunting in the woods that once we had roamed together as best friends. We were to honor our friend by continuing his legacy and, to that end, Connie gave to me Steve's deer rifle and, to Matt, Steve's deer shotgun, which is what we carried into the field this year.

When Matt hugged me the story came full circle: From Steve's first deer stand which he purchased for his property, with the rifle he carried those many years, and even with the last box of ammunition he had bought for exactly that purpose, I had brought down this deer in the newly named, 'Steve Richie Nature Preserve'. I wept with the one person (besides Connie) who understood all this and gave thanks to God one more time for the gift of our friend, Steve, for surely he was standing with me there that night on the deer stand - looking through the scope - and giving thanks to God for the bounty of the land. I could hear his voice celebrating the moment with an, 'Atta boy, Don!' and could feel his arm on my shoulder, even as I hugged Matt.

Were I to name the crucial point to this story, it wouldn't be the trip, or the hunt, or the storms, or even the year before, but it would be all those things wrapped up together in the love of God and the insistent presence of good friends. This year I learned that our sons are now more than just sons. Standing there in the gathering darkness, a Light shone brightly as a father hugged his son and friendship made itself known in a whole new way. Thank you, God, for Steve and the friendship we share, still. Thank you, God, for Connie and her wise and loving friendship continuing the journey. And, thank you, God, for a son who understands without having to 'talk it out'. It was a humbling and awesome moment which I think I shall never, ever forget . . . standing in the woods, hugging our son, reminded again of how precious our days together are. Incredible. Friends, always.

We Are Done!

"We are done! Woo-hoo!" my brother, Larry, said as he took his last step down from the combine.

Those are sacred words on the lips of any farmer this time of the year but, when they are spoken by one whom you so deeply love and admire, they take on a whole new meaning. Larry is a United States Army Veteran, having served in Viet Nam in some of the deepest darkest times of that conflict, both in the land where he served . . . and in the psyche of the American nation for whom he fought. Larry, like so many of that generation, was drafted, served with honor and bravery, and came back to a mostly ungrateful nation, often derided for his participation in that 'foreign atrocity'. Today, on Veteran's Day 2013, as he stepped off the combine having completed this year's harvest, I was blessed to be there in the yard of the farm to welcome him home all over again, thank him for his service, and remind him of how proud I am of who he is continuing to become in God's grace and strength.

Yes, the mood has changed in the United States concerning the Veterans of the Viet Nam era and for that I am grateful. I am grateful, too, that the Veterans of that era are being welcomed home again, year after year, with a whole new appreciation and I am grateful that the wounds of that distant conflict are being so actively addressed on both a local and national level. It should have been so long, long ago.

Yet, mostly, this day I am grateful for my brother, Larry. To say I am proud of him is comparable to saying I like beautiful sunrises . . . no words can adequately sum up my feelings. At one time we were partners in farming before God called me into ministry, at one time I was the much younger brother and he the older, smarter and more mechanically inclined 'wise one', at one time . . . well, you get it. The one thing which has continued to grow over the years, even as it has with my other two brothers, Carl and Bruce, is that we are, in the truest sense of the word, friends. Friends are those who are numbered on one hand, all others are acquaintances. Larry embodies 'friend' as well as or better than anyone else I know, at least for me, for he intuits where others are on the journey and responds before being called. He lets you know your life matters. He smiles and laughs and the struggles melt away. He embraces you - and in that hug you know you are loved. Friend.
This day one of my closest friends, a Veteran of whom I am especially proud, a brother by blood, has finished the harvest and in his face I see joy. Joy, not only for the completion of harvest, but because as he drove the combine into the yard and saw that I happened to be there, he smiled broadly knowing he would be able to share his latest return home with someone who would welcome him with open arms. Joy, because of God's great and unending abundance and care. Joy, for being family - and the completion of harvest in any year is a family celebration. Joy, simply because it is, we are, a gift of God to each other.
Thank You, God, for the gift of brothers. In Larry, Carl and Bruce, I am deeply blessed, Thank You, too, for the completion of harvest on the Wagner Farm and that, by chance, I was there to welcome Larry home all over again. And thank You, too, for all the Veterans who have stood their watch that we might sleep safely at night . . . may they all know the wonder of Your Presence and feel the truest of Joy in knowing family and friends love them - and are proud of them beyond such words. This was a blessed day, "Woo-hoo! We are done!"



Grow A Pair

"If only they would grow a pair!" the woman fairly shouted at the screen of the television while watching the recent debate over the national budget. This person was outraged by the partisan behaviors of the congresspersons who were, seemingly, more interested in protecting their job, their place in the political party and their next election chances than they were in coming to a viable solution for the American people. "If only they would grow a pair!" she said more quietly a second time. Then her words trailed off into an unspoken complex vision of a different day which this person carried with her in her mind and heart, leaving me to wonder if I even wanted to know what sort of world it is for which this person longs. Would everyone 'have a pair' in that world view? Or would folks just 'have a pair' when they needed to take a stance?

Maybe it's time to find a better phrase.

Oh, I understand what it is this person was saying and, as most who know me will tell you, I'm not a prude. Yet, I have to wonder if our desire for folks to live as though their life mattered to the rest of the world and be willing to take stands which transform daily living couldn't find a more appropriate manner of expression. Personally, if everyone 'grew a pair' that needed to, what would be the equity of the sexes? Additionally, if every time we ourselves need, or want someone else, to take a stand and use the phrase 'grow a pair', what is being subliminally expressed to every female on earth about their place and power in society?

My understanding of 'grow a pair' is about strength, dominance, willingness to compete on the field of battle, stand up for what you believe, show integrity, be fearless, and live into commonly accepted morals and values, just to name a few. So, what of those who were not 'born with a pair'? Are they condemned to a life of trying to prove themselves as 'having a pair' in spirit, even if not in reality? And, just as importantly, what of those who were 'born with a pair' and have few, or live by any discernible, convictions? Do they need 'another pair'?

Though it is a compliment for someone to say that you really stood up for what you believe and followed the conviction of your soul, would it be equally complimentary to say to a woman - or a man, for that matter - 'Well, you sure showed them you have a pair!' If our greatest measure of a person is the size or virility of their testicles, we are a people greatly to be pitied, for we have subjugated faithfulness, honor and wisdom to the stuff of Brett Favre or Hugh Hefner.

Maybe it's time to find a better phrase.

In His Sermon on the Mount, recorded in Matthew, Jesus says to all the people, "Blessed are you . . ." Contrary to what many have said the word "Blessed" means in terms of 'be happy' and such, the term Jesus uses here carries a much deeper connotation. Though it is hard for common English to translate the Greek word used here, 'Blessed', as Jesus uses it, is more towards 'be at peace in your spirit', 'know that you are well', 'stand strong in who you are' for, and this is the critical part of the translation, 'God is with you'. You are 'blessed' for 'God is with you'. God knows you. God stands with you. God gives you the words you need to speak. God gives you the strength you need to stand up to oppressors. God is with you in the fray. God will never let you alone. You are 'blessed'!

So, what would happen if the next time we are looking at the television screen, at our neighbor or maybe even in the mirror and are tempted to say, 'grow a pair', we instead said, 'Live as you are blessed!'? Live, speak and act the blessing of God being with you, in you, as you are! How would that change the conversation, much less the meaning? How much more accessible would leadership be, regardless of gender, if it were based on living into our blessing, rather than having to 'grow a pair'? How much more would faithfulness, honor and wisdom be lifted up in being 'blessed', than in 'having a pair'?

Maybe it is time to find a better phrase. How about, 'Live as you are blessed!'?

Try it on the next time you are chastising someone about their apparent lack of backbone, the next time you are demanding more of your legislative representation, or the next time you are looking in the mirror wondering why you didn't have the courage to say or do what you know you needed to in that moment. 'Live as you are blessed!' allows us all to access and value the Presence of God in the midst of the journey, regardless the circumstance . . . without having to give up the wonder of the gender in which we were born or the way we have expressed that wonder.

'Live as you are blessed!' doesn't require you to 'grow a pair', either to say it or to live it. Thanks be to God!

'Live as you are blessed!'

Mom's Chili

Days like today are, as my Mom used to say, "Chili days". Wet, windy, cooling temperatures, and falling leaves are a perfect recipe for chili and, in my opinion, my Mom made some of the very best chili there ever was.

Oh, Mom's chili would never have won any of the Chili Cook-Off Contests you see around here today, nor would you have probably have selected it as your best. No, Mom's chili was best in my heart precisely because Mom made it . . . and I'm fairly certain many of you could say the same about your Mom's chili. There is something about the sweetness of anticipation when you know your Mom is making you one of your favorite meals which, when finally you gather around the table to eat, will not only fill your belly, but warm your soul. Mom's chili wasn't spicy hot, nor was it filled lots of other 'stuff' to make it unique. Mom's chili was loaded with ground beef, mild chili beans out of a can, some of Mom's canned tomatoes from the Summer garden, a dash of chili powder, just enough sugar to make it sweet and, of course, Mom's love . . . and it was the last ingredient that you could palpably taste in every bite. Mom's love. Even sitting here today, years removed from the last chili that Mom ever made while I was sitting at her table, it is the love that still comes through.

Mom passed from this life into life eternal nearly eleven years ago, still I can smell her chili cooking on the stove, still I can hear her laughter as 'her boys' came in the back porch door, patted her on the backside and kissed her on the cheek, and still I can see her watching as everyone around the table filled their bowls from the big pot on the center of the table and took their first bite . . . and now, years removed from those days, I am beginning to understand the two reasons why she waited: the first I was always aware of, was to be sure there was plenty enough to go around - and there was always plenty enough to go around, (Mom would take less or eat something else if there were more people around the table than chili in the pot); and the second was, I think, just to see the look of pleasure which would cross our faces as we sampled some of the best chili in the world. Mom loved to see her boys happy . . . and chili made us happy.

In my mind, that is why God gives us days like today: God loves Mom's chili, too. In the changing of the seasons, in the damp of weather fronts moving through, in the winds of the approaching cold, God knows that Mom will be moved to make her chili . . . now in heaven as once on earth and, I suspect, God can't wait, either. It is a happy thought for me, so allow me my memory and this seasonal smile.

Yet, I do believe that it is through such memories that we are blessed by God to continue the love and wonder of relationship throughout the generations. My children and my grandchildren and their children and grandchildren after them will never know the wonder of my Mom's chili, which in some small way makes me sad, for they have missed the work of a great cook. Still, in the telling of the story, in relating the moment, in speaking of the person, perhaps they will become inheritors of the greatest ingredient in Mom's chili. Perhaps they will know her through her love - and see the kindness in her face as she laughed when we kissed her on the cheek or smiled with pleasure at the first spoon full of chili.

And if it is so in what I can share with you of my Mom's chili, then how much more so when I tell you of the God in Whom we all have life? I think the Apostle Paul said it best in the thirteenth chapter of First Corinthians, the thirteen verse: "Now faith, hope and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love." . . . for Love is the gift which makes everything better, in every generation. Try it in your chili sometime. Better yet, try it in your care for each other.

Love you, Mom.

 

My Thong Broke

"I just couldn't believe it. My thong broke.

Nancy and I were in Colorado Springs visiting our youngest son, Ched, at the Air Force Academy over Parent's Weekend. He was with us at our hotel and, as Cadets are often wont to do on such days, he was sleeping-in. Nancy and I had slipped out on the balcony in the quiet of the morning to have a few private moments together when, not too far away, we heard someone approaching. I moved a bit too quickly to straighten up and then it happened: my thong broke. Dang it!

I caught my foot on the lower rail of the balcony trying to step back as the stranger approached and, sure enough, my thong caught on the wood and the piece which slips between your toes broke right at the base of the shoe. Ruined. A perfectly wonderful and comfortable thong ruined by one hurried misstep. I was devastated. Nancy just laughed."

. . . and so I started my sermon last Sunday morning.

From a Pastor's standpoint, it was a hoot to watch as folks jumped quickly to the wrong conclusion and then, after realizing I was talking about a shoe, began to laugh at themselves and the story which caught them off-guard. (I was seriously surprised by the number of older folk, I mean much older folk, who not only clearly understood what a thong is, but were quick to relate to the current meaning!) Unfortunately, some of the younger folks in the congregation may be permanently scarred as they continue, still, to try to get the image of their Pastor on a balcony with his wife breaking his thong out of their mind's eye. Sort of serves them right though, after all, it is this younger generation which changed the definition of 'thong' from what is now called a 'flip-flop' to something many folks I know refer to as 'butt-floss'. Talk about a paradigm shift!

The purpose of telling this story about the dual understandings of one word was to illustrate our many and varied understandings of 'Savior'. The folks around Jesus on the day He passed by the sycamore tree in which Zacchaeus was waiting were thinking of Savior as 'One who gives Divine approval to what I am doing', not One who comes to spend time with and save sinners. Yet, for Zacchaeus and many others like him, such as those with leprosy, the woman caught in adultery, blind Bartimaeus, the Geresene demoniac, the woman at the well, Lazarus, and hundreds, if not thousands, more, Savior means something quite different. To those most in need, to those most marginalized, to the ones perceived as unclean, untouchable, or as good as dead, to those whose hands stretch out the furthest just to touch the hem of Jesus' robe, Savior means, 'One who touches my wound and heals me', 'One who restores me in community', 'One who makes me clean', 'One who purifies my heart and casts out the demons which control me', or 'One who sees me beyond how everyone else knows me'. To the ones most in need, as in this case a tax collector named Zacchaeus, Savior is one who offers redemption without ever having to say a word. Just by being seen, called down from the tree, and embraced, Zacchaeus' life will forever be changed . . . and for this Jesus came into the world. For this the Savior walks our journey . . . to bring the sinners Home.

The Christian community which forgets the meaning of Savior or in some way tries to distort it to serve their own purpose and agenda forfeits their Baptismal identity and, more poignantly, understands little of their own need for grace, their own participation in the cause of sin, and their own hard-heartedness towards others. This story reminds us that the One True Savior doesn't want or need Bible-thumpers, law-slingers, or the self-righteous to 'protect Him from the crowds'. The Savior has come to save the crowds from ones such as these and will not be sidetracked from God's Mission of loving forgiveness and redemption. Being Savior isn't for everyone, in fact, it isn't for anyone other than Jesus Himself - and Jesus is quite capable of defining what Savior means for the world, thank you very much.

As for my thong, well, I haven't found another pair of thongs that fit quite as well as the ones I used to wear so, for now, I'm borrowing an old pair of Ched's which he left in the closet when he left for the Air Force Academy. They are a bit small, but are stretching out a bit as I wear them, leaving me with the thought, 'Is it true that there is no thong like a borrowed thong?' (If you rub your eyes really hard you might, just might, be able to get that image out of your mind.)

For today, allow Jesus to define and be the Savior God sent Him to be. Anything we do to define or shape 'Savior' in the world only adds to the confusion. Jesus is Who He Needs To Be: Savior of All. Thanks be to God!