I Gave Jesus a Ride Home Yesterday

I gave Jesus a ride home yesterday. Oddly enough, he lives in Litchfield, Illinois.
He came to the door of the St. Paul UCC Church Office. Actually, I noticed him when he walked by the door as though looking for somewhere or something else, then came back to the door. At first appearance he was wearing a thin tee-shirt, jeans which were spattered with something, those hospital non-skid socks in institutional gray, and flip-flops. He also had hospital wristbands on each wrist. Ringing the bell at the door to the office, he turned his face towards the Conference Room where I was sitting in conversation with a couple of other people and it was then that I also saw his black-eye and bent nose. Clearly this man had been in a brawl at one time or another and was now here at the church needing something.
Not sure of his circumstance and feeling a need to shield our staff from Lord knows what (no pun intended), I went to the door and opened it to him, inviting him in and asking him his name. (I will not share his name here to protect his identity, but let's just call him 'Jesus') Jesus told me his name and then I asked about his hospital bracelets. So it was that Jesus told me his story:
It seems that on Saturday evening Jesus and his wife were home watching television when, suddenly, there was a commotion on their front porch and a pounding on their door. Jesus got up from his chair, went to the front door and opened it only to be met by the fist of a man who was in a drug-induced craze. "He was out of his mind", Jesus said, "and was beatin' everythin' and everyone in his way . . . and, I was jist the one at the door." "Turns out", Jesus continued, "that he had already beaten his uncle nearly to death before gettin' to me." "It was scary, but the po-lice came and got him in cuffs and took him away . . . or so I was told. I don't really remember much since I was knocked out from being hit and what I do remember is pretty hazy. I've got a concussion."
I inquired, "You've got a concussion?"
Jesus continued, "Yeah, that's what they tell me and that's why I was in the hospital. They airlifted me from my home to a hospital in St. Louis because they were afraid I was bleeding in the brain. They done enough tests now to think I'm okay and this morning they turned me loose about 6 or 7 o'clock."
Thinking this a pretty odd story because, really, what kind of a hospital receives a patient airlifted in with a concussion, diagnoses them, pronounces them 'Okay enough to be sent home with a concussion', then turns them out on the street with prescriptions to fill, but with no-one to receive them? Really? I asked him which hospital it was, but he didn't know. So, I asked for some sort of identification. Jesus didn't have anything in any of his blood-spattered pockets (Remember I said earlier his jeans were spattered with something? It was blood, his blood from  being hit.), except . . . except the 'Welcome' folder from the hospital with his prescriptions inside. There on the outside of the folder was the name, "St. Louis University Hospital". So, now we know who turns the beaten man away with no ride home.
Unemployed, probably uninsured (I never asked, simply because it wasn't my business), disabled by a construction accident some years earlier when he fell off a three story home, Jesus was turned out on the streets of St. Louis to figure out in his foggy state how to get home to Litchfield.
As it turns out, Jesus' wife has her own health issues as she battles her second round of cancer and the effects of treatments. She wasn't answering her telephone . . . I tried her number and left a message that Jesus was in our office where someone could pick him up. Then I asked him how he got here. Seems someone had told him to go to the Metro-Link station and get a ride to Illinois and he had managed his way to the Metro-Link station where someone had given him enough money to purchase a ticket which would take him to Illinois. Thank God for good Samaritans along the way! Yet, the Metro-Link only took him as far as Scott Air-Force Base. It seems that once Jesus was at the SAFB station, he was able to convince the driver of one of the Metro buses to give him a lift to Lebanon, where he would at least be on Route 4 and might get a ride North. From the Lebanon bus stop, he went to the Police Station and explained his circumstance and they told him . . . this clearly concussion affected man who was speaking and remembering with no little difficulty, with a black eye, broken nose, a thin tee-shirt on a cool morning, blood spattered pants, hospital bracelets on each wrist, and hospital sock covered feet in flip-flops . . . they told him to walk to St. Paul where he might be able to get some help. Hmmmm.
So it was that Jesus was in the St. Paul Church Office, looking for help to get to Litchfield, to get home to his wife for whom he was worried because she wasn't answering the telephone. I looked at our Office Manager and said, "Well, I was planning to drive to Litchfield sometime this week anyway to visit an old friend in need, there's no reason it can't be today." So, Jesus and I got in the church car and headed North towards his home.
Along the way, Jesus told me he had grown up in the Mississippi bayou, near Biloxi. Since he didn't have much education, he had worked as a laborer nearly all his life . . . well, up until the time he fell off the three story roof and hurt his back.
I asked him what brought him to Litchfield. Jesus looked at me with a twinkle in his dark brown eyes and said, "Well, I came here on a job - and stayed here because of a woman. Isn't that jist the way it goes?" We both laughed a man's laugh at such a thought. Later, driving into Litchfield toward his home, Jesus pointed out the building that had once been the tavern where he had met his wife. "She's a good woman, a hard working woman. Had a job all her life and raised her kids mostly by herself 'til I came along, then we did it together. Been nearly 25 years now. I got kids of my own in another state, but I ain't seen 'em much. Love 'em, just ain't seen 'em much."
I thought, "Isn't that the way things sometimes go for the laborers on the road?", but I didn't say anything. I just kept following Jesus' directions to his house.
Turning into his driveway, there were two men standing outside his modest single story frame home waiting for him. (His wife had called the Church Office after we left and our Office Manager told her we would be there soon.) Between the three of them there were about 16 teeth, but all of their teeth were visible because they were smiling so much to be back together. Jesus was home.
Before Jesus got out of my car he shook my hand and asked if I wanted to come in and meet his wife and have a cup of coffee. I declined the opportunity, reminding Jesus I had given him a ride because I was on the way to see someone else. He just smiled and said, "Thank you for bringing me home. I won't ferget 'yer.", and I firmly believe he won't . . . for I will never forget him.
After visiting with my friend and on the way back, I reflected on giving Jesus a ride home. "How many times in our lives", I wondered, "are we privileged to give Jesus a ride home . . . and don't?" Sometimes we are scared, sometimes we are too busy, sometimes we don't want to be bothered by the 'poor among us', and sometimes we simply can't bear the thought of Jesus riding in our car. But how many times do we miss the opportunity to be the Good Samaritan because Jesus only has a couple of teeth or blood spattered pants or some sort of hand-me-down tee shirt or flip-flops or hospital bracelets on each arm or clearly, doesn't have all his mental capacities because he has a concussion? And this guy had them all. Jesus was left along the side of the road . . .
In the Biblical narrative it is a lawyer who asks Jesus, "Who is my neighbor?" Sometimes, it is life itself which continues to ask such a question of us today.
I gave Jesus a ride home today . . . and I am the one who is at peace and healed because of it.
I just thought you would like to know he lives in Litchfield, at least that is where I took him. Have you met him anywhere today?
Peace on the journey.

Questions of Church Growth

I recently read a column in a local newspaper which tried to address the issue of declining numbers in the Christian tradition. The author pointed to the dichotomy between nearby mega-churches with their large attendance numbers and the ever-shrinking numbers in their own faith tradition, all the while mingling the gall of a civic organization into the conversation, finding no satisfying answer to their wonderment.
I am no expert on why people come to Christianity or why they leave it, but these are a few things I am observing:
Most people do not want to become Christian for the sake of Christianity, to reach heaven or because they fear Hell. They become Christian because they have had or desire to have a genuine experience with Jesus that isn't laden by liturgy or sermons, but is highlighted, even set free, by acts of acceptance, welcome, healing, love, mercy and community, such as Jesus Himself modeled in ministry.
The local congregation which is not engaged in the issues present in the local community, providing leadership and opportunities for folk to witness in ways of justice, grace, equality, understanding and faith, is a congregation caught up in the study of its' own belly-button and will languish and die. There is far more to faith in Christ than Christianity and there is far more to Christianity than maintenance of tradition and tending to sacred cows . . . and those who are seeking a meaningful root to their sacred journey know the difference and are drawn to places where their time and gifts are nurtured and valued as those who are God's children.
The church was never meant to be judge and jury of God's people, neither was it intended to become the gatekeeper of God's Holy Kingdom. Those who are disciples of Jesus of Nazareth, the One who is Christ, Lord and Savior, are those who will be found feeding the hungry, welcoming the stranger, clothing the naked, giving a drink to the thirsty, tending to the sick and caring for the imprisoned. Those who are disciples of Jesus will be found in the leper colonies of our current age, touching the unclean, eating with sinners, offering welcome to the marginalized and striving for justice, God's justice, even in the midst of the Temple. Sometimes the tables have to be overturned before anyone notices something is wrong in the way we have been doing faith all along.
People today are multi-sensory in their daily lives and the thriving faith community strives to engage, both the wonder of sacred silence and the holy of joyful praise. This does not mean that praise music has 'taken over', nor that amphitheater seating with few religious symbols is the way to go. No, rather, the people who continue to walk in the door of the congregation with whom I am sharing the journey are seeking a time and space where the Spirit is welcome, praise is considered a response to God's ongoing Presence and Love, and Peace surrounds them in a community of faith which resembles the world in which they live, inclusive of race, sexuality, culture and experience.
Now, I am not certain I have answered the question any more than the author of the column I read, but of this I am certain: The church more engaged in reliving a memory of what once was or saying they want to become something they really don't value will struggle mightily until they truly walk with Jesus . . . or simply die away. The church is not a civic organization . . . the Church is the Body of Christ alive in the world. Maybe when organized religion accepts such a call and such an identity the questions some now ask will become moot . . . for the Answer will truly have the final say in Whose we are becoming.

Sweet Mercy

Sometimes it is what is behind the lines, not between them - and
Sometimes it is what is not written at all.
Those who understand need never read it . . . . and
Those who perceive it as in their soul simply nod their support.
All others try to cover the spaces with sound, their futility echoing as empty words in a hollow canyon,
The abyss between them the eternity of untouchable peace.
Come, sweet mercy, come, with nary a syllable of language to grant grace to this wandering pilgrim and
Wisdom to this seeker of Spirit.

I Watched My Mom and Dad Pray

I watched my Mom and Dad pray.
Some kids grow up remembering the fights their parents had, the places their parents always wanted to go, the baby-sitters their parents always called for them so that they could go out, the late nights before parents would come home from work, or the disappointment they felt when parents weren't available to see them in a play or game at school. Some kids grow up remembering parents who went to church every Sunday, but left their Christianity at the door of the church, and some grow up remembering parents who never wanted anything to do with that 'God-stuff' and the hypocrites who gave away their wealth when times were hard, some kids even grow up remembering parents who had nothing at all to do with faith or a faith community . . . earning a living was tough enough, nobody cared what you believed. Some kids grow up remembering very little of their parents . . . what their parents did, what they believed, what they hoped, what they wanted . . . either because their parents were never there or their parents just thought those were things you had to find out for yourself.
I watched my Mom and Dad pray.
Prayer was always a powerful part of our family journey. Not just the Sunday morning 'in church' type of prayers, and not just the gathered around the dining room table or on the side of the bed at night types of prayers, lived prayers were part and parcel of what I observed in my Mom and Dad nearly every day. Dad always listened to KMOX radio in the morning while we milked cows and, as the "Lord's Prayer" was sung, things in the barn sort of came to a stop. The same thing would happen as Dad started to work in the fields, or tend to the cattle, or just take a walk along the field roads . . . I have vivid recollections of him just stopping in silence and just looking up. I knew what he was doing, I didn't need to be told. There was a conversation going on of which I was a blessed observer . . . God and Dad just talking things over. All this doesn't mean that Dad didn't get upset with me or my brothers when we screwed up, or didn't get frustrated when things on the farm didn't go well, or didn't worry when the Summer sun was hot and the crop prices were down . . . but all that happened in the context of Dad's continual prayers.
Similarly with Mom, my sainted Mother of four boys, who was also blessed to have both, her Dad and my Dad's Dad, live with us for several years as we boys were growing up. Mom was consistently outnumbered, which may explain why she played the organ in church each Sunday for over thirty years . . . that was the one place she would sit by herself and talk with God without some male voice saying, "Mom!" or "Virginia!" Mom, much like Dad, would pause while hanging the laundry, would stop while hoeing in the garden, would play the piano or organ in our home and pause on particular chords, or would just sit on the front porch on the swing in the evening and be quiet. Prayer was the foundation upon which everything else was built which, in retrospect, may explain much about why Mom took so many pictures with her camera . . . and why so many of them were of nature: she just loved to 'be' with God.
I watched my Mom and Dad pray.
People are constantly doing studies as to why people do what they do and why our nation is struggling and why values seem to be slipping and why . . . and why . . . and why . . . well, you get the picture. Maybe we just need to spend a little less time studying all our struggles and more time modeling what matters. I don't know that Mom or Dad ever made a conscious decision to behave in certain ways so that their children would turn out thus and so, but I do believe that Mom and Dad exemplified in life what they believed in their souls, for of such they had been taught by their parents and in such they found great strength and peace.
I watched my Mom and Dad pray ~ and it made all the difference.

Of Ladders and Faith

I had the aluminum extension ladder out at church this morning to put up some Lenten banners in the sanctuary. The extension ladder has two 14' sections, so the safe extension length of the ladder is somewhere around 21'. Looking at the ladder as I carried it from its storage spot to the sanctuary I realized that the extension section was bent . . . clearly a result of having been extended beyond its safe range, then having someone who is a 'tad overweight' climb up to its furthest reaches (Come on! You really didn't expect me to fess us to be a 'lot overweight', did you??). Having such a notion in your mind as you climb back up that same bent ladder makes one just a bit more cautious as each step upward is taken - all the while humming under my breath, "Nearer My God To Thee". "I was glad when they said unto me . . . " the job is done, you can put the ladder away. 'Whew! Thank you, Jesus! You improved my prayer life a hundredfold in just these few brief moments!'

A bent extension ladder is a practical matter really, after all, bent is not broken. The ladder is still usable until proven otherwise, right?

This got me started thinking about faith. Sometimes it is pretty bent up, fairly strained, nearly stressed to the breaking point, yet, still we keep climbing 'Jacob's ladder'. Still we keep moving upward, sometimes in the face of steady opposition, oft-times the weight of our sins straining every step we make. The ladder creaks and groans, the goal appears distant, even beyond reach.

Therein is grace. Where our faith would break, God's faith in us will not even bend. Where the weight of our sins would compromise the steps we take, God's forgiveness shown to us in a cross and an empty tomb lightens our load. When others would tell of the impracticality of our journey, God whispers of love and peace, granting strength and courage for the way. The ladder we are on in faith is God . . . and the steadfast love of God for each of us will not be broken. We are on sacred ground when we dare to ascend to the heavens in faith.

Maybe it is time to replace the aluminum extension ladder at church, before a step gives way or a section bends beyond safety. But I pray the wisdom never to replace, either the faith God has in me or the faith I have in God's steadfast love for all of humankind. For of such the Kingdom of heaven is made known. Thanks be to God!

Fire In the Family

Pastor Don's Corner . . .
* Pastor's note: Before anything more is written, I must confess that my mind and heart are heavily weighed down by the fire in the home of Rhetta Newsome and her son, Kevin. Standing with Kyle and Paula and Kevin as the Lebanon, O'Fallon and Sugar Loaf Township Firemen did their work quickly and well, there just are not adequate words for the feelings that were carried into the sky on the wisps of smoke that once were the wood and fiber of the Newsome home. Watching Rhetta's gentle tears and listening to her low moans of grief, then tending to the scene with Kevin, Kyle and Paula as it became clear that the fire was arson . . . and knowing that heaven's angels had been watching over Rhetta and Kevin, keeping them from harm, brings me to this moment in a both a grateful and a pensive prayer mood. As Kevin said it, "This was personal." Every tire on every car Kevin had on their lot had been flattened. An accelerant had been used on multiple sites on the property. Someone(s) had been intentional about sending a message.
Now it is imperative that the community send a message on behalf of the Newsome's and everyone like them: No more! This behavior will not be tolerated. This lack of respect for the property and livelihood of others will not be overlooked. This lack of basic human concern for the welfare of others will not be ignored. Not here, not there, not ever. No more!
Just as it takes a village to raise a child, so it takes a community living justly to ensure justice. If the burning of the Newsome home does not motivate the Lebanon community, and communities just like us around the world, to live towards a higher plane of faith, behavior and responsibility, expecting of each other that higher plane of faith, behavior and responsibility, then every home, every life is in jeopardy, for what 'that someone(s)' said today is that neither life, nor property matter: "Only what I want, what I believe, and what I think I need matters. And, I will do anything I want, to anybody I want, to get that point across." That, my friends, is base terrorist behavior - and this terrorist is not across the sea.
I am not advocating vigilante justice. I am advocating a faithful Christian expression of life lived well, as a disciple of Jesus Christ who, by the way, did not turn away from injustices, but squarely faced them in the eye and addressed them from the Mount, the Praetorium, and the cross. This is not a yearning for justice which is for the weak of heart. It is a way of life which demands our all.
That said . . .
As I sat before my computer this evening after spending the day with the Newsome's and prayed God's guidance before opening my Bible, I could never have anticipated what text my Bible would open to:
"Then Peter came and said to him, "Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?" Jesus said to him, "Not seven times, but, I tell you, seventy-seven times."" (Matthew 18.21-22 NRSV)
"Forgiveness?!", I thought. "Great. Nice text, Lord. Next you'll want me to talk about loving my enemies and really putting my faith on the line. All that nice writing about justice in the community just before this, then Your Spirit leads me to this text in Matthew about forgiveness. What's up with that?"
Then I looked up the word translated as 'forgive' in the Greek, did a word study and began to understand a bit more of what the Lord was pointing me towards. The word in the Matthew text translated as 'forgive' is "ă-phā'-sō", meaning "to send away, dismiss, suffer to depart". So, essentially, Peter is asking, "Lord, another member of the church sins against me, how often should I send them away, dismiss them, or suffer them to depart?" Forgiveness, in this context, is not about saying, 'Everything's okay' and forgetting about it. The kind of forgiveness Jesus talks about in this text (and the following story about the unjust servant) is about not carrying the issue with you, thereby giving the offender continued power and influence over you. The king who set the unjust servant free sent him away out of pity, then, later re-jailed the unjust servant for not showing understanding towards another who owed him money. Forgiveness, in this context, does not forget the trespass, but chooses to dismiss the offender, rather than continue to be consumed by the offense.
So, what is it we pray for when we ask God, " . . . and forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors . . ."? Do we pray for God to forget our sins? Do we pray that God doesn't notice our sins? Do we pray that God will just forgive our sins? Are we praying to 'make a deal' with God about our sins, according to how we forgive the sins of others? Are we praying that God's sense of justice just overlooks whatever it is that we do? Are we praying for the courage, the will, the faith to forgive others as we pray God forgives us? And, if all is forgiven, where is the justice in this, either for ourselves who offend or for those who offend us? What of justice for God? What is justice before God?
In the Matthew 18 exchange between Peter and Jesus, then again in the following parable about the unjust servant, we need to note: to forgive does not mean the indiscretion, nor the debt, disappears. Rather, the one offended, the one to whom the debt is owed, extends pity over punishment, dismissal over imprisonment, choosing to send away - over dealing with them day after day. Forgiveness, then, is more about the one doing the forgiving than it is about the one being forgiven. The debt owed, the sin committed, speaks loudly enough to the community on its own.
To forgive is to intentionally choose not to give power, nor time, to the one who is unquestionably guilty. Sin's verdict has its own justice and guilt its own punishment. Yet, to forgive is to step away from being the one forced to carry the bad behaviors of others and claim freedom in the simple act of moving on. Forgiveness is to cast off the burden another has placed upon you in favor of the freedom God offers in living justly and equitably with others. Forgiveness is about the one sinned against - and the choices they make. Accepting forgiveness means to live out of the newly found freedom one has been given, extending that 'relief' to another and choosing, too, to live differently.
All that said, forgiveness is hard work, hard work indeed. We are a people skilled in seeing the speck in another's eye, yet boorishly slow in recognizing the log in our own. It is easy to tell others what they need to be forgiving and how they need to live as a people forgiven, yet is it an agonizing trek towards becoming personally forgiving and living as one forgiven of far more than we could ever imagine.
This particular night, I am finding it very hard to even consider forgiveness of those who have done such damage to the Newsome's home, livelihood, and lives, still, I am not sure how far or how long I want to carry those who did this to them. I'm not certain I want them to have that much power, nor am I certain that forgiveness is mine to offer. What I am certain of is that friends of mine are hurting through no fault of their own . . . and I am angry and hungry for justice on their behalf. How forgiveness fits into all of this is something I will have to pray about for a time, even while praying God will find forgiveness in God's heart for me.
Your servant in Christ,
Pastor Don

I Walked In the Woods Today

I walked in the woods today

As timber floor takes on Winter coat

From trees, whose shaded visage,

Gives way to glorious sky.

I walked in the woods today

And, there, journeyed

with God.