Wrinkles

My first impression was that she was v-e-r-y wrinkled! 

She was unknown to me, but she was there at the funeral home with some of the other family members I had come to visit.  My eye gravitated to her as soon as I entered the room. She was an older woman who had a very expressive face.  Deep furrows mapped out lines in her cheeks and around her eyes.  She was, in a word, "wrinkly" ---- if that's a word.  

Now I don't mind wrinkles.  I think they are testimonies to a full life, the marks of wisdom and a well seasoned life.  Smooth faces are kind of like a new pair of jeans that haven't been broken in yet.  But wrinkled faces are one-of-a-kind treasures. They are like the rich patina on a piece of antique furniture that can't be duplicated on a piece of wood by a quick application of stain.  Wrinkles take time to make, like the slow changing of copper from its bright shiny glow to the greenish sheen it takes on over a period of years that says "this has stood the test of time." 

So, I noticed this woman's wrinkles, but something didn't seem right about them. Of course, it's not every day that I spend a great deal of time pondering someone else's wrinkles, especially when they belong to a person to whom I have just been introduced.  Still, there was no denying it.  Even to the recently introduced pastor, there was something peculiar about these wrinkles. But what was it?

Just then, my friend offered insight into this wrinkly faced woman:  "She really is a wonderful and happy person!"  With that, I saw that face completely rearrange itself.  The woman broke into a broad smile. Instant transformation! Then I knew what was wrong before: the woman wasn't smiling. That's what made those wrinkles seem unnatural.  When she smiled, every fold of skin, every grooved line, seemed to snap to attention.  Every surface line conformed itself perfectly with the muscles underneath. Every groove and muscle became one with the true spirit of that woman.  This is who she is.  She is a smiling person. That's what she spends most of her time doing.  Her wrinkles are marks of her happiness and her true nature.

In Advent, we spend a lot of time thinking about wrinkles and grooves and ruts and straight paths. John the Baptist steps onto the stage with words like, "Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight." (Matthew 3:3)

This advent, I'm going to spend some time preparing by thinking of that woman and her wrinkly face.  When she grew into that smile, she aligned her face, her grooves, her muscles, and her spirit with God's purpose for her in life: to smile. She was doing what she does best.  The wrinkles got their kinks out and made straight paths in her face that seemed to go straight into the very heart of her being. 

It is a beautiful sight when our wrinkles get lined up with what God wants us to be. During Advent, may we be open to God's love and inspiration, and may our wrinkles be signs that the Christ child has made his home in our lives.

My Little Red Knife

I didn't know that I needed a little red knife when, more than a decade ago,
Martha's brother Frank presented one to me and one to all the family members
one Christmas.  I had been ignorantly sailing through life with a pocket that
was devoid of one of the most crucial items anyone could every carry.

And I didn't know it.

Now, if I reach down into my pocket and I don't feel that knife's familiar smooth side and ridges, panic sweeps over me.  Did I lose it?  Is it gone forever?  Where could it be?  Where did I have it last?

My little red knife is multi-faceted. There is, of course, a knife blade.
Then's there's the nail file which sometimes can double as a screw driver or
pry bar.  I particularly enjoy the mini-scissors.  When my wife is forcefully
asserting to me that someone stole her scissors (a rather uncomfortable
experience for me now that the kids are out of the house) I can at least whip
my little scissors out and offer them to her (while I'm trying to think where
I last had her scissors!).  My knife's tools are nicely rounded out with a
toothpick (cleanliness not guaranteed), and a small but effective pair of
tweezers.

Just in the last few months I have used my little red knife to open packages
and letters, cut my fishing line, peel an apple, cut pictures out of the
newspaper, dig splinters out of my finger, loosen a screw, saw through weeds
rapped around my rototiller, harvest broccoli in the garden and remove
something stuck between my teeth (it was an emergency--no time for
cleanliness!)

I even lent it to my brother one day recently when we ran out of minnows on
one of our crappie quests.  He used it to dissect a fish, the dissected parts
to be used for bait so that we would have something to present to the
especially ravenous crappies that day.  On the habitat trip, I performed
surgery on the hand of the local construction committee chairperson who's
finger had become home to what was supposed to be a part of the house.  My
tweezers grabbed that little sliver and restored his bliss.  They grabbed
several slivers that week as well as being used to reform ragged fingernails
torn in the construction process.

People depend upon me.  They depend upon me having my little red knife handy
at all times.  It has become a part of me.  My self image would suffer without
it.  And before it was given to me, I didn't even know I needed it.

My little red knife is a lot like faith.  A lot of people don't know they need
it, but when someone gives it to them, they soon can't figure out how they
ever got along without it.  They begin to carry Jesus' word's and promises
with them all the time.  They're continually reaching into their pocket or
their heart for it.  They find that they depend upon it, and others depend
upon them having it.

I want you to know that my little red knife, like my faith, is in my pocket,
giving me confidence, ready for action at all times.  I can't imagine how I
would get along without either one of them.

The Parson Ponders: Offering Plates

I've seen all kinds of them...brass, silver, aluminum, wooden.  I guess you can make an offering plate out of just about anything.  The fact is, I've discovered that when people want to give they can always find something in which to collect the offering.

Through the years, I have placed my offerings in hats, buckets, wicker baskets, china bowls, styrofoam cups, and paper bags.
I've seen five gallon water jugs fill with coins to support youth group trips.
It seems clear that if you give people opportunity to make an offering, they
will.  Something yearns within us until we share from our bounty.

As a child on a fishing vacation in Quebec, we attended a French speaking
Catholic church on a Sunday morning.  I couldn't understand the lessons nor
the sermon spoken in French; nor could I understand the liturgy sung in Latin.
But I did understand when the usher came around with what looked like my dad's
landing net.  He inserted that pole into our row, and passed the pouch on the
end of it to each one the row's occupants.  We may not have understood
anything else in the service, but we understood the offering.

At one mass worship service I attended, the offering was collected in Kentucky
Fried Chicken buckets.  There's something strange about having Colonel Sanders
smiling approvingly at you as you drop your money into the bucket.  But then,
maybe that's not such a bad idea.  Perhaps it would be good to have a smiling
Jesus on the side of our offering plates...or smiling children...or smiling
hungry people...or thankful senior citizens.

In the old testament people felt the urge to make offerings too.  They made
offerings for a variety of reasons.  Some felt guilty, and the offering helped
ease their conscience.  Some wished to honor another person, and they gave an
offering to God in tribute to the person.  Some gave an offering as they asked
for God's favor.

But mostly, they made offerings out of thanksgiving for the generosity of
their creator who gave them all that they had.  God created their world.  God
created them with all of their talents and abilities.  They offered their
"first fruits" as a sign that the first and the best of what they had belonged
to God.

In the New Testament, Jesus admired the widow who felt the urge to give to the
poor even though she herself was nearly penniless.  And since there was an
offering box for the poor outside the temple, this widow who felt blessed in
spite of her lack of funds dropped in her two coins, all that she had.

Even children understand the offering plates.  They love to bring their
offering and have the privilege of putting their quarter in the plate as it
goes by.  Sometimes Dad even lets them take hold of the plate and pass it
themselves in spite of the ever present danger of the slipped plate dropping
and banging to the floor and coins rolling to who knows where under the pew.
But then, as I have observed, even sure handed ushers occasionally lose
their grip on the full plate!

The offering plates aren't just about money.  They are about a deep seated
need within us to acknowledge the one who made us out of nothing.  Whether the
offering receptacles are made of fine polished brass or a cardboard chicken
holder, we will use whatever is at hand to offer up a portion of what has been
given to us.

The Back of the Head

October 11, 2015 -  I attended worship at David Lutheran Church in Canal Winchester last Sunday. I sat directly behind an older man. The back of his head captivated me. I couldn’t think who might be on the other side of that head, but that head posterior sure looked familiar. When he turned around during the passing of the peace, I instantly recognized him: “Hap!” Yes, it WAS a head I’d seen before: Pastor Hap Hasenhauer. I hadn’t seen him in over a decade, and that was when he served in Bucyrus and I in Galion, but once you’ve seen the back of a head, I guess it sticks with you. It reminded me of this Parson Ponders that I wrote in 2002.

I was sitting in my pew at a clergy conference.  We were at worship.  My thoughts were directed towards the goodness of God’s love and mercy.  But then I saw the back of  that head.  It was 3 or 4 rows ahead of me.  I said, “I’ve seen the back of that head before.  It looks like the head of that pastor who I used to know but haven’t seen for probably 20 years.”  I kept studying the back of the head of that pastor.  I’ll call him Pastor “Long-ago.”

I kept wondering.  I said, “I don’t ever remember studying the back of Pastor Long-ago’s head, but when I see it, I instantly know, or think I know that it is him, even though I haven’t seen him for two decades.  How very strange.”

A little later in the service, it was time for the passing of the peace.  I saw him turn around to pass the peace with those around him.  I saw his face.  “Nope,” I said, “I was wrong.  It’s not Pastor Long-ago.  It doesn’t look like him.” 

Still when he sat down again, and I was again confronted with the back of that head, I was struck anew by its familiarity.  It wasn’t until we got done with worship and got to our coffee and cookies that the riddle was answered.  As I strolled along munching a chocolate chip delight, a voice called out, “Well, it’s Tim Keeler!”  You guessed it.  It was Pastor Long-ago.  A face can change quite a lot in 20 years, I discovered.  But the back of the head, that’s another story.

We often say, “I know this or that like the back of my hand,” but it must also be true that we know people like the back of their head. I've been studying the backs of heads ever since.  I find that I know lots of people by the back of their head.

There are some important faith things we know that we often don't realize we know.  When Jesus told the disciples that he was going to prepare a place for them, and that he would come back and take them to that place, he ended with these words:  "And you know the way to the place where I am going." (John 14:4)  Thomas didn't know that he knew the way to where Jesus was going.  He questioned: "Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?"

Jesus said to him, "I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me."

I have a feeling that just like we know more about the backs of people's heads than we think we know, all of us know more about faith than we think we know. We trip ourselves up.  We forget that we know about these things.  We get bogged down with trivial questions that block us from seeing the important truth that we already know.

Jesus said to him, "I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me."  We know that.  We may not know every single answer to every extraneous question, but we know that Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life.  We know that our hope lies not in what we know but whom we know. 

Take a look at the back of a few heads this week.  I'll bet you'll be surprised at how many times you will be able to identify folks by the back of their head.  You know more about them than you think you know.

And I'll bet you know more about your savior than you think you know.  Whatever you don't know about him, you know that he is the way, the truth and the life.

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.