The Waiting Room

An old time Parson Ponders for Lent that may be more valid today than when I first wrote it!

I've spent my share of time in waiting rooms.  Clergy people often seem to

find themselves in those kinds of places.  It used to be that I deplored

waiting rooms. Sitting there seemed like so much wasted time.  But over the

years, I've come to appreciate the waiting room more.  Waiting rooms are

places for pondering.

Last week when I was in the waiting room I pondered my shoes, the nubs on my jacket, the construction of the chair in which I was sitting, the snow outside the window and the posters on the wall.  When there were people present I pondered the people.  Taking a good book along works well too, for there are usually long periods with no interruptions (like for instance, the nurse saying "The Doctor will see you now!)

And of course, there are the magazines.  Waiting rooms give you that second

chance to catch up on things that happened several months ago that perhaps

you were too busy to peruse at that time.  Just last week I finally got to

read the old issues of Newsweek that told the story of Michael Jordan's

retirement, the ill fated military action in Somalia, and the floods in the

midwest.  It is always interesting to read what reporters and politicians have

to say and what they predict will happen next week when you're reading it in a

waiting room four to six months after the fact.

One of the articles I read last week that I wouldn't have wanted to miss was a short reflection by a woman named Michelle McCormick.  She was reflecting on some of these pondering opportunities too.  She was making the case that all of us need these times when there is no outside stimulus, where our minds simply run free.  She said that jogging was one of those times for her.  She

said that she had solved many a problem and written many a story while

jogging.

And Michelle posed this question:  If Isaac Newton were living today and, he

were sitting under the proverbial apple tree would he have seen the apple fall

and thought about gravity being the cause of its falling?  Her guess was that

in today's world where every moment is filled with music or some other

stimulus, he would likely have been listening to a walkman and would never

have noticed the plummeting fruit, and so never speculated on the theory of

gravity.  But fortunately in his time, Newton had the luxury of daydreaming,

of sitting under a tree and letting the mind roam---sort of like sitting in a

waiting room today.

The season of Lent offers us a time to daydream, to sit under the shadow of a

rough hewn tree and ponder what may have passed us by in earlier, busier

times.  Lent invites us to shut off the walkman for a few moments, to sit in

quiet contemplation and look at our world and look at Jesus and see where the experience takes us.  Even Jesus needed the waiting room experience.  His trip to the wilderness as his ministry was about to begin was a sort of journey to the waiting room.  Surrounded by the drab, lifeless landscape, his mind and spirit were free to roam, free to center on possibilities, free to grow.

And so I invite you to Lent.  I invite you to God's waiting room.  Like your

doctors' office, this waiting room is stacked with lots of stories of God's

activity in our lives and a whole cast of interesting people.  They are

all there waiting to take hold of our minds, whether we are bored, weary or

fearful.  They are there to bring us up to date on what we might have missed

in busier times. 

God's waiting room is a beautiful place, a welcoming place, a freeing place.

I hope you will be able to spend time there this Lent.

The Redbud

The Redbud

(A post from when I was a pastor in Galion, Ohio. I offer it as a tribute to this beautiful tree, now passed.)

If you would have asked me a few days ago about the Redbud tree by the Episcopal Church, I would have said, “What Redbud tree?”

You might have gone a little farther with it.  You might have said, “You know, the one by the east end of the Episcopal Church.”

And I would have said, “There’s a Redbud tree by the east end of the Episcopal Church?”

But, if you asked me today, I would have said, “Wow, that tree is pretty spectacular!”

I should know everything that there is to know about the outside of the Episcopal Church.  I drive by it often enough.  It’s not unusual for me to drive past the Episcopal Church  five or six times a day.  Often, I am stopped at the light at the corner of Walnut and South Union.  I have lots of time to look things over.

But, as I said, I would not have known anything about that Redbud tree until today.  Because today, I followed my usual path, and  as I was coming to the  light, glanced over towards the sign, and today, for the first time, I said to myself, “What a glorious sight that tree is!”

As I began driving along, I started looking for more Redbud trees.  I had an easy time spotting them.  Every one of them was like a diva at the opera stepping up to center stage, proud and ready, poised to command the attention of anyone within earshot.

What shall I compare this to? The meek shall inherit the earth? Suffer the little children to come to me? Consider the lilies of the field? The woman with two coins who was going unnoticed that day at the temple Treasury box?  Then Jesus glanced at her and exclaimed, “Look at that woman’s faith!” While everyone else was saying, “What woman?”, Jesus had his own Redbud experience.

The miracle of all this is that we know we are surrounded by Redbud trees all the time, even though, most of the time, we barely notice that they’re there.  And truth be told, we are surrounded by “Redbud” people all the time as well.  God keeps surprising us.  God keeps populating our lives with folks who, at first glance, seem to blend into the background.  They are not the movers and shakers.  They are not the majestic Oaks, nor the towering Redwoods.  They’re just, kind of, “there”.  We pay them little mind, but just when we have forgotten them, God bedecks them with glory and a spectacular presence in our lives.

I have visited many an aged saint in a nursing home or in the confines of their living room, who I would count as people of the Redbud variety.  Their aches and pains and creaking bones have forced them into the background.  They no longer can take their place front and center to use the gifts God gave them.  But just when they seem to disappear, you look up into their face or into their eyes, and there is the very glory of God.  In a comment, in the flash of a smile, in the lilt of a laugh, in a bit of wisdom simply stated, there is a spectacular view of God.

Likewise, they say that children should be seen and not heard, and a lot of the time, they are.  But, on the other hand, nothing can light up a dull day like a child just being themselves and offering up a bit of innocence and the majesty of God.

It might be worth taking a look around you.  The Redbud trees are about to fade into the background again.  But one thing is for certain: there are Redbud trees and Redbud people lurking all about you, gifts from God, and God is about to show you beauty and glory in and through them.

The Smudge

Those of us who are pastors, are about to encounter one of the most gripping moments of the year: Ash Wednesday, the day of the smudge. 

It seems simple enough. Take last year's palms from Palm Sunday. Burn them. Sift them so
that only the black powdered ash is left. Invite the people to come and kneel before the altar. 

As they kneel, dip your thumb in the ashes, put your thumb to the kneeling person's forehead, make the sign of the cross, and say the simple words "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

Simple, yes, but profoundly gripping. 

I ponder all the foreheads my thumb has traced. Some are smooth and young and fresh, wondrous examples of God's creative powers. Some are wrinkled with deep furrows: evidence of worries and struggles, past and present, and exposure to harsh elements in the world around us. Sometimes the thumb passes over skin as soft as cashmere; sometimes it bounces roughly over furrows like a car going over uneven railroad tracks.

But all of these foreheads came from the same source and all are destined for the same transformation. They all came from dust. They all will return to the dust.

Sometimes an infant is brought in mother's arms, a child who last Ash Wednesday was literally dust, but now the dust is transformed into tiny fingers, eyes, and lips: God has brought the dust to life. It is hard for a pastor not to feel God looking over his shoulder, and God whispering in his ear as the thumb reaches out to make the smudge: "Pastor, do you see the miracle before you? Do you see what I have done with the dust? Have you shared the joy of this miracle with your people?"

Sometimes, one stricken with cancer or heart disease, comes and kneels with a knowing expression upon their face, knowing full well that the time is near for their body to return to the dust, to become again like that smudge on their forehead. No words need to be spoken between pastor and parishioner, but both know the meaning of the smudge.

Sometimes, one who has stood at the grave of a mother or father, comes and kneels with all of the questions, uncertainties and hopes that death brings. Sometimes the smudge helps that person connect again with their loved one, to hold their dustiness in common, to acknowledge the truth about dust, and to hold on to the promise for dusty people beyond this life.

We are people who should never go too far afield from the smudge. We should never get so far away from it that we can no longer see the smudge. We should never lose our reference point of from where we came nor to where we are going. People who know they are dust know that it took a miracle for dust to be filled with life. People who realize that only God could make life out of dust know that if God made life out of dust once, God can do it again. God knows the secret. God knows the recipe. When we have returned again to dust,

God knows what to do with our dust. We won't be just a smudge. We will have life!

Fascinated by Christmas

Christmas is coming.  With that in mind, and with Christmas list in hand, 

Martha and I made a trip to our local mall to begin our gift search in 
earnest.

We had just bagged one trophy gift at one end of the mall and were 
heading towards the other end.  Out in the middle of the mall walkway was 
a display of some sort, lamps and knick knacks and such.  I paid little 
heed.  I had other things in mind.  

But then I saw this little toddler, barely old enough to walk.  He 
toddled over to the display, and immediately his head snapped back in 
order to get the full view of what was in front of him.  His mouth 
dropped open, and he stood there in complete, unashamed awe.  

I had to slow up my step long enough to glance over and see what he was 
looking at.  It was a globe about the size of a volleyball, made of 
chunks of glass.  It revolved and had a light inside that glowed through 
the chunks of glass.   Rich reds, greens and blues lit up the display and 
his face.

Soon his mother came to see what he had found.  He oooo-ed and aaaah-ed 
trying to let his mother know how special this thing was.  The child was 
totally fascinated.  

I marveled at the innocent wonder that children have, especially at 
Christmas time.  I have to admit that, inside, I yearned to be fascinated 
like that, to be in wonder and awe like that child.  I commented to 
Martha, "Oh the wonder of kids!"

Later on in our mall trip, we circled back by that display one more time.
I have to admit that, because I had seen that child so taken by the glass 
chunked globe, I had to see it for myself, up close.  It was indeed, 
marvelous, bright and colorful.  I can see how the toddler was so taken 
with it.

I pray that, somehow, this Christmas we will encounter people who come to 
the manger and stand before the Christ child in total fascination, awe 
and wonder.  By their awe and wonder, they draw us into the wonder of the 
word made flesh. 

I pray that we will take time to see the wonder in our children as they 
kneel at the manger, eyes transfixed on the gift that is before them. 

I pray that our worship will catch us like that globe of glass chunks 
caught that boy, and that we will be struck speechless before the beauty 
of the Christ child so that we are moved to profound oooohs and aaaahs. 

I pray that we, like that child in the mall, will draw our families to 
the place where the gift can be seen.

I pray that because others in proximity to us have seen the awe and 
wonder in us, they will be drawn to circle back again to see what moved 
us to such wonder.

In reality that's what Christmas is, a time of awe.  Joseph stands in 
awe.  Mary holds the child in awe.  Shepherds kneel in awe.  Wise men 
travel and present gifts in awe.  

In a world that is sometimes aw-ful, it is time for an awe-filled 
Christmas. 

Strength Through Weakness

(Note: this is a pondering on an ailing Pope John Paul II's visit to the holy land in March 2000, a powerful testimony to God's power even today.)

Whether people belong to the Roman Catholic church or not, all but the hardest or hearts couldn’t help being  touched by the sight of the ailing Pope John Paul II making his pilgrimage to the holy land, paying homage at biblical sites, presiding at mass, talking to a wide variety of middle east leaders, shedding tears at the holocaust memorial and placing a note in the wailing wall.  What the pope did in his visit there transcends even the Roman Catholic Church, as vast an organization as that is.

What was  it about this bent over man with trembling limbs who seems to call upon   every bit of strength just to move about, that reaches out to us and makes us take notice of him and his mission?

He is, understandably, the most powerful religious figure in the world, but it is not his power that draws us in.  He controls a vast empire of Christians around the world, but it is not his control of that organization that touches us. Papal trappings, miters and chasubles cannot reach across the divide between Catholics and Protestants, Jews and Muslims and even nonbelievers, as he has.

He is of keen political  mind.  He meets with presidents and less democratic rulers, and they listen, at least while he’s with them.  Still, we expect such from strong leaders.  That is not what has reached beyond our exteriors and taken hold of our hearts.

The thing that has made him so strong in our minds, the thing that has gotten us past the fact that he is Catholic and we are not, is not his strength, but his weakness.  Actually, we have come to appreciate that his weakness has become his strength.

Most of us don’t want to be seen in public if we’re having a bad hair day, much less the kind of physical problems the pope has.  We try to keep others from seeing our frailties and imperfections.  We’re too proud to wear our reading glasses in public. 

Yet here is a bent and drooping man who chooses to place himself in the spotlight of the world in a place that is physically challenging even for those who are younger and healthier. 

Even more than that, he shows how weak he is: he, the holy religious leader, makes his way haltingly to the Western Wall, stands silently, then places a piece of paper in the Wall, a prayer asking  forgiveness from the Jewish people.

The note reads:
 
“God of our fathers, you chose Abraham and his descendants to bring your Name to the Nations. We are deeply saddened by the behavior of those who in the course of history have caused these children of yours to suffer, and asking Your forgiveness we wish to commit ourselves to genuine brotherhood with the people of the Covenant.”  At the bottom was his signature and the date.

Weak, frail, trembling, bent...the perfect vessel for God’s strength to come through!  God’s grace was sufficient for him.

It is the weakest, the most frail, the youngest, the oldest, the ignored, the most humble, even an ailing pope, who cut through all the nonsense and go straight to our hearts. May it’s because the weakness of these folks allows our defenses to go down so that we can see less of what we want and more of what God wants. God gave a powerful demonstration of that through this frail pope.

“My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.” 2 Corinthians 12:9

Time for the Naked Truth

It was one of those rare days in March: sunshine, 60 degrees, nothing I had to do, and enough energy in my reserve tank to get the old body moving and out of the house.  I picked up my latest “must have” tool, the pruning stick, and began sauntering around this old homestead, seeing what I could see, fixing what I could fix and trimming what I could trim.

Such a day in March is just the time to do that.  March is the “naked truth” time of the year.  Things can be seen in March that can’t be seen  the rest of the year, things hidden by green grass, tree leaves, heat induced laziness and our own busyness.  By March though, the grass has gone limp and been matted down by snow, the leaves are not there to hide what’s underneath, and the stark sunshine probes deep, all the way to the ground.

I took my pruning stick and began nipping away stems of unwanted bushes and briars around our pond.  In the heat of last summer, when just keeping the grass mowed between rain storms was an arduous task, I was willing to turn my head from these few little leaves along the pond bank.  But in the stark light of March, I can see what they’re up to.  It’s not one stem; it is a dozen stems!  It’s not just a foot high; it’s 3 feet high!  It’s not just that one scrub bush, it is briars and weeds and even some poison ivy vines slinking along the ground.  And they are swelling.  They are massing brigades at their stemmy borders. They are ready to reach for the heights this season.

Now I can see.  Now it’s clear what furtive plans they have.  Well, on this sunny day, when the Ides of March are raising their ominous hackles, I for one am acknowledging the naked truth---- and doing something about it.  Clip, clip, clip to you Mr. Transgressor! You shall not advance just now.  Yes, I know you will still be there. I know you will push forward wherever you can push forward, but today I have punched the “reset button.” It shall not be business as usual for you.

Is this not the business of Lent?  God’s business and our business?  It is the most stark time of the year, a time for the naked truth about us, and about God.  There is no hiding in the Lenten story of Gods love.  We cannot hide from what we are and how we have allowed brush and brambles to grow where they should not be growing in our lives.  This too, is the season of the stark love of Jesus hanging on a cross.  It will not be hidden any longer.  It is there for all to see.

A post script to my March pruning madness: what I was never able to see before today amid the brambles and brush there on the shore of our pond.  There nestled under all this unwanted clutter was a beautiful, young arborvitae bush.  Somehow, it had the courage and tenacity to sprout and hold its own in that very scruffy setting.  It will be a wonderful addition to that shoreline. 

That’s another part of the naked truth.  When our Lenten journey gets rid of some of the brambles in our lives, the Son can reach down to warm and invigorate some of the good parts of us that have been hidden. Maybe that will be the naked truth for you this lent!

Thankful for the Crust

Now that we're getting into the pumpkin pie season, I'll need to be fine tuning my pie eating skills.  I bet you will too. What's your technique?  


Personally, I am very careful when it comes to the crust.  Oh, I eat the crust.  I'm not one of those wasteful people who disdainfully lop it off and leave it sitting on the edge of the plate like a pile of chicken bones, good for nothing except as an offering for the garbage can.  But there's a time and place for crust, and it has to be handled deftly.


Sometimes I wonder about crust.  It almost seems like it is one of those things you could do without. Crust, by itself, isn't very appealing. Couldn't you just cook the pumpkin filling in a big bowl and then scoop out what you want and forget about the crust?  I think I remember my mother making pumpkin pie and having extra filling which she would pour into a mini pie pan without benefit of crust, and it tasted just like the real thing.


Crust does come in handy though, especially on Thanksgiving night, when you take a break from the football game, and you pass through the kitchen and see the remains of the pumpkin pie sitting there. As long as you're passing by, you might as well slice off a sliver of the pie, grab it by the crust, balance it on your hand and guide it into your mouth -- and it will all be gone by the time you get back to the living room and no one will ever know, unless they smell your pumpkin breath!


But here's my usual method for pumpkin pie disposal. (I'm starting to feel like Martha Stewart!)  First, slice off the point, stab it, and slide it into your mouth.  Next, slice off the second row, cut it in half and slide those two pieces in.  The third row usually divides nicely into three mouthfulls for the slice, stab and slide routine. That normally leaves just the fourth row and the crust.  I like to tip the pie on its back at this point so that I can sever the crust with just a little bit of pumpkin with it, leaving the main part of the fourth row to be divided into fourths and dispatched to tummyland.  


There are two things you never want to do.  First, you never want to eat the crust by itself, without some pumpkin attached.  Second, you never want to eat the crust last.  Always save at least one full crustless piece for your last bite.


I suppose I shouldn't be so hard on crust.  I guess you can't have pie without it.  It does hold the pie together.  It does provide a certain crunch and texture.  It does provide variety in the pie eating endeavor.  It does let you know you're getting to the end.  And I guess it doesn't taste really BAD.  Martha says she even likes plain crust, especially if she can sprinkle brown sugar on it.


There is a lot of "crust" in life,too, a lot of things that seem dull, tasteless, dry and not needed.  There's a lot of life that is routine and not very exciting.  It's not all pumpkin pie filling.  There's a lot of crust. Washing dishes, brushing teeth, vacuuming the rug, taking the trash out, laundry, changing your car's oil, doing taxes: in my book, it's all crust.  But maybe some of these things are what hold life together too.  Maybe we need a contrast between what is flashy and juicy and the more ordinary things of life.  You can do a lot of thinking and reflecting while your brushing your teeth, I have found.  This thanksgiving, give thanks for the crust.  It's all part of God's generous gift to us.