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.

The Gesture ...... When no words are needed

They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but- “arf, arf!”- here are a couple of  bow-wows who have broken new ground of late.

Martha and I have adopted a new habit.  It began this fall as we were driving along.  Martha was sharing some insightful comment with me.  I, of course, was all ears.  But suddenly, a thing of beauty appeared on the left side of the road, a gloriously bedecked tree, flaunting its coat of vibrant colors, a visual treat not to be missed.  It was approaching our field of view very quickly.  Martha’s story was progressing, but obviously, it was not about to end in the next 3 seconds.  What to do?

I felt like the guy in the McDonald’s commercial, you know, the one who is put on the spot by his lady.  She is appalled that her sister’s boyfriend thinks Sundays are just for watching football.  Quickly, he considers all the dire consequences that could come about if he responds in the wrong way, then smartly –just as he has done with his menu selections- he comes up with the answer: “He’s a jerk!”  She smiles.  Crisis averted.

Back in my dilemma, I waffled between interrupting Martha’s story and redirecting her to the tree in milliseconds of time, or just letting the tree pass. 

I think the Lord must have seen this as a desperate prayer from me, because, without even thinking about it, as if some heavenly messenger had grabbed my appendage, my arm swept sideways across my chest, starting at Martha’s eye and ending with outstretched palm towards the bejeweled tree. It worked beautifully.  The new gesture was almost as beautiful as the tree!

Ever since that day of “The Gesture,” we have been gesturing at all the fall sights around us. We hardly use words anymore!  Her arm goes out as if, “I present to you one of God’s glorious sights!”  My arm nods back, and the beauty is acknowledged.  In fact, words seem to cheapen the sight. Rarely can we come up with adequate descriptions of the splendor of the passing foliage.  But The Gesture; it simply presents the sight for what it is.  No words necessary.

What a gift! We stumbled upon “The Gesture.”  It directed Martha to the tree without completely interrupting her story.

I think Jesus used The Gesture too.  Sometimes he would gesture at a flower, a tree, a prostitute, a little child, a widow. Oh, we have a few words recorded about the events, but it was mostly about his gesture towards the sight he wanted people to see. I think particularly of the widow dropping her little bit of nothing into the temple treasury box. I can see Jesus smiling broadly, his arm reaching out, lifting up that woman’s act of love.

I wonder if we should be gesturing more in our daily lives.  Wouldn’t it be something if, every time we saw an act of love, or heard a note of wisdom, we simply held out our palm towards the person, thus saying to others, “Wasn’t that a beautiful thing that just happened here?”  It might even have been as beautiful as a crimson tree on a sunny fall day!

After all, if you’re driving along and accidentally cut in front of another driver, that driver may very well give you a gesture, a gesture of disapproval.  Why should all the angry people get all the gestures?  Why not, as people of faith, claim The Gesture, and use it for good?

I think our world could use a few less words and a few more gestures of the Jesus kind. If you see me gesturing when next we meet, I haven’t gone crazy.  I’m simply in awe of an act of beauty I have just seen, maybe from you!

Finally, I apologize for all these words; sometimes you just can’t get around ‘em.   Still, if I can get my head on straight and my actions aligned with my intentions, I’ll be letting “The Gesture” do some of my talking.  Sometimes, no words are needed!

Who’s Listening?

Over the course of my ministry, no matter what young parents thought to the contrary, I really did sympathize with them when they said, “Pastor, it’s such a struggle every time I come to church with my young kids.  I just can’t do church right now!”  Corralling kids in worship can be a challenge.

I realized that not everyone had the perfect two children that I had. I smiled proudly and peacefully each Sunday as I watched my two little angels nestled with their mother in the pew, hanging on every word I said and singing every hymn with gusto.  At least, that’s how it seemed to me from my perspective in the pulpit.  I’m not sure Martha had quite the same view.

Now comes a new turn of events.  I’m retired.  I am the pew sitter, and I have a grandson, a very wiggly, squiggly, animated, vocal, un-bashful grandson who comes to visit us from time to time ….. on Sunday ….. when it is church time!  Lord knows we fortify ourselves before each worship time.  We bring our bag of toys from home.  Keeler –that’s my grandson’s first name—grabs the bag of animals the church provides as soon as he comes through the church doors.  We give him his last minute instructions about how we act when we’re in God’s house.  We position one grandparent on each side of him in the pew, if possible.  And then the adventure begins!

This past Sunday, a moment of panic overtook me: Martha was the designated reader of the lessons.  I was left one on one with the boy during that time.  We had a whole pew to ourselves, so I wasn’t worried about him striking up a ruckus with anyone sharing our pew.  I did cringe a bit when Martha began reading and Keeler let out a loud, “Hi Grandma!”  The congregation giggled. I “ssshhhhh’d” him. I could still hold my grandparenting head high.

As she read on, I didn’t pay attention.  I was paying attention to Keeler.  He was on his knees, having the lion attack the camel.  “How bad could it get?” I reassured myself. “He’s playing with his toys.  I could do without the animal sounds, but people will understand.”  When it came to the responsive reading of the psalm, I mumbled through only a line or two.  My eye and mind were on the boy.

As Martha read through the closing lines of the second lesson, I was beginning to relax.  Soon, she would be done and back here with me to help me in this Herculean task.  She came to the last line, from Romans 7: Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death? Immeditaely, out came the loud answer to her question from Keeler’s mouth: I will!

Who’s listening now?!

I must admit, I have been astounded over the years by kids in worship.  I always knew they were absorbing something from the stained glass windows, the songs, the people, the rituals, the turning of the pages in the hymnal, the smell of wine after communion, the splashing of water on a baby’s head in baptism, but it soon became apparent that they gathered in even more than that.  They heard the word.  They made comments about the stories in my sermons.  They asked questions in the Children’s sermon about things I never thought they were thinking about, theological questions about who Jesus is and how he did the things he did.  Keeler is right in line with what I have seen over the years. He’s a multi-tasker.  He can play with his animals but listen to Grandma read at the same time.  And he is ready to answer: I will! I will deliver you from this body of death!

So a message to myself and all who sit with the kids in the pews, and the congregations that surround them: take heart, those little people are listening better than you might guess they are.  There is hope, and you may not be the worst kid overseer ever, even though you are thinking to yourself: “When Jesus said, ‘Let the children come’, he wasn’t talking about MY child at this stage of his or her development!”

And may all of us child watchers pray: “O God, give me the courage, patience and wisdom to allow my child to experience you in worship.”  We may not be able to pay attention in worship as much as we would like, but you can bet that the kids are listening!