The Creaking Toe

     I have a problem.  It's my toe.  It creaks.  At least I think that's what
it does.  I mean, saying that it squeaks doesn't seem right, and saying that
it cracks sounds like I should be headed for the emergency room.  Whatever the
right word for it is, my toe still makes funny noises when I walk.  I don't
know why.  It just does.  Seems like it always has.

     Most of the time I never notice or remember that I have a creaking toe.
When I'm walking around in the garage sweeping or nailing boards together I
never hear my toe creak.  When I'm walking uptown amid the noise of cars and
the wind, it's like my toe is the quietest piece of machinery anyone could
hope to own.  It's primarily when I'm "working" that I hear the "creak,
creak."  Do you know how quiet it can be walking down a hospital corridor?  Do
you know how a creaking toe can sound like a screaming siren when you're
creaking away down a hallway? Inevitably, the person I am visiting is in the
last room off the hallway, and I must creak past dozens of patients, nurses
and doctors who all must be saying to themselves, "What's that creaking
noise?"

     There was a time when I was very embarrassed by this.  I tried walking
stiff legged.  I tried arching my toe inside my shoe while I walked.  I tried
taking short steps so that my toe wouldn't bend so far.  Nothing worked.  I
even thought this might be a sign from the Lord that I shouldn't be a pastor.
After all, if I were a contruction worker, no one would ever know about my
creaking toe; but as a pastor, with the quietest of things to walk into--like
worship and funerals and marriage services -- oh my, disaster.

But then I thought of Moses, whose speech problem made him suggest to God that
he would make a very poor spokesman for God.  What if he would have become a
construction worker?  And Paul wrote of the "thorn in his flesh" that
indicated a physical problem he had, possibly epilepsy.  In 2 Corinthians 12
Paul says:  "Three times I prayed to the Lord about this and asked him to take
it away.  But his answer was: 'My grace is all you need, for my power is
greatest when you are weak.'"

I don't feel embarrassed by my creaking toe any longer, for it is at those
times when I am feeling the weakest -- when I speak for God to a person who is
facing a serious illness or a group of people trying to cope with the loss of
a loved one--that I hear the creak of my toe.  That creak is a reminder from
God, "My grace is all you need, for my power is greatest when you are weak."

Bill has the last laugh

Let it be known: Bill had a great last laugh …… even if it was at my expense. My brother Bill died on August 13^th from a fall, or a stroke, or both, but several weeks before that, he let out a carefree, unrestrained, straight from the soul laugh that did him and all of us good.

Brother George and Geri and Martha and I went over to visit Bill at the assisted living home where he had been since dementia and physical problems began taking priority in Bill’s life. The staff told us that they had just reworked the courtyard patio, so we went outside and took our place on a patio chair. We began talking old times with Bill. Even as the dementia progressed, Bill held on to facts and figures and memories of the past better than any of the rest of us. Want to know when some relative died, or when their birthday was? You’re best bet to get the right answer was to ask Bill.  Have a question about school or a vacation experience from 50 or 60 years ago? Ask Bill.

 

Still, the dementia was relentless, gnawing away at the realities of the present, making Bill’s smiles fewer and further between. There was a somber, far away look in Bill’s eyes that summer evening as we sat with him on the patio.

 

That’s when I happened to glance down at my pants. There on my lap was a big white bird splotch! I quickly went into feigned catastrophe mode: “I’ve been hit!” “Some bird has got me!” “Quick, a napkin, a Kleenex, a towel!” My trusty partners sprang into motion looking for something to dab up the bird poop. Bill tuned in and began to smile.

But it wasn’t done. Just as I reached for the scavenged Kleenex, another plop! This time, the bird dew landed on my shirt sleeve!

This is too much for Bill. Whatever dark cloud had been hovering over his consciousness quickly lifted. Bill let out a genuine happy, “Ha!!!” It was the Bill of old present among us. It was a real treat! Pretty funny that it took a dive bomber bird to break through the evil spell upon him. What a joy it was to see.

Now that Bill has transitioned to God’s place, where there is no such thing as dementia, I keep thinking about those bird splotches and Bill’s last laugh. It doesn’t take much pondering of the story of Jesus and the promises of scripture to get God’s picture. Like a splotch on my pants, God’s love and promises land on me, not to be ignored. And as I realize I’ve been hit, I can’t help but chuckle, and I can’t keep from looking up and hearing Bill’s “Ha!”

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