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.
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