Hello everyone. With our sabbatical complete, I am moving my blogging back to Runaway Pastor. I plan to post this afternoon.
If you are a follower here, I'd love for you to jump in as a follower at http://www.RunawayPastor.blogspot.com Thanks!
David
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Part 2: Reflecting on a Sabbatical
Sunday morning worship, December 19, 2010, preparation for prayer
Shelly and I had the opportunity to see many different faith expressions during our time away. While visiting Gvantsa, our former exchange student who lives in the Republic of Georgia, we were taken to many churches and cathedrals. Here we witnessed a different type of faith.
It seems that in the west, we have settled on a belief system which depends upon what we can see and touch, or on what we can reason or prove with science or philosophy. We want cold hard facts. We aren't interested much in angels or miracles--unless we need one.
The Eastern Orthodox, see miracles around every corner. They believe in things that we might struggle to imagine. Yet, I love lighting candles in their churches, and thinking of them as prayers that linger long after I've left the room. In their glorious and mysterious houses of worship, they breath-in the thick, rich incense, believing--as our Old Testament teaches--that their prayers and praises go mystically into the presence of God in the wafting, rising smoke.
Today, as we stand on the verge of Christmas, the miracle of a virgin birth seems far away. The idea of an angel visiting us at home, or in a dream, never even crosses our minds. And this puts us in a tough spot. "Without faith," the Hebrew writer tells us, "it is impossible to please God."
As we pray this morning, I ask you to invite the Spirit of God to open the eyes of your soul to his miraculous ways. To quit insisting upon everything "making sense." Do you hear what that phrase means? Making "SENSE." In other words, provable to your senses...touch, smell, sight, sound or taste. But spiritual stuff does not always "make sense."
Are you willing to step outside the world of cold, concrete stuff; and experience God's life-giving presence this season? Let's tell him so.
Shelly and I had the opportunity to see many different faith expressions during our time away. While visiting Gvantsa, our former exchange student who lives in the Republic of Georgia, we were taken to many churches and cathedrals. Here we witnessed a different type of faith.
It seems that in the west, we have settled on a belief system which depends upon what we can see and touch, or on what we can reason or prove with science or philosophy. We want cold hard facts. We aren't interested much in angels or miracles--unless we need one.
The Eastern Orthodox, see miracles around every corner. They believe in things that we might struggle to imagine. Yet, I love lighting candles in their churches, and thinking of them as prayers that linger long after I've left the room. In their glorious and mysterious houses of worship, they breath-in the thick, rich incense, believing--as our Old Testament teaches--that their prayers and praises go mystically into the presence of God in the wafting, rising smoke.
Today, as we stand on the verge of Christmas, the miracle of a virgin birth seems far away. The idea of an angel visiting us at home, or in a dream, never even crosses our minds. And this puts us in a tough spot. "Without faith," the Hebrew writer tells us, "it is impossible to please God."
As we pray this morning, I ask you to invite the Spirit of God to open the eyes of your soul to his miraculous ways. To quit insisting upon everything "making sense." Do you hear what that phrase means? Making "SENSE." In other words, provable to your senses...touch, smell, sight, sound or taste. But spiritual stuff does not always "make sense."
Are you willing to step outside the world of cold, concrete stuff; and experience God's life-giving presence this season? Let's tell him so.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Reflecting on a Sabbatical: Part One
Journaled, Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Many have been asking me if I enjoyed my trip, or if we had a nice vacation. I can only answer with a "Yes." However, if I have time to speak with those who ask--I mean, if I have the time to sit down and look them in the eye long enough for each of us to see beyond the haze of cliche--then I can speak truth to them. The past three and one half months have been the most grueling and wonderfully transforming months I've ever lived.
I've never treated a journey with such reverence. I treasured each day of our recent sabbatical as a gift of life, not of place. So coming home has not seemed a desertion of pleasure, but a continuing of the sojourn. It has not been a disappointing return to the "same old." I have returned to a place I've never been. Same house, same job, same cars and dogs and bills. Different me.
I treasure the Italian apartment we called home for six weeks of our fourteen week, four-continent trip. But I don't long to be back there, in the way I have pined in times past for some surf-side beach chair. What Christ accomplished there, I am experiencing here, now, today--beside the fire in my home. And I benefitted from it earlier today as I encouraged a parishioner who is grieving, and yesterday in a nursing facility while ministering to a friend who has had yet another stroke.
The peace of Christ which is beyond understanding has worked in and through me. And that peace could not have been found on a three week vacation. It required entering daily into the mine of prayer. Daily, over the course of months. (This has not stopped). Finding peace required much confession and loving counsel. Peace was not gained like some loaf of bread to be picked up on aisle one. Peace emerged in tiny nuggets--minute, yet treasured fragments of authenticity and truth; extracted from massive boulder-sized frustration, selfish ambition, grief, and even some unknown resentment that I had been carefully and diligently sweeping under the rug of my psyche.
Spiritual work is not easy. And it cannot be hurried. The Lilly Endowment's Clergy Renewal Grant has provided me the time and the space to do the difficult work of sorting out my life and spirit. Fourteen weeks may seem a long time, but it was only after week thirteen, that I was ready for one more visit with my spiritual director. There I dropped my last anxieties of returning to ministry. I was ready: a new and centered man.
The global destinations we visited were spectacular. Some see them as the reason for the journey. They were not. They were only the setting of a journey of prayer and devotion. I traveled a far greater distance in my heart and head, than over land or sea.
Many have been asking me if I enjoyed my trip, or if we had a nice vacation. I can only answer with a "Yes." However, if I have time to speak with those who ask--I mean, if I have the time to sit down and look them in the eye long enough for each of us to see beyond the haze of cliche--then I can speak truth to them. The past three and one half months have been the most grueling and wonderfully transforming months I've ever lived.
I've never treated a journey with such reverence. I treasured each day of our recent sabbatical as a gift of life, not of place. So coming home has not seemed a desertion of pleasure, but a continuing of the sojourn. It has not been a disappointing return to the "same old." I have returned to a place I've never been. Same house, same job, same cars and dogs and bills. Different me.
I treasure the Italian apartment we called home for six weeks of our fourteen week, four-continent trip. But I don't long to be back there, in the way I have pined in times past for some surf-side beach chair. What Christ accomplished there, I am experiencing here, now, today--beside the fire in my home. And I benefitted from it earlier today as I encouraged a parishioner who is grieving, and yesterday in a nursing facility while ministering to a friend who has had yet another stroke.
The peace of Christ which is beyond understanding has worked in and through me. And that peace could not have been found on a three week vacation. It required entering daily into the mine of prayer. Daily, over the course of months. (This has not stopped). Finding peace required much confession and loving counsel. Peace was not gained like some loaf of bread to be picked up on aisle one. Peace emerged in tiny nuggets--minute, yet treasured fragments of authenticity and truth; extracted from massive boulder-sized frustration, selfish ambition, grief, and even some unknown resentment that I had been carefully and diligently sweeping under the rug of my psyche.
Spiritual work is not easy. And it cannot be hurried. The Lilly Endowment's Clergy Renewal Grant has provided me the time and the space to do the difficult work of sorting out my life and spirit. Fourteen weeks may seem a long time, but it was only after week thirteen, that I was ready for one more visit with my spiritual director. There I dropped my last anxieties of returning to ministry. I was ready: a new and centered man.
The global destinations we visited were spectacular. Some see them as the reason for the journey. They were not. They were only the setting of a journey of prayer and devotion. I traveled a far greater distance in my heart and head, than over land or sea.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Photographic Memories
SATURAY 20 NOVEMBER, 2010 ASSISI, ITALY
I marvel at the artistry some people have with photography. My son and I both can take a photograph of some scene, and his seems to live, while mine looks like...well, a picture. We have a mother and daughter in our church back home that seem to be able to photograph a child's thoughts, not only their image. And there was a young woman in our last congregation who posts her photos on a blog, and I still visit there just to enjoy the artistry she possesses. But some things a photograph cannot do.
We have reached again and again for our camera here, hoping to capture the grandeur of some mountain, or the stately castle atop this medieval city. We have taken pictures of dear friends, wanting to remember forever their touch and smile and presence. Yet, photography proves itself mostly futile. Even skilled photographers capture only a shadow of the reverenced moment. The moment itself, the chill-down-the-spine of it, somehow remains illusive. It can only be known to the ones who live it...while they live it. And then it is gone.
We have walked along breathtaking pathways, heard of miraculous happenings, and we've had the desire to somehow possess them--so that we can later share them. But there is no media which can capture and own these places. They are not, after all, photo-ops to be exploited. Here is a living and breathing world which will not be imprisoned in some scrapbook zoo, any more than those places and events happening around you--where you are--right now. They are "once in a lifetime." And we are only able to witness one scene in one place at one time; and that moment--we are only loaned, with no rights to ownership.
We have not simply visited a beautiful place. We have entered into its history--the living and dying and becoming of another place on this earth. Seasons have changed, tears have fallen for joy and in sorrow. And even though we've witnessed and contributed to these days and weeks here in this place so far away from our home, we can never in any true measure define them for any other person.
I pray for the grace of gratefulness. For the contentment one knows when receiving a precious gift. And for the wisdom to treasure these moments enough to show their shadows to others, while guarding their life within my soul.
I marvel at the artistry some people have with photography. My son and I both can take a photograph of some scene, and his seems to live, while mine looks like...well, a picture. We have a mother and daughter in our church back home that seem to be able to photograph a child's thoughts, not only their image. And there was a young woman in our last congregation who posts her photos on a blog, and I still visit there just to enjoy the artistry she possesses. But some things a photograph cannot do.
We have reached again and again for our camera here, hoping to capture the grandeur of some mountain, or the stately castle atop this medieval city. We have taken pictures of dear friends, wanting to remember forever their touch and smile and presence. Yet, photography proves itself mostly futile. Even skilled photographers capture only a shadow of the reverenced moment. The moment itself, the chill-down-the-spine of it, somehow remains illusive. It can only be known to the ones who live it...while they live it. And then it is gone.
We have walked along breathtaking pathways, heard of miraculous happenings, and we've had the desire to somehow possess them--so that we can later share them. But there is no media which can capture and own these places. They are not, after all, photo-ops to be exploited. Here is a living and breathing world which will not be imprisoned in some scrapbook zoo, any more than those places and events happening around you--where you are--right now. They are "once in a lifetime." And we are only able to witness one scene in one place at one time; and that moment--we are only loaned, with no rights to ownership.
We have not simply visited a beautiful place. We have entered into its history--the living and dying and becoming of another place on this earth. Seasons have changed, tears have fallen for joy and in sorrow. And even though we've witnessed and contributed to these days and weeks here in this place so far away from our home, we can never in any true measure define them for any other person.
I pray for the grace of gratefulness. For the contentment one knows when receiving a precious gift. And for the wisdom to treasure these moments enough to show their shadows to others, while guarding their life within my soul.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
THE RUNAWAY PASTOR--Black Friday Special!
Get a jump on your Christmas shopping. Until midnight tomorrow, Friday, November 26, autographed copies of my novel The Runaway Pastor are available at discount prices. Here's the deal: Email http://www.runawaypastor.gmail.com before midnight, Friday night with the number of books you want. Then, as soon as we receive your check for the full amount, we will mail you your autographed copies. Be sure and let us know if you want gift or personal books signed "To _______."
Price: 1 Copy ---------------------- $11.
2 Copies ------------------- $21.
3-11 Copies------------ @ $10. per copy
12 Copies or more------- Ask for quote
For US orders only.
Price: 1 Copy ---------------------- $11.
2 Copies ------------------- $21.
3-11 Copies------------ @ $10. per copy
12 Copies or more------- Ask for quote
For US orders only.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
The treasures we see. And those we miss.
We passed over the French Alps some time ago. Snow blanketed their rugged beauty as we soared high above glistening peaks. Yet now, as we reach the ocean border of France, I'm thinking of the lives of those some five and a half miles below. They are working in factories, sitting in classrooms, caring for farm animals which produce such fine cheese, and yes, they are speaking French.
Are they thinking of me and this plane load of travelers as we make our white scar in the deep blue sky? Do they wonder where we are going, or if we even notice their rural landscape? Well I, if they were able to know, am thinking not of their cheese or schools or language. I'm thinking of them.
We've seen so many incredible sites during our time in Europe, Africa and Asia. We've witnessed historical landmarks: towering basilicas, pyramids, the birthplace of Christ, and the Mediterranean glories witnessed by ancient traders, warriors and missionaries. But I think that I will never see, a photo op as amazing as...a person.
This hit home with me during a recent visit to Rome with my family. We had just seen the amazing Colosseum, walked through the ancient forum and visited many of the familiar scenes of that once world-ruling city. Our camera memory cards were bulging with shot after shot that could grace the cover of any western civilization textbook. But as we were making our way out, we witnessed a greater wonder.
An older gentleman sat at the side of the walkway. His focus, his entire world was within the beautiful music his calloused fingers charmed from his aging guitar. We stood, dumbfounded--entranced. The intensity of life vibrating from his gentle playing filled us, even encapsulated us. It wasn't the perfection of the performance, or the complication of the music which held us spellbound. It was the man, his love for the song, for the place and indeed in some strange way, for us...this is what held us in place.
I do not know how long the melody and harmony of that song danced on that street on that day. But when the song stopped sounding, and only held us still, he looked up as I dropped a pittance of appreciation into his opened guitar case. His grateful smile--grateful for our listening and our hearing--continued as his head bowed into another gift.
We saw priceless, historical treasures that afternoon. And we saw a simple musician. His worth--like that of any other human creature--was so far beyond the treasures of this earth, that words can never explain it, photographs can never capture it, and Euros or dollars in the bottom of an instrument's case will never be able to define it. And this soul, will never be able to contain it.
Are they thinking of me and this plane load of travelers as we make our white scar in the deep blue sky? Do they wonder where we are going, or if we even notice their rural landscape? Well I, if they were able to know, am thinking not of their cheese or schools or language. I'm thinking of them.
We've seen so many incredible sites during our time in Europe, Africa and Asia. We've witnessed historical landmarks: towering basilicas, pyramids, the birthplace of Christ, and the Mediterranean glories witnessed by ancient traders, warriors and missionaries. But I think that I will never see, a photo op as amazing as...a person.
This hit home with me during a recent visit to Rome with my family. We had just seen the amazing Colosseum, walked through the ancient forum and visited many of the familiar scenes of that once world-ruling city. Our camera memory cards were bulging with shot after shot that could grace the cover of any western civilization textbook. But as we were making our way out, we witnessed a greater wonder.
An older gentleman sat at the side of the walkway. His focus, his entire world was within the beautiful music his calloused fingers charmed from his aging guitar. We stood, dumbfounded--entranced. The intensity of life vibrating from his gentle playing filled us, even encapsulated us. It wasn't the perfection of the performance, or the complication of the music which held us spellbound. It was the man, his love for the song, for the place and indeed in some strange way, for us...this is what held us in place.
I do not know how long the melody and harmony of that song danced on that street on that day. But when the song stopped sounding, and only held us still, he looked up as I dropped a pittance of appreciation into his opened guitar case. His grateful smile--grateful for our listening and our hearing--continued as his head bowed into another gift.
We saw priceless, historical treasures that afternoon. And we saw a simple musician. His worth--like that of any other human creature--was so far beyond the treasures of this earth, that words can never explain it, photographs can never capture it, and Euros or dollars in the bottom of an instrument's case will never be able to define it. And this soul, will never be able to contain it.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Rough seas, my father and me
When the Apostle Paul made his famous missionary journeys, there was a stretch of sea he must have become very familiar with. The northeastern portion of the Mediterranian Sea is a dramatic flow of breathtakingly beautiful water--think tropical beach colors--which can throw a fit without much notice. We had the opportunity to see its beauty and rock with its furry during a recent visit to several Biblical sites. I will now better understand those stories in the books of Acts, as they were, set against the glory and moodiness of that sea.
Yet, deep into one of those tossing nights, it wasn't scripture I had on my mind. I was experiencing a wonderful new understanding of my father and his life. I used to love for him to tell me stories about the seas he sailed in a small liberty ship between San Francisco and the South Pacific island of Somoa. He told me of seasick sailors, and how he had somehow avoided the malady. I had proudly thought of all his years fishing in waters--waters which knew him so well, they must have chosen to treat him as a friend.
In the ink dark of one night, while experiencing the pitch and toss of the sea, I thought of my father and his stories. No, I didn't think of them, I lived them. And it seemed I lived them with him. If a night vision camara had been in the room aimed properly at my face, it would have seen me smiling warmly. I was full with thoughts of my dad, and I enjoyed him so dearly through that rough patch of sea.
In the morning, as we stopped in a port where Paul had visited, I understood a bit differently the adventures that must have been his back in those days. And I had a deeply devotional question form in my mind: Did the Apostle Paul ever get seasick traveling to Corinth? Somehow I'm guessing he was as stubborn as my father and I, and was able to avoid it while thinking of his higher agenda.
Yet, deep into one of those tossing nights, it wasn't scripture I had on my mind. I was experiencing a wonderful new understanding of my father and his life. I used to love for him to tell me stories about the seas he sailed in a small liberty ship between San Francisco and the South Pacific island of Somoa. He told me of seasick sailors, and how he had somehow avoided the malady. I had proudly thought of all his years fishing in waters--waters which knew him so well, they must have chosen to treat him as a friend.
In the ink dark of one night, while experiencing the pitch and toss of the sea, I thought of my father and his stories. No, I didn't think of them, I lived them. And it seemed I lived them with him. If a night vision camara had been in the room aimed properly at my face, it would have seen me smiling warmly. I was full with thoughts of my dad, and I enjoyed him so dearly through that rough patch of sea.
In the morning, as we stopped in a port where Paul had visited, I understood a bit differently the adventures that must have been his back in those days. And I had a deeply devotional question form in my mind: Did the Apostle Paul ever get seasick traveling to Corinth? Somehow I'm guessing he was as stubborn as my father and I, and was able to avoid it while thinking of his higher agenda.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Happy Anniversary
I guess you could say this has been the longest and best anniversary trip that Shelly and I have ever taken. I can't begin to tell you how much I've enjoyed the time having her to myself!
Shelly is my best friend. I'm thankful for all of our years together. And on this journey, we have had time to truly be together. We have enjoyed times of reading to each other, then reading on our own--side by side. We've walked together--tons. We've cooked together, gone out together, and visited long-lost friends together. We've learned together and studied together, then dreamed about our ministry with our friends back at Parkview. We've thought about our marriage's next chapters. And, on top of it all, next week we set out on a tour of biblical sites, mostly ones we've not seen before.
Tomorrow, October 27, is the thirty-first anniversary of our wedding. We will be with the highlights of our lives together--our two children, our son-in-law and grand-daughter. (After five weeks in Europe, their presence has been so welcomed. And tomorrow we will go back to Rome with them for a day and a half of sight-seeing before sending them back home.)
It just seemed appropriate to share my gratefulness for my marriage and my love for my wife here. I've stepped-away, but thank God, not run-away.
Remember, you can see pictures of our times here at Shelly's blog: http://www.michelehayes.wordpress.com
Shelly is my best friend. I'm thankful for all of our years together. And on this journey, we have had time to truly be together. We have enjoyed times of reading to each other, then reading on our own--side by side. We've walked together--tons. We've cooked together, gone out together, and visited long-lost friends together. We've learned together and studied together, then dreamed about our ministry with our friends back at Parkview. We've thought about our marriage's next chapters. And, on top of it all, next week we set out on a tour of biblical sites, mostly ones we've not seen before.
Tomorrow, October 27, is the thirty-first anniversary of our wedding. We will be with the highlights of our lives together--our two children, our son-in-law and grand-daughter. (After five weeks in Europe, their presence has been so welcomed. And tomorrow we will go back to Rome with them for a day and a half of sight-seeing before sending them back home.)
It just seemed appropriate to share my gratefulness for my marriage and my love for my wife here. I've stepped-away, but thank God, not run-away.
Remember, you can see pictures of our times here at Shelly's blog: http://www.michelehayes.wordpress.com
Monday, October 25, 2010
Some are gold--Remembering our dear friends in Kiev
I'm thinking of the gift of long-term friendship. There have been many wonderful experiences during this step-away time. We have seen beautiful sites, shared delicious meals and enjoyed so many days together. I've told you about some great hospitality shown us in Ukraine and The Republic of Georgia. But there are new memories of old friends which keep coming to my mind in waves of appreciation. I want to share them.
When I was a child in Sunday School, we used to sing the song:
Make new friends, and keep the old.
One is silver and the other gold.
There were so very many people in Kiev that came to a reception for us. It was wonderful to spend time with them and remember what those days were like together. Two doctors (Marianna and Alexander) and their three children who are now doctors (or almost so) gave us gifts and amazingly encouraging words and renewed our relationship in their same warm way. How dear they are. Our missionaries there, Colleen and Bob Skinner, had us to dinner along with our old work mates. Bob returned us to the airport and had so many kind and encouraging words about our work.
I hope its OK to focus attention, however, on some dear friends with whom we lived and worked while serving in Ukraine some eighteen years ago.
We spent most of our time with Natasha (a faithful friend who has called me "Papa" for all eighteen years), Zena (an amazing young woman who has grown up from the delightfully spunky child we knew so long ago), her mother Svyetlana (who was our first translator and friend in Kiev and is now a pastor of our Obolone church there), Kolya, the young guy who took our children to school each day and Shelly shopping for food most days), and Vova (who also translated for us, and who pastors the first church we began in Kiev). This was most of our "A-Team" back then, and the accumulated time we spent together has forever endeared them to our hearts.
During our visit, each of these took time out of their lives--Natasha coming all the way from Germany--just to be with us. As alway when in Ukraine, we went with the idea of giving gifts, but they gave us so much more. Natasha, Zena and Svyetlana took us out to dinners. Yes plural. They showed us the new Kiev. They stayed out late and laughed and reminisced and filled us with joy. They even hired our taxis.
Kolya drove to the airport to pick us up. Vova joined him and spent days taking us through the city, and driving us (along with Natasha and Svyetlana) to a distant village to visit important new developments in the work. Vova and I had opportunity to share, not as we did in the past, but heart to heart--each of us now pastors.
I love this core group of early leaders. They gave and gave and gave to us last month, as they did "back in the day." And as I reflect upon our times together there last month, I'm feeling particularly grateful. I hope they understand how much.
When I was a child in Sunday School, we used to sing the song:
Make new friends, and keep the old.
One is silver and the other gold.
There were so very many people in Kiev that came to a reception for us. It was wonderful to spend time with them and remember what those days were like together. Two doctors (Marianna and Alexander) and their three children who are now doctors (or almost so) gave us gifts and amazingly encouraging words and renewed our relationship in their same warm way. How dear they are. Our missionaries there, Colleen and Bob Skinner, had us to dinner along with our old work mates. Bob returned us to the airport and had so many kind and encouraging words about our work.
I hope its OK to focus attention, however, on some dear friends with whom we lived and worked while serving in Ukraine some eighteen years ago.
We spent most of our time with Natasha (a faithful friend who has called me "Papa" for all eighteen years), Zena (an amazing young woman who has grown up from the delightfully spunky child we knew so long ago), her mother Svyetlana (who was our first translator and friend in Kiev and is now a pastor of our Obolone church there), Kolya, the young guy who took our children to school each day and Shelly shopping for food most days), and Vova (who also translated for us, and who pastors the first church we began in Kiev). This was most of our "A-Team" back then, and the accumulated time we spent together has forever endeared them to our hearts.
During our visit, each of these took time out of their lives--Natasha coming all the way from Germany--just to be with us. As alway when in Ukraine, we went with the idea of giving gifts, but they gave us so much more. Natasha, Zena and Svyetlana took us out to dinners. Yes plural. They showed us the new Kiev. They stayed out late and laughed and reminisced and filled us with joy. They even hired our taxis.
Kolya drove to the airport to pick us up. Vova joined him and spent days taking us through the city, and driving us (along with Natasha and Svyetlana) to a distant village to visit important new developments in the work. Vova and I had opportunity to share, not as we did in the past, but heart to heart--each of us now pastors.
I love this core group of early leaders. They gave and gave and gave to us last month, as they did "back in the day." And as I reflect upon our times together there last month, I'm feeling particularly grateful. I hope they understand how much.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Assisi, Italy. From prayer to prayer; from strength to strength...
This morning, I walked to San Rufino's and prayed. I was so encouraged and strengthened. I spent time in my usual routine of opening prayers (memorized from a prayer book), some of my own thoughts, then silence, then the Jesus prayer. I prayed for Tim Bond, the guy doing most of the preaching at home while I'm away. I prayed for the Wooten family. I prayed for Gram's family who will say goodbye to her at her funeral service this morning, when the sun moves around to that side of the earth. Then I meditated once more on Psalm One. (I have been continually drawn to this Psalm as I've prayed here in Assisi. My father had me memorize it when I was a boy, and that gift of his continues to pay dividends.)
After these prayers, I decided to go to Santa Chiara's church. The sun is shining brightly against the stone walkway--the sidewalks and streets where I step. At least it shines where it can between stone walls to my right and to my left. Ancient stone structures, many of them. A stiff breeze sifts my soul and I'm reminded of the prayers I've just prayed asking Holy Spirit to sift me of all but himself, his Father and God the Son.
And without warning, my heart erupts in joy. I'm in Assisi. I'm walking up streets and steps and down streets of steps which strengthen my body, as the time spent in prayer rebuilds my faith--my spirit. I am alive again, walking from prayer to prayer, from strength to strength.
I thank God for the LIlly Endowment and their unbelievable gift of this time and this place. I thank God for my congregation back home which applied for this grant, then took the step of allowing us this time.
I look into the light blue sky, with its lacy cloudy whisps bowing just beneath the sun's glory. I AM HERE. I am unworthy. I am so very grateful. And I am once more...ALIVE.
I can scarcely take in the Joy who meets me in this day. But I determine that in this new life, beginning here in Medieval Europe, I will never forsake him.
(Later today Shelly and I plan to re-visit San Damiano's church and convent just down the side of the mountain from Assisi. Perhaps she will post some pix at her blog. Stay tuned at http://www.michelehayes.wordpress.com.
I also want to offer, upon my return in mid December, to meet with any pastor, or church leadership team who might want to consider a sabbatical for the purpose of clergy renewal.)
After these prayers, I decided to go to Santa Chiara's church. The sun is shining brightly against the stone walkway--the sidewalks and streets where I step. At least it shines where it can between stone walls to my right and to my left. Ancient stone structures, many of them. A stiff breeze sifts my soul and I'm reminded of the prayers I've just prayed asking Holy Spirit to sift me of all but himself, his Father and God the Son.
And without warning, my heart erupts in joy. I'm in Assisi. I'm walking up streets and steps and down streets of steps which strengthen my body, as the time spent in prayer rebuilds my faith--my spirit. I am alive again, walking from prayer to prayer, from strength to strength.
I thank God for the LIlly Endowment and their unbelievable gift of this time and this place. I thank God for my congregation back home which applied for this grant, then took the step of allowing us this time.
I look into the light blue sky, with its lacy cloudy whisps bowing just beneath the sun's glory. I AM HERE. I am unworthy. I am so very grateful. And I am once more...ALIVE.
I can scarcely take in the Joy who meets me in this day. But I determine that in this new life, beginning here in Medieval Europe, I will never forsake him.
(Later today Shelly and I plan to re-visit San Damiano's church and convent just down the side of the mountain from Assisi. Perhaps she will post some pix at her blog. Stay tuned at http://www.michelehayes.wordpress.com.
I also want to offer, upon my return in mid December, to meet with any pastor, or church leadership team who might want to consider a sabbatical for the purpose of clergy renewal.)
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Where do you pray? (And a couple of prayer requests.)
Since stepping away for this sabbatical, my priority has been to take time each day to go somewhere and pray. My plan has been to pray in churches here. Churches are usually quiet places, but with all of the pilgrims walking through, sometimes they aren't so quiet.
Yesterday I decided to scout out a mountain trail I hope to hike with my family when they come next week. (Shelly and I ended up doing a few miles of it today.) It was raining yesterday, and so I found a completely dry spot underneath one of my favorite trees (Shelly and her friend Amy call them "creepy Italian trees), sat at its base, drew my knees to my chest and began to pray. Ahhh! Now that's more like it!
I don't have anything against grand Medieval churches, but that tree was the hands-down winner of all the chapels, basilicas and tombs I visited so far. God whispered through its tight branches and those of other trees nearby; and birds sang with such happy voices.
Then it dawned on me: This is where the great Saints prayed! The ones they celebrate here went to the mountains and out under sun and stars to pray. We travel around the world to step into "holy places," light candles and meet with God; and then I find a forest to be my favorite holy place.
At this point in my life, traveling around the world was a good idea. I needed to be free to seek God with all of my heart and strength for a while. But as I look to the time when I return home, it is good to know that a forest waits outside the doors and windows of our home. And God is there.
And these thoughts: Two days ago, one of my dear old (and I mean old--95!) friends came to mind. I was walking to a church, I thought of Jewell Carmichael. There was a twinge in my heart, and I wondered how she was. I prayed for her. I trusted her into God's hands.
Last night the word came that she has been sick, and passed away yesterday morning. Please pray for Jewell's wonderful family: Her two daughters and their families who loved "Gram" (as we have always called her) so very much. They may or may not build a basilica in her honor someday. But her place in Heaven is as joyous as any saint you've ever known.
Yesterday was also the sixth month anniversary of the passing of Marcus Shadrick, my nephew by marriage, but MY nephew none the less. So long as we're praying, would you remember his wife and children, mother and father, two brothers and sister and their families for the next few days. Your prayers may just lessen the pains they feel, and swell the joy that belongs in every memory of this wonderful man.
It will be dark in another hour or so. I'm going step away from the apartment for a few minutes, walk past a couple of churches, through an arch and outside of a medieval city wall. I'm going to look for a tree on the side of the mountain, and meet the MIghty One for a few.
Where do you pray?
Yesterday I decided to scout out a mountain trail I hope to hike with my family when they come next week. (Shelly and I ended up doing a few miles of it today.) It was raining yesterday, and so I found a completely dry spot underneath one of my favorite trees (Shelly and her friend Amy call them "creepy Italian trees), sat at its base, drew my knees to my chest and began to pray. Ahhh! Now that's more like it!
I don't have anything against grand Medieval churches, but that tree was the hands-down winner of all the chapels, basilicas and tombs I visited so far. God whispered through its tight branches and those of other trees nearby; and birds sang with such happy voices.
Then it dawned on me: This is where the great Saints prayed! The ones they celebrate here went to the mountains and out under sun and stars to pray. We travel around the world to step into "holy places," light candles and meet with God; and then I find a forest to be my favorite holy place.
At this point in my life, traveling around the world was a good idea. I needed to be free to seek God with all of my heart and strength for a while. But as I look to the time when I return home, it is good to know that a forest waits outside the doors and windows of our home. And God is there.
And these thoughts: Two days ago, one of my dear old (and I mean old--95!) friends came to mind. I was walking to a church, I thought of Jewell Carmichael. There was a twinge in my heart, and I wondered how she was. I prayed for her. I trusted her into God's hands.
Last night the word came that she has been sick, and passed away yesterday morning. Please pray for Jewell's wonderful family: Her two daughters and their families who loved "Gram" (as we have always called her) so very much. They may or may not build a basilica in her honor someday. But her place in Heaven is as joyous as any saint you've ever known.
Yesterday was also the sixth month anniversary of the passing of Marcus Shadrick, my nephew by marriage, but MY nephew none the less. So long as we're praying, would you remember his wife and children, mother and father, two brothers and sister and their families for the next few days. Your prayers may just lessen the pains they feel, and swell the joy that belongs in every memory of this wonderful man.
It will be dark in another hour or so. I'm going step away from the apartment for a few minutes, walk past a couple of churches, through an arch and outside of a medieval city wall. I'm going to look for a tree on the side of the mountain, and meet the MIghty One for a few.
Where do you pray?
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
IN A TOMB. THINKING OF HOME
IN A TOMB. THINKING OF HOME
I'm sitting in a tomb. It is also an ancient church. Straight before me some twenty feet, are the remains of Saint Francis of Assisi. All around and beneath me are the remains of his faithful friends, and others who have been left here...forever.
A mass is taking place at the other end of this long, lower basilica. Prayers are being sung in beautiful, ancient and monastic tones. All around me, wide-eyed visitors and pilgrims meander, observing the sights and nuances of this beautiful, cave-like place: Frescoes from masters of the middle ages and after, rounded Romanesque arches, small chapels with candles glimmering, and an altar placed over Francis' grave...placed here in 1230 AD.
CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR
I've never thought of being remembered with such devotion eight hundred years from now. But I do like the idea I've heard so many times--the challenge to "Do something great for God." And as I sit pondering the phenomena of this saint and others, I wonder: "What does it look like to "do something great for God?"
My spirit is learning a great deal from the life of St. Francis. But I don't want to mimic him. He renounced everything in order to live the life of a beggar. He owned nothing except for his ragged robe, belt and sandals. He slept in caves while in the mountains to pray, and under temporary shelters of piled branches when at home. He loved and cared for lepers, and looked after the poor and disenfranchised; and he led a disheveled band of followers who took vows to the same poverty, chastity and obedience as his own. WHY?
WHAT GOD NEEDED FROM FRANCIS
In a day when the church was arrogant, wealthy, powerful and pride-filled, God needed someone to point to the lowly Jesus. God needed a wealthy and popular young guy from Assisi to renounce knighthood with its fame, his famous parties with their camaraderie and revelry, and his wealth with its comforts, opulence and security. And so Francis rejected fame, camaraderie, revelry, comfort, opulence and security; in order to turn his heart toward his true love.
And at the end of his brief life, he said something like this: "I have been faithful to obey God's call for me. Now you each must go and do as he calls you."
HIS HUMBLE HOME
This morning, Shelly and I hiked down the mountainside to the site of Francis' death. Here is the tiny church which he called home. There is room for only a couple of dozen people inside of the church at once, it is so small. But this is where Francis obediently went to pray and minister. He lived his life and died his death in its shadow. This humble place was away from the seats of power and attention of the powerful. From here Francis went to bless the poor, the lepers and those who had been excommunicated from the city. In this tiny chapel he lived his poor life and met with Mighty God.
As we approached this place this morning, my heart despaired for the saint. Coming around a corner, what met our eyes is the tenth largest church in all of Roman Catholicism. A huge Golden statue stands atop, and others are carved into the entrance high above the building. And finally, inside the cathedral and at the front, is the actual tiny stone building where Francis met with Jesus, and from which he went forth to be HIS person and presence.
FINDING HOME
In the heart of every lover of Jesus, there is a humble center. A place of prayer without which they cannot exist. Here they meet with the humble Jesus, who pleads with them and then strengthens them to mightily do his humble service. Only here are they able to hear and understand Christ's calling on their lives. And when their time comes to die, it will be to this humble quiet and lonely place they will return...where Jesus is central and the only treasure...no matter the lore or titles or edifices which might follow.
(For pictures of our days and much more consistent posting, be sure to stay-tuned to Shelly's blog.)
I'm sitting in a tomb. It is also an ancient church. Straight before me some twenty feet, are the remains of Saint Francis of Assisi. All around and beneath me are the remains of his faithful friends, and others who have been left here...forever.
A mass is taking place at the other end of this long, lower basilica. Prayers are being sung in beautiful, ancient and monastic tones. All around me, wide-eyed visitors and pilgrims meander, observing the sights and nuances of this beautiful, cave-like place: Frescoes from masters of the middle ages and after, rounded Romanesque arches, small chapels with candles glimmering, and an altar placed over Francis' grave...placed here in 1230 AD.
CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR
I've never thought of being remembered with such devotion eight hundred years from now. But I do like the idea I've heard so many times--the challenge to "Do something great for God." And as I sit pondering the phenomena of this saint and others, I wonder: "What does it look like to "do something great for God?"
My spirit is learning a great deal from the life of St. Francis. But I don't want to mimic him. He renounced everything in order to live the life of a beggar. He owned nothing except for his ragged robe, belt and sandals. He slept in caves while in the mountains to pray, and under temporary shelters of piled branches when at home. He loved and cared for lepers, and looked after the poor and disenfranchised; and he led a disheveled band of followers who took vows to the same poverty, chastity and obedience as his own. WHY?
WHAT GOD NEEDED FROM FRANCIS
In a day when the church was arrogant, wealthy, powerful and pride-filled, God needed someone to point to the lowly Jesus. God needed a wealthy and popular young guy from Assisi to renounce knighthood with its fame, his famous parties with their camaraderie and revelry, and his wealth with its comforts, opulence and security. And so Francis rejected fame, camaraderie, revelry, comfort, opulence and security; in order to turn his heart toward his true love.
And at the end of his brief life, he said something like this: "I have been faithful to obey God's call for me. Now you each must go and do as he calls you."
HIS HUMBLE HOME
This morning, Shelly and I hiked down the mountainside to the site of Francis' death. Here is the tiny church which he called home. There is room for only a couple of dozen people inside of the church at once, it is so small. But this is where Francis obediently went to pray and minister. He lived his life and died his death in its shadow. This humble place was away from the seats of power and attention of the powerful. From here Francis went to bless the poor, the lepers and those who had been excommunicated from the city. In this tiny chapel he lived his poor life and met with Mighty God.
As we approached this place this morning, my heart despaired for the saint. Coming around a corner, what met our eyes is the tenth largest church in all of Roman Catholicism. A huge Golden statue stands atop, and others are carved into the entrance high above the building. And finally, inside the cathedral and at the front, is the actual tiny stone building where Francis met with Jesus, and from which he went forth to be HIS person and presence.
FINDING HOME
In the heart of every lover of Jesus, there is a humble center. A place of prayer without which they cannot exist. Here they meet with the humble Jesus, who pleads with them and then strengthens them to mightily do his humble service. Only here are they able to hear and understand Christ's calling on their lives. And when their time comes to die, it will be to this humble quiet and lonely place they will return...where Jesus is central and the only treasure...no matter the lore or titles or edifices which might follow.
(For pictures of our days and much more consistent posting, be sure to stay-tuned to Shelly's blog.)
Friday, October 8, 2010
Scratching-in our legacy: Graffiti in a holy place
Walking back to our apartment this afternoon, I couldn't help but notice a beautiful young girl pose next to a shop window. She smiled and lifted a heal, her father snapped the shot. And her mother looked away, somewhat amused, but not planning to show it. It seems to be a universal truth about humans: We want to be noticed.
All of us have seen landmarks ruined by names scribbled, scratched or carved into their surface. Names with dates or initials of lovers left behind hoping that someone, someday will see and recognize them. Recently I saw a footbridge in Kiev, Ukraine where couples write their names along the way, or better yet on padlocks which they affix to the handrails, hoping they will never be taken away. A way of saying "I love you, and I mean it."
Today, I was blown away by another sort of graffiti, a differing sort of signature left behind for posterity. We climbed high above the walled city of Assisi to the site of mountainside caves where St. Francis and his brothers used to go to pray for extended periods. There is one particular place where rocks once fell from the mountainside during a prayer battle with Satan. Upon his defeat and exit, stones fell away from the mountain; and where the stone mountain walls remain, is now a place of prayer.
Pilgrims and faithful come from all over the world to see this centuries-old place of prayer. And when they arrive, and after they have prayed, they have for centuries marked the wall with graffiti. How do they wish to be remembered? Look closely at these photos. They show only a tiny portion of a huge area.
Francis of Assisi's life was at one time about gaining honor and fame as a brave knight. Two times he went off in bright armor in order to make a name for himself. And two times he returned to Assisi perceived to be a failure...a coward even. But God had spoken to him and told him to return. And Francis chose to leave behind all gains in order to follow in the ways of Jesus. His life was to be about the glory of Christ's life.
When people go to see this monument of his devotion to prayer, they seem to understand. We do not leave our own names behind for posterity. Rather, we celebrate the sign of the ONE who matters forever.
We can and will be forgotten. He will not.
Today, I was blown away by another sort of graffiti, a differing sort of signature left behind for posterity. We climbed high above the walled city of Assisi to the site of mountainside caves where St. Francis and his brothers used to go to pray for extended periods. There is one particular place where rocks once fell from the mountainside during a prayer battle with Satan. Upon his defeat and exit, stones fell away from the mountain; and where the stone mountain walls remain, is now a place of prayer.
Francis of Assisi's life was at one time about gaining honor and fame as a brave knight. Two times he went off in bright armor in order to make a name for himself. And two times he returned to Assisi perceived to be a failure...a coward even. But God had spoken to him and told him to return. And Francis chose to leave behind all gains in order to follow in the ways of Jesus. His life was to be about the glory of Christ's life.
We can and will be forgotten. He will not.
Monday, October 4, 2010
A Sabbatical Prayer
A SABBATICAL PRAYER
Lord, I invite you to enter the mystery of me.
You can see where I cannot,
into the shadowlands of my soul.
You can see beyond
the corners of my brokenness.
You can be strength
where I am weakness.
You can mend
what I do not know is torn.
That which I don't even know to confess,
and that which I do,
I confess.
Please forgive me.
And where I carry
sorrows, regrets, disappointments, failures--
Send peace, I pray.
What I cannot know to ask for,
yet what I need the most,
please grant me.
O Lord, that which I cannot imagine,
that for which I do not know to hope,
the things for which I do not know to ask,
BE.
Lord, I invite you to enter the mystery of me.
You can see where I cannot,
into the shadowlands of my soul.
You can see beyond
the corners of my brokenness.
You can be strength
where I am weakness.
You can mend
what I do not know is torn.
That which I don't even know to confess,
and that which I do,
I confess.
Please forgive me.
And where I carry
sorrows, regrets, disappointments, failures--
Send peace, I pray.
What I cannot know to ask for,
yet what I need the most,
please grant me.
O Lord, that which I cannot imagine,
that for which I do not know to hope,
the things for which I do not know to ask,
BE.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
How beautiful is the Body of Christ
The beauty of the presence of Christ is so illusive and so inspiring. Illusive for those who insist on seeing Him only in one branch of the church--Protestant, Roman Catholic or Orthodox. (And protestants can further sub-divide to near infinity with branches and streams of this church and that...) And so if His glory alludes you, perhaps you are looking too closely, and not broadly enough.
Today we worshipped in a Roman Basilica. We understood very few words, but my spirit soared at each "hosanna" and "alleluia." We saw thousands of pilgrims crowd into multiple churches and chapels to rehearse the same salvific story, raising their hands to heaven as they recited our common Lord's Prayer.
Last Sunday the Georgian Orthodox worshippers spoke an even stranger tongue to our ears, but a dear one to our spirits. They grew quiet to reverence the reading of the gospel, recited the Lord's prayer and the creed, and bathed in the mellow comfort of soft light and the non-stop chanting of scripture. They venerated icons, and I watched with particular empathy as a priest listened to the confession of a tearful young woman.
Two Sundays back, we were in a church of our own denomination, hearing Russian and Ukrainian songs and the four common scripture readings. Hands were lifted in worship, and just as in the past two weeks, "The peace of Christ" was passed, person to person. Members of one Body.
And three Sundays back, our last in the States, we attended the mass of an Episcopal Church. The prayer of the day was modeled around Saint Francis' much loved "Lord Make Me an Instrument of Your Peace."
I cannot help but think about the following: In each church we have visited (besides the one which is part of our own denomination) we have heard four scripture readings, with the Gospel reading receiving special centrality. We have witnessed Holy Eucharist (communion), and the passing of the peace and reciting of the Nicene Creed and the praying of the Lord's prayer. Sure, there is "form" and habit in these things. But to me, they are things that bind us together. Litergy is less typical in my church, but its consistency across man made boundaries is a unifying bond. I have cherished it during my sojourn.
I often receive complaints when I write with interfaith themes. I cannot, however, glibly disown such a precious inheritance as the Body of Christ. Our Christian sisters and brothers see things differently, and speak differing languages. But there is one Body, one Church and one Baptism. And I for one intend to hold to this treasure.
I have stepped away, but not outside the reach of my faith, or the faithful who belong to it.
Today we worshipped in a Roman Basilica. We understood very few words, but my spirit soared at each "hosanna" and "alleluia." We saw thousands of pilgrims crowd into multiple churches and chapels to rehearse the same salvific story, raising their hands to heaven as they recited our common Lord's Prayer.
Last Sunday the Georgian Orthodox worshippers spoke an even stranger tongue to our ears, but a dear one to our spirits. They grew quiet to reverence the reading of the gospel, recited the Lord's prayer and the creed, and bathed in the mellow comfort of soft light and the non-stop chanting of scripture. They venerated icons, and I watched with particular empathy as a priest listened to the confession of a tearful young woman.
Two Sundays back, we were in a church of our own denomination, hearing Russian and Ukrainian songs and the four common scripture readings. Hands were lifted in worship, and just as in the past two weeks, "The peace of Christ" was passed, person to person. Members of one Body.
And three Sundays back, our last in the States, we attended the mass of an Episcopal Church. The prayer of the day was modeled around Saint Francis' much loved "Lord Make Me an Instrument of Your Peace."
I cannot help but think about the following: In each church we have visited (besides the one which is part of our own denomination) we have heard four scripture readings, with the Gospel reading receiving special centrality. We have witnessed Holy Eucharist (communion), and the passing of the peace and reciting of the Nicene Creed and the praying of the Lord's prayer. Sure, there is "form" and habit in these things. But to me, they are things that bind us together. Litergy is less typical in my church, but its consistency across man made boundaries is a unifying bond. I have cherished it during my sojourn.
I often receive complaints when I write with interfaith themes. I cannot, however, glibly disown such a precious inheritance as the Body of Christ. Our Christian sisters and brothers see things differently, and speak differing languages. But there is one Body, one Church and one Baptism. And I for one intend to hold to this treasure.
I have stepped away, but not outside the reach of my faith, or the faithful who belong to it.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Going to the Well for everyone but yourself...
A human soul is a funny thing. And the soul of this pastor is trying to learn to "hear" again.
On the second day of this sojourn, in an Indiana monastery, a dear friend gave me a simple direction for this time away. "Listen." More specifically she said, "Your job is to listen." The task sounds simple. But today, on this first day in Assisi, Italy, I found a strange interference. And it was my role as teacher/preacher. I wonder how many pastors struggle with the same static? Let me explain.
During my time away, there have been a few moments that were simply inspired. God spoke to me through people, events or places...and I understood. But today was the day I had pictured myself getting down to the business of prayer. While Shelly was preparing for the day, I found my way to the Basilica of Saint Francis.
Once inside, I walked through the magnificent 780 year old cathedral. I took in the painted ceilings, a beautiful bronze statue and the famous Giotto murals of the life of Francis. Finding a kneeling bench toward the back, I quieted myself to pray.
Like rays of light into the cold and darkened stone building, I sensed God warming my soul. That was a moment of joy, and crisis.
Immediately, I was trying to find ways to tell my congregation what I was learning. I was thinking of how to explain what his Spirit was saying to me.
"Hush!" I told my racing mind. "BE STILL." And I began to pray again, and Peace began to speak again--words too tender to be true, and too inimate to share. But my mind didn't think so. "Why didn't I bring my notebook? What if I forget this? How will I ever teach it?"
And then for a third time, I tried to pray. Nothing.
Can you imagine that anytime you had a particularly warm conversation with your Mother or Father or child, you felt bound to make a speech about it? Or each time you shared tender words with your spouse, you found in them a poetic ecstasy about which the world just had to hear? This is the trap I walked into at some unknown point in my past. Prayer time has become prep time. Intimacy has sought a spotlight.
I've begun going to the Well of Living Water only to pour it on other souls. And my own has gone dry. My relationship with God has become the source of my preaching--even the stream of my income--rather than the font of my existence. Lord have mercy.
Distraught and distracted, I stepped from the cathedral and confessed that I have forgotten how to spend time with God without divulging our intimacies to the world. Who would want a lover like that?
Tomorrow many of you will listen to a pastor. Pray that he or she is drinking deep from the wells of God's Spirit, and not simply hustling from the well, to your Sunday.
On the second day of this sojourn, in an Indiana monastery, a dear friend gave me a simple direction for this time away. "Listen." More specifically she said, "Your job is to listen." The task sounds simple. But today, on this first day in Assisi, Italy, I found a strange interference. And it was my role as teacher/preacher. I wonder how many pastors struggle with the same static? Let me explain.
During my time away, there have been a few moments that were simply inspired. God spoke to me through people, events or places...and I understood. But today was the day I had pictured myself getting down to the business of prayer. While Shelly was preparing for the day, I found my way to the Basilica of Saint Francis.
Once inside, I walked through the magnificent 780 year old cathedral. I took in the painted ceilings, a beautiful bronze statue and the famous Giotto murals of the life of Francis. Finding a kneeling bench toward the back, I quieted myself to pray.
Like rays of light into the cold and darkened stone building, I sensed God warming my soul. That was a moment of joy, and crisis.
Immediately, I was trying to find ways to tell my congregation what I was learning. I was thinking of how to explain what his Spirit was saying to me.
"Hush!" I told my racing mind. "BE STILL." And I began to pray again, and Peace began to speak again--words too tender to be true, and too inimate to share. But my mind didn't think so. "Why didn't I bring my notebook? What if I forget this? How will I ever teach it?"
And then for a third time, I tried to pray. Nothing.
Can you imagine that anytime you had a particularly warm conversation with your Mother or Father or child, you felt bound to make a speech about it? Or each time you shared tender words with your spouse, you found in them a poetic ecstasy about which the world just had to hear? This is the trap I walked into at some unknown point in my past. Prayer time has become prep time. Intimacy has sought a spotlight.
I've begun going to the Well of Living Water only to pour it on other souls. And my own has gone dry. My relationship with God has become the source of my preaching--even the stream of my income--rather than the font of my existence. Lord have mercy.
Distraught and distracted, I stepped from the cathedral and confessed that I have forgotten how to spend time with God without divulging our intimacies to the world. Who would want a lover like that?
Tomorrow many of you will listen to a pastor. Pray that he or she is drinking deep from the wells of God's Spirit, and not simply hustling from the well, to your Sunday.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Bad Timing
Not feeling real well today, and probably thinking too much. Wish I had some theologian friends around to share today's experiences.
Visited a place where 20,000 people died in a matter of minutes nearly 2,000 years ago. Pompeii. I know they would be gone by now anyway, but the sudden stop at the end of their lives is tragic. It makes for a perfect study of ancient lifestyles, as far as historians are concerned. But for a theologian?
A city was covered in volcanic spew. Residents were stopped in their tracks, and discovered 16 centuries later in the poses they were striking when they realized they were dying...or before they realized.
It gives a theologian reasons to consider prevenient grace, God's mercy and justice to name a few things. And these people, who were wiped-out before the message of our Lord could reach them? Where did they stand? Where do they stand? I'm big on prevenient grace by the way, and mercy trumping justice when all is said and done.
Just some stuff to think about.
Visited a place where 20,000 people died in a matter of minutes nearly 2,000 years ago. Pompeii. I know they would be gone by now anyway, but the sudden stop at the end of their lives is tragic. It makes for a perfect study of ancient lifestyles, as far as historians are concerned. But for a theologian?
A city was covered in volcanic spew. Residents were stopped in their tracks, and discovered 16 centuries later in the poses they were striking when they realized they were dying...or before they realized.
It gives a theologian reasons to consider prevenient grace, God's mercy and justice to name a few things. And these people, who were wiped-out before the message of our Lord could reach them? Where did they stand? Where do they stand? I'm big on prevenient grace by the way, and mercy trumping justice when all is said and done.
Just some stuff to think about.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Reflections on our time in The Republic of Georgia
I have never before been to the Republic of Georgia. This former Soviet State was rarely on the radar of US Americans during the Soviet years. These people however, have suffered greatly for their independance...even fighting a war with Russia only two summers ago. And for me, that is when I became aware of their strength and the importance of their nation.
Last Wednesday, Shelly and I traveled to the capitol Tbilisi, and were reunited with our most beloved Georgian. Gvantsa was our exchange student daughter last year, and this year, we simply call her another daughter. (This with the gracious permision of her true mother and father.) We spent time with her dear mother Maia, my new good friend==her father Koba, and loving sister Qeti. We are ready to claim them all. In fact, we have. They are family.
It is impossible to overstate the hospitality and graciousness of these people. We were loved, fed, chauferred, cared for and shared with friends. In fact, I am simply amazed by the kindnesses of their neighbors, who greeted us with a kiss and brought food to our every meal. Love and generosity run deep in the hearts of this family and their entire nation.
During the past week, we witnessed three major refugee settlements, where some of the 220 to 240 thousand Georgians are now housed, having fled Russian occupied, yet Georgian territories. At one point we were told we were only a mile or so from occupying Russian troops.
We also were able to travel, thanks to the incredible generosity of Gvantsa's family, to within a few kilometers of the Turkish border, and not far from Armenia. Vartzia is an amazing and ancient clifftop and cliffside city which has housed Georgian Royalty, foreign invaders and served as a fortress and a home for devout Orthodox Christian monastics. We were able to tour the caves that compose thirty percent of what what remains of the ancient dwellings. The remainder has been claimed by earthquakes throughout the centuries. I do not have room here to tell you of all the places we experienced.
Orthodox Christianity was introduced to Georgia by Saint Nino in the fourth century! Gvantsa's mother's beautiful village church was built in 1046!!! We were able to visit many churches during our time in Georgia. Orthodoxy is truly at the very core of these amazing people. As is always the case with me, visiting these ancient, icon, flickering candle and incense filled churches packs me with peace and a sense of the holy.
Shelly will soon post pics for our time in Georgia at her blog.
I wanted to write this quick post. For those who know me well, I thank you for praying for me. While in Georgia, I began truly sleeping at night once more. I am so grateful for the rest these nights are affording me.
Well, after being 'hospitalitied' to infinity while in Kiev and Georgia (=stuffed full of food!), I'm trying to be careful with how I eat in Italy. Right!
Peace to you.
Last Wednesday, Shelly and I traveled to the capitol Tbilisi, and were reunited with our most beloved Georgian. Gvantsa was our exchange student daughter last year, and this year, we simply call her another daughter. (This with the gracious permision of her true mother and father.) We spent time with her dear mother Maia, my new good friend==her father Koba, and loving sister Qeti. We are ready to claim them all. In fact, we have. They are family.
It is impossible to overstate the hospitality and graciousness of these people. We were loved, fed, chauferred, cared for and shared with friends. In fact, I am simply amazed by the kindnesses of their neighbors, who greeted us with a kiss and brought food to our every meal. Love and generosity run deep in the hearts of this family and their entire nation.
During the past week, we witnessed three major refugee settlements, where some of the 220 to 240 thousand Georgians are now housed, having fled Russian occupied, yet Georgian territories. At one point we were told we were only a mile or so from occupying Russian troops.
We also were able to travel, thanks to the incredible generosity of Gvantsa's family, to within a few kilometers of the Turkish border, and not far from Armenia. Vartzia is an amazing and ancient clifftop and cliffside city which has housed Georgian Royalty, foreign invaders and served as a fortress and a home for devout Orthodox Christian monastics. We were able to tour the caves that compose thirty percent of what what remains of the ancient dwellings. The remainder has been claimed by earthquakes throughout the centuries. I do not have room here to tell you of all the places we experienced.
Orthodox Christianity was introduced to Georgia by Saint Nino in the fourth century! Gvantsa's mother's beautiful village church was built in 1046!!! We were able to visit many churches during our time in Georgia. Orthodoxy is truly at the very core of these amazing people. As is always the case with me, visiting these ancient, icon, flickering candle and incense filled churches packs me with peace and a sense of the holy.
Shelly will soon post pics for our time in Georgia at her blog.
I wanted to write this quick post. For those who know me well, I thank you for praying for me. While in Georgia, I began truly sleeping at night once more. I am so grateful for the rest these nights are affording me.
Well, after being 'hospitalitied' to infinity while in Kiev and Georgia (=stuffed full of food!), I'm trying to be careful with how I eat in Italy. Right!
Peace to you.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Gifts of Grace
(Wednesday, Sept. 22)
Thoughts on the flight from Kyiv to Tbilisi...somewhere over the Black Sea.
Yesterday we drove west of Kyiv about 290 kilometers to Vinitsya, and beyond to a nearby village. We stopped by the beautiful church in Vinitsya for a quick tour, and then headed on to the House of James (Google it! “Like them” on facebook.) where Vitalik and Natasha are the house parents for 11 children, including two of their own. The others are orphans or children of parents who cannot care for them. Here we enjoyed wonderful hospitality and conversation with two new friends... make that thirteen.
Vitalik grew up in Kyiv, the son of an alcoholic. His parents divorced when he was still a young boy. Vitalik followed in the addictive footsteps of his father and became an alcoholic at an early age. He and his friends would steal and sell their treasures in order to buy their next binge.
Shelly and I were often robbed while living in Kyiv, and so we knew of their sort…and had truly feared them—and the failures of our seven front door locks to keep them from our apartment. Once we even had to make a decision as to whether or not to call in the Ukrainian law, which would have meant deep and lasting trouble for these young thugs. In conversations with our Ukrainian friends, we decided not to.
Back to Vitalik. His friend’s mother would make black market vodka, and the two of them would steal it and drink it. As he spoke across the table, his story went from one dark chapter to another. Alcohol had staked claim to his young soul.
Another of his boyhood friends, Kolya, had begun attending the Church of the Nazarene where we were missionaries and I was the pastor. He would invite Vitalik to our church, and tried to explain to him that Shelly and I were not a part of some U.S. diplomatic corps, but that we worked for a church…for Jesus. This made no sense to Vitalik at the time. He did say he noticed how kindly our family treated one another and our common Ukrainian neighbors.
Long after our return to the United States, Vitalik’s disease progressed to the classic end stages. He described violent seizures that would overtake him when he failed to keep vodka in his system. Kolya finally convinced Vitalik to visit the church where our first pastor, Vova, encouraged him. Although he would attend each Sunday, nothing changed in the way he lived.
One evening, Vitalik saw that his mother had very little food. For dinner, she had eaten what was left of a small cucumber and a little bit of dried up rice. Moved to pity, he took his money to the store and bought her food—being sure to hold onto enough to buy some vodka. However, after saying a prayer, he purchased coffee instead. Then he returned home to wait for the anticipated seizures to begin. But there were no seizures that night, or the next.
He began to desire to be made well. The next Sunday, he attended church again and at the end of the service he confessed his sins and asked God to forgive him. Vitalik was saved! But then, he went home and got drunk as his way to celebrate. Soon, he went to a Nazarene rehabilitation center near Vinitsya. Even though he fought with a rebellious spirit the entire time he was there, when his time was finished, he found that he was free!
Since that time he has directed the alcohol rehabilitation center (we visited later yesterday) and witnessed the liberation of dozens of young men. He has married a beautiful wife Natasha who was introduced to the clinic when her brother was saved and transformed there. The two of them care for their two children and nine others as foster parents. And he is the pastor of the village Church of the Nazarene where they live.
The Church of the Nazarene now has eight rehab centers in Ukraine, and the stories of miracles are absolutely overwhelming! Most of our pastors and leaders in the Vinitsya region have been delivered from alcoholism, and their mighty faith in our mighty God is changing their world.
To end his story, Vitalik said he had one more confession to make. You see, when we lived in Kyiv, there was one day darker than all of the rest. Shelly had just been paid more than one thousand dollars for teaching at the International School that year. (This money could only be used for the mission and not ourselves.) We could not use banks at that time and had hidden the money very, very carefully in our bedroom. The next day, after we returned from being out, we discovered that the money was gone. We were horrified.
Yesterday, Vitalik told us that he was the one who had come into our home and taken our money. He was so very sorry. What had impressed him most was that we had shown mercy by not using the law. And recently he has done the same with someone who was caught stealing their church’s sound system. The Militsia wanted for him to tell them whom they had caught. He had mercy on them because of our mercy, and Christ’s.
After his confession, I told him that our loss of money and peace was nothing compared to what God is doing through him now. I called him "brother" and his wife "sister," and we embraced and celebrated the amazing grace of our Lord Jesus Christ.
Snow capped mountains of Georgia are peaking above the clouds on the left side of our plane. Another adventure is about to unfold.
For MUCH more information about our trip and to see pictures of Vitalik and Natasha, see Shelly's blog.
Thoughts on the flight from Kyiv to Tbilisi...somewhere over the Black Sea.
Yesterday we drove west of Kyiv about 290 kilometers to Vinitsya, and beyond to a nearby village. We stopped by the beautiful church in Vinitsya for a quick tour, and then headed on to the House of James (Google it! “Like them” on facebook.) where Vitalik and Natasha are the house parents for 11 children, including two of their own. The others are orphans or children of parents who cannot care for them. Here we enjoyed wonderful hospitality and conversation with two new friends... make that thirteen.
Vitalik grew up in Kyiv, the son of an alcoholic. His parents divorced when he was still a young boy. Vitalik followed in the addictive footsteps of his father and became an alcoholic at an early age. He and his friends would steal and sell their treasures in order to buy their next binge.
Shelly and I were often robbed while living in Kyiv, and so we knew of their sort…and had truly feared them—and the failures of our seven front door locks to keep them from our apartment. Once we even had to make a decision as to whether or not to call in the Ukrainian law, which would have meant deep and lasting trouble for these young thugs. In conversations with our Ukrainian friends, we decided not to.
Back to Vitalik. His friend’s mother would make black market vodka, and the two of them would steal it and drink it. As he spoke across the table, his story went from one dark chapter to another. Alcohol had staked claim to his young soul.
Another of his boyhood friends, Kolya, had begun attending the Church of the Nazarene where we were missionaries and I was the pastor. He would invite Vitalik to our church, and tried to explain to him that Shelly and I were not a part of some U.S. diplomatic corps, but that we worked for a church…for Jesus. This made no sense to Vitalik at the time. He did say he noticed how kindly our family treated one another and our common Ukrainian neighbors.
Long after our return to the United States, Vitalik’s disease progressed to the classic end stages. He described violent seizures that would overtake him when he failed to keep vodka in his system. Kolya finally convinced Vitalik to visit the church where our first pastor, Vova, encouraged him. Although he would attend each Sunday, nothing changed in the way he lived.
One evening, Vitalik saw that his mother had very little food. For dinner, she had eaten what was left of a small cucumber and a little bit of dried up rice. Moved to pity, he took his money to the store and bought her food—being sure to hold onto enough to buy some vodka. However, after saying a prayer, he purchased coffee instead. Then he returned home to wait for the anticipated seizures to begin. But there were no seizures that night, or the next.
He began to desire to be made well. The next Sunday, he attended church again and at the end of the service he confessed his sins and asked God to forgive him. Vitalik was saved! But then, he went home and got drunk as his way to celebrate. Soon, he went to a Nazarene rehabilitation center near Vinitsya. Even though he fought with a rebellious spirit the entire time he was there, when his time was finished, he found that he was free!
Since that time he has directed the alcohol rehabilitation center (we visited later yesterday) and witnessed the liberation of dozens of young men. He has married a beautiful wife Natasha who was introduced to the clinic when her brother was saved and transformed there. The two of them care for their two children and nine others as foster parents. And he is the pastor of the village Church of the Nazarene where they live.
The Church of the Nazarene now has eight rehab centers in Ukraine, and the stories of miracles are absolutely overwhelming! Most of our pastors and leaders in the Vinitsya region have been delivered from alcoholism, and their mighty faith in our mighty God is changing their world.
To end his story, Vitalik said he had one more confession to make. You see, when we lived in Kyiv, there was one day darker than all of the rest. Shelly had just been paid more than one thousand dollars for teaching at the International School that year. (This money could only be used for the mission and not ourselves.) We could not use banks at that time and had hidden the money very, very carefully in our bedroom. The next day, after we returned from being out, we discovered that the money was gone. We were horrified.
Yesterday, Vitalik told us that he was the one who had come into our home and taken our money. He was so very sorry. What had impressed him most was that we had shown mercy by not using the law. And recently he has done the same with someone who was caught stealing their church’s sound system. The Militsia wanted for him to tell them whom they had caught. He had mercy on them because of our mercy, and Christ’s.
After his confession, I told him that our loss of money and peace was nothing compared to what God is doing through him now. I called him "brother" and his wife "sister," and we embraced and celebrated the amazing grace of our Lord Jesus Christ.
Snow capped mountains of Georgia are peaking above the clouds on the left side of our plane. Another adventure is about to unfold.
For MUCH more information about our trip and to see pictures of Vitalik and Natasha, see Shelly's blog.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Around the globe, and re-entering hearts.
As pastors, we sometimes find ourselves passing into a previous place of ministry. Perhaps we receive a wedding or graduation invitation from young people whom we dedicated as infants, or a phone call telling us of a tragic death or a first child born against all odds. Our worlds shift from time to time, and often, it comes as a complete surprise.
Much of my sabbatical is planned away from things that will remind me of ministry. I'm trying to rest from its rigors and emotional ups and downs. However, our first international experience of this time away comes in a place where, sixteen years ago, I left behind much of my heart.
In my first two weeks away, I have experienced the silent prayer-soaked environs of a monastery, the quiet horse-drawn-buggy-countryside of an Amish community, the hustling skyscraper-packed streets of Chicago, as well as an inner city neighborhood riddled by high crime and low expectations. But in one twenty-four hour period ending last evening, it seems like I saw all of the world in one mind numbing blur.
We drove out of the hills and forests of home, and flew from the small-town feel of Indianapolis International back into the heart of Chicago's bustle. After a shuttle ride and three hour wait, we flew through the night to Rome. Here we sat in a United Nations like terminal hearing beautiful people speaking in unknown languages; then flying off for destinations as disparate as Oslo and Sri Lanka, Frankfort and Tirana, Split and Athens, St. Petersburg and Paris. Finally, we boarded the flight to Kiev, a place we once called home.
Sometimes we travel great distances to experience cultures, visit famous places or see monuments. But this first journey of my "What would make your heart sing?" sabbatical is not that sort of pilgrimage. While Kiev (Kyiv is the more accurate--Ukrainian name) has much to see and admire, and is the birthplace of "the Rus," these are not the reason for our coming here. The reasons live in flesh, and await on this end with memories, not unlike our own.
In our first hour here, we embraced these treasures. We began what will be a week of enjoying a long-overdue reuniting with people as dear as family. These hearts and lives are as rich and deep as the sea we just flew across. Oh, how long overdue is passage into this place of past ministry?
What about the sadness I hold from our untimely departure more than sixteen years ago, the regrets of what we simply could not accomplish, and the cutting pains of stories of those who have passed-on since our days here? Well, the sweet joys and smiles that welcome us back have already cushioned the blow, and they draw our hearts deeply into the home we all share in Christ.
Much of my sabbatical is planned away from things that will remind me of ministry. I'm trying to rest from its rigors and emotional ups and downs. However, our first international experience of this time away comes in a place where, sixteen years ago, I left behind much of my heart.
In my first two weeks away, I have experienced the silent prayer-soaked environs of a monastery, the quiet horse-drawn-buggy-countryside of an Amish community, the hustling skyscraper-packed streets of Chicago, as well as an inner city neighborhood riddled by high crime and low expectations. But in one twenty-four hour period ending last evening, it seems like I saw all of the world in one mind numbing blur.
We drove out of the hills and forests of home, and flew from the small-town feel of Indianapolis International back into the heart of Chicago's bustle. After a shuttle ride and three hour wait, we flew through the night to Rome. Here we sat in a United Nations like terminal hearing beautiful people speaking in unknown languages; then flying off for destinations as disparate as Oslo and Sri Lanka, Frankfort and Tirana, Split and Athens, St. Petersburg and Paris. Finally, we boarded the flight to Kiev, a place we once called home.
Sometimes we travel great distances to experience cultures, visit famous places or see monuments. But this first journey of my "What would make your heart sing?" sabbatical is not that sort of pilgrimage. While Kiev (Kyiv is the more accurate--Ukrainian name) has much to see and admire, and is the birthplace of "the Rus," these are not the reason for our coming here. The reasons live in flesh, and await on this end with memories, not unlike our own.
In our first hour here, we embraced these treasures. We began what will be a week of enjoying a long-overdue reuniting with people as dear as family. These hearts and lives are as rich and deep as the sea we just flew across. Oh, how long overdue is passage into this place of past ministry?
What about the sadness I hold from our untimely departure more than sixteen years ago, the regrets of what we simply could not accomplish, and the cutting pains of stories of those who have passed-on since our days here? Well, the sweet joys and smiles that welcome us back have already cushioned the blow, and they draw our hearts deeply into the home we all share in Christ.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Reflections on the Amish Way
I used to think of the Amish as stuck in some past day; quaint, out of date, and thus as Christianity goes, irrelevant.
Last Monday I switched cultural frequencies in one brief trip. I began the day in the heart of a Northern Indiana Amish community, and a few hours later traveled into the heart of Chicago. From non-electrified farmhouses in the morning, to one hundred plus story stacks of concentrated, high tech society.
Before my departure, I visited an Amish store. People like me hustled through with brands flashing from blue jeans, tennis shoes, shirts and jackets. There were tattoos, piercings and t-shirt messages stretched over beer bellies. Here was sewn a superfluous bow, and there an unneeded button. It felt as if all of us--created in God's image--were advertising our need to be seen...to be noticed. And we, the ones who are "free?" Are we?
Along the aisles where they stocked shelves, and behind counters where they answered questions or took payment, were lean and strong looking people. They were dressed in nearly identical clothing, and had matching glows about their faces. They had come to work on bicycles, or in the horse-buggies out back...probably after feeding animals, gathering eggs and milking their cows.
I know well that this idealistic picture is...well, idealized. And I have no leanings toward doing life with horses instead of horsepower. But the simplicity I seek in my life may lay somewhere between my ways and those of a much more focused people.
My prayer is that I might recognize the reality of some scriptures my Dad had me memorize as a child: "Don't think of yourself more highly than you ought..." "Godliness with contentment is great gain." "God opposes the proud, but exalts the humble."
Just thinking--and a bit more clearly.
Imagine how amazed I was today, 6 days later. I came across a group of brothers and sisters--Amish, simple styles and all--in the lobby of my downtown high-rise Chicago hotel. Such grace and peace moved between us as we spoke; and then we blessed one-another when parting.
Last Monday I switched cultural frequencies in one brief trip. I began the day in the heart of a Northern Indiana Amish community, and a few hours later traveled into the heart of Chicago. From non-electrified farmhouses in the morning, to one hundred plus story stacks of concentrated, high tech society.
Before my departure, I visited an Amish store. People like me hustled through with brands flashing from blue jeans, tennis shoes, shirts and jackets. There were tattoos, piercings and t-shirt messages stretched over beer bellies. Here was sewn a superfluous bow, and there an unneeded button. It felt as if all of us--created in God's image--were advertising our need to be seen...to be noticed. And we, the ones who are "free?" Are we?
Along the aisles where they stocked shelves, and behind counters where they answered questions or took payment, were lean and strong looking people. They were dressed in nearly identical clothing, and had matching glows about their faces. They had come to work on bicycles, or in the horse-buggies out back...probably after feeding animals, gathering eggs and milking their cows.
I know well that this idealistic picture is...well, idealized. And I have no leanings toward doing life with horses instead of horsepower. But the simplicity I seek in my life may lay somewhere between my ways and those of a much more focused people.
My prayer is that I might recognize the reality of some scriptures my Dad had me memorize as a child: "Don't think of yourself more highly than you ought..." "Godliness with contentment is great gain." "God opposes the proud, but exalts the humble."
Just thinking--and a bit more clearly.
Imagine how amazed I was today, 6 days later. I came across a group of brothers and sisters--Amish, simple styles and all--in the lobby of my downtown high-rise Chicago hotel. Such grace and peace moved between us as we spoke; and then we blessed one-another when parting.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Starving, while distributing rations.
This week I have been in worship services two times per day. Each of the services has had a couple of sets of singing, and two sermons or testimonies from people on the front lines of service to the agonizing places in our society. It occurs to me that I am a starving man as I come to these tables of grace.
Due to financial constraints at our church, I have not attended seven of the last eight gatherings of pastors on our district. For this reason, I have not been in settings where I can receive. Instead, I bring the word, I study the order of the service, I pray for every soul in the room, and I present the the elements of our unity. It is indeed a privilege and high calling to do these things. I feed myself in prayer and scripture daily, but I have not afforded my soul the joys of receiving, along with others, the words of life. I have been starving my own soul. And for this, I confess before God and all under my care.
This week--the second of my "step away time," I have learned a vital lesson about isolation. It is no one's duty to feed me. It is no one's duty to see that I fellowship with others in worship, when I am not in charge. It is mine. And I cannot survive in isolation--on meager self-served rations. I need the greater body of Christ.
You might check with your pastor. Are they ever fed in corporate settings where they are not responsible for every soul in the room? Radio and taped sermons do not count.
I'll be writing a bit later about some amazing encounters I had yesterday deep in places where white men rarely walk. I found treasures of God's grace working there. I found agonies our society is glad to keep under wraps. More later. Check in.
Due to financial constraints at our church, I have not attended seven of the last eight gatherings of pastors on our district. For this reason, I have not been in settings where I can receive. Instead, I bring the word, I study the order of the service, I pray for every soul in the room, and I present the the elements of our unity. It is indeed a privilege and high calling to do these things. I feed myself in prayer and scripture daily, but I have not afforded my soul the joys of receiving, along with others, the words of life. I have been starving my own soul. And for this, I confess before God and all under my care.
This week--the second of my "step away time," I have learned a vital lesson about isolation. It is no one's duty to feed me. It is no one's duty to see that I fellowship with others in worship, when I am not in charge. It is mine. And I cannot survive in isolation--on meager self-served rations. I need the greater body of Christ.
You might check with your pastor. Are they ever fed in corporate settings where they are not responsible for every soul in the room? Radio and taped sermons do not count.
I'll be writing a bit later about some amazing encounters I had yesterday deep in places where white men rarely walk. I found treasures of God's grace working there. I found agonies our society is glad to keep under wraps. More later. Check in.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Revelations on the South Shore, PART 2
There was a strange occurrence on the train ride yesterday. Similar to a pick-up game of playground basketball, people needed to choose partners with which to ride. The train was filling, and by the time we reached the city, none would be afforded the luxury of two seats. Those boarding the train were sizing-up potential seatmates, and wondering at the response they'd receive when making their invasive selection.
Who would choose me? White, black, yellow, brown? Male, female? What would their soul feel like? Hard, gentle; confused, clear?
My ears were filled with Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds, and my spirit musing midst the searching lyrics. And when she sat down, I noticed her city-honed grit. She asked me to hold her seat while she paid her fare and visited the toilet. I felt grateful for a way to give.
When she returned, I noticed she carried only a small, clear plastic pouch. I saw dental floss inside, and paid no further attention. I'd say she was in her fifties, yet had a teenaged daughter who'd taken a seat in the front of the car. She works in the city, but today she was traveling to buy her girl a dress. (I learned this from a phone call she had received from a new co-worker. She reassured the new girl of the kindness of her boss, despite indications to the contrary.)
Looking to me, after her phone call, she said something. I pulled an intricate guitar solo from my ears. She repeated: "What do you do?"
"I am an writer. An author." (It is true enough. I had a dozen copies of my book in my hand bag to deliver to the bookseller at the conference to which I was headed. I write sermons every week. I've even attended a writer's conference where I wore the nametag: "Hi, I'm David, and I'm a writer.")
She responded, "Are you a minister?"
All manner of thoughts exploded in my psyche. Can I not escape this identity? Not even for an anonymous train ride? I stammered some response...some mixture of weak admission and curious questioning. "How did you know? Is it that obvious?"
She began to speak, answering with language in which I am fluent, "My spirit knew from yours. I can read people. I knew you. You care from a deeper place. You are a minister of Jesus. I recognize you because that's what Christians do. We know Christ's Spirit in one another...don't we?"
The train moved on toward, and finally into, its station--the dark, subterranean end of the line. I hoped to walk with her and with her daughter until we came up onto city streets. Perhaps she could give me directions. She vanished like smoke into the flood of souls.
And, having heard from her, I knew my way a bit more clearly.
Who would choose me? White, black, yellow, brown? Male, female? What would their soul feel like? Hard, gentle; confused, clear?
My ears were filled with Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds, and my spirit musing midst the searching lyrics. And when she sat down, I noticed her city-honed grit. She asked me to hold her seat while she paid her fare and visited the toilet. I felt grateful for a way to give.
When she returned, I noticed she carried only a small, clear plastic pouch. I saw dental floss inside, and paid no further attention. I'd say she was in her fifties, yet had a teenaged daughter who'd taken a seat in the front of the car. She works in the city, but today she was traveling to buy her girl a dress. (I learned this from a phone call she had received from a new co-worker. She reassured the new girl of the kindness of her boss, despite indications to the contrary.)
Looking to me, after her phone call, she said something. I pulled an intricate guitar solo from my ears. She repeated: "What do you do?"
"I am an writer. An author." (It is true enough. I had a dozen copies of my book in my hand bag to deliver to the bookseller at the conference to which I was headed. I write sermons every week. I've even attended a writer's conference where I wore the nametag: "Hi, I'm David, and I'm a writer.")
She responded, "Are you a minister?"
All manner of thoughts exploded in my psyche. Can I not escape this identity? Not even for an anonymous train ride? I stammered some response...some mixture of weak admission and curious questioning. "How did you know? Is it that obvious?"
She began to speak, answering with language in which I am fluent, "My spirit knew from yours. I can read people. I knew you. You care from a deeper place. You are a minister of Jesus. I recognize you because that's what Christians do. We know Christ's Spirit in one another...don't we?"
The train moved on toward, and finally into, its station--the dark, subterranean end of the line. I hoped to walk with her and with her daughter until we came up onto city streets. Perhaps she could give me directions. She vanished like smoke into the flood of souls.
And, having heard from her, I knew my way a bit more clearly.
Revelations on the South Shore
Yesterday afternoon, September 6, 2010
When I begin reading a book, I immediately check to see the number of pages. Then I continually monitor my progress with percentage-completed updates in the back of my mind. I do the same when traveling interstate highways. Milemarkers are noted, divided, as I track the fractions of my journey completed. I always know how much vacation time is gone, and how soon I will return to my life. ("3/14ths--Only 11 days left!" In this way, I manage to strangle the joy from many of life's endeavors.)
I am convinced of two things: First, these measurements are unhealthy. Like thieves, they steal my moments and my living. And second, they betray a lack of focus on and faith for the moment...the living that is at hand.
As I live this time away, I'm seeking to receive each day as a gift, and not as another thing to be accomplished. I want to capture each scent, smile and joy as they enter me. And I have already been brought to understand that I will experience pains and disappointments. But each only when and where I meet them.
I'm sitting still on the South Shore train in the South Bend Station. In moments, this train will leave for downtown Chicago. I have refused myself the option of studying the timetables...of looking ahead at how many stations we'll pass, or of how long the journey will be. I plan to live this journey as it comes to me.
We're rolling now.
When I begin reading a book, I immediately check to see the number of pages. Then I continually monitor my progress with percentage-completed updates in the back of my mind. I do the same when traveling interstate highways. Milemarkers are noted, divided, as I track the fractions of my journey completed. I always know how much vacation time is gone, and how soon I will return to my life. ("3/14ths--Only 11 days left!" In this way, I manage to strangle the joy from many of life's endeavors.)
I am convinced of two things: First, these measurements are unhealthy. Like thieves, they steal my moments and my living. And second, they betray a lack of focus on and faith for the moment...the living that is at hand.
As I live this time away, I'm seeking to receive each day as a gift, and not as another thing to be accomplished. I want to capture each scent, smile and joy as they enter me. And I have already been brought to understand that I will experience pains and disappointments. But each only when and where I meet them.
I'm sitting still on the South Shore train in the South Bend Station. In moments, this train will leave for downtown Chicago. I have refused myself the option of studying the timetables...of looking ahead at how many stations we'll pass, or of how long the journey will be. I plan to live this journey as it comes to me.
We're rolling now.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Sabbatical Begins
Deep weakness. Long gathered fatigue. Soul flu--both body and spirit releasing toxins. No meal can be held. Sighs. Groans.
And tears? They are somewhere, but like the sneeze which a ticklish nose promises, they disappear before the venting.
I walk into the chapel for the first time of my stay at the monastery. My host hands me a book with each page carefully marked--so I won't lose my way in the service. The act of kindness--of guidance--carries a message of comfort I sense at some distance. Holding the hymn book, I remember I will be singing and chanting scripture throughout my time here.
So, while waiting for the service to begin, I turn to the first marked pages in the book. Two hymns: one on the left page, one on the right. I read from the left. And God begins speaking to me:
1.
I have tried you in fires of affliction; I have taught your soul to grieve.
In the barren soil of your loneliness, there I will plant my seed.
2.
I have taught you the price of compassion; you have stood before the grave.
Though my love can seem like a raging storm, this is the love that saves.
3.
Were you there when I raised up the mountains? Can you guide the morning star?
Does the hawk take flight when you give command? Why do you doubt my pow'r?
4.
In your deepest hour of darkness, I will give you wealth untold.
When the silence stills your spirit, will my riches fill your soul.
5.
As the watchman waits for morning, and the bride awaits her groom,
so we wait to hear your footsteps, as we rest beneath your moon. *
I sit dumbstruck, God knows what I feel, and God is making promises! Day one of my rest, and Holy spirit is nurturing. I wait in prayer, my soul a boil, wondering to what tune these words might be sung?
The guitars strum, the comforting, mellow sounds of a recorder waft into the room. The tune is gentle. And the words begin. They come from the right side of the open book.
Come to me, all who labor and are heavy burdened, and I shall give you rest.
Take up my yoke and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart, and you'll find rest for your souls. Yes my yoke is easy and my burden is light...
*Text: Inspired by St. John of the Cross, 1542-1591. Text and music copyrite 1988, 1989, Daniel L. Schutte. Published by OCP. All rights reserved.
And tears? They are somewhere, but like the sneeze which a ticklish nose promises, they disappear before the venting.
I walk into the chapel for the first time of my stay at the monastery. My host hands me a book with each page carefully marked--so I won't lose my way in the service. The act of kindness--of guidance--carries a message of comfort I sense at some distance. Holding the hymn book, I remember I will be singing and chanting scripture throughout my time here.
So, while waiting for the service to begin, I turn to the first marked pages in the book. Two hymns: one on the left page, one on the right. I read from the left. And God begins speaking to me:
1.
I have tried you in fires of affliction; I have taught your soul to grieve.
In the barren soil of your loneliness, there I will plant my seed.
2.
I have taught you the price of compassion; you have stood before the grave.
Though my love can seem like a raging storm, this is the love that saves.
3.
Were you there when I raised up the mountains? Can you guide the morning star?
Does the hawk take flight when you give command? Why do you doubt my pow'r?
4.
In your deepest hour of darkness, I will give you wealth untold.
When the silence stills your spirit, will my riches fill your soul.
5.
As the watchman waits for morning, and the bride awaits her groom,
so we wait to hear your footsteps, as we rest beneath your moon. *
I sit dumbstruck, God knows what I feel, and God is making promises! Day one of my rest, and Holy spirit is nurturing. I wait in prayer, my soul a boil, wondering to what tune these words might be sung?
The guitars strum, the comforting, mellow sounds of a recorder waft into the room. The tune is gentle. And the words begin. They come from the right side of the open book.
Come to me, all who labor and are heavy burdened, and I shall give you rest.
Take up my yoke and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart, and you'll find rest for your souls. Yes my yoke is easy and my burden is light...
*Text: Inspired by St. John of the Cross, 1542-1591. Text and music copyrite 1988, 1989, Daniel L. Schutte. Published by OCP. All rights reserved.
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