God Is Shattering Our Chains . . . But, Why?

Pastor Don’s Corner . . .

An angel of the Lord appeared to Peter, tapped him on the side and said, ““Get up quickly!”

And the chains fell off his wrists.” (Acts 12:7 NRSV)

I believe with all my heart that, in Jesus Christ, God is shattering the chains which bind and enslave us, most of which are of our own choosing and design . . . much like those of Charles Dicken’s, A Christmas Carol, worn by Marley and Scrooge. They are chains . . .

Ø  Of wealth, of bling, of being better than others;

Ø  Of power, experience, of age and maturity;

Ø  Of right, entitlement, of assumed place and privilege;

Ø  Of bank accounts, investments, or interest to be made;

Ø  Of color, race, ethnicity, nationality and journey;

Ø  Of politics, party, platform and perceived self-righteousness;

Ø  Of religion, of a corner on God’s goodness, of certainty how God approves or disapproves;

Ø  Of running water, indoor bathrooms, refrigerated food, and a purchased food supply;

Ø  Of technology which demands our every moment and instant communication which mutes our mind;

Ø  Of Sabbath which offers no rest, worship which serves no God but you . . . and the mindless drivel of prayers offered more for your money than your soul;

Ø  Of dependency on bombs for peace, of bullets for power and landmines for domination;

Ø  Of acceptable body shape, clothing needs and fitness of body and mind, yet lack of soul;

Ø  Of spirituality without community, of religion without mission and faith without mercy;

These, and so many more, are the chains which bind us . . . and it is far easier to see them in and upon others than it is to recognize their binding power in our own lives. Still, they are there. Still, they cling. Still their heaviness weighs our every step down. Still, God is at work in Jesus Christ, shattering the chains which bind. The empty tomb is God’s formidable, stark Witness of that truth. But, the haunting question lingers on, ‘For what?’ Why is God, in being God, so determined to shatter the chains we forge and design for our own lives? In ‘releasing us from’, what is God ‘moving us towards’?

I believe, too, there are ‘thin places’ between the Realm of God and the realm of earth – and every so often we glimpse here on earth a vision through the thin places of what already is in the Realm of God . . . and when we see it, we know it and God is in it. The chains are left shattered on the ground. We see such things . . .

Ø  When, regardless the poverty, everything is shared;

Ø  When national boundaries mean less than human need and safety;

Ø  When faith matters more than religion and faithfulness more than dogma or certainty;

Ø  When personal resources are the catalyst for communal health;

Ø  When personal contact takes priority over technological touches;

Ø  When the only advantages society seeks are those which build stronger communities;

Ø  When diversity is embraced, cultural differences valued and ethnic histories are considered sacred;

Ø  When the politics of nationalism are considered the handmaiden of the world community;

Ø  When the tail of popularity, wealth and power no longer wags the shared human experience;

Ø  When Sabbath is rest in God, worship feeds the soul and prayers invite the heart to be truthful;

Ø  When the ‘challenges’ of first world living giving way to humble sharing of available resources;

Ø  When the journey of faith is one of responsiveness to God in tending to the other with honor, integrity and respect;

Ø  And, When acceptability has nothing to do with the clothes one wears, the shape of one’s body or the level of fitness one maintains but, rather, in the mission and mercy in which one engages each day.

Our chains are being shattered that we might offer ourselves as servants, one to the other, all for the sake of serving the Vision of the One who sent Christ to lead us on the way. It is as simple as that, it is as difficult as that, for it requires that we humbly receive the Gift of freedom, embody the freedom of the Giver and, then, free others that they might glimpse the Realm of God in the places we dwell together on earth.

In the places of our temporal imprisonment on earth, God is guiding God’s angels to wrestle us out of our lethargy and indifference in the midst of our captors and is moving us towards change and possibility, allowing the chains of this world to fall off, now ultimately useless, and take up our cross to follow Jesus. For such freedom we are set free, for such a vision we have been given the sight of Jesus, and for such ministries we are empowered in the Spirit to serve.

God’s is not an idle freedom, neither is the Church birthed in the Spirit to be an unmoving Body, nor are we to be mute witnesses to an empty tomb. We are set free for dynamic, transforming servanthood, authentic in Love, committed in Soul and ongoing in a Joy no grave could ever contain.

It is time to stand up and let the chains fall off. It is time to move forward, allowing tradition to bury its own dead. It is time to witness to that for which we pray, “. . . in earth as it is in Heaven.” For such we are born anew each day and for such we pledge ourselves in every moment that the ‘thin places’ between the Realm of God and the realm of earth are made visible in Whose we are and in Whom we are becoming.

Have a blessed Easter . . . as the chains fall off your wrists and you are led to new life in Christ!

Pastor Don

Things I Have Taught Our Kids

Things which make my children laugh, yet I remember as true:

• I walked uphill both ways to school, in three feet of snow, after milking the cows and doing the chores . . .
• I was a pretty good basketball player in Grade School. In my mind I scored from anywhere on the court and always under duress. Actual statistics can be cruel . . .
• When I was a kid life was simpler. We never had much, but we always had enough. Homemade ice cream was a staple of summertime evenings and swimming in the pond was a nice way to end a hot day of baling . . .
• We never baled hay unless it was at least 100 degrees, with 95% humidity, the hay shed was always nearly full so that we had to stack every bale directly under the tin of the roof, and all the bales weighed at least 100 pounds each . . .
• If I got in trouble at school it was guaranteed I got in trouble at home. Period. 
• The school bus ride back and forth to school was a country boy's first hot box of socialization and, often, the place where rank and privilege were first taught . . .
• Mom and Dad always knew what we did, even when we were sure they didn't . . . and now I know that because I understand they first did some version of everything I did long before I ever imagined it . . . the same way we, as parents, do now . . .
• Don't ever underestimate the power of a Dad's hand on your backside or the safety of a Father's embrace when you are in need . . .
• Mom sees what you do behind her back, including the faces you make while she is lecturing you, but continues to love you anyway . . . and is quite capable of leaping over that chair and wiping that sneer off your face with the hardened side of her hand OR pulling you into the embrace of her love at any moment . . . 
• A grandparent's job is to quietly dispute a parent's teaching about what the five food groups are and how much of each to consume . . .
• A grandchild's job is to encourage their grandparents in their work . . .
• Before there was cellular technology, we used our imaginations in games, rode bicycles to our friends homes, played outside by the hour, shook hands when we met, talked with each other, and believed that it was okay to disagree, even to fight, but also imperative that we make amends . . . after all, in the country we needed each other . . .
• A handshake was a form of contract and was understood to be binding . . .
• Your word was your bond - and you always knew who could not be trusted . . . 
• Lawyers were really only needed to do legal descriptions of land and property transfers or to deal contractually with people whose handshake or word you couldn't trust . . . which says something about the number of lawyers today . . .
• Especially when in town, when a funeral procession passed you always pulled over in a show of respect for the deceased and their family. Always . . . 
• When country folk wave at you with just their index finger in that slow back-to-forward motion they are being friendly . . .
• There is always enough food on the table for visitors, family and friends, regardless of when they show up . . .
• There are always enough chairs for everyone to have a seat at the table . . . 
• Visitors, friends and family have first choice of all dishes on the table . . .
• Your friend's parents had as much authority over your behavior as did your parents . . . 
• Even if you aren't caught in a lie, it is still a lie . . . the same with the deductions you take on your taxes . . . 
• One of the most telling ways to recognize integrity, respect and honor in a person is in the way they farm their land and keep their home place . . . the cleanest places aren't always the best and the messiest aren't always the worst, but where there is pride in the job there is heart for others . . .
• There are few smells more wonderful than newly worked soil, freshly cut alfalfa or corn pollinating on a hot Summer afternoon . . . 
• Every person has the right to remember their history in the manner which gives their life the best light - allowing, of course, that there will be an intersection of Truth and Accuracy somewhere in the general vicinity of where your story goes . . .
• Always remember: the person to whom you are busily telling your story also has a story to tell you, which is why God has given you one mouth and two ears. Listen more than you talk . . . which is a good place to end this rambling . . .

I pray you see a bit of yourself in where I have been and am in this journey . . . and give thanks to God for allowing you the joy and responsibility of passing your experiences on to the next generation, which kind of makes me wonder how their stories to their children will begin . . . 

Only time will tell . . .

The cause of Love is Justice,
The cause of Justice is Equity,
The cause of Equity is Unity,
The cause of Unity is Wholeness,
The cause of Wholeness is Divinity,
And the cause of Divinity is Love.

If it is Peace you seek, then Love,
If it is Grace you seek, then Love,
If it is Mercy you seek, then Love,
For it is in Loving that we find Our Source
and, in so finding, discover our Beginning and Ending.
The only answer to the prayer,
". . . on earth as it is in heaven . . ."
is Love.

This Christmas devote yourself to the journey
of the One who comes and,
in so holy and sacred a passage,
Meet God
In Love.

The Christmas in You and Me

Nearing the 39th Christmas in our marriage, our 46th since first we started going 'steady', what most I want for Christmas is the Christmas in you,Nancy Wagner . . . and what most I want to give you is the Christmas which is in me.
I believe the purest Gift of Christmas is Love, born anew each day in Jesus. If we cannot yearn for it, pray for it, even wish for it in others, especially those nearest and dearest to us, how then can we ever hope to yearn, pray or wish for it in others whom we do not know? How then will the world come to know Christmas if we do not long and live for the Christmas in each other?
Perhaps if we in the church spent less time working to make others become Christian and devoted more of ourselves to living the Christmas in our soul, the Love of God who meets us in Jesus . . . . perhaps, just perhaps, more than a few would see the Light of the Star and journey towards Him.
So, when I say, " . . . what most I want for Christmas is the Christmas in you . . .', I am saying to the love of my life what I long for in everyone . . . and I long to give no less than that of myself to you. It is the greatest gift, for first the Gift comes from God: Love.
Blessings on the Advent journey.

Solo Voices and Players

Our oldest granddaughter, Mary Cailin, sang a solo last evening in the Red Bud Middle School Christmas Concert. Well, it was not exactly a solo . . . Mary was one of approximately 150 students who sang together as a chorus, yet hers was the only voice her Papa heard. In my mind, all others joined in supporting her angelic singing, in harmonizing with her clarity and in expanding the fullness of her rejoicing. It was truly an incredible event organized exclusively for Mary that she might share with the world her operatic skills - and share with the world she did! "Bells of Christmas", "Jingle Bell Rock", "Let It Snow" and "Somewhere in My Memory" were never sung as pure, light and tonally clear as Mary sang them last evening . . . and "Silent Night" simply reduced me to tears as Mary's telling of the story brought the birth of our Savior into the home of my heart. 

Then, were that not enough, Mary Cailin, played a saxophone solo (albeit with the rest of the Junior High Band) that would have made Kenny G or John Coltrane blush with envy. She later told me that she missed one note, but I never heard it. All this Papa heard was her unencumbered joy of music being celebrated before hundreds of her adoring fans. The applause was thunderous, the adoration overwhelming and the lingering of well-wishers long but, what can one so talented do other than acknowledge those who see the gifts of God in her?

Later, after the throngs had dispersed, Mary, her Dad, Matt, and her Nana entered the local eatery where I had gone ahead to reserve a table for the emerging diva and her family at the end of an exhausting evening of performances. As Mary entered the room she opened her arms to her Papa and said, "Thank you for coming! I love you!" . . . and the world stopped spinning for a moment. There are no other words a Papa would rather hear from his granddaughter and, already so proud of her for her accomplishments, now his love for her, his willingness to do anything for her, and his incredible humility in even being recognized by her (in public!) deepens the connection they forging in love far beyond human expression. It is pure Joy. Pure Joy.

'Ask for the world and it is yours', I thought. 'Direct me to slay a dragon for you and it will be done', I mused. 'I will forever be the one who protects you from those who would hurt you', I promised . . . all said in my mind, not out loud, yet none the less true.
"Thank you for coming! I love you!" are the words my oldest granddaughter spoke in my ear last night and, from the depths of her being, I knew she meant every word. Not only can this girl sing and play the saxophone, she knows I would go to the ends of the earth for her . . . and she appreciates it! "God", I thought, "I am so blessed . . .and humbled . . . and grateful for such a gift. Thank you."

Later, as I drove home in my pickup truck, it was my last thought with her that kept coming to the foreground of my mulling along the miles of the journey. "God, I am so blessed . . . and humbled . . . and grateful for such a gift. Thank you." And, if such raw emotion can fill the soul of this Papa as he shares a moment with his granddaughter, how much more is it for You, God, The Papa, as You share each moment with us?

Are each of us 'soloists' in the choir and band? Do You look at me as I looked at our granddaughter and, though You see all the other mouths moving, hear only me? When I play my instrument in Your band, will mine be the instrument You hear above all the others? When I whisper in your ear, "Thank You for coming! I love You!", does your heart melt the way mine did?

Is that what You were trying to say when your angels sang over a stable in Bethlehem? When the heavenly orchestra lifted Your praise into all creation at the birth of Your Son? On each step of His journey, were You gathering us into your arms and reminding us just how much we mean to You? How far You will travel to sit, even in the middle of a crowd, and hear only us? Could it be that, in the moment we rejected your Gift, You still waited at the Table for us to return that, in the emptiness of the Tomb, we would enter Your continual embrace and be moved to say, "Thank you for coming! I love You!"? Do You weep as I wept when "Silent Night" is sung and the story of the birth of our Savior comes home anew into Your heart? And the questions kept coming . . . .

If it is so with we who are human, how much more are such things true for the One who creates us?

Our oldest granddaughter, Mary Cailin, sang and played solos last evening . . . or so it seemed for her Papa . . . and on his way home The Papa reminded him that it no less for any of us in The Papa's heart. Thank you, Papa, for Coming! Thank you, Papa, for Listening when I whisper in Your ear that song I would only have You hear! I love You, Papa! I love You always!

Grandpa's Grief

A couple of days ago my memory took me back to a place kept tucked away in the powerful images of childhood: I found myself sitting on the front porch of my childhood home, holding the hand of my Grandpa Triefenbach as he rocked gently back and forth upon the glider with big tears in his eyes. He had just received word that his best friend, Bill Deupke, had died and, as most stoic Germans do, he had gone to a place where he thought there was no-one else present to see his tears . . . and that is where I found him. The young boy I was I didn't know you shouldn't intrude on such moments, so I just went up the steps and asked, "What's wrong, Grandpa?" His lower lip trembled, the tears flowed even harder and not a word was spoken. Not receiving the answer I wanted, but sensing Grandpa's distress, I climbed up on the glider and sat beside him, holding his right hand in both of mine, allowing the world to go on by and for time to find its place of healing. Comfort would not come to Grandpa for quite a while and, being the kid I was, I stayed only until I sensed he wanted me to leave more than he wanted me to stay. Grandpa's grief and pain ran deep that day and, though I didn't understand it then, now I know that 'look' by name. Thinking back on those moments, I wish I could have been a better grandson, the one with just the right words, with just the right comfort, the one who could make it all better, yet those were not the gifts which were mine to give as a child. Mine was to sit there with him when all his world was darkness and loss. Mine was to be the accidental observer of death's long tentacles and, there, offer the innocent love only an adoring grandson can give.


Grandpa didn't live long after Bill's passing and today, looking back, I have a better sense of why: There is only so much a heart can endure.

The gift of Jesus, both in His life and teaching, extends to us the truth of our connectedness to all of God's creation, to all of our sisters and brothers around the world. We cannot ever journey alone in this life for we were never created to be alone. "No man is an island" is more than the title of a poem or a song, it is the steady reminder of our intimate weaving into the fabric of God's design. Each of us needs the other to fully live into the potential God has intended from the beginning. An afghan without all the yarn, without all the loops, is just pieces of fabric dumped in the corner, unusable by anyone. So, too with each of us.

Yet, among all those we know there are those who know us best, those with whom our lives are most tightly attached, those with whom we share the most joyous and the deepest of difficult times. These are the ones we call 'best friends', for they are among those we count on one hand. They are more than 'acquaintance', more than 'friend', and sometimes even more than 'sibling'. Sisters and brothers may share blood, but best friends share the DNA of life's journey, imbued with all the love, laughter and tears that may include. Even geography cannot separate us from the love of God . . . our best of all Friends, and as it is in heaven, may it be so on earth.

In the heat and intensity of Grandpa Triefenbach's tears I see my own life, my own relationships, my own friends. From his grief I am learning to count the blessings of those with whom I still share each day. From his broken heart I am taught, not to distance myself from others, nor to insulate my life from such pain, but to embrace the kind of caring which offers my heart to others in the same way, for therein is the greatest of gifts: To be loved as we love, to risk being mortally wounded for the grace to be received in the sweetness of caring so deeply.

Only those who have cried such tears, who have felt the pain of a broken heart, will ever be blessed to know exactly why God sent Jesus to roll away the stone of the tomb. The best of all Friends desires us to mourn no more. "What a Friend We Have In Jesus" . . . Thank you, God, for such friendship - and 'Thank you, Grandpa' for holding my hand and giving me such a gift that day, not so long ago. May it be so for us all.

Ched Is Home

Ched is home.


In our thirty six years of marriage, Nancy and I have learned that there are few words sweeter to say . . . not just about Ched, (Though having him home is abso-tively su-onderful!) but about each of our children. To say, "Matt is home", or "Ray is home", or "Ched is home", is to savor a moment in time that always seems to pass far too quickly.

Each of our boys now have their own home settings, certainly, and with Matt and Ray, each has their own family obligations, yet, when they walk in the door of our home, they have come home to our hearts. The same would be true no matter where we lived. The ones birthed in the love two people share become co-inheritors of that family legacy. It gives me a deeper appreciation for the father of the Prodigal Son, who ran down the long lane of his estate to meet his youngest son as he returned home: 'The one once lost to whatever the world has to offer has now returned to spend time in the home of my heart.' Such moments are rarely rational to the casual observer and motivations are oft-times questioned, still, to the parent, 'Our child has come home' are the words of sacred liturgy few worship services are blessed to speak.

Hugging my Dad yesterday as we gathered for a different family celebration, I confess to hanging on just a little longer, to saying, "I love you" with a lot more meaning, and to appreciating a whole lot more all that he has done for each of us boys over the years. Even trying in these moments to give language to what only the heart can express leaves my eyes a bit teary in the failing of my words, for I wonder how many times my Dad and Mom said exactly the same thing of me . . . . and I went merrily on, not understanding how much my most casual visit meant. And, if so for we who are here on earth, how much more is it so for God, the Parent of all creation?

Ched is home . . . and I will cherish these days for the gift they are. Thank you, God, for this simple and powerful blessing. May I return the joy in being Home in You, always.

This Memorial Day - Remember

"'Remember': to bring to mind or to think of again.", according to Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary. 'Remember'.

It is Memorial Day Weekend and I have been hearing for weeks about what Wal-Mart wants me to remember, not to mention, Target, Macy's, several auto dealerships, Walgreens, and Sam's, yet I know that what they want me to remember is not what I need to remember. What I need to bring to mind or to think of again is not something so easily quantified or put on the auction block. No, what I need to remember has to do with the sacrifice of others for my life . . . which makes what Wal-Mart wants me to remember far easier, but much less beneficial. To ponder the gift of one's life for another is inconceivably difficult, so complete and final the gift. Yet, there it is: this weekend we remember those for whom the only acceptable gift was the gift fully given in self . . . and we are the grateful, if not a bit uneasy, recipients.

The tendency in my lifetime has been focus on those who have given of themselves in service to our country in WWI, WWII, Korea and Viet Nam, but then, that just names the context of my growing up. Today, kids under the age of 12 have only known war . . . and the names of those who died in such a wars . . . and those before them remember The Gulf War, Libya, The Second Gulf War, Grenada, and a wide variety of places where the United States has been 'present' for others to the current day. War has a cost and that cost is flesh and blood.

This weekend we remember flesh and blood whose names we may or may not know, but whose very existence has made our existence easier, maybe even possible. We remember precisely because we cannot afford to forget, for to forget is to dismiss their sacrifice, to disparage our heritage, and to spit upon the very history we cannot afford to again repeat. We remember because, in their self-giving, someone who did not know us, still chose to live and die for us. We remember, for affluence and time often foster an amnesia that dooms those who forget their root to repeat their past behaviors. We remember for we are eternally grateful.

'Remember', for you have been remembered. 'Remember' and live for those who, like you, need someone to live for them. 'Remember' . . . that in thanking those who have served and those who have given their lives completely, we might come to a broader and deeper understanding of the life and freedoms we so enjoy.

Remember, giving thanks to God for the luxury of such a time of remembering, then live towards that day when all people might know it as well and Remember.

My Boys Didn't Believe Me

My sons didn't believe me and I was crushed. Actually, they made fun of me which hurt all the more and I couldn't understand it.

Yesterday evening, playing golf in the Thursday night Men's League at the White Oak Golf Course in Marissa, my tee shot on #2 rolled up to the 100 yard marker, just a bit to the right of center on the fairway. I had never hit a shot that far on that fairway before and, knowing that both of our older boys regularly hit it that far and even farther, I stopped and took a picture of the ball with the yardage marker in the background with my cell phone, saving it to send to the boys and Nancy later. After the round was over (No, I will not tell you my score for the round, but suffice it to say, I always get my money's worth.), I took a few moments to bring the picture up from the Gallery, prepared it to Share, and added a message explaining the picture.

It didn't take long for the responses to come in: (Matt) "Yeah, I'm not believing you hit a 420 yard drive . . . from the men's tees. Those senior tees are treating you well!"; (Ched) "Oh wow. Hell of a tailwind, eh?"; and, not to be left out of the fun, (Ray) "Did you tee off from the green and play the hole backwards?" Nice guys, my sons! I wasn't sure how to respond, but just laughed it off granting each of them the amnesty of having a good time at their Dad's expense. Thursday night crowds can be tough on the golf circuit. (Mind you, Nancy didn't say anything through all of this, loyal and dutiful wife she is.)

Later in the evening, as Nancy and I were getting ready for bed, my cell phone rings and it was Matt. Curiosity was killing the cat, I thought as I waited to see where the call was going to go. And, as always with Matt, it didn't take but a moment: "Okay, Dad, tell me where you were, what hole you were on and how the ball flew that far." "What do you mean?" I replied, "I was at White Oak, on #2, and my drive went to the 100 yard marker, and I parred it. What's so hard to believe about that?" Matt said, "Well, there's nothing hard to believe about that, but what you said in your text with the picture was, "My drive on 4. That's the 100 yard marker across the way. Par."

Suddenly it all made sense! I had inadvertently typed in the wrong hole number, which is no small difference. Number 2 is a 398 yard hole, making my drive 298 yards. Number 4 is a 523 yard hole, which would have made my drive 423 yards, leaving the likes of Tiger and Phil in the dust. No wonder my boys were making such fun of me! After laughing at the irony and humor of it all, I hung up with Matt and texted Ray and Ched and explained the gaff, taking them off the hook for their apparent lack of faith and making fun of my own texting ineptitude.

Finally, laying down and watching the last of the Cardinal game and the news, smiling at the exchange between the boys and myself, I began to relax. Somewhere in the twilight of sleep it occurred to me: 'The boys really didn't believe me! Not that they should have, given the context of the situation, but the boys really didn't believe me!' Coming fully awake, I pondered the thought of that, then smiled all over again, 'We've raised our boys well and they question everything which seems out of the ordinary or out of line. And, if they can do that with that own Dad about a golf story, how much more likely are they to do that in the things that really matter?'

My sons didn't believe me . . . and that is quite alright. I slept well last night and I hope you did, too

"What's Love Got to Do With It?"

"What's love got to do with it?", sang Tina Turner as she reflected on her own life and journey and, for whatever the reason, that tune just keeps going through my mind this morning.

"What's love got to do with it?" as the American people reach a critical decision point regarding politicians who are worried more about their benefits than being a benefit to others; as the American people ponder the choice between the competing ideologies of political parties and Presidential candidates; as the American people in Illinois try not to get too mired in the finger pointing tactics of Springfield politics (otherwise known as Chicago politics to downstate constituents) and work to fund the essential human services and commitments for the people most in need; as the American people peer through the smoke and mirrors of political spin doctors, attempting to discern truth and act decisively for the sake of the nation; or, as the American people strive to create jobs in a toxic taxing environment, hoping all the while to provide sisters and brothers with essential opportunities to grow in self-respect and integrity.

"What's love got to do with it?" as the hierarchy of the Catholic church takes aim at controlling the women of the church, not just the nuns, but all women, in a time when the behaviors of old are just that, 'old'; as the Church universal struggles to find its voice of authentic Christian witness in the midst of a world torn by hatred, prejudice, fear and mistrust; as local congregations walk the walk of faith where they are, as they are gifted, only to be told that, because of dwindling numbers, their ministries are not financially prudent; as people in the pew turn their heart and soul to God for the Word of Relevancy and Challenge, instead of the tempting nectar of modernity so often offered as a placebo; or, as the identity of the Christian community is hijacked by so-called 'evangelicals' who presume to know exactly what God wants and where, shrouding their personal attack agendas with the language of 'who is in and who is out'.

"What's love got to do with it?" when one person sees a white man and thinks, 'racist', or another person sees a Latino and thinks, 'alien', or another person sees a black man and thinks, 'entitlement'; when one person sees a Middle Eastern woman and thinks, 'terrorist', or another person sees an English woman and thinks, 'snob', or another person sees an Asian woman and thinks, 'war'; or, when one person sees a farmer and thinks, 'ignorant', or another person sees a corporate executive and thinks, 'rich', or another person sees a blue collar worker and thinks, 'too bad'.

"What's love got to do with it?", Tina Turner sang, yet the tune and lyrics beg the answer yet today. Jesus gave one new commandment to the disciples, "Love one another." Love has everything to do with it: with our attitudes, our responses, our daily attention, even our moment by moment decisions, all in relationship with each other. When we fail to love as we are Loved, we have despised our humanity and subverted God's intention for our own will.

Love has everything to do with it. Thank you, Tina Turner, for reminding me of that today. I only pray that we, as members of the world community, find in ourselves the strength and will to reclaim the very purpose for which we are born in caring one for the other.

Love has everything to do with it.

Nancy's Visit to Colorado Springs

Tonight Nancy leaves for Colorado Springs to visit Ched . . . and I'm not going. Nancy asked me this morning if there was anything special I wanted her to tell Ched or give to him. I thought for a moment and said, "Give him a big hug from me and tell him how much I love him."

There is not an ounce of resentment or jealousy in me that Nancy is going to the Springs without me to see Ched. It is just the way our calendars worked and I have other obligations to tend to in the days ahead. I am grateful and glad that Nancy is going . . . but, I do wish I was going with her. Somehow, giving Nancy a hug this morning and asking her to give that hug to Ched just isn't the same as giving him a hug myself. There is something about having your child in your arms, giving them a kiss on the cheek and saying to them personally, "I love you", that makes all the difference in how life itself is ordered.

Maybe that is why Jesus came into our lives. God sent all the prophets ahead of Him to tell the world how much they were loved, to give them a hug, to connect in a 'nearly-present' way, but it just wasn't the same. It's only when Jesus arrives that, at least for the parts of the world ready to receive it, we are given a sense of how much God loves us. Jesus is the embrace of God, the kiss of God, the "I love you" of God, to all who would enter into God's open arms. Jesus makes all the difference in how life itself is ordered.

Nancy and Ched will have a great time together this weekend. There's even a chance Ched will be trying out his new Soaring Instructor Pilot wings on Friday while Mom is watching (weather permitting)! Yet, I know the best part of the visit is not in all the things they will do, it is in the 'being together' in the midst of all the things they do. It is in the hugs, the kisses and the "I love you's", the connections, the touches which make all the difference.

So it should be for all of us, with family, with friends, with God.

A Certified Pilot

Yesterday, driving up to the Cell Phone Lot of the East Terminal at St. Louis International to wait for a friend's arrival, my 'text notification' played (the ESPN theme) letting me know that someone wanted to get in touch with me. Being unusually cautious, I chose not to look at it until I was stopped in the lot . . . and I'm glad that I did.

The text was from our youngest, AFA Cadet 3rd Class Christian Wagner, 'Ched', who is currently on Spring break with his class of Instructor Pilot trainees in Willcox, Arizona, getting in extra flying time in an ideal sailplane setting. Ched's text read:

"I just passed my 'phase check"! Which means you are now talking to the newest certified pilot for the TG-10B sailplane. Now on to instruction!" (which means he is to the final stage of preparation for being an Instructor Pilot in the TG-10B)

While reading his text, two F-15's from the Missouri Air National Guard took off heading East out of Lambert International, rising up off the runway straight across from where I was sitting in my car, then powered quickly into the early afternoon skies leaving the ground shaking in their wake. I texted back to Ched my congratulations, then added, "As if on cue, as I read your text, two F-15's took off here . . . in salute to you, I'm sure." And if the F-15's weren't in salute to Ched, they should have been - at least from this father's vantage point! Ched is doing what I once dreamed of doing: flying. He is experiencing the exhilaration of soaring in the winds of God's Spirit and turning in the currents of God's dynamic creation.

'Proud' is not the appropriate word for what I am felt in that moment. It was something far more tender and powerful, even connected in the essence of awe and humility. As with his brother's before him, if it is even humanly possible, Ched's news made my heart swell with love and wonder. News of a child's accomplishments have a way of doing that to parents, don't they?! And, if so with us as earthly parents, how much more so for God?I'm trying to imagine God doing 'the happy dance' that I do to embarrass our kids when they bring me good news - and, somehow, it's just not happening. Yet, I know in my heart of hearts, God is no less over joyed, no less exuberant when told of things in our lives going well. When was the last time you celebrated a moment with God? When was the last time that God was the first one you wanted to tell when something special happened in your life?

Who knows what might thunder by when you do, but you will never know until you do. God is waiting to hear from you today.

Walking on Sacred Ground

Over the years I have had the sacred privilege of sitting with those who have suffered the death of loved ones. Wives, husbands, grandmothers, grandfathers, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, grandchildren, nephews, nieces, neighbors, friends . . . each drawing deep upon the well of God's love and hope to take the next breath, to make the next second, to move the next step. Each looking death in ...the face, as though for the first time, and wondering why it touched the one so close, so intimate, so dear to the heart. Each shedding tears they never knew they had as an unwanted emptiness embraced them and placed a sharp knife in their soul.

Today, I crossed that holy ground again.

Sitting beside them as they face mortality, change, uninvited brokenness and hurt, it is an unceasing and humbling experience to behold as God's Spirit of Peace and Comfort begins to break in where words fall silent and hugs have lost their effect. It is an incredible sight to behold as, along the path to the tomb, they recognize the stone is rolled away and what once they knew to be true in death gives way to something they have never quite beheld or understood before. In the most intimate reaches of unfettered love, in the quiet between touching and knowing, in the whisper of satin stories and ruffled memories, God eases the pain and quiets the sobbing, God dries the tears and strengthens the trembling knees, God touches the heart . . . and what once was finds voice in new transcendence.

Congregations can surround with thoughts, prayers and support; Communities can rally and stand in solidarity with the passion of those who know such pain; Pastors and Priests can speak their liturgies and celebrate a life that now knows Life . . . but, only God can articulate that for which a grieving human soul longs. Only God truly hears the cries of God's children and comes to deliver ~ and ours is to to sit with the other, to cross that holy ground again and again, trusting, believing, clinging to the One who never will let any of us go, nor forsake us to the wilderness.

It is our sacred privilege.

The Heart of the Matter

Pastor Don's Corner . . .
"As a father has compassion for his children, so the Lord has compassion for those who fear him. For he knows how we were made; he remembers that we are dust." Psalm 103.13-14
Recently, I was told the story of a home fire in which the father got the wife out, then went back into the blaze to save his young son. Both father and son were lost in the collapsing building. The person telling it recalled the event in tears and with startling clarity given the time which had passed since the event, yet there are some things which happen in our lives which seldom ever leave the depth of our heart's capacity to recall.
Case in point, the current heat and humidity which our region is experiencing: It seems a bane to most yet, for many, it inspires the blessing of memory, reliving the days gone by when air conditioners weren't the norm and families still got by on the grace of screened porches and fans. The number of such stories being told expands exponentially as the temperature goes up, as does the vivid recollection of summer evening neighborhood games among kids and visiting among neighbors. (Author, Phillip Gulley, refers to those days as 'Front Porch' memories and attributes much of the decline in the current culture's civility to the fact that few people have 'front porches' and/or don't sit on them, choosing rather to dwell in air conditioned comfort and isolation.) Amazingly to me, what people recall most in such stories is not the heat, but the feelings of the heart which still evoke an emotional response today. Who knew that a fan in a window or a game of Relievo or cicadas in the trees or a parent's voice calling children home late in the evening or the quiet buzz of neighbors visiting along the dusky street, could bring to mind such joy and peace? "I remember the heat and drought of '57 . . . . we didn't have much, but we had enough . . . . and what we had we shared." The heart doesn't forget what shapes the soul, nor does the soul venture far from what inspires the heart to beat.
A man tells me his wife left him for another man whom, she believes, can give her more than he ever could. Hot tears stream down his face as he wrestles with relocating his life, his residence, his way of being, his love, and his care for their children, yet in the midst of it all, the thing most clear to him is how much he still loves her - and how wonderful their years together were. To him, infidelity is not the issue, his continuing love for her is. His heart remembers only the good and those memories serve to insulate him from the pain she is inflicting upon him, as the heat of the day increases and the home of their marriage collapses around him. His soul won't give in to despair, neither will his heart forget its way.
Some may say such is the way of self-destructive living - and they may be right. Yet, is not this the same sort of behavior for which we pray of God? God, rush back into the fires of my own making and save my life before my world collapses around me! God, remind me of the days when I prayed in the cold of a winter's night for the heat of a summer day and the joy associated with such a day! God, love me beyond my infidelity to you and tend to me even when I have offered my life, my time, and my riches to another! Answer me when I call, O God, for You are steadfast in love and, though my living does not reflect it, it is You my heart remembers, it is You for which my soul longs!
The heart doesn't forget what shapes the soul, nor does the soul venture far from what inspires the heart to beat.
To give oneself for the life of another, to remember with joy the blessings of a better time, and to linger in remembrance of love for consideration of one who chooses no longer to love the way you do: Are these not among the gifts of God come to us in Jesus Christ? Thank you, God!
Your servant in Christ,
Pastor Don

In Love All Over Again

With our youngest out of the house,

Nancy and I are learning to live together again - with just each other.

It has been thirty years since Nancy and I haven't had a child in our home to occupy our time and attentions. When I am counseling folks who are preparing for the Covenant of Marriage, I always ask them what their plans are for children in their relationship precisely for that reason. Children are such a permanent fixture in the lives of their parents, whether they are home or away, for a child never is out of your heart and to have a child is more than a moment of birthing: it is a commitment to a lifetime of parenting. For those blessed to have children in their lives, you are never 'just a couple' again. You are always a family, however perfect or dysfunctional that definition may be.

Now Nancy and I find ourselves inexplicably becoming part of a new reality series whimsically known as 'Married, with Children, but None of Them In the Home'. It is a 24/7 program with absolutely no commercial breaks, sort of like The Truman Show, but without the hype and direction. Periodically we have a flurry of visits from children and grandchildren, but with no regular boarders, and even our refrigerator is suddenly, inexplicably staying stocked with all sorts of goodies for those evenings when I come home from the office with the munchies. Lights are magically being turned out in rooms where we are not presently doing something. Laundry is miraculously finding its way to the basement instead of laying strewn in the bedrooms. The dishwasher doesn't run for days on end because of a low volume of dirty dishes. Chip bags are actually closed with a 'Chip Clip' on them, keeping the contents fresh rather than letting the air make everything stale. There is hot water in the shower and little or no water on the bathroom floor. We can turn on the TV whenever we want and watch whatever we want . . . sometimes the channel never changes between the times we watch it (I had forgotten that happens!). Items placed on the counter for use later . . . remain on the counter until we are ready to use them. Imagine?!

Yet, even as I write of the irony of these changes, regarding the mundane as ridiculous, there isn't a moment I wouldn't gladly take back all of the differences and return to the hectic schedule of school, sports, friends, Scouts, band, and family, just to have our kids back home . . . which isn't going to happen, so I had better get over it and move on. Right? Well, the walls of our home maybe be quieter now without children there making the sounds that only children can appreciate, but Nancy and I are finding that our hearts continue to grow with love of those who still make us a family, wherever they may be. Our children are always our children, whether in our home or not, and their lives, their schedules, their interests still are our own, though now from miles away.

We begin a new journey, Nancy and I, a new experience in our relationship that we hadn't thought of until now, a part of the vows spoken 34 years ago that must have been lost in the fine print, as all over again we recover what it means to be just 'she and me'. I have always loved my curly-haired girl, my 'Sweetie', my best friend, yet I am finding in the latest turn of the chapter a new type of love, a sonnet of sorts, that only deepens what we have shared before. I cannot imagine life without children, for our kids have been, and continue to be, such blessings to us, but I am grateful to God for the moments into which Nancy and I are entering together. The days which some have termed the 'late-Summer' or 'early-Fall' of life I am coming to appreciate as the 'Savor of the Fine Wine' or the 'Wonder of the Evening'. We are learning to love all over again and I know now, as I have always known, there is no one with whom I would rather be, just she and me, setting course on a whole new sea.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

A Smile

The word, 'smile', never appears in a direct translation of the Bible, yet today I have seen the Holy in such an event.

For nearly three weeks, as Nancy and I have been scouring the pictures of the AFA Basic Cadet Training for our son, Ched, we had never seen a picture of him smiling. Truth is, we were beginning to wonder if he had his sense of humor stripped from him or if the cadre of his squadron were so tough he dared not hint of enjoying even a moment. Yet, yesterday, there it was: A smile! A brightness shone through the clouds of difficulty and, if only for that one millisecond, he gave us a gift. The Holy is at work and all is going to be okay. In the Bible or not, a smile reveals the nearness of God and the joy God desires to share with all, thus the gift of Jesus, the song of angels, and the stone rolled away from the tomb.

Ched's smile took me back, though, to the day he was born. All three of our sons were born by cesarean section, with the first two being in a time when father's were not allowed to be with the mother as she gave birth in this manner. Ched, on the other hand, came in a time and hospital when my presence was not only welcomed, but encouraged. I sat next to Nancy as she was given a spinal, held her hand as the doctor's quickly did their work, and then was blessed by the opportunity to hold Ched while still connected by the umbilical cord, eventually being given the scissors to sever that tangible life-link to his mother. Even remembering those moments and sharing them with you brings tears to my eyes . . . and a smile to my face, for one of the first things he did when I held him was to hold onto my little finger and give me a look that (in a father's heart) was my first smile from him.

The smile I saw today took me back to Ched's birthing . . . and the first intimate connection a father can make with their son. Mother's have it the best you know . . . taking nothing away from the hardships of nine months of carrying a child in her womb, the difficulties associated with childbirth, and then the feeding and care connected with those early months of life in this world . . . but, precisely because of the connection a mother can make with a child even as she carries it within her, a mother will forever have that instinctive, intuitive, intimate relationship about which father's can only hope. Yet, as Ched held my finger and gave me that smile that first morning of his life, even as he looked at the camera yesterday and gave me a smile, I saw the Holy Love of God and shook with laughter and joy with the connection he offered me all over again.

Okay, I know the smile wasn't just for me . . . . so allow my heart this illusion, allow this father this connection, and allow yourself to remember just when it was that first you saw the Holy in your child . . . . then returned the smile in love.

Thanks for the smile, Ched, which is your life touching mine and causing my soul to rejoice. Across the miles I can still feel your tiny fingers still clutching mine, and I pray you can still hear me whisper in your ear, "I love you."

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Return

My brother, Larry, and I dug up the potatoes the other day. We had managed to plant fifty pounds of Kanabecs between rains late last Spring and now were harvesting the fruits of our labors. It wasn't a huge crop, maybe five bushels or so, but the real reward for me was our labor together.

Larry and I used the garden plow that both our father and grandfather had used in planting the garden. With that old plow, we plowed the rows to plant the potatoes and, at the end of the season, we opened the potato-laden ground to reveal the harvest. As we each took turns pushing the plow from one end of the rows to the other, the sweat and effort gave way to stories of days gone by. Picking up and brushing off the potatoes to be taken to the 'bin' where they will be kept until eaten was the picking up and brushing off of family traditions, both of feeding the family when 'bought food' was not the common thing on the table and of laboring side by side with someone you love.

In this day and age when we are likely to return items to a store, return videos when watched, return newspapers for recycling, return from a trip, or return calls to a client, the once a season moment of digging potatoes together is a gift that will never be able to be returned. For, just as we remembered all those days of our ancestors working the ground in quite similar ways, what transpired on that early Autumn day was a blessing which worked its wonder far beyond the earth which provided our bounty. Not to be returned are the hearts which were touched in love through shared labors, a gift of grace from a very loving God.

The human endeavor may never find its way back to God's original Eden, but every so often, God's Eden appears in sacred places and memory serves to guard us against casually returning that which makes life new again, generation after generation. May my greatest return to God be with such fullness of love in my life.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Love Never Ends

“Love never ends.”
I Corinthians 13:8a NRSV

Picking tomatoes in the garden yesterday, this scripture kept swirling around in my thoughts. Love never ends. . . .kind of like tomatoes when in season, except that tomato season ends. Zucchini season ends. Cucumber season ends. Pepper season ends. Sweet corn season ends. Potato season ends. Love never ends.
Unlike the produce gardeners are renown for dropping into the lap, onto the porch, or in the car of the unsuspecting recipient, love is not given to another because we have an abundance from which to be freed. Rather, love can only be given in proportion to the recipient’s willingness to receive. If completely, then completely; if not at all, then not at all. I can love someone with all my heart, soul and mind, yet if they do not wish to receive my love, I cannot slip it into their lap, drop it on their porch, or slide it into their car. It is the anomaly God created in us as God created us in God’s image: God gives us free will. You might be able to leave a bag of vegetables at my front door and retreat into the night without my having consented to receive them, but you cannot leave love at the door without waiting for an answer.
Love never ends. It is an apt description of God: God chooses to love and to be known in love. Love never ends. So the question is not about God’s choice regarding God’s relationship with you: Love never ends. The question is whether or not you will choose to receive God’s love . . . and at what level.
The presence of Jesus in our world is God’s statement of how far God will go that we know the fullest extent of God’s love for all of humankind: I will come and stand at your door and wait for your welcome embrace, says God. Some receive and welcome such intimacy, some slam the door in the face of such boldness, and others nail it to a cross that they not have to face such offers ever again. Incredible! Yet, regardless of how any of us react, Love never ends. Don’t believe it? Look at the empty tomb.
God has just enough love for you, just as you are. I don’t love any of our children because of what they might do for me or how they make me feel in any given moment. I love our children because they are of me. I love my wife because she is of me. I love my friends because they are of me. I cannot no more deny them than I can deny myself, a concept which did not originate in me, but in the One in whom I am capable of love. Love never ends.
Picking the last of the cherry tomatoes and stopping to brush it off a bit, then pop it into my mouth, I savor the delicious sweetness and juiciness of God’s love for me. That I not hunger, God’s love provides. That I not know thirst, God’s love provides. That I not know only bitterness, God’s love provides sweetness. That I not know want, God’s love provides plenty. Love never ends . . . and I fully receive that gift in the moment I extend it to another, standing with them as they choose to receive or not, as God stands with us.
There is a big difference between handing someone a sack of tomatoes and saying, ‘Here’s some of my leftovers,’ and slicing a juicy tomato and handing a half to another and saying, ‘Let’s share this together’. Taking time and sharing space may not be our long suits, but it is what God does with us. Love never ends.
Just some love from the garden which I would share with you.
Your servant in Christ,
Pastor Don

Anniversary Thoughts

As of today, Nancy and I have been married for thirty-three years. Thirty-three years, three sons, two daughters-in-law, and two grandchildren later, it seems that there is still much more to learn about love and marriage. Yet, of these things I am reasonably certain today:

• Love is a gift of God;
• Creation with the capacity to love also has the capacity to begin to see God;
• Love cannot be possessed, neither can it be forced upon another;
• Love is that which allows the heart to perceive the perfection in another;
• Creation with the capacity to love also has the heart to forgive the imperfection in another;
• Love believes in the fullness of unity God places within all things;
• Love hopes for the completeness of soul God intends for creation to share;
• Creation with the capacity to love also has the soul to dwell in unity without distinction;
• Love cannot be extinguished;
• Love will not be forgotten;
• Creation with the capacity to love also has the mind to remember and bear Love's light;
• Love lives beyond human years;
• Love underlies all human undertakings and wisdom;
• Creation with the capacity to love also has the humility to perceive love's eternal nature;
• Love never ends.

It is not a lot that I know about love, but what I know of love I share with you. That Nancy has within her the capacity to love me for so long, in all of my imperfection and weakness, only deepens the faith I have in God to make strong and tender the love I pray to share with her into whatever future we may journey. Praise God for the simplicity and splendor of love, ever unfolding before us, in us, and through us, like the opening of a lily on Easter morn!

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

An Afternoon on the Farm

I spent yesterday afternoon with my older brother, Larry. Most days, when I go to the farm to visit with Larry, the time includes working in the fields or with some special ongoing project around the equipment. Yesterday, we just visited. Oh, we picked up a piece of equipment the farm had purchased for planting and we worked some ground in Larry and Martha's garden where we are going to plant potatoes together but, more than anything else, we just had time to visit, to be brothers, to be friends.

Have you ever had the opportunity to smell fescue grass growing in the Spring? Or to watch the robins hopping over the ground on the prowl for worms? Or to taste the succulent sweetness of newly emerging sweet clover in the lawn? Or to have a 'friendly' steer lick your arm trying to get your attention? Or have a giant of a farm dog trot along next to you just trying to place his head in your hand so that you will pet him? Or to have a small herd of cats follow you around, weaving in and out of your feet, so that you will pet them . . . and feed them? Or to watch young calves kicking up their heels in delight as they raced down a pasture? Or to visit with one of your best friends in all the world?

That is what yesterday afternoon was all about. Social psychologists might call it mental health time. Spiritualists will call it a form of spirituality in the renewal of the soul. Theologians might be tempted to label it taking Sabbath. Yet, beyond all of the framings and namings, the time I spent with my brother was time spent tending to loving bonds, much in the same way, I think, that God longs to walk with all of us.

In the midst of constant movement, constant communication, constant doing, constant planning, constant 'getting done', constant being at the beck and call of so many, time spent with the best of friends is time spent on the mountain away from it all. It is time spent with God's gracious gift of 'nearness', even 'at-one-ment'. Jesus moved away from everyone, including the disciples, to be alone with God. Jesus called the disciples apart to fill their souls with something more than laws and 'shoulds'. Jesus, in the garden, prayed earnestly to the One whom He knew always listened to every word. So, at what point is it that, on our road to 'maturation', we are taught that we don't need such things and time or when is it that we simply begin to forget how important such time really is to the holiness of our living? I'm not sure, yet, it seems that claiming such moments takes an extraordinary amount of energy purely because we have let such time be named as 'unnecessary' or 'forgotten'. God help us.

Walking with him from his home to my car after supper, under the gaze of emerging stars and sounding frogs down by the pond, we simply stopped together to take it in. "You don't get much of this in Lebanon." he said. "No," I replied, ". . . not nearly enough anyway." I think he was talking about the frogs and the wind and the trees and the smells of the country. I was talking about him.

I haven't been getting enough of time spent with one of my very best of friends . . . and it is unnerving, for if I have been so casual about the relationships which should be the most precious to me on earth, what does it say about the time I spend with my best Friend in heaven? Closing my door and starting up my car to back out of the backyard, Larry said something I had trouble hearing, so I rolled down my window to hear him say again, "I love you."

I love you, too, my brother, my friend, and thanks for reminding me of that most precious of gifts from God.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don