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!