tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89478706162471380342024-03-05T20:47:20.770-05:00Grace NotesObservations and insights from Bill Carter - pilgrim, pastor, and jazz pianist. The theme verse comes from 2 Corinthians 4:15 - "Yes, everything is for your sake, so that grace, as it extends to more and more people, may increase thanksgiving, to the glory of God."presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-62660781541485185532014-07-03T08:46:00.000-05:002014-07-03T08:46:26.368-05:00The Tipping PointSome beach time allows me the opportunity to catch up on that stack of books that pile up unread. Just finished Malcolm Gladwell's classic, <i>The Tipping Point</i>, and I liked it very much.<br />
<br />
Why did I wait so long to read this? The explanation comes from the book itself.<br />
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The book was recommended to me nine years ago by the son of one of our church members. We were chatting in his mother's hospital room. He suggested the title and I wrote it down. But when I saw it sitting in a stack at a local bookstore, I didn't buy it. Not right away.<br />
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A few years ago, I picked up Gladwell's book <i>Outliers</i> during a late night cruise through Amazon.com. Gladwell had become known for the claim that we become good at something if we do it for 10,000 hours. He traced this through well-told stories of high-achievement people. I liked that book, saw <i>The Tipping Point </i>on Amazon for a couple of bucks, and added that to the shopping cart for my next purchase. It arrived and sat on the shelf of unread books.<br />
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Gladwell asks how change happens. Who or what is moved to make a difference? What are the circumstances that prepare for an epidemic? How does an idea or product become "sticky" enough to build momentum? <br />
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Hmm. A lot to think about.<br />
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Perhaps I sense the need to make some changes in my life. Or it's time to "catch up" with a generation that moves on without me. Or I can perceive my own undeveloped abilities as a "Connector", "Maven," or "Salesman." Or it is simply time to revise my environment and make it more conducive to joy.<br />
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So I chew on these things as I wipe the Jersey sand out of the page bindings, close the book in satisfaction, and return to wipe Aloe lotion on my suntanned legs.presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-11577486050208634192008-10-03T15:03:00.001-05:002008-10-03T15:05:23.164-05:00Katie Carter, sports journalistHere's a new talent in the sports broadcasting business. Click to watch:<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/kcNlLaNFaNU&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/kcNlLaNFaNU&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-9766555634891375842008-05-15T10:30:00.000-05:002008-07-19T10:32:25.222-05:00On the road againBack in third grade, I received my first Bible as a gift from the church. It was – and is - a strange book, full of stories about long-ago people in faraway places. We heard some of those stories in worship and Sunday School, and their curious details sounded so distant. Then we discovered a few maps in the back of the Bible. They charted places on the other side of the world where God had acted or spoken. It all seemed so far-off and exotic, and heightened the distance between then and now.<br /><br />A trip to the Holy Land in the year 2000 did blow away some of the ancient dust. My dad and I traveled to Nazareth, Samaria, and Jerusalem. Things haven’t changed that much in that part of the world – new buildings have gone up, the generations have come and gone – but people are still essentially the same. Our hopes and fears are identical to our ancient forebears. On that trip, what impressed me most of all is how local the Bible really is: Jesus walked from town to town on the same road that is now paved. He cast out demons in the synagogue on this spot, and ate tilapia fish from that lake over there. He did eighty percent of his adult work within a four-mile stretch on the north shore of the Sea of Galilee, prayed in Gethsemane’s garden, and carried the cross through a narrow city street. We can still visit these places.<br /><br />Some people take comfort in the vague promise that “God is everywhere.” As for me, I have increasingly found it comforting that the Gospel happens somewhere – in certain locations, among specific people, under particular circumstances. There is no timeless truth for the Christian faith. In Jesus, the Word became flesh – specifically – and we know where it happened. To this day, the grace of God continues to have GPS coordinates. God comes to us, where we are, right here in this lifetime, in the specifics of our need. That is the meaning of the Incarnation.<br /><br />To put it another way, context matters. It matters to our congregation as we plan our work. Where do our people live? What do they do? What are the challenges and blessings in their lives? How might the good news speak to the concrete realities of our lives? And what do we have to say on behalf of Christ?<br /><br />As I write this, my suitcase is packed for another holy trip. As part of this year’s study leave, I am retracing one of those maps in the back of my third grade Bible. Biblical storyteller Dennis Dewey is leading a tour that leads us through St. Paul’s itineraries. We will see spots in Greece and Turkey where the Gospel took root, and hear the Bible stories in the places where they happened. My Dad will once again be my roommate, and we’re delighted to share the trip with Donna and Andy Kepler, Pauline Heckman, and my mother-in-law Loraine Laubach. Keep us and all other pilgrims in your prayers, and expect us to return with stories of how the Word of God came alive in our travels.<br /><br />With every good wish for the Story to come alive in you!presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-9061567165918554092008-02-26T10:47:00.002-05:002008-02-26T10:51:46.860-05:00A few thoughts on living "off the page"It was one of those late night bickering sessions on the television. You know the type: four panelists from diverse points of view are sitting on easy chairs in a semi-circle. A host with an attitude attempts to incite them into a conversation, picking whatever fights might be entertaining. This is an unfortunate form of entertainment, mostly because the panelists are treated as caricatures, and somebody wants to bulldoze over their cherished beliefs.<br /><br /><span style=""> </span>This particular show was a thinly-veiled attack on Christianity. Within the first few minutes, the host had ridiculed one of the guests, labeled him as an extremist, and smugly made it known that he was smarter than everybody else in that studio. At the lowest point of the exchange, he pointed a finger at the Protestant minister on his show and said, “You sound like one of those people who says, ‘unless it’s in the Bible, I don’t believe it.’” I turned off the television, but my mind kept working on that supposed insult.<br /><br /><span style=""> </span>I love the Bible and work with it regularly. I believe the scriptures narrate our faith, in the languages and thought forms of the times when these documents were written. They were inscribed with passion. As one early witness declares, “We declare to you what we have heard, what we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked at and touched with our hands, concerning the word of life.” (1 John 1). They were also written with great care and excellence. The letter to the Hebrews is written in the highest form of classical Greek, the stories of the Gospel of John are arranged with great care, and the sagas of 1 and 2 Samuel are narrative masterpieces. But it needs to be said that faith is always lived “off the page.”<br /><br /> C<span style=""></span>hristian faith existed pretty well without a Bible for the first sixty or so years of its emergence. The New Testament Gospels were not written down until the church’s cemetery began to fill up, and there was the risk of losing all the stories about Jesus. Yet as important as those stories were and are, the church knew there is always Something more important than the Book - and that is the One that the Book is talking about. Christians know that Jesus is alive. The stories about Jesus teach us what to look for. They train us in how to see the invisible Christ. They prepare us to live in his presence, both today and forever.<span style=""><br /><br /></span> It’s important to read the Bible every day. Otherwise we are tempted to forget who we are. At the same time, if we keep our noses in the Book all the time, we will bump into the furniture. The hard work of living as disciples of Jesus is to interpret what we read in the day-to-day realities of our lives. The parable of the prodigal son (Luke 15) becomes real when family members compete with one another. When we hear the stories of Jesus on trial during Holy Week, they challenge us to rethink what real justice would look like. And when we hear how the Lord’s tomb was found empty, that news can awaken us to live as if death has been defeated, as if brutality itself is on trial, as if Christ is reigning until his last enemy is put under his feet.<span style=""><br /></span><br /> Here's the punchline: read the Book, but live off the page.presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-78456474287628515512008-01-21T16:20:00.001-05:002008-12-11T01:51:03.766-05:00A week that I never want to miss<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3jHSNnJMxbVshnuvxuX3l0dihslKQwKS9juyHjZ2PZC38itxCWzrzmVmb5ZsqktWm5XHydZCs02bj3h9jRQs2IaxhGm3QnA63TtlN4-QECWSgWAFfnyk1UDnmGpCOIz011qCwI_FqquJf/s1600-h/Homiletical+Feast+2008.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 293px; height: 220px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3jHSNnJMxbVshnuvxuX3l0dihslKQwKS9juyHjZ2PZC38itxCWzrzmVmb5ZsqktWm5XHydZCs02bj3h9jRQs2IaxhGm3QnA63TtlN4-QECWSgWAFfnyk1UDnmGpCOIz011qCwI_FqquJf/s320/Homiletical+Feast+2008.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5158054878054929234" border="0" /></a>For eighteen years in a row, I've spent a week with a group of fifteen other preachers from around the country. We gather in a place where we can study the Bible and do some advance work on a year's worth of sermons.<br /><br />We call ourselves "The Homiletical Feast," and nobody goes hungry. Here's a picture from this year's gathering, which took place this past week. We share a lot of ideas, tell a lot of stories, and swap insights on the Bible. In the process, we have become good friends.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtpXAzdbUpu3GQCXU69R7Tjfre4ebrAcUFopa-c5DySaWmchfZcf-DXjyUjYnJyiHROMVtBaDTfdp1axREq_4uD6hrcJWEfYnzxo6vkh33AnUg9stdSeKcZ5chnfnuFVcr7jHs6VfeMzFs/s1600-h/Homiletical+Feast+2008+%286%29.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 272px; height: 205px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtpXAzdbUpu3GQCXU69R7Tjfre4ebrAcUFopa-c5DySaWmchfZcf-DXjyUjYnJyiHROMVtBaDTfdp1axREq_4uD6hrcJWEfYnzxo6vkh33AnUg9stdSeKcZ5chnfnuFVcr7jHs6VfeMzFs/s320/Homiletical+Feast+2008+%286%29.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5158059615403856738" border="0" /></a>We schedule our gathering for the third week of January, which qualifies us for great off-season rates in Florida. A lot of friends think we go down there to play all week. Well, not quite.<br /><br />The fact is, good preaching takes a lot of preparation, and much of it happens when congregations aren't looking. For the fifteen or twenty minutes each week that each of us stands in a pulpit, there's a lot of spade work just out of sight from the congregation.<br /><br />So this is how we do it: thinking together, praying together, all the time chewing on scripture. And I wouldn't trade it for the world.presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-55176417279710896442007-12-10T13:20:00.000-05:002008-12-11T01:51:04.020-05:00In praise of Meg<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8wefiZCp9wZKLlB9Czmr-49PcYHv8RsnvBofLyWgrO13yuVjMtLXM-Lmp2WkEU3DKr9LJICvo8HUGyhTrv_zve7fYnLcy8JsQVtskcNTJLAHLD2iKi03YVvpRDGOePLVq3MYoeHDMiZoW/s1600-h/Meg+with+knit+hat.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 248px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8wefiZCp9wZKLlB9Czmr-49PcYHv8RsnvBofLyWgrO13yuVjMtLXM-Lmp2WkEU3DKr9LJICvo8HUGyhTrv_zve7fYnLcy8JsQVtskcNTJLAHLD2iKi03YVvpRDGOePLVq3MYoeHDMiZoW/s320/Meg+with+knit+hat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5142583244405314418" border="0" /></a>My "baby" is twelve years old. She loves to read long novels, and keeps her mind nimble by playing challenging games on the computer.<br /><br />Mostly she likes to sing - and does it well.<br /><br />Last weekend, her children's choir sang with the local symphony. It was the second year that she has been asked to do this, and she is radiant when she does it.<br /><br />Her current career aspiration is to become a vocal music teacher. College is only six years away, after all, so she is beginning to scout the prospects of this line of work . . .<br /><br />She also knows <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">exactly</span> what she wants for Christmas. Is it any wonder?presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-36341177869155172582007-11-18T21:36:00.000-05:002008-12-11T01:51:05.781-05:00Imagine There's a Heaven<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhczJHFJgVVa6e9H9C4gKhyKSJsfvbRbC1oAc0HkNdod2IcWGaucYjY9vW0TZ2unJml9V1llGpTfB7Oc1HdIyXpSBZ6zGWp4XoZ_Hapmwf5vWY4G1ASLeTsVuGjm-n1PnbY6m5QO3EhercP/s1600-h/StrawberryFields.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhczJHFJgVVa6e9H9C4gKhyKSJsfvbRbC1oAc0HkNdod2IcWGaucYjY9vW0TZ2unJml9V1llGpTfB7Oc1HdIyXpSBZ6zGWp4XoZ_Hapmwf5vWY4G1ASLeTsVuGjm-n1PnbY6m5QO3EhercP/s320/StrawberryFields.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134380142684979154" border="0" /></a>Thinking about a dream-like poem from today's scripture text (<a href="http://divinity.lib.vanderbilt.edu/lectionary/CPentecost/cProper28.htm#isaiah65">Isaiah 65:17-25</a>), I remember a monument in Manhattan. It's near the<span style=""> corner of 72<sup>nd</sup> Street and Central Park West. The peaceful spot is shaped as a teardrop, set among a grove of elm trees. At the intersection of three paths is a mosaic of black and white stones imported from Italy. In the center of the mosaic is a single word: “Imagine.” </span> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=""><o:p></o:p>Visitors come from around the world. They sit quietly, and often leave behind flowers in the shape of a peace sign. Sometimes they use strawberries rather than flowers. It is called, in fact, the <a href="http://www.centralparknyc.org/site/PageServer?pagename=virtualpark_southend_strawberryfields">Strawberry Fields memorial</a> – and it is right across the street from the apartment building where musician John Lennon lived.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPDQEujTQ8JG_1zd5nQC_qDFI3oDUyyIeaUSnr3g4oTLds62kw3S80P1PcoB40VGIOLu2hIVt1lT_lBBfglH6jMTe8lvDH3RzfWu8kgVrIM-McKCOUDm6UR-qeeIElXx89wlavc4LbcDVs/s1600-h/StrawberryFields2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 198px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPDQEujTQ8JG_1zd5nQC_qDFI3oDUyyIeaUSnr3g4oTLds62kw3S80P1PcoB40VGIOLu2hIVt1lT_lBBfglH6jMTe8lvDH3RzfWu8kgVrIM-McKCOUDm6UR-qeeIElXx89wlavc4LbcDVs/s320/StrawberryFields2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134381968046079970" border="0" /></a><span style="">John Lennon is the one who wrote <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Imagine_%28song%29">a song called “Imagine.”</a> It was a defining song for my generation. I grew up among 1960's dreamers, among a generation that tried to imagine a world of unity and peace. We had parents and ministers who heard the first line (“Imagine there’s no heaven”) and stopped listening to the rest of the tune. What they missed is what John Lennon was trying to envision, in his irreverent way. He could imagine a time and place when religious people stopped killing one another, countries gave up on war, and rich and poor were no longer divided. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=""><span style=""> </span>Ironically this peace song stirred up death threats against the composer. John Lennon was gunned down at forty years old, right across the street from where the Central Park memorial announces the word: “Imagine.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=""><o:p></o:p><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>As for me, I’m not ready to give up on heaven. I want to imagine as faithfully as I can that there is such a place, and I imagine you do, too. It taps into the great hopes of the human race, both of this life and the life to come. If we believe that God is perfectly good, it’s not a far reach to imagine that wherever God dwells is a place of perfect goodness. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=""><o:p> </o:p><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><a href="http://divinity.lib.vanderbilt.edu/lectionary/CPentecost/cProper28.htm#isaiah65">Isaiah draws such a picture in chapter 65 of his book</a>. No more weeping, no more crying. Children grow up in safety to a ripe old age. There is a continuity of generations. No more of the disruption of exile: if you build a house, you get to live in it. If you plant a vineyard, you will enjoy its wine. People will be rooted. They will flourish in well-being. This is one of the great pictures of peace in the Hebrew Bible, perhaps the clearest picture after the Garden of Eden.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="">No more hurt, no more destruction. God’s children live in complete delight, to the delight of their Maker. Can you imagine something like that?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p>presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-28408804749622245812007-11-08T13:22:00.000-05:002008-12-11T01:51:06.075-05:00Matthew, Blow Your Horn<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhDC7xvCZcYkyXv9k5oX3aO2c8oMq1gXWkVOK2y06YusrLi_LsNSpeTddktBKW4Jkua_3wqcNLar38MY8jW4_Abc5CeSRRW3UTS7WxWM0jUBEcWfxXKbHV8YRLwVQjap4VBvM7GkXjBPIq/s1600-h/Matt+blows+his+horn.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 272px; height: 204px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhDC7xvCZcYkyXv9k5oX3aO2c8oMq1gXWkVOK2y06YusrLi_LsNSpeTddktBKW4Jkua_3wqcNLar38MY8jW4_Abc5CeSRRW3UTS7WxWM0jUBEcWfxXKbHV8YRLwVQjap4VBvM7GkXjBPIq/s320/Matt+blows+his+horn.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5134386662445334514" border="0" /></a>That's my tall nephew Matt tooting on a trombone. He is a really fine musician. In one of God's little ironies, he loves jazz - - which drives his mother (my sister) crazy.<br /><br />We went to hear him play a gig on a recent Friday night. It was a group of high school students, and they were rocking out on old R&B hits. I knew all the words, mostly because they were tunes that I used to play when I wore a blue ruffled shirt with a Top 40 band back in the early '80's.<br /><br />You know, as in, "She's a Brick...House."<br /><br />Matt's high school music teacher is Dan Fabricius, a great soul who believes that music is best learned on the band stand. Dan put together this teenage band - without pay, off the clock - because he loves music and wants the world to have more musicians.<br /><br />May the tribe increase.presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-38713693534819299432007-10-30T09:10:00.000-05:002008-12-11T01:51:06.168-05:00Everybody has a shelf lifeSo I went into a religious bookstore yesterday, and immediately saw a sale rack. I never pass them up. I found a bargain or two and tucked them under my arm.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqKvsN2qgNtGbCB2kD3ZNbDH7ttgH7XyAGVrG-E_qkB4-fMJQNXP1jDF-lC7_xkSZPae6OADF234ijDyPwHcNqrVEbotMBX-TRUKXwzhYN584LsoaGVOK0XBjNYQNGmk3RM1mzqQ_PPk_S/s1600-h/speakingofstewardship.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 73px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqKvsN2qgNtGbCB2kD3ZNbDH7ttgH7XyAGVrG-E_qkB4-fMJQNXP1jDF-lC7_xkSZPae6OADF234ijDyPwHcNqrVEbotMBX-TRUKXwzhYN584LsoaGVOK0XBjNYQNGmk3RM1mzqQ_PPk_S/s400/speakingofstewardship.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5127140103269717890" border="0" /></a>And then I saw two copies of my book of stewardship sermons. They have been marked down to "half off," which is cheaper than I can buy them from the publisher.<br /><br />I take them to the sales clerk, who points out that they are close outs. "These are old books," she notes, "and they don't sell any more. It's time to take them off the shelves."<br /><br />"Ah yes," I say, "but in a used book store, we often pay top dollar for valuable books."<br /><br />"Well, that's the problem," she says. "There are too many religious books published, and a lot of them don't have any lasting value. So we need to clear them off our shelves on a regular basis." Touche.<br /><br />As I mulled over whether I should say anything more, she noticed the name on my credit card. "You have the same name as the author!" she exclaimed, as I smiled silently and waited for her to make the connection. She didn't. I suppose she's not accustomed to having a has-been author in her store.<br /><br />Meanwhile, let me make this invitation: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Speaking-Stewardship-Model-Sermons-Possessions/dp/0664500315/ref=sr_1_1/103-1212292-2044616?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1193754313&sr=8-1">If you want to buy a copy, click here</a>. You'll notice that Amazon has a lot of used copies, some of them for only a couple of bucks. Curiously, some are also for sale at more than the original price. Hmm...<br /><br />One can draw a number of lessons from this:<br /><ul><li>Some people value your work, some do not.</li><li>Some people once valued your work, but don't any longer.</li><li>Sometimes people value you only if your name is the same as the author of the book you're buying (even if it's you).</li><li>Somebody else may inflate your value if they think that they can get additional money out of unsuspecting fools.<br /></li><li>Those who sell books often don't have a sufficient regard for the labor that it took to write them.</li><li>Just because your book is marked down or overpriced doesn't mean that you are less or more valuable in the sight of God.<br /></li><li>The thrill of getting in your name in print will not last forever; somebody has to make room for Joel Osteen.</li><li>Everybody has a shelf life, including Joel Osteen. Here today, gone tomorrow, but the Word of our God will stand forever.</li></ul>presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-14782489661304308922007-10-19T09:34:00.000-05:002007-10-20T08:37:39.073-05:00Thank God for Her<p class="MsoNormal">Last Wednesday, it didn’t seem the same. I was leading a communion service at Abington Manor, as I’ve done each month for the past ten years or so. Mary Clark wasn’t there to assist me. She had passed away after a long illness.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Mary was one of the very first residents of that local nursing home, living there for twenty years. A number of years ago, my friend Bob London observed her compassionate care for the other residents. Knowing her to be a Presbyterian, he said, “I’ll bet you were ordained a deacon in your church.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Oh no,” she replied. “And I could never be a deacon either, since I live in a nursing home.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It was the kind of challenge that Bob always rises to meet. After a conversation with her pastor and a congregational vote, Mary was elected a Presbyterian deacon, with the understanding that her ministry would be in residence at Abington Manor. She was ordained there in the activity room, served with distinction, and I pause to honor her life and ministry.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Mary worked the hallways, offering words of encouragement wherever they were needed. Rarely to be found in her own room, she would “drop by” and be a friendly presence to the residents, with particular care shown to those who had difficulty adjusting to institutional life. She was an advocate for fellow residents, their rights, and their abilities. By all accounts, she was also the best Presbyterian bingo caller they ever had, and she saved all her bingo winnings to donate to her church.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">For me, she was the Bread Lady, holding the tray each month and gently encouraging all to take in the Body of Christ. She would not distinguish between Protestant and Catholic, able or disabled. Sometimes she would wake up a worshiper and say, “It’s Holy Communion; take it, because we need it.” That remains about the best invitation to the Lord’s Table that I know.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We are called to serve Christ wherever we are – that’s one of the lessons Mary lived and taught by example. While I mourn her absence, I entrust her to the power of Christ’s resurrection. That little piece of bread that she took at communion was the appetizer for the heavenly banquet she now enjoys.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Sometimes God drops a handkerchief,” Frederick Buechner writes, “and these people are called saints.” On the brink of All Saints’ Day, let us give thanks for the faithful folks we have known and live by their example.</p>presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-50514663999299336192007-10-12T10:09:00.000-05:002014-01-26T21:00:05.032-05:00The Punchline Just finished reading Harper Lee's classic novel <u>To Kill a Mockingbird</u>. I can’t remember if I read it as I was supposed to in eighth grade, but I did read it recently. Six-year old Scout is not sure about living in Maycomb, Alabama. It’s a scary place. There’s a cranky lady who judges the world from her front porch. A black man named Tom Robinson is falsely condemned for a crime he didn’t commit. The school kids pick fights when Scout’s attorney father defends Tom in court. At the end of their street is a spooky neighbor named Boo. The whole novel is about Scout coming to terms with the neighborhood.<o:p></o:p> On the very last page of the book is the moral of the story. Scout is talking to her daddy Atticus at bed time, and complaining that people around town are accusing a neighbor kid of something he didn’t do. She says:<o:p></o:p> <br />
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<o:p> </o:p><br />“An’ they chased him ‘n’ never could catch him ‘cause they didn’t know what he looked like, an’ Atticus, when they finally saw him, why he hadn’t done any of those things…Atticus, he was real nice.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p><br /> Her father bent down, tucked in her covers, and said, “Most people are, Scout, when you finally see them.” (page 281)<o:p></o:p></div>
presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-541700470256713942007-10-07T09:00:00.000-05:002014-01-26T21:06:39.258-05:00Song of the Lonely City: a World Communion Sermon<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-size: 130%; font-weight: bold;">Song of the Lonely City</span><o:p></o:p></span> <br />
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Lamentations 1:1-11<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">27<sup>th</sup> Sunday in Ordinary Time<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><i>“How lonely sits the city that once was full of people!<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><i> How like a widow she has become, she that was great among the nations!” (1:1)<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">This is a day when we imagine a world-wide community. We gather under the promise that “people shall gather from east and west, from north and south,” to sit at Table in the Kingdom of God. </span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">How ironic that we are given a poem about a city that fell apart! Once it was a great city, a “princess among the provinces.” Now the streets are empty. The playful laughter of children is replaced by bitter weeping. The once-busy city is described as a lonely woman, a widow who cannot be consoled. The dream of community has been fractured. Today it’s worth reflecting on how this happens. A community is an interactive series of human relationships. How can it become a shadow of what it once was?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmdeTvzn4_NVbQo8hqO2OxI_Vzpvpmzpo_pkxRM1ouSbU9imk8kE2A4ruDB5o9avnqnLaQlnB9qWWNF5BRPkasPZ1iPPHESpJucmf_HCR9pGrMSqt6gu6EMaYUguVkH58c8rFAex5bydBl/s1600-h/centralia_warning_sign.bmp" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmdeTvzn4_NVbQo8hqO2OxI_Vzpvpmzpo_pkxRM1ouSbU9imk8kE2A4ruDB5o9avnqnLaQlnB9qWWNF5BRPkasPZ1iPPHESpJucmf_HCR9pGrMSqt6gu6EMaYUguVkH58c8rFAex5bydBl/s320/centralia_warning_sign.bmp" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123063548424360322" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 163px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 164px;" /></a></span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Some time back, I tried to take a shortcut from on the way from Harrisburg to Bloomsburg. The map suggested Route 61 north, somewhere around Frackville. I took the exit, went over the hill, and found myself in a strange site. The road I was traveled took an abrupt detour, with an ominous sign: “Warning - Danger! Underground Mine Fire.” Just beyond it, there was another sign: “Welcome to Centralia, Pennsylvania.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">I had heard about this place, but was not p</span><span style="font-size: 100%;">repared for what I saw. </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNPl9T4RwTfQsX3kHbdqRULWBLQz4WoquDp1_e0Vj_B1LBeNt4U8pc4agTYDWK5I5Ae_PrOTtLX2BvxZH0XsgmM6UBTnY8RIBXhhtyedYowcPZERAzjV26n52OFd9JQFbVuMXVMX3bCjHc/s1600-h/centraliaroad.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNPl9T4RwTfQsX3kHbdqRULWBLQz4WoquDp1_e0Vj_B1LBeNt4U8pc4agTYDWK5I5Ae_PrOTtLX2BvxZH0XsgmM6UBTnY8RIBXhhtyedYowcPZERAzjV26n52OFd9JQFbVuMXVMX3bCjHc/s320/centraliaroad.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123063776057627026" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 156px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 155px;" /></a></span><span style="font-size: 100%;">There were sections where the asphalt road had</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> melted and pulled a</span><span style="font-size: 100%;">part. White smoke billowed out of gashes in the ground. The grass was </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">burned yellow. Trees still standing had no leaves. Stovepipes spew steam and carbon monoxide from beneath the soil. At St. Ignatius Cemetery there was a freshly dug grave – the grim joke among the locals is that you can be buried and cremated at the same time, no extra charge.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">The most haunting sight was how empty that community had become. Centralia is nearly a ghost town – just a handful of houses</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"></span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> remaining, inhabited by seven survivors who can’t afford to buy another or are too proud to move. The coal mine fire has burned underground for forty-five years. Most of the row homes that once stood together are were plowed under or hauled away, although a few solitary places stand all alone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Now the reason I describe all of this is to tell you how Centralia got this way. Two things happened: a mistake and the poison. The mistake was when somebody burned some garbage in 1962, and it was a little close to the coal vein. Nobody intended it to catch fire, but it did. It hasn’t gone out. And then the poison got in the soil and in the air. That’s when everybody began to move away. The community came unglued.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">There are mistakes. There is poison. This is what somebody like Jeremiah is lamenting in the poem we heard today. The mistakes – the human errors – are the things that start the fire. The poison is what keeps being generated. As Jeremiah describes a lonely city, smoldering and steaming after invaders destroyed it, he can’t help but remember all the mistakes and bad decisions that brought the city to this point. As he considers the wreckage and the desolation of what is still their home, he sniffs the poison in the air: all the blaming, the denial of responsibility, the warlike tendencies. </span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">This is not, of course, what God wants for us. God wants people to live together in peace, to dwell in unity as sisters and brothers, to live without division or destruction. God wants the one community of human beings to get along.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">At times, God allows us to live with the consequences of our actions. Surely that’s what the poet means by saying, “the Lord makes us to suffer for the multitude of transgressions.” God did not make the mess; people did, and they have to live with the consequences of what they've done or left undone. It’s just that simple. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">Nobody can blame God for the mistakes we make or the poisons we manufacture. Historian David McCullough talks about the Johnstown Flood, another Pennsylvania disaster that destroyed a city. After the flood, some preachers on higher ground declared it was God’s judgment on a guilty land. McCullough says slyly, “If that’s the case, God should have better aim; the flood blasted into churches and missed most of the bordellos.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">No, don’t blame God for that one. The Johnstown Flood happened because wealthy Presbyterians up in a hunting camp didn’t take care of a dam, showing little regard for the peasants downstream. Maybe you noticed: God doesn’t usually fish us out of our blunders or our short-sightedness.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">What God does provide, however, is forgiveness for our mistakes and fumigation for our poisons. That’s what happens in the cross of Jesus. It was the mistake of humanity to nail him there, yet he took that – and all the poison that surrounded it – he took it away. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">In the words of one early preacher, “</span><span style="font-size: 100%;">In Christ Jesus you who once were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ. For he is our peace; in his flesh he has … broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us… that he might create in himself one new humanity… reconciling people to God in one body through the cross, thus putting to death that hostility through it.” (Ephesians 2:13-16)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">This is what gathers people from east and west, from north and south, to sit at one Table in God’s kingdom. It’s the promise that nothing needs to have the power to divide us. Thanks to Jesus Christ we are brought together - - one to another, all of us to God. The pains and poisons of the world never need to break us apart. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">As we come to God’s Table, we have the opportunity to leave our mistakes behind, to let God’s love cancel them, and then to begin living toward God’s dream of “one humanity.” The promise of the Gospel is that every ghost town is haunted by the Holy Ghost. Every painful ending has the promise of a new beginning. Every divided family and destroyed home can be rebuilt somewhere by the God who wishes us all to be rebuilt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 100%;">These are the promises of broken bread and poured-out wine. And they are available to every last one of us – taste and see!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-22391274797306586972007-09-30T09:00:00.000-05:002007-10-19T11:04:48.983-05:00A sermon: "Can't Shut Him Up"On the brink of my 22nd anniversary as a minister of Word and Sacrament, here's a sermon that hints at the crazy work that I do...<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Can’t Shut Him Up<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Jeremiah 20:7-13<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">September 30, 2007<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size:100%;">We have been working through the poems and prayers of Jeremiah. That’s how the prophets of Bible speak: in super-charged language, through poems and prayers. The poems are addressed to people; the prayers are addressed to God. Today it’s a prayer - - and it happens right after Jeremiah is beaten by a priest named Pashhur. After being struck, he is locked in the stocks. It’s a restraining device, and it doesn’t restrain Jeremiah at all. After he condemns Pashhur the priest with a poem, he turns to God with a prayer. It goes like this:</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 4pt 0in 0.0001pt 0.4in; text-indent: -0.2in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><sup><span style="">7</span></sup></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>O LORD, you have enticed me, and I was enticed; you have overpowered me, and <u>you have prevailed</u>.I have become a laughingstock all day long; everyone mocks me. <sup><span style="">8</span></sup></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>For whenever I speak, I must cry out, I must shout, “Violence and destruction!” For the word of the LORD has become for me a reproach and derision all day long. <sup><span style="">9</span></sup></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>If I say, “I will not mention him, or speak any more in his name,” then within me there is <b style=""><i style="">something like a burning fire shut up in my bones</i></b>; I am weary with holding it in, and I cannot. 10 </span><span style="font-size:85%;">For I hear many whispering: “Terror is all around! Denounce him! Let us denounce him!” All my close friends are watching for me to stumble. “Perhaps he can be enticed, and we can prevail against him, and take our revenge on him.” <sup><span style="">11</span></sup></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>But the LORD is with me like a dread warrior ; therefore my persecutors will stumble, and <u>they will not prevail</u>.<o:p></o:p> They will be greatly shamed, for they will not succeed. Their eternal dishonor will never be forgotten.<o:p></o:p><sup><span style=""> 12</span></sup></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>O LORD of hosts, you test the righteous, you see the heart and the mind;<o:p></o:p> let me see your retribution upon them, for to you I have committed my cause. <sup><span style="">13 </span></sup></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Sing to the LORD; praise the LORD! For he has delivered the life of the needy from the hands of evildoers.</span></span></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Sooner or later in the Christian life, you may find yourself saying, “This is not what I signed up for…” Jesus said one time, “Take my yoke upon you . . . for my yoke is easy and my burden is light” (Matt. 11:28-29). But it is still a yoke on your shoulder. It’s still a burden. And you might think that you’ve been conned.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I’ve seen it happen with volunteers: they join the church with great delight. There is laughter and joy. They agree to do anything. They plug in coffee pots, make phone calls, work with groups – and sometimes later they appear at my door to say, “This is not what I expected.” It could be for any number of reasons.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Often it’s because people will let you down. When I worked with a middle school youth group years ago in New Jersey, two young women volunteered to help put on a picnic. We set up a soccer field, hauled in three charcoal grills. The kids told us they wanted to do this, so we planned a wonderful afternoon. Everything was ready at four o’clock. The grills were smoking. The music was playing. We expected forty kids, and one showed up – and he didn’t stick around. After an hour of waiting, we’re packing up six tubes of mustard, and one of the women said, “I don’t want to do this again.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Or a few years ago, a group of teenagers were heading back to the mountains to do a week of mission work. They were really excited, because they were going back to the same place where they worked the previous year. They had worked hard – painting houses, nailing down roofs, cleaning up refuse. And they remembered how grateful everybody was when they finished the week – “Come on back, y’all,” the people said. So they did, and they found themselves assigned to some of the same houses – painting the same walls, repairing the same rooftops, cleaning up the junk blowing around same yards. And one of the kids said, “Rev, I don’t want to come back here again.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">You jump into the joy of Christian discipleship - - and you discover that some of the other disciples aren’t as Christian as you thought. Or that the redeemed of the world aren’t acting very redeemed. Or that the mission field is not a playground. People can let you down.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">We heard it in Jeremiah’s prayer: he preaches his heart out, and people laugh at him. According to the nuances of the Hebrew words, it sounds like they are mocking his message, poking fun at his words, standing with their arms crossed and saying, “He’s really an idiot.” Oh, Jeremiah knows it is hard to be God’s servant in a world that ignores you. He knows people will let him down.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=""> </span>But his real complaint is with God. “God, you enticed me to do this, and I was enticed. You overpowered me, and I gave in. I speak your word, I do your work - - and it makes me the laughingstock of Jerusalem.” He has a complaint against God.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Remember Mother Teresa of Calcutta, that tiny saint who died about ten years ago? She spent fifty years on the streets, tending to those who had fallen in the gutters. They were hungry, and she fed them. They had no voice, and she spoke for them. They had no home, and she took them in. They had nobody else, and she loved them.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">And when her personal journals were published this last month, they revealed she was full of doubts and fears. She confessed that she doubted if God really exists. She held her hands to receive communion, silently questioning if Christ was really there.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">It didn’t start that way. Back in 1946, Mother Teresa has a series of visions, calling her to serve the poor of Calcutta. She said, “I heard the Voice calling me to serve the destitute and the dying.” In those early moments, she was flooded with holy light. But as she engaged in her work, she describes a “heavy darkness” that covered her soul. It remained for years and years.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Jeremiah’s prayer is shaped like some of the psalms. As you know, there are about eighty psalms that complain and cry for help. The most famous is the one Jesus quotes on the cross, Psalm 22. It begins with the words, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” If Jesus quotes it, we need to take it seriously. The God who calls us doesn’t always live up to our expectations. Notice I said “our expectations.” And I’m not telling you something that hasn’t, at some time or another, crossed your mind.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I met a woman in Greek class on the first day of seminary. Sally was in her mid-fifties. She heard God calling her away from a desk job and into a pulpit. She gave up everything and went back to school. It was humiliating, hanging around with young pups like me, half her age. About the only thing we had in common is that we were both pretty poor at Greek. But Sally struggled, got through, and got ordained as a Presbyterian minister when she was fifty-four.<o:p></o:p><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">She served only one church, for about six years. Her occasional forgetfulness became more regular. They said it was Alzheimer’s. After a year of struggling, she resigned her pulpit and went on disability. The last time we spoke, she said, “So why did God go to all that trouble, calling me, teaching me, ordaining me – but not shielding me from this damned disease?” I did not know. Last year, after suffering for many years with Alzheimer’s Disease, Sally slipped away in her sleep. I still don’t have an answer for her question.<o:p></o:p><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">You can understand why Jeremiah is so upset, can’t you? On the day God called him to be a servant, he said, “I’m only a child,” and God said, “Don’t be afraid; I am with you.” <o:p></o:p><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Jeremiah said, “But I don’t know what to say.” So God touched his lips and said, “I’ll put my words in your mouth.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Then Jeremiah heard the message he was appointed to speak: God would pluck up and pull down, to destroy and to overthrow, and only then build and plant.” He felt frightened because he was speak against the status quo, and his own people would turn against him. And God said, “Now, don’t you worry; I am with you; they won’t prevail against you…” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Today we hear Jeremiah pray, “Lord, they are prevailing…They are prevailing because you prevailed over me.” He says, “Lord, you enticed me.” Actually the English translation is a bit weak: in Hebrew it says, “You conned me.” “You deceived me.” Or even, “You seduced me.” To think: God sweet-talks you into something, and then you find out what it really is.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">In Jeremiah’s case, he is a preacher – he speaks on behalf of God. When he speaks, it gets him into trouble. So one day he decides to stop speaking – if preaching stirs up trouble, just shut your mouth – but that causes another kind of trouble. It gives him heartburn. He says, “The Word of God is inside me; it’s like a fire in my bones. I have to let it out. I hate to do it, because it stirs up trouble. But if I keep the Word in, it burns up my bones. I have to preach… it’s hard work to keep it in, but it’s hard work if I let it out.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I don’t know if you know what that’s like, but I do. I love to preach and I hate to preach. I love to stick my nose in scripture and sniff out something to say, but it never comes easily for me. Some of you know my routine: I start working on a year’s worth of sermons during the third week of January; I need a long runway to get each one off the ground. But most of my sermons don’t get finished until midnight or so the night before they’re preached – and even then, they’re not finished until we hear them and digest them. In twenty-two years, I’ve never been able to speed up the process – just ask my family. For me, it’s just bloody hard work.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">And then there’s the popularity factor. The preacher is often a Minor League Celebrity, or more accurately the congregation’s Big Mouth. Everything the preacher says or does is amplified. If you like a lot of attention, oh, you’ll get it. You get anonymous letters, quoting you for saying things you didn’t actually say. Or people make big decisions in their lives on the basis of something that accidentally dribbled out of the side of your mouth that you didn’t think of much at the time. Or they get angry about what they think you’re implying. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Or they test you: seventeen years ago today, on my very first Sunday here, a man stopped me in the hallway after the first service to tell me that he didn’t like something I said, and if I would be inclined to change it at the second service, he might be inclined to vote for me as his pastor. I didn’t change it, because I figured if I gave in to him on my very first day, there was no telling what he might want me to change a few weeks later.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I’m convinced there is no crazier job, and no more important job, than to preach the Gospel. Everybody who speaks up for God should have a sign on the desk that quotes the words of Jesus: “Woe to you when all speak well of you, for that is what their ancestors did to the false prophets” (Luke 6:26). <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Or to put the same thought another way, “Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you” (Matt. 5:11-12). Just remember: the person who said that was reviled, persecuted, falsely accused, and nailed to a cross. You think they crucified Jesus for being nice? No, they crucified him for telling the truth.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">And what’s true for preachers like me is also true for Real Christians like all of you:<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <ul style="margin-top: 0in;font-family:arial;" type="disc"><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size:100%;">You know what it’s like to speak up for God when people around you want you to hush.<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size:100%;">You know what it’s like to tell the truth to a family full of lies. <o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size:100%;">You know what it’s like to treat the wounded neighbor as a Child of God, and you catch some flak for it. <o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size:100%;">You know what it’s like to forgive somebody when others think you’re foolish.<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size:100%;">You know what it’s like to feed the hungry in a town where a lot of full dinner plates are scraped into the garbage can. <o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size:100%;">You know what it’s like to dig deep and give generously when others are looking to upgrade their luxuries. <o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-size:100%;">You know what it’s like to commit a Sunday morning to the Lord of your life while others are preoccupied with their own aimlessness.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></li></ul> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">If you keep standing up and speaking up for God, someone out there will want to muzzle you and knock you down. You’ll be tempted to be quiet and blend in. And maybe you will…for a while. Until something happens, and the fire of God’s Spirit burns in your bones. And it’s burning inside you, and you can’t put it out. <o:p></o:p><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">That’s the moment you realize that living out your faith has actually changed you. And there’s no going back. God enticed you into the Kingdom of Heaven, and there’s no going back.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> For all of her well-published doubts, Mother Teresa never backed off from her public charity. She may have felt like God disappeared or evaporated, but she never felt the need to reveal her doubts to the millions of people who admired her faith. The story of her journal caught the attention of a reporter out in Detroit last week, who read and pondered it. She saw in Mother Teresa “an intimate sharing of the cross of Christ.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> In the end, she said, Mother Teresa embraced the questions and accepted the darkness of God’s will. “God cannot fill what is full,” Teresa wrote. “God can fill only emptiness. It is not how much we really ‘have’ to give – but how empty we are - so that we can receive fully in our life, and let (God) live (eternal) life in us.”<a style="" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=8947870616247138034&postID=2239127479730658697#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style=""><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=""> </span> God’s life is a crucified life. God bears the world’s suffering, and transforms it through endurance and self-sacrifice. God may get quiet, but the fire of the Holy Spirit never goes out. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">But I’m not telling you something that you don’t already know. “Come, Holy Spirit.”<span style=""> </span>Burn, baby, burn…<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <div style=""><!--[endif]--> <div style="" id="ftn1"> <p class="MsoFootnoteText" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><a style="" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=8947870616247138034&postID=2239127479730658697#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style=""><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></span></a> <a href="http://www.detnews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20070929/OPINION03/709290308">http://www.detnews.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20070929/OPINION03/709290308</a></span></p> <p class="MsoFootnoteText"><o:p> </o:p></p> </div> </div>presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-19013887635591009772007-07-20T08:31:00.000-05:002008-12-11T01:51:07.343-05:00In Praise of Katherine<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhznFDF1knhGRXYYWIjQ6d-qFXJM0blc1d76-EkSyURdst4XkRZGtUOwDiE5WxEvgGk5klhkDUPCgdgRy51_0FmQfD4CI3UJMmHvFOsRCDEUmN3viI8yl40ZrQuZtBgUaiDp65xe6vnYhcF/s1600-h/Kate-rrific.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhznFDF1knhGRXYYWIjQ6d-qFXJM0blc1d76-EkSyURdst4XkRZGtUOwDiE5WxEvgGk5klhkDUPCgdgRy51_0FmQfD4CI3UJMmHvFOsRCDEUmN3viI8yl40ZrQuZtBgUaiDp65xe6vnYhcF/s320/Kate-rrific.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089283555942269922" border="0" /></a>I praise my first-born child,<br />Katherine Ann,<br />who is on the move all summer.<br /><br />Right now,<br />Katie is hanging out with<br />4500 of her closest friends.<br /><br />All of them have landed on the campus of Purdue University for a week of Presbyterian Mayhem, otherwise known as the Youth Triennium.<br /><br />It's a jam-packed week of fun, study, worship, and service, all aimed at spiritual growth. Katie says, "It's sweet." Then she adds, "Church isn't boring here, Dad."<br /><br />I'm proud of her. Her honesty is refreshing. Her joy is contagious.presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-66369301834948661982007-07-10T09:40:00.000-05:002008-12-11T01:51:07.520-05:00All of us have our hopes...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhXPIRzJGs2DR7DFxW_Y8dI_3aP8A9Ihs0NpWslHuHV-chLw22jiAzz23ZJboFfpnEpE6irMOggNnGyKwpkrr7_8y_n3FBjbvNlaF_XFjm_X4utWr6BuNW359Bu8jwjtNvtNQnZd3cUsG/s1600-h/Genius.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhXPIRzJGs2DR7DFxW_Y8dI_3aP8A9Ihs0NpWslHuHV-chLw22jiAzz23ZJboFfpnEpE6irMOggNnGyKwpkrr7_8y_n3FBjbvNlaF_XFjm_X4utWr6BuNW359Bu8jwjtNvtNQnZd3cUsG/s400/Genius.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089289173759493106" border="0" /></a>presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-42641786923572921132007-07-01T09:00:00.000-05:002014-01-26T21:10:30.225-05:00Celebrating FamilyQ - What do you give to parents who have everything?<br />
A - <span style="font-style: italic;">A week with children and grandchildren at the beach.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgioc0mdUVjcIz55EG-3mZkwd_x1pjeKw4qb8Bz6Y82-bQD2EPyXsO6aR0QQWZP-9tWOA7ksfEKS_MkhXoKyR3YrBNaesApWHp-XUsrZOSUdYTGbk-eXMEvABPd8fQV7BF6TQmKt-Aa2Q54/s1600-h/Family+-+002.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgioc0mdUVjcIz55EG-3mZkwd_x1pjeKw4qb8Bz6Y82-bQD2EPyXsO6aR0QQWZP-9tWOA7ksfEKS_MkhXoKyR3YrBNaesApWHp-XUsrZOSUdYTGbk-eXMEvABPd8fQV7BF6TQmKt-Aa2Q54/s400/Family+-+002.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089292098632221698" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a>A family reunion can be a daunting event, especially if it's been a while since all of you have lived under the same roof. Old competitions are renewed. Old nicknames are updated. Somebody is liable to get voted off the island.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq6QdghZMjtICCYmtE5JfXNX4WzzAF5KEi7zwEbO5iIHSNba7GNf8I2UCfaQsgjHn2sOYxVlAFIz8ISnuLexN0BDKORF4Tyvlem61eP21pgXAw_qbUuxp2p9wpVZP5fWy-6DyB00bflbbv/s1600-h/Mom+and+Dad+mugging.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq6QdghZMjtICCYmtE5JfXNX4WzzAF5KEi7zwEbO5iIHSNba7GNf8I2UCfaQsgjHn2sOYxVlAFIz8ISnuLexN0BDKORF4Tyvlem61eP21pgXAw_qbUuxp2p9wpVZP5fWy-6DyB00bflbbv/s320/Mom+and+Dad+mugging.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5089294125856785426" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 163px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 219px;" /></a>The Carter Clan did pretty well, all things considered. We survived a week on the North Carolina beach, and did our best to honor the Old Duffers who raised us. Here is a picture of Dad goosing Mom, and trying not to get caught.<br />
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Of course, we love one another very much.<br />
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presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-66251724730402447342007-06-12T07:05:00.000-05:002014-01-26T21:02:15.507-05:00"The Best Thing That Happened to Me Today"Today I decided to take the back way to visit a man under hospice care. Winding over the mountain on my way to Mid-Valley Hospital, I noticed two cars paused ahead of me in opposing lanes, with the drivers chatting with one another. So I slowed down.<br />
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Good thing that I did. Out of nowhere, a deer leaped onto the road. It kissed my front bumper and blew its nose on my door. Then it ran away.<br />
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The car was drivable, but bent. No steam from the radiator, although the plastic grill was smashed. As I continued on to my visit, foul thoughts flooded me. I turned off the car radio so I could snarl to myself. I calculated the approximate expense of repairs. I breathed hot vengeance, and prayed the deer would suffer a miserable death.<br />
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Then I arrived at the hospice to visit my friend. Cancer has diminished him considerably. He struggles to stay awake. His wife had warned that his conversations are growing shorter. So we chatted for a few minutes, and I stood to leave.<br />
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Before I could sum up our time with a prayer, he asked me what was new with me. "Oh," I said, "a deer hit my car on the way down here."<br />
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Well! I had temporarily forgotten he was a retired game warden. Bumper-Kissing Deer were one of his specialties. Suddenly this withered man came fully alive. He asked questions, quoted statistics, told a few anecdotes, and smiled broadly. For the moment, he was completely animated.<br />
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We had our prayer. As we said our goodbyes, he added, "Thanks for coming. This is the best thing that happened to me today." My minor car accident had become a blessing for him.presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-56820910136636372602007-05-22T08:47:00.000-05:002008-12-11T01:51:08.745-05:00If you forget to preach the Gospel......you can always turn your church into a movie theater! Sell those stained glass windows, board up the holes, and put up a marquee. Strange, but true.<br /><br />Here's what we saw in Galeton, PA:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJA7XKGnJ_M-nkZYyQR18EqjT3OS2eDAWMCQjWeK1JYlIcvK_ND_F2nk-F09WMtBEPEIzDb9hwPWRrJOjZ059Jh7MNUQ2qPEN-MrYSdVU1BOIJZhFr729XhTus00ZvCxIzAjJ5lDnMh_gn/s1600-h/May+2007+106.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJA7XKGnJ_M-nkZYyQR18EqjT3OS2eDAWMCQjWeK1JYlIcvK_ND_F2nk-F09WMtBEPEIzDb9hwPWRrJOjZ059Jh7MNUQ2qPEN-MrYSdVU1BOIJZhFr729XhTus00ZvCxIzAjJ5lDnMh_gn/s320/May+2007+106.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5068495184478257490" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I wonder how they made out on the Sunday matinee.presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-70860870963266701742007-05-19T16:52:00.000-05:002008-12-11T01:51:09.316-05:00Faith Confirmed<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSXWSe16WiwKZBMmXgLeCfVDo4wzVAPraMBkEGjPyS3ykVL2-UinV4T99Yn71ieEtOcDgEgstig3r3Jf4zc_PXCWSkMDSYQbr4opmYO6LDMnaVAVv8MKc87FojBlpHIxGkvXR1fbnkW8fE/s1600-h/May+2007+068.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 285px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSXWSe16WiwKZBMmXgLeCfVDo4wzVAPraMBkEGjPyS3ykVL2-UinV4T99Yn71ieEtOcDgEgstig3r3Jf4zc_PXCWSkMDSYQbr4opmYO6LDMnaVAVv8MKc87FojBlpHIxGkvXR1fbnkW8fE/s320/May+2007+068.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5068497499465630082" border="0" /></a>We took nine saints-in-training to a weekend in New York City. These seventh and eight graders are in our confirmation class.<br /><br />Near Wall Street, they posed by the bull. Aren't they a good looking bunch?<br /><br />Around the block, they served breakfast to 125 folks in a downtown soup kitchen. That is, they served the poor who reside in one of the richest neighborhoods of the world.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQQhfx7jovBJlkK2QddG-j7vcEzfsxkFa2_K02m7vmn0WLxMGpaSfkuQQYQO1OAb-nRh2xE8RcsTImoGAY6BVe82DpAeCLCJx7X4ugdnzJDVztE77VCpGbt-6Nel-tv3r36eK1gmWKhGfj/s1600-h/May+2007+065.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 207px; height: 276px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQQhfx7jovBJlkK2QddG-j7vcEzfsxkFa2_K02m7vmn0WLxMGpaSfkuQQYQO1OAb-nRh2xE8RcsTImoGAY6BVe82DpAeCLCJx7X4ugdnzJDVztE77VCpGbt-6Nel-tv3r36eK1gmWKhGfj/s320/May+2007+065.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5068498165185560978" border="0" /></a>Even though some of their parents might be astonished, they were actually photographed doing a mop dance. And (don't tell anybody) they enjoyed it!<br /><br />Wow! Perhaps God is making these Christians into Christians...<br /><br />I think that's exactly what is going on. And it is a great joy to be their pastor and friend.presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-84270196059910136272007-05-01T07:31:00.000-05:002008-12-11T01:51:10.356-05:00On the Road<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYdC4ABwA6oafSF1mYoAfMkQ5_bteHeo3sNW2OhxQRdGaoCYZFLJ4V72by10u48pvSyMnQISbEj-2lKQX4w2u7TWti-bVfJif7eFBpv40k-0mOcuUdIn_q7v8xRXsd2bsGQ17Unq2PslMs/s1600-h/Quartet+at+Ben+Avon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 288px; height: 162px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYdC4ABwA6oafSF1mYoAfMkQ5_bteHeo3sNW2OhxQRdGaoCYZFLJ4V72by10u48pvSyMnQISbEj-2lKQX4w2u7TWti-bVfJif7eFBpv40k-0mOcuUdIn_q7v8xRXsd2bsGQ17Unq2PslMs/s320/Quartet+at+Ben+Avon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5059570261574768962" border="0" /></a>I think I'm the only Presbyterian minister who takes a week of vacation to tour with a jazz quartet. For five days I'm out on the road with the Presbybop Quartet. The whirlwind tour is taking us through Pittsburgh, Cleveland, and Erie.<br /><br />On Saturday, we played a concert at the Ben Avon Community Church. The music was great, but the occasion was bittersweet. Ben Avon's pastor, Brent Dugan, passed away tragically last November. We offered a memorial concert, and presented a new piece of music in memory of Brent. Titled "The Last Word," it's a haunting ballad, and an appropriate way to remember a good soul.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv5xXe9Z8PYoiJ_e-nPczZf97ETt7mMb3n7G5bwmlRF-O-hjM20ewmsJtp6kcX3X2G99OuHMnT2JvjT_WmxbJGMWPt55E-vTKK-n8ULxs0_-k7NUc8zzD61_w7rhUTwRkm9sfOWzkDG5cZ/s1600-h/BC+and+Linda.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 127px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv5xXe9Z8PYoiJ_e-nPczZf97ETt7mMb3n7G5bwmlRF-O-hjM20ewmsJtp6kcX3X2G99OuHMnT2JvjT_WmxbJGMWPt55E-vTKK-n8ULxs0_-k7NUc8zzD61_w7rhUTwRkm9sfOWzkDG5cZ/s320/BC+and+Linda.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5059570819920517458" border="0" /></a>Since we were in the neighborhood, Linda Williams dropped by. We've been pals for twenty years, and it was great to see her. She has always been such an encouragement to me, and was a dear friend of Brent's as well.<br /><br />The next day, we stop in Sewickley to lead music for two morning services at the Presbyterian Church. Sewickley is a classy town, and it was a hoot to bring some syncopation to the sanctuary. They want us to come back some time, and that would be a lot of fun.<br /><br />Soon after the benediction, we hit the road for Cleveland, just two hours away. We have an evening concert at the Rocky River Presbyterian Church, in the western suburbs of the city. Al reminds me that it's the home town of Sammy Kaye, the sweet swing bandleader, but I assure him that we won't be playing any of Sammy's music. The crowd is appreciative, and we're grateful to musician Ginny Roedig and pastor Jon Fancher, who serve as our hosts.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjokLP2bGRbkmj5Yzw79aqWKP9IEbqtZNZylEF9kgvwioFUcUX4nHuyLfQS6c51wqvNfZDMu2nVH6qCoDNWrNjnpBItI8I8YXJYmlqqSwxSYsY4dcdgs0i73vwIj6eyM3p4b9TzA5Vn7BNF/s1600-h/BC+and+Bob.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjokLP2bGRbkmj5Yzw79aqWKP9IEbqtZNZylEF9kgvwioFUcUX4nHuyLfQS6c51wqvNfZDMu2nVH6qCoDNWrNjnpBItI8I8YXJYmlqqSwxSYsY4dcdgs0i73vwIj6eyM3p4b9TzA5Vn7BNF/s320/BC+and+Bob.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5059571026078947682" border="0" /></a>Monday is a well-deserved day off. We sleep in, and then I ramble down to the headquarters of the United Church of Christ, which is next door to our hotel. I've been asked to take part in a conversation about the arts, jazz, and church. We're in the Amistad Chapel, a great space where the band played a few years ago.<br /><br />To my delight, Bob Chase drops by. Bob is a denominational staff leader for the UCC and a creative genius. He and Bill Pindar were the guys who first invited me to make some jazz for the wider church. They think big: it was the 1989 Bicentennial of the Presbyterian Church, and we collaborated on a huge worship service in downtown Philadelphia, right across the street from the Liberty Bell. For obvious reasons, I call him "Long Tall."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8uBBcK7D2JIm0_NU4ph3em4OR2PahvKqECbcng95wMchFJQ7WjIJUrsq6OjKNkLME5v2dAVwftEQIrzViMILlmZT6d-zRrykT4vg7rRV-Ah5Ybgw1S08agCe-i_X6LTxZYsjmaoaH1zzF/s1600-h/Cliff,+Chris,+BC.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 198px; height: 182px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8uBBcK7D2JIm0_NU4ph3em4OR2PahvKqECbcng95wMchFJQ7WjIJUrsq6OjKNkLME5v2dAVwftEQIrzViMILlmZT6d-zRrykT4vg7rRV-Ah5Ybgw1S08agCe-i_X6LTxZYsjmaoaH1zzF/s320/Cliff,+Chris,+BC.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5059571258007181682" border="0" /></a>My partners in the arts conversation are Cliff Aerie and Dr. Chris Bakriges, founding members of the <a href="http://www2.blogger.com/www.oikos-ensemble.com">Oikos Ensemble</a>. Cliff has a great job title with the UCC: he is their official "Minister of Creativity."<br /><br />We chat a bit, play a little music, and then go for a long cup of coffee. Later on, I hook up again with the quartet, and we have a wonderful dinner in an Irish pub. It's been a relaxing and energizing day.<br /><br />Today is Tuesday, and we'll head off to Erie. Our concert tonight will be at the Wayside Presbyterian Church, a friendly place that has welcomed our music in the past. It's close to some of my family, and I'm looking forward to seeing them.presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-69610222266485150392007-04-20T22:43:00.000-05:002007-04-20T22:48:02.839-05:00Who picks the tunes for Muzak?OK, so yesterday I'm visiting a patient in a nearby hospital. As I walk down the hall, I recognize the "ambient melody" coming from the speakers overhead. It's a Duke Ellington tune called, "I've Got It Bad, and That Ain't Good."<br /><br />Probably not the best selection for the cardiac floor. Could somebody in charge please find a different tune?presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-21214992659831612972007-04-15T14:33:00.000-05:002015-05-09T07:34:31.456-05:00Evidence of Easter: Forgiveness<span style="color: black;">In the 20th chapter of John, the Risen Christ returns to speak a word to the church: “If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.”</span><br />
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The Greek word for “forgive” is cancel. The Greek word for “retain” is clutch. That’s the eternal choice: are you going to cancel or clutch? Are you going to let go or hang on? Amazingly, many of the people who struggle the most with this choice are church people.<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">I </span><span style="color: black;">subscribe to a magazine called </span><i style="color: black;">The Presbyterian Outlook</i><span style="color: black;">. About three weeks ago, the editor wrote a wonderful piece on the power of forgiveness. I know the </span>man, so I went online to the magazine website and wrote a quick note of thanks. “Your work is consistently helpful,” I said, “and I really appreciated the article.”</div>
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<o:p></o:p>No more than twenty minutes later, I received a piece of hate mail. Actually it was a piece of hate e-mail. A minister in <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">West Virginia</st1:place></st1:state> had read my two-sentence note online, and fired back his artillery at me. With plenty of angry words, he called my friend a hack, told me how he has ruined the magazine, and said in no uncertain terms that I was wrong to give him a compliment, because it’s people like him who are "destroying our church." Then he added a few surreal words: “And have a happy Easter.”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7C1H-He1Ebie3yuPKiRvBJ_dwtOUIUfVIL7slKlgyv-XOEtPgzSpirCeV0ZhXvFqZGwp1WIWvOdzc7xroOeBdvckY8ytTNoEU7hGmwX2B7RTOD-1jZJdHEJZisDXADsdypN8VpA1KeCGB/s1600-h/forgiveness3.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5053750355810340226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7C1H-He1Ebie3yuPKiRvBJ_dwtOUIUfVIL7slKlgyv-XOEtPgzSpirCeV0ZhXvFqZGwp1WIWvOdzc7xroOeBdvckY8ytTNoEU7hGmwX2B7RTOD-1jZJdHEJZisDXADsdypN8VpA1KeCGB/s320/forgiveness3.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 293px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 276px;" /></a>Anybody who stands up in front of other people for a living will receive some unusual mail; I've certainly had my share. If it’s signed, it goes into a file. If it’s unsigned, it goes into the circular file. This was really unusual, because it’s the first time I was ever condemned for complimenting somebody for an article on forgiveness. Obviously he’s still clutching something that he doesn’t want to let go.</div>
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<o:p></o:p>What do you do? Do you forgive or retain? Cancel or clutch? For my part I decided to cancel the poison; I looked at that nasty e-mail and hit the word “delete.” And I pray God will lighten the writer’s heart so he can release his grip on my friend.</div>
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In the words of Lewis Smedes, "When you forgive, you set a prisoner free. And then you discover that the prisoner was you."</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1LNGNWjXDv2HER8Xl2k4jA8s-7FR94A1ARhqwrQnyxKfRUAh-VyP1ZXHaNgOPVu0PpgKIveZ25_RinBuGXnjbfXgmCE3ZyhrYJyEZIex0m9io3ePzTcJiuon8EMBE_FLBrvYBVFYm4I_3/s1600-h/Forgiveness-Cartoon.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><br /></a></div>
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presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-84226242813410771482007-03-26T10:45:00.000-05:002008-12-11T01:51:11.214-05:00No Mere Fish Story<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN3sggsWLhaOKdKhqES87JFXFgbXs3_YM030rdaVFcghPYhEkZHGPbnbO4e88P8C8pB4zcgK6qQnqvdPmwfAv9IC7KFrJ_MiIeJIq5zlsWEIGQ4A0LlPMnIXPD0brBAqbtzQqqgBl-erA_/s1600-h/Jonah.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 284px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN3sggsWLhaOKdKhqES87JFXFgbXs3_YM030rdaVFcghPYhEkZHGPbnbO4e88P8C8pB4zcgK6qQnqvdPmwfAv9IC7KFrJ_MiIeJIq5zlsWEIGQ4A0LlPMnIXPD0brBAqbtzQqqgBl-erA_/s320/Jonah.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5042988676403312146" border="0" /></a>Just finished preaching through the book of Jonah. I took on successive chapters for the four Sundays of March, and the experience was a hoot.<br /><br />The popular memory of the book of Jonah is that it's a tale of a man who was swallowed by a fish. With a closer look, we discover the Big Fish has a bit part. He's merely the water taxi for a prophet who ran away from God.<br /><br />There's so much in Jonah's story that is appropriate for Lent. Jonah avoids what God calls him to do, and go in the opposite direction. When the fish carries him back to his jumping-off place, he reluctantly goes to Nineveh, where he was first sent. He preaches a gloom and doom sermon, using a minimum of effort - only five words in Hebrew, only traveling a nominal distance into the city. And he is furious when the whole city repents and God changes his mind about blasting away Jonah's congregation.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgByAKXSxKSK46le66Bj-s-vgcahH-jhEBgKd5LHtbeoxXI5PllSBHv0_fmkBHM2H7tY1WzzcJaP1L0jFxFyb8Yhyphenhyphenap39E2WxfwEuetlQ0XX7kIU03E6JciTz08wAl53S5gl3wvLmukACKg/s1600-h/jonah2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 185px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgByAKXSxKSK46le66Bj-s-vgcahH-jhEBgKd5LHtbeoxXI5PllSBHv0_fmkBHM2H7tY1WzzcJaP1L0jFxFyb8Yhyphenhyphenap39E2WxfwEuetlQ0XX7kIU03E6JciTz08wAl53S5gl3wvLmukACKg/s320/jonah2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5042988809547298338" border="0" /></a>"That's why I ran away in the first place," Jonah complains to God. "You're too kind to these people, and I couldn't stomach the fact that you would probably forgive them!"<br /><br />To put it another way, Jonah is furious because God doesn't run the world according to the laws of punishment. If you do something wrong, there is always the possibility of forgiveness.<br /><br />This is exactly what Jonah complains about: God is slow to anger, abounding in steadfast love and mercy, ready to relent from punishment. He grumbles about it.<br /><br />All of this is a set-up for God's last word in the book: "Shouldn't I be concerned about 120,000 people who don't know their right hand from the left? And their cattle?" It's a question still dangling in the air. It's a sign that God is interested in something more than punishment.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwvwLj1QT83fG3EOZeHsCERDN_QqyTe-lhaOh8cjoZbASuWOVj_DHYlKiXhltYlrtt7uwT49O7bfyx5IYYJDBuHFQYs5xB7T8J8wqNY1LWOSf77f9gJi-6Y6rBhW4-3-V__dKlMPgQLB5q/s1600-h/jonah3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwvwLj1QT83fG3EOZeHsCERDN_QqyTe-lhaOh8cjoZbASuWOVj_DHYlKiXhltYlrtt7uwT49O7bfyx5IYYJDBuHFQYs5xB7T8J8wqNY1LWOSf77f9gJi-6Y6rBhW4-3-V__dKlMPgQLB5q/s320/jonah3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5042989011410761266" border="0" /></a>Thank God that the last word on our lives will be compassion – God’s compassion. Thank God that the end of punishment comes on Good Friday. The world punished Jesus by putting him on a cross - - and when we did that, we ourselves were not punished. Instead we heard the Crucified One pray, “Father, forgive them, they don’t know their right hand from their left.”<o:p> </o:p><span style=""> </span><p class="MsoNormal">Well, so much for scorekeeping. Life is not about keeping track of sins, or clutching our grudges, or clinging to our judgments, or comparing ourselves favorably to others. Life is about the mystery of God’s compassion. Every moment of our lives is a milestone of God’s mercy. Every moment is an extravagant gift we could never afford to purchase. The grace of God is a gift, a free gift to pass along to others.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Makes me wonder: do you suppose the clearest sign that people belong to God is that they've decided to stop punishing one another?<br /></p>presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-65750217994056063362007-03-21T09:52:00.000-05:002008-12-11T01:51:11.717-05:00On prayers in the Garden<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguTExID-SsVKbDfxOSTD8GTSNFW4ZzomnFfDADOK8Kjz0_fKGqF1JHRpgKqCzlIQS-VIqmOXiz6A93s1X1FqM0ulsMSe0Lo5Kowdf0ggpCb5O4lyTt3gdJK9DXjMxRLR75Y3lao2lf8WPj/s1600-h/Gethsemane.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5044394272630603314" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 198px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 260px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguTExID-SsVKbDfxOSTD8GTSNFW4ZzomnFfDADOK8Kjz0_fKGqF1JHRpgKqCzlIQS-VIqmOXiz6A93s1X1FqM0ulsMSe0Lo5Kowdf0ggpCb5O4lyTt3gdJK9DXjMxRLR75Y3lao2lf8WPj/s320/Gethsemane.JPG" border="0" /></a><i>“Then Jesus withdrew from them about a stone’s throw, knelt down, and prayed, “Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me; yet, not my will but yours be done.” (Luke 22:41-42)<?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></i><o:p> </o:p><p class="MsoNormal">This is one of the few prayers of Jesus that has been recorded for us. It comes from the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 /><st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">Garden</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename st="on">Gethsemane</st1:placename></st1:place> shortly before his arrest, and it teaches three truths about prayer:<o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>(1) </o:p>Jesus is not bashful about <i>saying what he wants</i>.</p><p class="MsoNormal">(2) Jesus knows he <i>may not get</i> what he wants. </p><p class="MsoNormal">(3) Jesus will ultimately <i>align himself with what God is doing</i> in the world.<span style="font-size:+0;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">Anybody who prays can speak of these insights. We must ask God for our heart’s desires. We have to respect God enough to receive whatever answer is given to our requests. And when the dust settles, the deeper call is to accept whatever God provides or doesn’t provide, so that we can participate in God’s greater desires for the world.<o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Some are surprised that Jesus prayed to avoid his death. That, after all, is the “cup” which he wants removed. The church records this all-too-human moment in the Savior’s life. It seems as if he seeks an alternative to the cross. And why not? There will be humiliation, brutality, scorn, and heavenly silence. What healthy soul seeks such things? </p><p class="MsoNormal">Yet, whatever the reason, no alternative is provided - - and Jesus is crucified.<o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Later in Luke’s writings, the church will declare that Christ’s death on the cross was the “definite plan and foreknowledge of God” (Acts 2:23). Yes, but such declarations can never be made in advance. It’s only after we hear the sound of hammer and nails that we hear Jesus pray again: “Father, forgive them, they know not what they do.” God answers that prayer affirmatively. The cross becomes the signpost of salvation.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Centuries later, there’s a chapel in the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">Garden</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename st="on">Gethsemane</st1:placename></st1:place> called “The Church of All Nations.” It is surrounded by olive trees. In the garden, tour guides chat piously how some of those trees are ancient enough to have heard Jesus pray. Maybe so. But as you approach the door of the chapel, a sign warns: “No <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">Explanations</st1:placename> <st1:placename st="on">Inside</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">the Church</st1:placetype></st1:place>.”<o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5P366j0ysTgl2WL-L4Mp3NI2qhtGphZNi-tnKuhy7QcwbpTiq36VHhK56KLvMEfpKbhN_7cA0W5_-o4o_Wm71oS75wHiGf-dss1A6DB8iXkp1O9lO_0an0_K23ItAWnSp2Gvmubsd0emp/s1600-h/explanations.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5044394603343085122" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5P366j0ysTgl2WL-L4Mp3NI2qhtGphZNi-tnKuhy7QcwbpTiq36VHhK56KLvMEfpKbhN_7cA0W5_-o4o_Wm71oS75wHiGf-dss1A6DB8iXkp1O9lO_0an0_K23ItAWnSp2Gvmubsd0emp/s320/explanations.jpg" border="0" /></a>The chapel of prayer is not a place for tourists or pious chatter. It is only for those who stand before the mystery of God’s ways in the world. It is for those who ask while kneeling.</p>presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8947870616247138034.post-38610040133711099082007-03-17T07:39:00.000-05:002008-12-11T01:51:12.652-05:00How St. Patty Drove Out the Snakes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJeJNgABOSMQnNgwQWNmXTFMWK92_hrlkNuhbfB17dRn9E6cuI9rf4XmZmELfCtyon8_TunN7nrEHw3tWde745mmxu1vT_5ilM0cXQDdzoGOz5xQpHCUYsz4q30iSpKvGW1vK6D57Pco-d/s1600-h/stpatday1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5042901316768511458" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 193px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 140px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJeJNgABOSMQnNgwQWNmXTFMWK92_hrlkNuhbfB17dRn9E6cuI9rf4XmZmELfCtyon8_TunN7nrEHw3tWde745mmxu1vT_5ilM0cXQDdzoGOz5xQpHCUYsz4q30iSpKvGW1vK6D57Pco-d/s320/stpatday1.jpg" border="0" /></a>Last Saturday was the big St. Patrick's Day parade in nearby Scranton. It's touted as the "third largest St. Patrick's parade in the country." There are some who believe it's held a week earlier than the actual holiday so that people can get intoxicated two weekends in a row.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5042901505747072498" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 201px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 147px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc6HLhBWM9rMnSHOpVLoYYqixDvqOuXtbkfrm8Ij3wUwnx7SA8szhMZo6I16wO3fs8GoJltyZDVTEHKKaHBUg-IKc4draCCxz00iSaDJUjV3HZljmkTA8L7xfg2qa3HB0IUqaxJ6XbNowg/s320/stpatday5.jpg" border="0" />Nobody we know is neutral about the parade. With a small Jesuit college near the parade route, there's no telling what you might see. Two years ago, three undergrads wandered down the middle of Mulberry Street. Shirtless, they were insulated in green body paint. One was swigging from a gallon milk jug that he had loaded full of stout. It was only 8:45 in the morning.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrdqMGUw0RxV504wGGj6KBLrH4ZK9D1WVznZj0JRrxVmeE4bSvb4eUqh6wJZSg8zMgXSbLcWSZIbERkFmn3_kevtw6jP7gfs-EY6HWJYDe4Rc9LYCzq4JNV9v9PuqWYmRDlXA9quEzkNCN/s1600-h/stpatday4.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5042902661093275138" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrdqMGUw0RxV504wGGj6KBLrH4ZK9D1WVznZj0JRrxVmeE4bSvb4eUqh6wJZSg8zMgXSbLcWSZIbERkFmn3_kevtw6jP7gfs-EY6HWJYDe4Rc9LYCzq4JNV9v9PuqWYmRDlXA9quEzkNCN/s320/stpatday4.jpg" border="0" /></a>The local Irish Christians don't seem embarrassed by any of this, even though there is nothing in the stories of St. Patrick to authorize it. The ancient saint was abducted by pirates (probably with their own snouts full of stout). Taken to Ireland against his will, Patrick escaped six years later and returned home.<br /><br />Then he experienced a call from God to return to Ireland and preach the Gospel. Ever thankful to God for his previous escape, he followed orders and did just that. The legend is that he drove out the snakes off of Ireland by <em>preaching the Gospel</em> to them. Who am I to argue with that?<br /><br />Each year I am concerned about the local alcohol abuse in mid-March. While tavern owners in a Rust Belt city argue that it's good for business, it is a waste of perfectly good brain cells.<br /><br />Not only that: I thought that Irish Christians were generally more serious about keeping a holy season of Lent. Given the current practice, the only repentance seems to take place on the morning after. And it lasts for only fifty-one weeks. Or less.presbybophttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17551073066437287094noreply@blogger.com0