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.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
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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