Blessed Times Two

I write this after waiting for the birth of our granddaughter, Ava, born yesterday. There is something powerfully humbling about holding six and a half pounds of hope in your arms, as there is something deeply empowering to have her blue eyes look intently back into yours. It is as if the very voice of God is saying, "Here, look at Me and see my creation in this bundle you are holding!" It takes me back to a similar story of swaddling cloths and the birth of One whose tiny hands once shaped the world now stretched to curl around a mother's finger.

The name, Ava, depending on the source from which you draw, is either Germanic or Latin in origin and means, 'bird'. Ava, one who flies, who soars in the heavens on the breath of the God from whose Life she is drawn. Ava, one who sees beyond the plains of the earth to the horizons of living which is beyond landbound eyesight. Ava, one whose song is lilting through the skies to the heavens above and the earth beneath, a gift of praise on the ears of the God in whose image she is created. Ava, washed in the birthwaters of humanity and blessed in the birthwaters of Divinity to rise on the wings of eagles. Ava, the grace of God in the flight of life born to us this day.

Like Cailin, her older sister, Ava arrives in our family to transform it as only new life is able. In her hunger cries, she will call us to remember the hungry. In her thirsting, she will cry out for those whose lives are parched. In her tears of anger, she will remind us of those seeking justice. In her cooing, she will hearken us to be peacemakers. In her laughter, she will lead in embracing the Child in us all. In her wakening, she will open our eyes to the wonders of God's new day before us. In her sleeping, she will invite us to rejuvenation of life and soul in God's care. And in her reaching out to us in trust as she lies curled in our arms, she will embrace our lives in God's trust that reaches out to us in love.

We are blessed to receive this gift of God among us, twice blessed as Ava joins her big sister Cailin in prospering our lives.

A Grandfather's prayer for this newly born granddaughter: Ava, may you rise on the wings of God's Spirit, may you dwell in the heart of God's Love through Christ, and may you ever reflect the fullness of faith in the One from Whom you come and to Whom you go. Blessed are you, Ava, and those into whose lives you have journeyed. Blessed are your parents who birthed and love you, and blessed is your sister who adores you. May your blessings ever surround and keep you, Ava Isabel, child of God, disciple of Christ, member of the Church. ~ from your Papa

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Chicken Dinner

The Sunday before Palm Sunday is Chicken Dinner Sunday. No, you won't find it listed on any calendar you might have from Cracker Barrel or Office Max, but on the annual calendar of the congregation I serve, two Sundays are sacred in faith family life: Wurstmart (a pork sausage dinner) which is held on the third Sunday of October and Chicken Dinner which is held on the Sunday before Palm Sunday. On those Sundays, and those Sundays only, our faith family has only one service of worship at 9:00 a.m., no Christian Education classes, and serving begins at 11:00 a.m., going through at least 3:00 p.m. It is not unusual that, between 'Dine-In' customers and 'Drive Through' (and Carry-Outs) we will serve in the neighborhood of 700 people in four hours. "All You Care To Eat" is how the dinners are advertised . . . and that is exactly what people come to test: How much do I care to eat . . . before I explode? Believe me, we have had some pretty near misses in terms of near explosions, if the number of times back for extra helpings is any indication. With real mashed potatoes, green beans cooked with bacon, fresh cole slaw with a sweet vinegar dressing, and homemade pies and sweets, folks have a tendency to stay as long as there are loops in the belt or elastic in the waistline of the dress. My, oh my! In the vernacular of my people, "It's quite a feed!"

More than the people fed or the money made, these dinners have had an profound effect upon the congregation: Over the fifteen or so years these dinners have been held, those of the congregation who have volunteered of their time and leadership for the dinners have become the core group for welcoming new people into the congregation. These dinners are not only excellent evangelism opportunities (We are known as the congregation that loves to eat!), but they are also wonderful moments for internal integration of folks new to our congregation and/or the Christian faith. These dinners give all of us the opportunity to practice radical hospitality: Everybody has both a place at the table and a job to do in welcoming others in setting the table. The long term members, who could be territorial, have become the welcoming committee for those who want to offer their gifts. The new members, who tend to be somewhat overwhelmed by the event, open the eyes of others as to what might be possible with the 'new eyes and ears' that they bring to every gathering.

This is a course in congregational formation that was never taught in seminary . . . and yet was taught every time we came to the Table. Though I doubt that Jesus was at a Chicken Dinner the Sunday before Palm Sunday, at least it is not recorded in the Bible that He was, were He to have walked in on this one, I think His smile might have been the very sunshine which brightened the room. Everyone welcome, everyone working side by side, everyone visiting and sharing the load with each other, and most staying until the last dish is dried and put away: now that is Christian hospitality at its best . . . and its very root is at the Table where Jesus said, "My Body . . . My Blood . . . . do this in remembrance of me."

Anymore, making a few dollars for missions and projects is a nice side benefit, but, as the Apostle Paul puts it in the 13th chapter of I Corinthians, " . . . the greatest of these is love." Chicken Dinner Christianity: don't wrinkle your face at it unless you've tried it. Feeding the soul is a great deal easier if the belly isn't hungry, so why not do both at the same time? I am forever humbled by what this congregation continues to teach me of the faith . . . and I pray you have the chance to dine at this table as well. He set it for us all.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

My Spit Is Your Spit

It was one of the unexpected telephone calls that completely changes the kind of day you are having. A person who was once a member of the congregation where I serve and, after moving to a nearby town, had transferred her membership, was calling to share a very special conversation with me. It was a conversation with God.

As the story was told to me: It has been a long time since she has heard the voice of God speaking in her ears and, pray as she might and be open as should could, still the dry valley of silence was long and hard. The Sunday before she had been in church with her granddaughter and, as often happens in church services, a variety of things were being passed out to various people, including hard candies to the ladies of the congregation. Well, her little granddaughter wanted one but was too young to be sucking on a whole hard candy, so grandmother began biting the hard candy into very small pieces, taking the small pieces out of her mouth with her fingers and placing them into her granddaughter's mouth. As she said, "If anybody who didn't know us would have seen us, they would have thought, 'What in God's name is that woman doing putting that spitty candy into that child's mouth?!' But, "Pastor Don," she said, "I am her grandmother and if there is anybody in the world I would swap spit with, it would be my granddaughter, after all, my spit is her spit and her spit is my spit."

It happened the next day when she was reflecting on what had happened in church with her granddaughter, that God spoke to her and her life filled with joy and understanding. As clearly as my voice sounds in your ears or your voice sounds in mine, God's voice filled this grandmother's ears with the words, "My spit is your spit." and all the barrenness, hardness and silence of the time before melted away. God reminded this daughter of God's that, "My spit is your spit." and who better to understand the power of those very words than a grandmother who mouth had broken a hard candy into bits for the child she so loved.

"As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world.""When Jesus had said this, he spat on the ground and made mud with the saliva and spread the mud on the man's eyes, saying to him, "Go, wash in the pool of Siloam" (which means Sent)." (John 9.5-6)

It is a powerful truth that lays bare the presumptuousness of our cultured society: "My spit is your spit." The One who breathed into lifeless dust and brought forth humanity, the One whose creative Spirit births new life into the death of humanity, the One who spits on the ground and gives sight to the blind man, it is this One whose spit is our spit.

It was an incredible telephone call to receive and one that transformed my day and the Lenten journey I am walking. As my friend said, "There really is no more the story than that. I just wanted you to know I heard God's voice in those words. I just wanted to share that good news with you." And so, I pass this grandmother's story on to all of you. God's spit is your spit. For those not bound up in the properness of it all, these words are the makings of a deeply held identity in those who would be God's people. "God's spit is my spit" just about says it all in coming to understand the Christ of God whose love is poured out on the cross for us all. It is certainly a notion that will walk with me the rest of the way to Jerusalem.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Winter Snows & Subsoil Moisture

In November, after all the harvest was done on the farm and as much Fall tillage had been completed as was appropriate, my brother, Larry, his son, Kenny, and Dad spent a few days digging up and working on field drain tiles. I had the good fortune to be in the area on one of the days they were working on the deep lines, 7 or 8 feet deep. They had excavated the soil with a backhoe and were replacing T-joints, which is usually a job guaranteed to get a person muddy and wet, but not this year. Between early June and September 5, the area our farm is in received one inch of rain. It was dry. The crops did pretty fair, all things considered, and we are grateful for what we received, yet our concern was not so much for what had happened in 2007, but for what was going to happen in 2008. The hole they had dug to work on the T-joint was dry, dry at 7 to 8 feet of depth. Dry. Crops can root down deeply, but as we stood there looking at dry soil 8 feet deep, our worry for next year was, 'Where will the subsoil moisture come from to feed the next crop?' Farmers prayers are, often, a type of subsoil prayer: deep and far-reaching.

Today, the temperature is in the mid-40's and the snow and ice received in the last days is slowly melting, the water patiently seeping into the soil. In a way that rain cannot hope to achieve, snow and ice melt seeps into the soil and trickles down giving life in the depths of the earth, offering hope for the coming days with an intentionality that only a farmer or gardener can truly appreciate. The very weather which has frustrated the building industry in the last few weeks, the very weather which allowed the building industry to boom in our area last Summer, is also the weather which acts in deliberate fashion on behalf of those who feed the world. It is not always what is on the surface which will make the greatest difference, sometimes it is precisely what we cannot observe that will, in fact, save our very lives. Subsoil prayers are powerful, meaningful prayers on the lips of those who understand the totality of life's cycle. The farmer working the surface of the field prays for the entire earth, understanding that what lies beneath is what energizes the life at the surface.

There are 19 days till Easter. Before you start getting all giddy about what is to happen on the surface at Easter, take time to stand still at Gethsemane and pray a subsoil prayer with the farmers of the world. Who knows what God will do to meet the needs of God's people when they pray? Don't let your life dry out for lack of prayer for what happens beyond what you can perceive.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

The Sound of 'Dad'

The ringtone of my cell phone is Santana's "Smooth", and nearly every time it starts playing, I choose to let it play for a bit so I can dance to the tune. I am grateful that the people calling me are unable to see what happens when my phone rings, because "Smooth" takes me into this kind of 'funky' dance that, when seen by our sons, causes them to say (in that low disapproving, "God, I hope none of my friends can see this." voice), "Dad." At which point, I answer the phone and walk away from them, somehow certain that they are secretly proud their father is still 'with it', yet knowing they would never admit it in public. Please, allow me my delusion. Thank you.

Still, even as I relate to you what they say as they see me react to Santana's "Smooth", it is hard to articulate to you the sound of 'Dad' in their voices. On the Child-Approval-Meter, the sound of 'Dad' across my children's lips at that moment would have to rate in the nearly negative numbers, as opposed to the sound of 'Dad' on their lips when they really want something that only 'Dad' can get them. Hmmmmmm.

Which makes me think of how I call on God. "Oh, God!" "Oooohhhhh, God?" "God!" "Dear, God" and a whole host of other ways I call on God's name, some of which I would rather not put into print, if you know what I mean. And here I pause, because I realize it is not all in how my children say 'Dad', some of it is in how I hear, 'Dad.'

How do you hear your Name on my lips, God? Do You hear approval and trust? Do You hear delight and laughter? Do You hear a desire that what You think matters to me? Do You hear the voice of a loving child or a willful brat? When your Name slips across my lips, in whatever form I speak it in the moment, does it make you cringe and walk away? Do I leave You hoping that someday I will be as proud of You as I am of myself? Do I speak your Name as I would call upon a friend . . . or do I speak to You as I sometimes do to those I do not know? How many times have You felt 'dismissed' by the sound of your Name on my lips . . . and how many times have I called upon You and left You wondering why I couldn't say your Name that way all the time? How do you hear your Name on my lips, God?

It is something I will ponder when next my cell phone rings and the dancing starts, and my sons say, 'Dad' . . . partly because I will wonder what You hear from me, God . . . and partly because I know that every time You get a call from one of your children, You dance, too. Your ringtone is set to the 'Smooth' sound of a stone being rolled away from an empty tomb and the 'Alleluias!' that angels sing to an extended Santana guitar riff. Hmmmmmm. I wonder where I could get that ringtone? I wonder if my cell phone carrier has it listed under, "Easter Sunday Worship Tones"? I'll check it out, God . . . and I say that with total admiration.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Sometimes, You Just Have To Keep Trying

I just completed a new blog about Casimir Pulaski which you will never read. It was lost 'in cyber space'. Just disappeared. An hour of deep thought about this Polish Count, Kazimierz Pulaski, killed in the Siege of Savannah on October 9, 1779, and why the Illinois educational system observes the first Monday of March as a holiday in his memory . . . gone. Poof. Kablooie. And I still have a blog article to write with a blank screen facing me.

Somehow, it makes me think of how Jesus must have felt nearly every time He talked with His disciples and the crowds. He took the time to tell a story, then explained the story, often having then to defend what He was teaching, only to go about 10 minutes and have one of the disciples look at Him and ask if He would tell them just one more time what He mean. Oi!

How many times do we nail Jesus to the cross all over again, just because what He taught us, what He showed us, the way He heals us, is lost in the cyber space of our souls? Is lost to our need to be in control of the answers and outcomes? How much of Jesus' time and energy has to be utilized in the redundancy of showing us the way Home time and time and time again? How many times does God look at us the way I looked at my blank screen, wondering where everything so carefully composed had gone, and trying to decide whether to walk away in disgust or sit back down and go at it one more time? Just one more time?!

I am blessed and eternally grateful that, in Jesus, God sits down just one more time for our souls, for our very lives, and starts all over again telling the Story. I pray that, this time, I get it - and live it with all my heart, my soul, and my might . . . that others might get it, too.

As important as understanding Casimir Pulaski Day might be, thank You, God, for helping me to understand You all the more this day.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Hometown Gatherings

The school system of my hometown was recently recognized as a Bronze Award winner by U.S. News and World Report, one of only eighteen schools in the State of Illinois to be highlighted. Last night, nearly 300 people gathered to celebrate an accomplishment that few in the nation can claim and I left that gathering with a lump in my throat and pride in my heart. Given that Marissa, Illinois, is a town of only 2,600 souls, which reflects a decline in population over the last twenty five years or so, and given that Marissa, Illinois, continues to struggle to recover after losing its primary source of jobs and economic stability in the closing of the coal mines and the loss of family farms in the late 80's, this recognition of the educational system is all the more inspiring.

The town of Marissa in which I grew up was a far different town, with a far different population, than what is present today. I was blessed to attend a school district in a town which existed in a region of reasonable prosperity. The coal mines employed hundreds, if not thousands, of area individuals, and issued paychecks, not only to the people it directly employed, but by default, to all of the area businesses, churches, and schools. Agriculture was still the booming business of the 'family farm' and family farms abounded in the 60's, 70's and early 80's, before the bottom dropped out of the commodity and land markets in the mid 80's. The 'one-two' punch of coal mining and agriculture created an atmosphere of abundance and optimism. Home values steadily increased, the school district grew modestly in most years, and the relative stability of the family and community combined to create an educational environment that most, even today, can only speak of in idealized tones. It was a gift too many of us took for granted, having no idea what the impending economic downturn would do to our beloved community.

As the coal mines closed, either because they 'ran out of reserves' or because newly created limitations on 'high-sulfur coal' forced the coal companies to abandon continued operations in the region as unprofitable, and as the agricultural community declined in the mid-80's and family farms began to disappear from the landscape, casualties of the corporate mentality of 'grow or go-away', so, too, did the community shrink and suffer.

Coal miners could either follow the mine work to other states where openings could be found, even if it meant working in non-union settings, or they could stay and re-tool, going back to school and trying to land a job in a market being rapidly saturated by people just like themselves. Many aspired for jobs that would pay them at a level similar to what they had become accustomed, most settled for hourly wages far removed from the level of pay they had received at the coal mines, just so they could stay in the communities in which they had grown up. For many, they quickly became the working poor, selling nearly everything they had at rock bottom prices just make ends meet, while politicians promised them better years down the road if they could just hang on.

Farmers, dispossessed of their land, hard work and dreams, with no corporate 're-tooling' dollars available for education, sought jobs in the fields they best knew, many of them going to work as hourly factory workers, welders, sales people, and 'agribusiness' advisers. Long before reaching that point, most of those same rural households had become dual-income households in an effort to stave off the inevitable, while providing for the basic necessities of clothes, food and medical care. As the rural landscape changed, so changed the community landscape.

Homes, 'in-town' and rural, became available for sale or rent at low prices. Landlords 'picked up' pieces of property and rented them out to other folks who either, were or were becoming, dispossessed in their own right. As property prices plunged, so did available tax dollars for the school systems. To put it kindly, it was not a pretty picture, pitting band programs against sports programs and foreign language programs against vocational programs. What were considered 'core' educational classes in times of prosperity became collateral damage in times of economic downturn and no-one was unaffected. In some cases, in the darkest of days and hours as the whole picture was becoming alarmingly clear, it pitted neighbor against neighbor in the fight for survival and the whole region suffered an awful loss of identity. The whole region, that is, except for two key groups: the churches and the schools.

While businessmen sifted through the remnants of the 'recession', the mission of both schools and local churches became painfully focused: to provide places and times of prayerful, deliberate hope and support for families whose entire being was turned upside down. In the communities where schools and churches responded intentionally and purposefully on behalf of the very people for which they were called and empowered to care, there hope slowly began to emerge. New leaders stood up in the rubble of past civilization and offered their skills and vision, while those whose stability in the past had made them the bedrock of reliability offered their wisdom and insight in guiding and shaping a community into a new vision. New alliances were formed, new priorities shaped the emerging realities, and, at the heart of it all, were the folks that Marissa gathered to honor last night: its teachers, administrators, and staffs . . . and their students who have become the teachers of a new generation, equipping them for a world radically changed from the one we grew up in.

The religious community has had a tremendous impact on how families recover, and though those same religious communities have had to provide ministries in an atmosphere charged with the words, 'Not enough to go around', they have nonetheless been a rock of faith and shared vision on which the affected communities have leaned upon . . . hard. Yet, in my humble opinion, it has been the teachers, the administrators, and the support staffs of the local schools who have reshaped depression into moments of possibility. It has been the hard work of local Board of Education members, often criticized, seldom recognized, that has striven to adequately compensate and secure educational professionals with a heart for the children and a vision for the world, providing the impetus for stabilizing the one place where children are shaped nearly every day: the schools.

One student at a time, our public school system has conspired to transform an ethos, guiding lives beyond the 'inevitability of being stuck' into the possibility of pursing a dream. One student at a time, our public school system has collaborated to create a learning environment that is established on the foundation of the 'giftedness of each individual'. One student at a time, our public school system has touched the face of God as the potential each child brings to the earth is celebrated and the hope of the world is given new meaning.

I am proud to be a graduate of Marissa Unit District No. 40, not because of what I have and will continue to accomplish, but because of what Marissa Unit District No. 40 continues to exemplify as the heart of its mission in education: Equipping all of the children to discover their potential, to celebrate their gifts, and to become contributing citizens of a global community. Graduates of Marissa Unit District No. 40 now, as maybe never before, emerge ready to make a difference because they have been prepared, not just to dwell in the world, but to make it a better place in which all might pursue their dreams.

My humble congratulations to those whose vocational calling and career paths have led them in becoming educators and leaders in Marissa Unit District No. 40: You are transforming the future by serving as partners in creation with the One who births a bright new tomorrow in the power of Wisdom shared. U.S. News and World Report can highlight your accomplishments, but we who are products of your dedication celebrate your ongoing influence in our lives. Thank you.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don