Thoughts by Tom Eggebeen

Tap Dancing and Prize Fights (But Not Preaching)

2022-07-01T11:32:00.002-07:00

I’m a preacher … lately retired, and now back again as an interim.

So, why not listen to some sermon podcasts?

I did … a “progressive” podcast, so to speak … good speakers in historic Protestant Churches … la la la.

I listened with hope - maybe I could land a few good ideas, some punchy phrases … insights with some creative way of saying it … who knows what? I listened in good faith.

What I heard was tap dancing - clickety clack, clickety clack, furious and fancy footwork … all around, toward, and post-haste away, from anything that would merit the term “sermon” in days such as ours.

What I heard were preachers scared to death - scared to face the reality of the day, scared to preach Jesus … preaching the Bible rather than preaching Biblically … offering nostrums and platitudes, sweet throwaway phrases devoid of meaning, seasoned a bit with the appearance of exegesis and maybe a fine quote or two.

Another image came to mind - that of prize fighting, when a boxer, for whatever reason, pulls her punch … holds back, looks good, flails around, with sweat and spit, yet fails to deliver the punch.

The world is teeter-tottering from one disaster to another … for me, good preaching considers the hopes and fears of all the years present in the congregation.

Folks know, full-well, what’s going on, if not in detail, then at least in their bones. They’re rattled and bewildered, even if they’re full-tilt running away from it all.

I was disappointed.

I turned, instead, to a political podcast created by some fine historians.

Historians who tell the truth, run to the smoke, and not away … who are rattled and bewildered, as we all are, but find solace in the truth - the truth that offers hope, the truth that includes the darkest of potential outcomes - danger, defeat, and destruction.

The prophets offered both hope and the warning … Jesus called the people to faithfulness, with the reminder that the present course could well lead to disaster. History is loaded with hope, and with a crushing reality - that sometimes the worst will happen.

Guernica is bombed. Ukraine is being demolished. The Supreme Court is in the hands of the Federalist Society.

Truth has a hard edge … the enemies of truth are legion, and those who abide in the truth know the cross.

This is not surprising, is it?

Give me truth-tellers … not tap dancers.

Truth-tellers who deliver the punch.

"This Is My Body!"

2022-01-25T05:47:00.000-08:00

When Jesus lifts up the bread and declares, "This is my body," he affirms his

connection to the material world - not only the bread in his hand, and the bread on the table, but all the elements that made that bread - from the very dirt of God's earth, the seeds and the weather, to the farmer and the baker - all of it in that piece of bread, the whole of creation, from beginning to end, "This is my body."

Paul the Apostle challenges the impetuous Corinthians to "see the Body of Christ" in their gatherings (1 Corinthians 11.29) ... to see one another as belonging to God, from the widow with not enough, to those with much too much ... and in so seeing the Body of Christ, recognizing it in one another, in that gathering, in the world around them - from the bread and drink that sustains, to the very presence of Christ which redeems, to then confront and diminish the social gaps, created not by God, but human greed and desire - to then fulfill Paul's hope for a better world, expressed so eloquently, clearly, directly, in 2 Corinthians 8.15.

"This is my Body" reaches all the way back to the earliest moment of creation ... and reaches ahead to the End, the Omega Point, wherein all is made new ... the Body of Christ, raised and gloried, in particular, as a promise of that which is to come for all ... the healing and reconciling of all creation ... and the task ahead of all who ever sit at a table - to see the glory of God, to behold the Body of Christ ... in the burger we eat, the milk shake we drink, the waiter who brings it all to the table, the cook in the kitchen, the farmer in the field, the sun above, and the rains that fall.

"This is my Body!"

Faithful Preaching

2022-01-12T09:09:00.000-08:00

Via some digital platforms, I've had the disagreeable task of listening to some ivermectin church pastors deliver "sermons."

Not without prior exposure to the mega/MAGA church, it once again hit me: just how empty of content all of this is, yet bulging with sentimental cute stories of gramma's attic, and then veiled threats of hell - with a lot of huffing and puffing, and chugging across the platform like a runaway train, untucked expensive shirt flapping in the breeze, brightly pressed jeans proclaiming hipness.

Yeah, I tried that for awhile, and I'm not proud of it. I'd rather forget it ever happened. And after awhile, I returned to clerical shirt and robe - because it's not about me, but about Christ, and the church's story (both glorious and shameful).

Yes, to lift up the fallen and reclaim the lost, but to do so with a keen and unyielding sense of letting our light shine in such a way that the world will give glory to God - not in 11 words repeated 7 times in mindless and feel-good praise songs, but in deeds, and life well-lived for the sake of others, paying attention to God's good earth and its moaning, moaning under the weight of extractive industry and the detritus of our throw-away world.

A life lived in and through and by the love of Christ is always and forever a life of deep and transformative politics - i.e. how we live together east of Eden - each of us possessing something of Abel, something of Cain, and something of Seth ... faithfulness, vengefulness, and recovery.

The stage-prancers entice the eye, beguile the ear with nostrums, confirm privilege and place, and fill their pockets with the indulgences of the rich and poor alike.

Give me a preacher who takes the task of study and reflection seriously ... the preacher who reads widely ... the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other (or, these days, the digital platforms) ... the preacher who appreciates the power and challenge of language, who understands something of rhetoric, oral speech, and how to tell a story, who honors the disciplines of careful writing, who seeks the glory of God, and the wellbeing of those who worship, a wellbeing not of self-satisfaction, but the authentic wellbeing of a life devoted to justice, kindness, and humility before the giant mysteries of creation.

A preacher who clings to the pulpit, because the pulpit represents the presence of Christ, and never to

stray from that presence, but to abide in Christ ... and there to remain, steadfast and faithful, faithful in season and out of season, faithful to the promises of Christ to build the church, to build as is fitting for the times in which we presently live.

Faithful preachers ... who labor to craft one true sentence on any given Sunday ... and upon that one sentence, to craft a sermon worthy of the name, knowing full well the some sermons will be surpassing, others less so, and some not at all - but each of them flowing from the deepest kinds of desire, the desire to love God, and the twin desire to practice the ways of loving our neighbor.

2021-12-21T12:31:00.000-08:00

Another quote from Maugham's "Rain" - Rev. Davidson speaking to Dr. Macphail about Sadie Thompson:

"𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑑. 𝑆ℎ𝑒'𝑠 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑒𝑑, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑠𝑢𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟. 𝐼 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑒'𝑙𝑙 𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑢𝑟𝑒. 𝑆ℎ𝑒'𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑣𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 ℎ𝑢𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑎𝑛 𝑎𝑠 𝑎 𝑠𝑎𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑓𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝐺𝑜𝑑. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝑗𝑜𝑦𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑦. 𝑆ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑛 𝑜𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑦 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑐ℎ 𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑓𝑒𝑤 𝑜𝑓 𝑢𝑠. 𝐺𝑜𝑑 𝑖𝑠 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑖𝑓𝑢𝑙."

𝐷𝑎𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑠𝑜𝑛'𝑠 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑒𝑥𝑐𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡. 𝐻𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑢𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑝𝑠.

"𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝑑𝑎𝑦 𝐼 𝑝𝑟𝑎𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝐼 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝐼 𝑝𝑟𝑎𝑦 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛, 𝐼 𝑝𝑟𝑎𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑦 𝑚𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛, 𝑠𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐽𝑒𝑠𝑢𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑦 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡 𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑦. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑝𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑝𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑑, 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑓 𝐼 𝑜𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑒𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑔𝑜, 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑠𝑒. 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑝𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘-𝑜𝑓𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝐵𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝐿𝑜𝑟𝑑, 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑔𝑎𝑣𝑒 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑟."

2021-12-18T12:23:00.000-08:00

From Somerset Maugham's short story, "Rain - one of the best, if not the best, portrait of white evangelical supremacy.

In the voice of Rev. Davidson, a missionary to the Pacific Islands:

"𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗲𝗲, 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘀𝗼 𝗻𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗱𝗲𝗽𝗿𝗮𝘃𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱𝗻'𝘁 𝗯𝗲 𝗯𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗲𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝘄𝗶𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀. 𝗪𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝘀 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗻𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗮𝗹 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀. 𝗪𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝗮 𝘀𝗶𝗻, 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗶𝘁 𝗮𝗱𝘂𝗹𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗶𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗲𝘃𝗲, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗯𝗼𝗱𝗶𝗲𝘀, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗱𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗵𝘂𝗿𝗰𝗵. 𝗜 𝗺𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝗮 𝘀𝗶𝗻 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗮 𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗯𝗼𝘀𝗼𝗺 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮 𝘀𝗶𝗻 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗮 𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘄𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝘁𝗿𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘀."

"𝗛𝗼𝘄?" 𝗮𝘀𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗗𝗿 𝗠𝗮𝗰𝗽𝗵𝗮𝗶𝗹, 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗽𝗿𝗶𝘀𝗲.

"𝗜 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗶𝘁𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘀. 𝗢𝗯𝘃𝗶𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗹𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗳𝘂𝗹 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗽𝘂𝗻𝗶𝘀𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗶𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗶𝘁 𝗶𝘁. 𝗜 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗶𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗱𝗶𝗱𝗻'𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗵𝘂𝗿𝗰𝗵, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗜 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗶𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗱𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗱. 𝗜 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗶𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗹𝘆 𝗱𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗱. 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝗮 𝘁𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗳𝗳, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝘀𝗶𝗻 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗲𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗶𝗻 𝗺𝗼𝗻𝗲𝘆 𝗼𝗿 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸. 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝘁 𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗜 𝗺𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗱."

"𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗱𝗶𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗿𝗲𝗳𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗽𝗮𝘆?"

"𝗛𝗼𝘄 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆?" 𝗮𝘀𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗿𝘆.

"𝗜𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗯𝗲 𝗮 𝗯𝗿𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘂𝗽 𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁 𝗠𝗿 𝗗𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗱𝘀𝗼𝗻," 𝘀𝗮𝗶𝗱 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗶𝗳𝗲, 𝘁𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗹𝗶𝗽𝘀.

𝗗𝗿 𝗠𝗮𝗰𝗽𝗵𝗮𝗶𝗹 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝘁 𝗗𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗱𝘀𝗼𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗯𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝗲𝘆𝗲𝘀. 𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗵𝗶𝗺, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗲𝘀𝗶𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗼𝘃𝗮𝗹.

"𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗼𝗿𝘁 𝗜 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗲𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗰𝗵𝘂𝗿𝗰𝗵 𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽."

"𝗗𝗶𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁?"

𝗗𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗱𝘀𝗼𝗻 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝗮 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗴𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗹𝘆 𝗿𝘂𝗯𝗯𝗲𝗱 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱𝘀.

"𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱𝗻'𝘁 𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗰𝗼𝗽𝗿𝗮. 𝗪𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗲𝗻 𝗳𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗴𝗼𝘁 𝗻𝗼 𝘀𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵. 𝗜𝘁 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻. 𝗬𝗲𝘀, 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝗮 𝗹𝗼𝘁."

LORD of the Night

2021-12-15T09:22:00.000-08:00

LORD of the night …

Forty days and forty nights … hungry and alone … tempted and weary, worn to the bone!

Wilderness … rock-hard and fraught, harsh and hot, night winds cold …

Yet possessing its own life and purpose.

With beasts and angels, each counterparts of the other;

Each of God’s creation.

And now:

A night in prayer … the inexorable approach of Judas … sleep impossible!

A Gethsemane night … the end at hand … the bitterness of a bloody sweat!

Others nod off for weariness, but you can’t, you won’t!

You are - LORD of the night!

There was darkness over the deep … for billions of years!

Before there was light … before there was night!

Before there was anything,

There was Darkness!

Darkness - pure and quiet.

… restless and troubled.

… uncertain of its ambition.

Darkness - a primal cloud of unknowing.

… frightening.

… soft and comforting.

Darkness - within a woman’s belly wherein we begin.

… within the earth, full of sisters’ and brothers’ blood, when time winds down.

… from whence we come … which claims us in the end.

Darkness - owns its own holiness!

To you, O LORD, darkness is commonplace, old hat, as they say; the first neighborhood.

You know your way in the dark.

Vast expanses, nooks and crannies.

Time immemorial.

Billions of years:

A Dark Universe is your home.

Yes … yes … you know the darkness!

Through and through.

You’re no stranger to it.

“As light as day” a Psalmist says.

I’m a creature of light!

Though I come from darkness!

The darkness of a mother’s womb!

And will end in the blink of an eye.

In darkness … though some say a darkness of light.

Yes, I’m a creature of light.

You gave me eyes to see my own shadow.

To see the twin lights of my sky.

Myriads of stars, billions of worlds, realms far, far, farther, away.

A star needs the night to be seen.

The light of day has its weaknesses.

Only at night can my day-light eyes see the dark expanses of forever.

I need the night to look beyond my light-bound horizons.

I am a creature of the night.

I yawn and lay me down to sleep.

I wake up to obey the needs of my body, and then read a bit.

Common patterns, patterns of the night.

Patterns of flesh and bone with a mind of their own.

I toss and turn.

With hard memories and broken stories.

Things that go bump in the night and hide under my bed.

Fears trouble me, the fears of this and that, and who knows what.

Fears without form, without definition, a void of worry.

Fears lay hold of my soul.

Strange and sad.

When former things retreat.

And the way ahead is clouded.

I stumble, I stammer, I seek some slice of solace.

Darkness is as much a part of my life as is the light.

Darkness comes and gives me rest.

And darkness stirs and troubles me for the truth.

I am what I am … and somehow or other, I have to say.

It cannot be otherwise:

Darkness has its own purpose and place.

God said: “Let there be light.”

And then, the strange stuff of time:

There was evening and there was morning.

The first day.

My eyes have along ago adjusted to the light.

But in the dark night of the soul …

My light-time eyes serve small purpose …

I cannot see.

Yet, I do.

I think for a moment, as best I can:

To the LORD of the night I belong.

For whom the night is as bright as day.

In whom there is no shadow’s turn.

You, the LORD of darkness, the

God of night … are at home in such places.

In my darkness, you are there!

I’ve learned!

And still must learn.

Still, I must repeat the refrains of trust and hope.

The simple refrains of my dust, and your Everlasting Arms.

“I believe” … I say to myself … “all will be well and all will be good.”

The Great God Almighty, the God of Light, and the God of Night.

Brilliant and shining, soft and supple …

The days of my life.

The nights of my sleep.

One day of all will be my last.

And at the last, the nighttime of eternal rest.

A nighttime luminous with Presence.

Gates never shut … for want of light.

Countless souls, and glorious songs.

Twice, in my darkness, I’ve heard

Your voice!

A crackling assurance.

A tap on the shoulder, firm and certain.

“Just a moment!” You said.

All will be well.

Not easy, with tears, but well it will be.

Others, too, have heard the sounds of your grace.

Some have followed a star! Some, a pillar of fire!

Shepherds in the field, at night:

A chorus of angels, loud and bright.

In a wilderness without end, or on a cloud-clad mountain.

Desolate in body and soul.

When death is close and ready!

Hope still has its eternal voice.

As life takes its own way and goes where it will.

For good or for ill.

You are there! O LORD …

You are at home in the night.

LORD of shades and shadows!

LORD of an infinite darkness.

An infinite darkness of all our beginnings, and all our endings.

An infinite darkness - the first and beloved realm.

You are there, you are here.

You are LORD of the night.

And I am glad!

2021-12-12T10:13:00.001-08:00

𝙒𝙚 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙪𝙤𝙪𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙛𝙚, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙡𝙖𝙬𝙨
𝙏𝙤 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙪𝙢𝙥𝙝 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙣,
𝙃𝙞𝙜𝙝 𝙨𝙖𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙚, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙡𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙥𝙖𝙪𝙨𝙚,
𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝:—𝙚𝙡𝙨𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙮𝙚
𝙊𝙛 𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙞𝙢𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮?

~ Wordsworth, "O'er the wide earth" ... composed, 1809

A Prayer for a Friend

2021-11-28T11:13:00.000-08:00

A prayer for a dear friend …

O LORD, our God,

The days of our lives belong to you.

From our first breath to the last.

In time and eternity.

Now and forever.

How this should be defies all reason.

A great and marvelous mystery.

Love flowing among the stars.

Creating, and recreating.

Making all things new.

Hold now in your kindly arms.

My dear friend.

His heart is broken, shattered, scattered.

His tears well up like a desert flood.

See him through the dreary days, I pray.

Help him recount the joys and pleasures.

Of love given, and love received.

To blunt the blows of death.

To soften the grief.

You know us through and through, Dear God.

You watched our form take shape.

In our mothers womb; you were there.

You are the God of our beginnings.

And, then, as well, our endings.

And to you, Dear God, we belong.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

Amen and Amen!

Rice is Wrong!

2021-10-22T15:26:00.000-07:00

To a friend who supports Condoleezza Rice's take on #CRT ...

It's all about the truth [name] ... kids can handle the truth; it's the adults who can't.

Good teachers, graded lessons, everything taught with care ... but the Whites in charge are scared to death of the truth, and they don't want their children exposed to it. Claiming that children are too vulnerable. But they're not concerned about the kids; they're concerned about protecting their "innocence," their position in society.

Meanwhile, Black kids suffer every day, and so do their parents and grandparents.

And we [privileged whites] grew up with the lies: cowboys and Indians, minstrels, opium-smoking Chinese, and Gone with the Wind.

Truth works, and, yes, kids can handle the truth, and if there's some guilt, what's wrong with guilt? A strong and sensitive conscience should be able to feel guilt; not the neurotic kind, but the honest kind, a corporate guilt, "the sins of the parents visited upon the children" - and the children should be given half a chance to see and hear what those sins are.

In this case, as in most, Rice is wrong. I've followed her for years because she's a Presbyterian - but somewhere along the line, truth-telling never made it to home plate with her. Argh. She's badly mistaken, and it's not the first time.

Some Thoughts/Tweets about Change

2021-10-09T13:35:00.002-07:00

10.9.21

Every day, changes ... most incrementally small, small enough to never notice, but added up, over time, change is evident. How I think, feel, walk, talk, sleep and eat. My "religion," too. Some elements remain, but most have changed, some discarded. I'm 77.

Change is life - from Adam and Eve to you and me - nothing remains static, everything evolves. Frightening to some people, disturbing to most, resisted by nearly everyone. We love stability, but stability is hell. Heaven is a process of constant discovery, renewal, with light.

Thinking about my career, reviewing the years, I changed things in the life of the church, and most always it was painful. Religion strives for stability. "I'd rather take my church to my grave than see it change," said one. "Besides, I'm too old to change."

I've always been a reader - from The Hardy Boys, to the Weekly Reader; from comics to biographies; history, poetry, mystery and espionage. My imagination full of adventure, courage, danger, and hope. I'd like to think that my soul remains supple in the hands of time and God.

Religion has mostly been my friend. Though for me as a career-minster, it's been an enemy. For me, religion has provided the means of thought, contemplation, review and revision. For others, it's a bulwark that cannot be moved; it's a hidey place; a blankie; an idol.

For religion to remain stable, it has to have idols - wood and iron, stone and gold. Golden Calves rather than the Mountain God of Cloud and Fire. What better idol than skin color; "my skin, my race, my way of life, my people, superior - all by God's UNCHANGING decree."

2021-10-01T09:03:00.000-07:00

Most every morning, before my prayer journal work, I say aloud: The LORD's Prayer, The Apostles' Creed, a prayer from The Book of Common Prayer (slightly modified), and the Hail Mary.

The first two, of course, were always a part of my growing up years, said every Sunday in church.

The Anglican Prayer added to my repertoire, and the Hail Mary, some many years ago.

I was long uncomfortable with The Hail Mary until I gave it some thought with a Rosary gift from the chaplain at Gethsemani Abbey, Fr. Matthew Kelty.

These traditional elements comprise, for me, a foundation - when all else seems fragile and fluid, or slipping away, I find these elements to be a reminder, an encouragement, to be steady ... or not to worry when my personal reservoirs of faith run dry ... 

The mercy, the love, the goodness of God, doesn't depend upon me, though I'm a part of what God is doing. Not my decision, not my effort or faith ... but that of God. And all of it by grace. 

𝑂𝑢𝑟 𝐹𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟, 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑛 ... 𝐼 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑣𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝐺𝑜𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐹𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝐴𝑙𝑚𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑦, 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑟 ... 𝐴𝑙𝑚𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑦 𝐺𝑜𝑑, 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑤ℎ𝑜𝑚 𝑎𝑙𝑙 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛 ... 𝐻𝑎𝑖𝑙 𝑀𝑎𝑟𝑦, 𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑓 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑒, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝐿𝑂𝑅𝐷 𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑒 ...

Sure, criticism abounds ... male language and such ... and I'm not blind or deaf to them ... 

I say them, I would like to think, mindfully and carefully ... with awareness and sensitivity ... 

And so it is, this day, Oct. 1, 2021 ... and God's Peace to all.

Ten Thousand Graves

2021-06-06T08:03:00.005-07:00

Ten thousand graves ...

Tended with care ... lush grass precisely trimmed.

Crosses mostly ... and Stars of David ...

Young men and women cut down in the prime of life.

They were brave and they were afraid ...

Their pictures reveal that haunted look ...

Of soldiers too tired to be afraid,

And too frightened to find sleep.

Seasick and wet,

They hit the beach …

Under the cover of …

Steel and smoke.

Death and tears abound …

Ahead, my friends, ahead.

There’s no going back now.

No stopping for any of us.

A continent enslaved awaits the charge.

Nations, yes, and then some, to be unshackled …

And the years pass us by quickly …

Memories roll beyond the reach of words …

Silent tears still shed …

By those who made it home.

Slowly, now, they join their comrades,

As we all do … with the passage of time.

Hand-in-hand; arm-in-arm … a band of brothers …

A chorus of sisters …

Smoke and steel …

And a victory in hand.

And may those

Ten thousand graves remain ever well-tended!

Moab, Utah

2021-04-15T12:20:00.001-07:00

I’m in Moab, an incredible piece of work … God’s handiwork, of course, sublime, extravagant, bold and stunningly beautiful, ever changing with the march of the sun across the bluest of skies, and the play of clouds, billowing or wispy, and sometimes threatening, heavy with the treasure of rain in an otherwise dry land, and with plenty of small canyons, meadows, and creeks, all running into the cold and powerful Colorado, places to charm the weariest of travelers and ease away the strain of life.

And the handiwork, too, of people - a cross section of humanity, prospectors and writers, rock climbers and dreamers, hardscrabble, hardworking folks, quick to smile and lean of limb, who love the dessert, or long for an escape - the retired, too, with some spare change, and the tired, as well. Many a dream here. Some didn’t come to pass, with their closed storefronts, and some born anew, with fresh paint and clever names, ever the hope of making a living in a place carved out of the imposing stone, like the tourist attraction, “Hole N" The Rock,” dug and blasted by hand, or carved by a millennia of wind and storm, cold and heat, and always the River rushing to the sea.

My son lives here, and makes it home. A treat to be his dad, and more importantly, to be his friend. He cheers my soul and brightens the remaining days of my journey. My wife, dear wife, is here, too - with 54 years of marriage behind us, we push on with gratitude, looking to the panorama of mountains and sky as a constant reminder that we belong, but for a time, to something utterly good and glorious, and maybe something that transcends even the boundaries of time. But who knows for sure - that decision belongs to the Mountains, those mighty towers of stone and silence inviting our trust and our hope.

Thanks Moab, and thanks to our son!

Holy Week

2021-03-30T08:28:00.000-07:00

It’s Holy Week, that strange and storied eight days, from Sunday to Sunday, beginning with a “triumphal entry” into the city of cities, a city rife with rumors and rebellion, under the iron fist of Rome and a local leadership bound and determined to maintain peace. The crowds roar their approval, with palm branches and cloaks laid down before the procession, the entry of Jesus and his disciples, from the Mount of Olives, on a donkey, rather than a steed of war - an image of hope and deliverance.

What was the crowd thinking?

Many things, I’m sure, but caught up in the moment of those days, that week, a time fraught with so much hope and so many dreams, the crowd welcomed Jesus. He had a reputation for tweaking proud noses, and irritating the righteous. The crowds loved that sort of thing.

But it didn’t take for the crowd to crow a different tune a few days later. Oh how fickle the crowds can be. Fame so fleeting, and then it’s gone. Another race, another bet.

The officials consider what needs to be done, and Judas conspires with them, for his thirty-dirty-pieces of silver, and what was he thinking?

With a kiss, just to make sure the police get the right man, Judas betrays him. Jesus is led away, beaten and bloodied, presented to Pilate, then to Herod, and then back to Pilate - a show of law and order, but a complete and total moral failure. Power always has trouble with truth … power understands power, but truth is another matter. Finally, the roaring crowds are given a choice: shall it be Jesus or perhaps Barabbas; a prophet or a rebel?

The story ends badly, at least for Jesus. He’s led to a cross, a Roman execution, in a most public place, to let the world know who’s in charge and who calls the shots.

Jesus is crucified, dead, and buried.

Of Barabbas, we know nothing.

Of Pilate? Well, it didn’t end well for him either. Rome wasn’t happy, and so he’s invited to an early retirement.

Holy Week - when the darkest of motives are exposed, when God’s presence in our world is utterly and completely rejected by the crowds, by the powers, by just about everyone.

It seems that one of the two rebels crucified with Jesus had some regard for him. And the women at the foot of the cross, too. And then Jesus is dead, and just to make sure, a spear is driven into his gut by one of the soldiers; was it the one who was struck by it all? Soldiers doing their job, but not always happy

about it.

Jesus is tucked away … hurriedly … in a borrowed tomb … the disciples slink away to gather their thoughts and plan the next move, but mostly to hide from the growing threat of retaliation against them. And that was that.

But we shall meet them again, in the next chapter. But for now, we have to wait. That’s part of the strangeness of Holy Week. Nothing is entirely clear; it’s a time of fog and fatigue, disappointment and despair … one of those times when we cling to one another, even as words fail us. We cry, and we cry out.

Until then …

Voter Suppression & 1 Corinthians 11.17

2021-03-29T10:45:00.002-07:00

Voter suppression and 1 Corinthians 11.17ff - a place at the Table for everyone, and for those with a bit more in the larder, eat at home, drink what you want, and don't embarrass the poor with your abundance when coming together at the Table. Restrain yourselves, and learn how to eat together properly, recognizing in one another the love of God and the very presence of Christ.

Strikes me that Paul's commentary on the Corinthian situation has some bearing on voter suppression, and the dreams of Lincoln and others, that voting belongs to all, regardless of class, race, or gender.

Any effort made to exclude, however cleverly it may be disguised, is nothing less than a repudiation of Christ, and it's no wonder that so many are sick and dying in the throes of racist agony.

What think ye of this?

Mountains Snows - a Prayer

2021-03-11T08:25:00.000-08:00

For the sun above, bright and clear.
For snow upon the mountains.
For fresh air and cold beauty.
O LORD, my God, my thanks.

And I pray, dear God, that I, in my own unusual way,
Might be the salt of the earth.
And the light of the world.

And if not the world, at least
My small corner of it.
My home, my heart, my circle of friends.

And of my friends, a word of thanks.
Friends present and friends new.
Friends old and friends long gone.

And for the women and men who write the books.
Who embrace the highest values of life and liberty.
Who follow in the steps of a Lincoln and an FDR.
Who challenge the prevailing moods with something higher.
Who listen, not to the clamoring mob, but to the cry of angel.

The push and pull of faith is just that, dear God.
No one fully knows your purpose.
Or the ways of the universe.
Yet, we know - love is everything.
Forgiveness is the heart of it.
Mercy can have no compromise.
Justice must be for all - and if not, it's not for anyone.

O LORD my God: my thanks.
You have been present and kind.
You have taken me by hand.
By calm waters and green pastures you have led.

I vow this day to be my best, as best I can.
To accept my limits, and those of others.
To affirm and lift up.
To speak peace and speak truth.
And if peace would be used to quash truth.
Then choose the truth and bear the cross.

Thank you for the bright sun.

The snow in the mountains.
The pleasure within my heart.
The hope of things to come.

In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.
Who daily teaches me the ways of life. Amen!

Dinosaurs Believed in Intelligent Design!

2021-03-01T08:11:00.002-08:00

“Intelligent Design” was on top of the list whenever the dinosaurs gathered at their national and international symposiums.

“We’ve been here, on top of the heap, for millions of years; the universe, this earth, designed, intelligently designed, for us.”

And of our kind, we’ve got a few on the pinnacle of the heap, who delight in eating one another. But the point is this: we’re the heap, and nothing else can get in our way. The world belongs to us. We eat what we want. We want what we eat. It’s good deal.

And is that an accident?

Heck no! The gods made it so, just for us. A few degrees of climate variation one way of the other, and we’d not be here.

How long has it been?

Millions of years … I mean, millions, tens of millions … enough time to convince everything else that the dinosaurs were right: fate, the gods, everything, from the littles atom to the swirling stars, was on their side.

And, then, in the Yucatan, an asteroid …

And when all was said and done, it was the shrew that survived and surmounted, because it could borrow. And when it emerged, and surveyed the world waiting for it, it wondered if maybe, just maybe, the universe was designed, intelligently designed, for its wellbeing.

"To Judge the Quick and the Dead"

2020-12-27T11:51:00.000-08:00

“From thence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead,” my friend said, quoting The Creed, and then asked: “What does that judgment look like?”

His question caught my attention, but I held my piece for a moment and envisioned the creed, “looking” at it for a moment, and then, boom, the third part of The Creed came into focus. It doesn’t stand alone, or independent of what precedes it - but actually answers the question: “What does judgment look like?”

For me, at least, God’s judgment is not retribution, but restoration; repairing what has been broken; undoing the damages of sin; restoring the lost to community, healing the broken hearted, and rebalancing, retuning, the earth, and the universe.

In this context, for me at least, the restorative justice of God, the judgment of God, which is never to be feared, but rather welcomed with grateful praise, is outlined in the third element of The Creed: “I believe in the Holy Ghost, the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.”

Here’s is the judgement of God - the work of the Holy Spirit, consistent with Genesis 1 - that which brings life into being, deals with light and fecundity, ordains the trees and fish to make a go of it, reproduce, replicate themselves, create and recreate in their own ways and purposes.

The Holy Spirit initiates the work of Christ from the get-go, from creating community, forgiving sins, giving death a run for the money, to wrapping it up with life undying.

I don’t know what any of that will actually look like, but at least, for me, the third part of The Creed maps out the program - with evidence already at hand - evidence consist with Creation, and then the New Creation.

When someone raises a question of justice and welcome, it’s the work of the Holy Spirit. When someone offers a cup of cold water to the thirsty, a ham sandwich to the hungry, a jacket to keep a child warm, and a political program to keep in check the hideous forces of greed, it’s the work of the Holy Spirit.

From the moment of creation, to the moment of recreation, and with and through and in every moment of time, the work of the Holy Spirit, bringing to bear upon creation the judgment/justice of God.

This is what it looks like: “I believe in the Holy Ghost….”

God be praised!

2020-12-24T09:43:00.000-08:00

"It will end badly," I said four years ago, and so it is ... the depths of his narcissism, his spite, his immorality, and cruelty, are running unchecked, and in the next thirty days, who knows what evil will yet emerge from his tormented soul.

Yet, 70 millions Americans voted for him ... which says a great deal about our nation, and our own spiritual deformation. Our own blood-soaked history, our love of violence, our racism, our growing inability to care for our neighbor.

I hope that the unvarnished Tr--- gives pause to some who voted for him, and to some of the GOP who stood by him as he destroyed one thing after another. Sadly, there are very few Republicans left - the GOP has, in fact, become the POT, the Party of Trump.

Yes, the man has a base in this nation, and that ought to frightened the daylights out of anyone who yet cares about the larger issues of justice, climate, equality, immigration, and healthcare.

As always, I write as Christian, lest anyone write me off as a silly liberal. YES, I'M A LIBERAL BECAUSE I'M A CHRISTIAN! The life of Christ, what he said, and did, and died for, shape my being. The witness of the Prophets, the Song of Mary, the Book of James, and Paul's ethics, are the bedrock of my thinking, my values, my politics.

To all who look to the Star for hope, who know full well that even now Herod is at work to destroy the work of God, may there be an abundance of grace, mercy, and peace.

We have our work cut out for us, so let us put our hand to the plow and not look back. Let us sing with heart and soul:

Oh little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by
Yet in thy dark streets shineth, the everlasting light
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

Thou Art Present

2020-11-27T18:56:00.001-08:00

In the darkest of hours
In the brightest of days
When all is said and done
And more, much more, remains.

Thou art present.
In ways that confound and befuddle
That comfort and confirm
Hovering over the darkened waters.

Thou art present.
In the first breath of the new
Water, darkness, a restless sea
Beating wings beating life.

Thou art present.
I know not how.
Nor can I always perceive.
Or discern thy hand.

Thou art present.
For the ages … long before my kind showed up
Long before Eden’s wonder
Before snake and fruit and hate and hurt.

Thou art present.
I know not how.
But I cannot escape the suspicion
Of your grace.

Thou art present.
In life and in death.
In seasons of joy, and in the bitter winters of our discontent
When darkness sweeps away the light.

Thou art present.
And that is enough
More than enough
To steady the soul and strengthen the hand.

Thou art present.

Mashed Potatoes???

2020-11-25T17:12:00.000-08:00

An Ode to Mashed Potatoes …

Let me count the ways I love thee …

The common tator … a tuber … from the ground …

Just like you and me …

Maybe we feel something in common with this common ground thing …

They’re not picked, like apples or pears …

They’re dug …

Like good music … or hangin’ out with folks we love …

Lots of different sizes … and colors … in a lot of different places …

We do have a lot in common, don’t we?

With the humble potato …

Peel ‘em … if ya’ want …

But I like to leave the skins on …

Yukon Gold, of course.

Adds texture … as it should be … the whole potato …

As God intended.

Into a pot of water …

Turn on the heat … lots of good things need a little heat …

Cook ‘em not too hard …

Test ‘em with a fork …

Drain ‘em and put ‘em back into the pot …

And now the good part …

A couple of butter chunks …

A generous splash of cream … I mean: be generous …

Maybe even some cream cheese …

A little horseradish?

Rosemary?

Thyme?

Salt and pepper …

And a little elbow grease …

Smash and mash these remarkable gifts from God …

Not too much, just enough …

To blend it all together …

Taste to your heart’s content …

That’s what I love about cooking …

We get to sample everything before you do.

Can it get better?

You bet …

On the plate they go …

A fork-full will satisfy all your desires for comfort …

Just like home …

But like all good things … these good things go well

With a chorus of other good things ….

Gravy …

Giblet gravy …

Corn and slabs of carefully sliced turkey, neat and precise … though I prefer the dark meat … a tad bit unruly …

Cranberry relish on the side …

And how about the country cousin, the sweet potato … with its famous hat,

The marshmallow … all white on the inside, with golden trim …

And who knows what else …

Start with potatoes, and who knows where it’ll end.

But start with potatoes …

A very common thing …

And it will end well …

As all good things do …

Happy Thanksgiving …

Eternal Life 001

2020-10-13T13:21:00.001-07:00

I’ve always wanted to be remembered by my children.

Maybe because I had so few memories of my father, who died suddenly when I was 23 and six-months married, at the beginning of my middler year in seminary.

Maybe because my memories of my mother were so darn crummy. A troubled woman she was, but that’s a story for another time.

To be remembered by my children - that’s always been important to me. Now that I’ve lived this long, it’s no longer a question - they’ll remember me, and I believe most of the memories they’ll have will be good memories … good times with travel and dinner-time silliness … and my career … I made sure that I most always had the time for their lives - soccer games, piano recitals, school events, and such. Couldn’t have happened without Donna - her steady presence, her devotion to the family, her career, too, in real estate and accounting. But those are stories, too, for another time.

What’s central here for the purposes of this little essay is my wanting to be remembered.

There are societies wherein memory of loved ones keeps them alive in some form or fashion. Is that what I want?

I don’t know.

I would like to think my wish to be remembered is more that of asset for them to carry on with their lives, as I did with mine. Mostly good, and sometimes not. But carrying on, doing the best I could, even when the best wasn’t so hot.

That’s life.

Plenty of ups and downs, and we hope for more ups than downs.

To be remembered?

For their sake?

I think so … because my own sense of “eternal life” is pretty slim - a far cry from the gospel hymns that speak of the sweet by-and-by, streets of gold, everlasting joy, with mommy and daddy and dear old friends, or something to that effect.

As it now stands in my life, there’s no one I wish to see again.

And if my last breath in this mortal vale is indeed my last everything, that’s okay by me … as it stands right now.

Though I must confess that if one of my children or granddaughter died, or Donna goes before me, I suppose I might like to see them again.

Maybe even a dog or two on that fabled rainbow bridge.

Very early on, Donna and I had some conversation about such things, and we both decided, though it very much was Donna’s sense of it here, that if there were anything after this life, it would be all right, because it’s in God’s hands … and whatever God decides will be just fine, and if there’s nothing, well then, that’s okay, too.

Would I be content with nothing in the afterlife, if there is such thing, if my life had been one of destitution and misery? Suffering and loss?

I don’t know what I would feel, because I can’t imagine a life of dead-end poverty and deprivation.

My life has been good, and though it may end roughly, as many a life does these days, with drawn-out disease-management and the medical merry go-round, I would, I hope, still know that life was good, and I’d breath my last with gratitude.

Beyond that, I’m not sure.

I know that the Jews had no sense of eternal life until they spent some time in Egypt and Babylon. For the Jew, life was enough, threescore and ten, or maybe fourscore, and that was that.

But in the end, what with Egypt on the one end, and Babylon on the other, with the destruction of the Temple, there were some adjustments made, as to justice and fairness. Could the terrible reverses of life be counterbalanced by life after death, in some sort divine rebalancing of things?

And somewhere deep into the story, hell got thrown in there, as a place where God would put all my enemies, or something like that, or maybe even put me, if I didn’t toe the line. And if hell were a little too severe, well then, we’ll go for purgatory, a mini-hell of sorts where the bad stuff is at least roasted away, whereas hell is just a matter of constant roasting, gnashing of teeth, moans and groans. Dante seems to have put it rather well.

I guess the point or so - I mean, there are some pretty shitty people around who manage to accrue lots of power, and with that power, take delight in depriving others of life. Those who live in the lap of luxury with barns upon barns full of grain, grain stored to create scarcity and manipulate the markets, and build some stinking huge big homes.

But that’s another story, too.

Somewhere along the line, a notion of resurrection - a gift from God.

Because there’s nothing in us that survives death.

No immortal soul, or anything like that.

When we’re dead, we’re in Sheol which isn’t much of a place, a land of shades, where the good, the bad, and the ugly all go.

But maybe God has something up God’s sleeve on this score … God remembers us … makes us always present (whatever that means!) … if my children remember me for the duration of their life, and if God remembers me for the duration of God’s life, which has no duration in the normal sense of the word, but is without beginning and without end … so, in some bizarre way, I’m always present in the mind of God, and so are you, dear reader, so are you.

At the end, when the time is right, graves are opened up, the sea gives up its dead, and the bones are refleshed, not with the perishable stuff given to corruption, but the imperishable stuff, like the body of Christ - light and luminous, but real enough for Thomas to dig his fingers into a scar, and real enough to cook a beach-side breakfast for the weary disciples and help them get on their way with the high and holy calling of being disciples.

Refleshment is part of the deal, because we’re as much flesh as anything else, and without it, we’re not ourselves … but that’s a story for another time.

Between now and that great gettin’ up morning, bright with sight and sound, we all die … earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, pretty well sums it up.

From the book of Revelation, the idea, perhaps, of spiritual awareness in the presence of God, aware enough to enjoy the sights and sing some hymns … but it’s an awareness full of waiting … waiting for that final moment, when the trump is sounded, and all that’s been lost is found, all that is broken is made new.

The waiting of the saints, if you will, is categorically different than our waiting, fraught as it is with uncertainty, anxiety, a not-knowing that growls around inside our soul like a hungry beast, snapping and snarling when approached.

The saints wait with a full-blown confidence, assurance, blessed assurance, for sure … no uncertainty for the saints.

Well, if that’s the case, to God be the glory.

As for me, who knows?

God knows.

And God is everlasting, eternal, world-without end, the Alpha and the Omega, which is a beginning, and an ending, not as a cessation of things, but a fulfillment, a completion, something made ready for the next round.

I think of the next round, but God-only-knows … God was doing godly things for billions of years before this earth came to be, and we got up from the mud to take a look at the sights.

And who knows what comes next in this expanding universe.

Is God done?

I don’t think God is ever done.

Endless creativity is God.

Anyway, to God I belong.

And so does my dear wife, and our family.

And everyone, all creatures great and small.

Some years ago, I read a fine article about life-after-death in The Christian Century - a theologian was asked by her young daughter, after her grampa’s death, “Will he be there in heaven?” As the mother said, I put aside my learning and said, as if it were a word from God, “Everyone you love, and everything you love, will be there.”

I think that’s just about it.

For love is the heart of the matter.

And everything, from old blankets and a pair of roller-skates, to everyone who has ever lived, because everyone was loved by someone … and so it is, and so it shall be.

What is loved is there.

In the heart of God …

And when the time is right, all shall be made new.

And that’s one heckuva deal.

9 11 Remembered

2020-09-11T07:06:00.000-07:00

Tuesday morning, I drove to church, and only there, did I learn what was happening. A TV was on in the office.

As we watched, in stunned silence, tears flowing, I felt a great, horrible, hideous, anger ... "nuke 'em" I thought ... maybe even said it aloud.

By Sunday morning, when we were scheduled to celebrate the church's 50th anniversary, and some of our guests were unable to make the journey because of the airline shut-down, I had to preach and I did.

I don't recall how I stitched together the joyous celebration of a 50th anniversary, with a full congregation of guests who were able to gather by car from afar, and the tragedy of 9.11.

I recall saying something about restraint and trust ... not giving into the darkest thoughts occasioned by the present terror.

And I remember a young woman at the door afterward scolding me for not damning the Muslims.

She and her husband never again returned to the church.

Why I Write

2020-09-02T05:26:00.000-07:00

All of my life has moved to this point.

That's the way it is.

For good or for ill.

And a little of both.

And in the midst of all that motion.

Commotion.

Coming and going.

Words came to matter to me.

Because I read a lot as a child?

The Hardy Boys.

Zane Grey.

The Weekly Reader.

National Geographic.

A Bible illustrated by Albrecht Durer.

U.S. News and World Report.

Reader's Digest and it's "Word Power."

All along the way, Words.

The Word made flesh.

Reality yearning to find a home.

Words to capture it.

Which can never be captured.

Reality, Divinity, the Universe.

It lends itself to us.

And then walks away.

And we wonder what happened.

We had it for a moment.

And then our hands are empty.

And we grasp again for the illusive wonder.

And it welcomes our embrace.

And it dances with us.

For a time.

And then it's gone again.

Leaving us with memories.

Thoughts almost forgotten.

A sense of once possessing, and then losing.

Only to try, and try, again.

That's me.

I sit here with reading.

Yearning to know.

I sit with my cup o'coffee.

And the crumbs of a breakfast sandwich.

I sit with my computer.

Playing with these words.

Infinite words that pull the heart.

Tease the mind.

Point to never never land over the seas.

Somewhere long ago.

Somewhere maybe ahead.

Old and new.

Tried and true.

Or just plain worn out and tired.

Words.

Ideas.

Images.

Enough to make the mind reel.

Or real.

Or true.

Or sad.

And blue.

Or full of energy.

Crazy hope.

Because out of the dusty words arises the Christ.

Stones get rolled away.

Angels say, "He's not here."

He's ahead of you.

Over there, up there, beyond the horizon.

Follow him.

Follow your dreams.

Your childhood dreams of adventure and discovery.

Never stop being a child.

Because children know.

What we're all likely to forget.

So, here I am.

Words piling out of me.

Clowns with sad or happy faces.

Piling out of the clown car of my soul.

And the audience scratches it's head.

Or laughs, or cries.

As the clowns entertain, entice.

So humbly at our service.

Self-deprecating.

Pointing never to the self of words.

But to the worlds beyond.

The sky so brilliant and blue.

The night ringed with stars and moon.

So, I write.

In the hopes of giving expression to truth.

Or at least which I think it might be.

To find the world to which all these words point.

A place where folks can sit in the sunshine of the day.

Or in the moonlight of the evening.

With quiet in the air.

And contentment in the spirit.

That's what I am for.

And if my aim is poor.

Well, I'm not the first to miss the point.

But that's as it should be.

No graven images said God.

Nothing sent in stone, or word, or words.

Except the Word made Flesh.

Which only proves the point.

Because Flesh never rests until it's dead.

Flesh moves and changes.

It's here one moment, and then somewhere else.

And then it's gone.

To find another home.

Somewhere.

So nothing set in stone.

Noting definitive.

But only questing.

And questioning.

And singing.

And some poetry.

To suddenly find Majesty

Sitting by your side.

Words Are Dreams

2020-08-19T05:27:00.000-07:00

Words.

Are dreams.

Great words ... large dreams.

To encompass the greater good.

Whatever the limits of the Founders.

For all have limits.

But their words are limitless.

If we allow them free rein.

"We the People.

"All men are created equal."

"E pluribus unum."

"Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."

Some would take these words.

And wring them like a dishcloth.

Wring them dry.

Twisted tight and hung out to dry.

But great words are defiant.

If given half a chance.

These few words have been our dreams.

Dreams unimagined, and wild.

Dreams to fuel the fires of hope.

Justice, mercy, and Peace.

"We the People.

"All men are created equal."

"E pluribus unum."

"Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."

What they mean for a John Lewis on the Pettus Bridge.

Or a Harriet Tubman leading a child.

What they mean for a Lincoln in the throes of war.

Or FDR in the face of a Great Depression.

Or Angela Davis.

Or AOC.

Big dreams willing to march.

Big dreams eager to reach.

Powerful words in the mouth of a dreamer.

In the heart of the compassionate.

They have to be our words, too.

Now, of all times.

We cannot shrink the horizon of our dreams.

We have to let them take us onto flights of fancy.

Across the bridge.

Across the field.

No one left behind.

From sea to shining sea.

I have dreams, said Martin.

O Lord Almighty, the Mother of all such dreams.

Be kind to us in our hour of need.

Push us hard in the times of choice.

Let our dreams match the cries of a frightened child.

And the lament of a broken heart.

Let our dreams be worthy of our creation.

Worthy of another generation's gratitude.

"We the People.

"All men are created equal."

"E pluribus unum."

"Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."

And others will say:

They crossed the bridge when needed.