1.  I Agree, Science Describes the Material World a bit Better.

Describing things correctly is important. Anyone who has ever gotten bad driving directions (just turn at that white barn near that coffee shop – you can’t miss it) knows exactly what I mean.

Science is an amazing and wonderful human achievement simply because of its long history of helping irrational humans describe our world accurately. Most evangelical Christians get this and rejoice.

In fact, many believers feel strongly that Christians should lead the charge in proclaiming that science does a better job of describing our physical universe than the Bible.

What many non religious people fail to understand is that this support of the scientific process does not diminish faith. In fact it liberates the Bible to be what it was always meant to be.  Scripture does not seek primarily to be scientific in its description of anything.

While there is amazing content on almost all disciplines in the Bible, including some of the earliest most accurate descriptions of our physical world, non of the varying authors  of the Bible had the scientific method as a goal for writing.

Because this was not the intent some parts of scripture clearly advocate for a bronze age view of the universe. Yes, some believers still dogmatically insist that the intent of these passages is to teach about the physical truth of our world. Yes, this does make all people of faith look like we still believe in a flat earth. This is probably what made my doctore so animated. Sorry about that Dr. Proctologist.

Most others see that the Bible intends to speak to the issues of the nature of God and the nature of man not the nature of the movement of the planets.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not argueing for a softening of the inspiration of scripture or for an overly alagorical interpretation of the texts. I am advocating for an intelligent view of the scripture that allows it to be what it wants to be – God’s revelation about himself- instead of an 8th grade science book.

This is important because as good as science is – it has serious limitation when addressing key questions about meta-physical issues.  Stephen Hawking is useful here, “The usual approach of science of constructing a mathematical model cannot answer the questions of why there should be a universe for the model to describe.”

Truth is not just about how particles and genes bounce around but also about the most fundamental of all questions,  “Why am I here?”  The physics of the singularity, the natural selection of moths or the behavior of blood serums does not give satisfactory answers to this “why” existence question. So…

2. I like Science but I Don’t Believe Materialism is Cool

Some very smart people, like Dawkins and Hitchenson, think blood serum actually does tell us the why of life.  To them we are of the same amazing chance results that came with the happy “accident” (calculated at 1 out of 10³⁷) of “creating” matter in the first place.

These materialist are the absolute, completely convinced, -on the warpath- new evangelists of atheism. To them science concludes that there is nothing but the physical world.

Problem is that that scientific method has not proven materialism. If anything the fact that our understanding of the physical world goes through endless revisions due to scientific discovery should bring a certain humility of opinion to all of us. Not so with these guys. They know there is no God, no spirit and no after life. Story over.

Take the problem of the creation of matter. I have read and reread Dawkins explanation of the odds (and those who disagree with him, and those who disagree with those who disagree, and those who are confused by those who agree, etc. etc.) and still after 10³⁷ explanations how 1 to 10³⁷ odds both refute and endorse design and chaos, I still can’t get beyond the problem that there must be a first cause.

Simply put, something does not come from nothing. Nothing by definition can do nothing.

Believing matter came from a vacuum  (let alone where the vacuum came from) is wishful thinking. Could it be that they are at least partially motivated by ego? Could it be they do not want any deity telling them how to live and therefore they are not open to the existence of a Deity?

It would be more honest for these materialist dogmatists to simply say, “I don’t know” then to appeal to the extremes of unsupported theories that point only to more all powerful “meta laws” that in the end sound a whole lot like God anyway.

I am not saying that materialist are total dummies. Their position can be very persuasive. I am saying that the dogmatic devotion to materialism by some (Dawkins himself produces about 10³⁷ words against religion every day) it not the only position open to rational, honest people.

And I am saying that materialists are motivated by more then hard reasoning. Old fashioned human ego clouds the debate on both sides. The history of science is the history of  the ever-increasing accumulation of accurate knowledge and at the same time the history of intellectual rivalry, ambition and deceit.

For instance Dr. Fritz Zwicky’s mind-blowing advances in astronomy (think black wholes, before black wholes where cool) were almost universally ignored simply because Zwicky was personally disliked by the astronomers that worked down the hallway from him. Likewise, Rosalind Franklin, groundbreaking researcher on the structure of DNA, went to the grave without receiving credit for her contribution to the discover of the double helix. Most historians agree that the fact that she was both Jewish and female contributed largerly to the unjust pilfering of her research. Read any halfway decent science history (Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything for instance) and you’ll find a hundred of these stories.

In the long run science gets it right – in the long run. It is important to note that scientists themselves however are not always rational. The reach of materialism, especially in it most dogmatic forms, is an example of this.

The truth is that we can see only a small fraction of our universe and we understand only a very small fraction of what we see. To conclude that we know for sure that there is no God is simply not scientific.

Next: The last two big ideas (1) the problem of irrational faith and (2) the misunderstanding of authentic faith.

Part 1

Last year my proctologist assaulted me. Not medically mind you but mentally. It started innocently enough. While in the middle of a procedure (anyone who has follow the today show can guess which one) he asked me what I did for a living. I told him quickly that I was a minister and I did so in that tone of voice that clearly indicated, “I don’t really want to chit, chat right now.”

In spite of this, when he learned that I was a reverend he immediately blurted out, “Oh God! You’re not one of those fundamentalist are you!?”

I  breifly tried to explain the difference between the historic understanding of Christian fundamentalism and my evangelical/Pentecostal (with a Catholic background) positions on the inspiration of scripture, correct Biblical hermeneutics and reasoned faith but I guess I am not that articulate looking at a live video feed of my innards.

Not that my explanation mattered. Without hearing a word I said, and before I could finish he began to pepper me with an anti-God lecture in the form of the rapid-fire questions. “Why believe something so stupid?” “You believe in dinosaur saddles don’t you?” “How could you trust anything in the Bible?” And his coup de gra question, “Why would you believe something that science has already proven wrong?”

G.K. Chesterson came to mind. “There are two kinds of people in the world, the conscious dogmatists and the unconscious dogmatists. I have always found myself that the unconscious dogmatists were by far the most dogmatic.” I had the presence of mind not say the quote out loud while still at the mercy of his procedure.

I have found that whether it is in the classroom, break room, board room or even exam room at some time those of us who are convinced that scripture is more than ancient literature eventually become the focus these apologetic questions.

While the setting (please atheist proctologists of the world, can we talk in the waiting room from now on?) was a little out of bounds, the questions asked, regardless of motivation, were completely fair.

In fact scripture itself demands that as believers we give reasoned answers to these questions (even if they are not asked in a reasonable way). As important as being reasoned, our answers must respectful and gentle in spirit (2 Peter 3:15).

Wouldn’t it be nice if ever christian new their apologetics and had the character to converse in a respectful manner? Even in the proctologist exam room?

I am sad to say that such is not the case. Too many Christians regard apologetics as too complex to master or too trivial to matter. Some regard it as unspiritual to be logical.  I have even heard several proclaim that only miracles are able to convince non-believers of the truth.

Some believers dogmatically and loudly hang onto historical or scientific ideas that are neither Biblical nor reasonable, making all Christians look ignorant.

Even worse, some stridently induce contentious debate thinking that being rude is somehow similar to being bold. Again the 2 Peter passage is completely ignored.

Contrast this with Proverbs message that wisdom (applied reason) is crucial for a good life and true faith. “Now then, my sons, listen to me; blessed are those who keep my ways.  Listen to my instruction and be wise; do not ignore it.  Blessed is the man who listens to me, watching daily at my doors, waiting at my doorway. For whoever finds me finds life and receives favor from the LORD.” (Prov. 8:35)

Wisdom means making a life long (at time expensive) investment (Prov 23:23) in learning.  Every mature believer should be reading, discussing and preparing to intelligently and honestly respond to people who have questions. At this point I need to confess that in the proctologist office, I fail to respond effectively.

In the end (pun intended) if I were able to revisit him, here are the ideas I would have tried to convey to my metaphysically unmotivated physician.

When I asked a popular RA on campus why she didn’t come to Chi Alpha, she confided, “The campus pastor is a nice guy but I can’t take one more boring lecture in my life.” Similarly, a pastor friend admitted to me, “Honestly, most missionaries are boring. I love Chi Alpha, Curt, but I’d rather not have campus missionaries in my pulpit.”

Nothing kills a ministry like a boring speaker. Whether it is a small group, weekly large group gathering, evangelistic event and even one-on-one session, how we communicate plays a big role in our overall fruitfulness. What would happen if we dramatically improved our ability to engage people? After two decades of speaking on campus, here are some of the questions I ask myself to improve my communication skills.

Proficiency drive?

I was invited to a small round table of leaders led by Ray Johnston, pastor of the 9000 member Bayside Church of Granite Bay, CA, and one of the best Biblical communicators I know. I was amazed to learn that Ray, with all his success, is still highly driven to improve as a communicator. Besides reading, listening to a wide variety of speakers and studying his mission field, Ray goes through a self-imposed sermon evaluation process, led by a team from his congregation, every weekend. Since then I’ve learned that most pastors of highly effective churches practice some sort of proficiency driven weekly evaluation on all upfront communication.

Paul calls all leaders to do their best at dividing the word (2 Tim. 2:15), an exhortation that implies a lifelong pursuit of excellence in study, modeling and presenting the truth. In spite of this, many leaders simply stop learning about communication. Ego, fatigue, Christian sub-culture and fear drive our preaching styles instead of the desire become more competent.

Ask yourself? Could your ministry improve by getting specific feedback from students and peers about your communication skills? When is the last time you studied other communicators to improve your skills?

Inductive devices?

Next time you are listening to a boring sermon watch the body language of the nearest 13-year-old boy. He’ll be slumping in his chair, fidgeting with something or in some way showing that the sermon is a form of torture. At some point, however, even a bad sermon will contain a small inductive device. When the preacher says something like, “that reminds me of the time,” watch the boy pop his head up as if to say, “Hey, I like this part!” The reason is simple, humans tune in for inductive devices.

While deduction declares a premise and then works to prove it, induction tells a story inviting the listener to discover the premise for him or herself along the way. So powerful are the participation-inducing qualities of induction that God chooses narrative, the best of all inductive devices, to dominate the communication style of the scriptures.

When we use stories, questions, dialogue, props, drama, video, and humor (etc.) in our sermons we are actually modeling something Biblical, even Christ-like. Jesus used local settings, familiar anecdotes and the particular values of his time to engage his listeners in highly inductive ways. He did this so effectively, even days after his sermons the disciples were hotly debating the application of his talks (Matt: 13:10, Jn. 16:17). When was the last time your students came back to you days after a sermon demanding more teaching on the topic?

Certainly, many passages require simple and clear explanations. This desire to be clear does not mean we have to dumb down our creativity. Setting plain teaching inside the brackets of inductive devices as we prepare the introductions and conclusions of our sermons can make our teaching more understandable by engaging listeners instead of just indoctrinating them.

What is the most inductive thing you’ve done in communication this last year? How could you improve on this without compromising the content of your message?

Useful in the now?

Ever notice that only about half the students you are actually touching show up to your weekly meeting? With tests and going home and every other distraction that comes with campus life, getting students to actually commit to the large group meeting every week can be very challenging. Some leaders exasperate this problem by being so focused on the spiritual needs of their congregation that they neglect to speak enough on the felt needs of students.

Great speaking is useful in the now moments of life, helping even the newest spiritual seeker benefit from our communication. Practical help demonstrates that as leaders we understand the reality of student life. It also shows compassion and that we are competent at solving real issues. This understanding, compassion and competence can dramatically increase our credibility. By helping students gain skills in their studies, decision-making and financial lives, we gain the right to speak into their deeper spiritual issues.

Simply put, if our sermons work in the real lives of students, they will come back to our meeting the next week. Eventually, if the truth transforms them in the deeper issues of life, they will keep coming back every week of their lives.

Do your sermons contain tangible, very specific help for day-to-day problems? How can you learn more about the day-to-day struggles of the students you speak to?

Supernatural expectations?

To raise the funds needed for my new role on the West Coast, I literally tried to connect with every single alumnus I could find. As I set out, a little fear nagged me. Would my former students still be faithful?

My fears were totally unfounded. The vast majority of our alum are living amazing lives for Christ. As we talked about their journey after college, they kept bringing up memories of our prayer times together on campus. Sure, they remembered the sermons, but it was the altar calls, small group hot seats and impromptu intercession times that dominated their memories and propelled them into post-collegiate success.

As I listened, I was reminded again how the Holy Spirit is the real author of transformation (1 Thes. 1:4). Sure, continually learning, being inductive and helping students with their day-to-day problems is important, but without the Holy Spirit we can change nothing. Great communicators do their best to draw attention to God and facilitate moments of supernatural expectation.

Humility in tone, self-effacing humor and even vulnerability regarding struggles can be powerful tools to focus the hearer on the Lord’s power.  Of course, making Christ and his cross the central focus of our preaching is the very best way to facilitate Holy Spirit transformation. As Spurgeon was fond of saying, “I take my text and make a bee-line to the cross.”

What can we do to facilitate more moments of Spirit-induced prayer? Do your sermons point to God or to your ministry? How can you increase the expectation on the Spirit to change lives?

In the end, no one wants to be boring. We want to be better. We want to have larger groups, great mission services and the joy of being good at communicating to the students we love. Most importantly, we want the thoroughly un-boring experience of seeing lives changed. We can do this, if we will be driven by proficiency, use inductive devices, be compassionately useful in the now and set the expectation on God and his supernatural power.

The three grad students and two undergrads I was cloistered with in this last minute project prep session didn’t get along from the start. On the eve of the due date our normal dysfunction escalated into open warfare. Two were yelling, one was crying and one paced while I sat in a trance, wondering if the grade I was about to receive would lead directly to life in a van, under a bridge, down by the river.

In the midst of this GPA death roll a strange brain burp bubbled to the top of my head. I realized that our problem wasn’t about dissecting Cubism at all, but about negotiating community.

Community is fundamental to me. Even today our campus ministry is still heavily influenced by that Jesus people, petuly oil soaked, 1970s community centric mode of being. When I got involved in the 1980s we were far from perfect (our diversity at that time went from white to see-through) but one thing was for sure, we practiced community with a passion.

It was this community mindedness that helped me. Once I stopped looking at the art project issues and started looking at the community dynamic issues, I knew exactly what to do to get our grade back on track.

Talk-ability Mode

The guy who taught me the most about community was a giant former navy seaman turned campus missionary named Ron. He had one of those old school mustaches that made him look like a giant Holy Ghost walrus, and his gentle nature made him great at starting lengthy discussions, soliciting vulnerable admissions and even facilitating loving confrontation.

With impeccable hermeneutics and serious personal humility, he spent his days buying us Cokes, asking questions and letting us talk. So powerful were his dialogue inducing skills that our small group bonded on a level I have never experienced before or since.

The in-depth relationship of that time seems to be lost today. Too often the financial pressures and hectic academic loads of competitive programs make real vulnerability seem impossible. I frequently meet graduate students who have impressive resumes but no actual friends – some even mistaking professional networking for real community.

Finding the time to talk before task is essential. Yes, it can be time consuming, but the value of immersing oneself in that Eph. 4 “speak the truth in love” community is often the best way to see trust and real character transformation develop.

Our group project was typical of this lack of bonding talk. We had failed to actually process relationship before tackling our task, and the end result was an inability to work together on even the simplest of goals.

Humor Hangovers

Just last year, after three days of hard work together, a group of campus ministry leaders and I went to a Eugene bistro (where the whole wheat organic humus is 30% more organic then normal humus) for a post-project debrief. Our conversation turned to “the worst church skit you have ever led.” As the tales of bad acting and even worse dancing piled high (think early-round American Idol meets Carman), my ahi tuna threatened to repeatedly shoot out of my nose. The next day my spirit was full but my muscles were actually sore from the laughing.

This was not the first time I’ve had a humor hangover. I have observed over and over again that healthy communities laugh a lot – especially at themselves. I can’t tell you how many pizza-soaked nights I spent in hilarity during those first days on campus. And some of the funniest moments came in the midst of our most trying times. In a world of perpetual deadlines, program expectations, problematic dates and an abundance of pain, the joy of the Lord must be our strength (Neh. 8:10 NIV). Simply put, one either chooses to laugh or go insane.

This does not mean we are ignorant of social injustices or that we target the weak with cruel satire. It does mean that we are humble enough to see our own faults as comedy gold. It also means that we see our place in God’s kingdom with a laughter-tinged realistic perspective. Laughter is the evidence of a Biblical humility that trusts God’s sovereignty over our importance.

Typical of art students (and Christians I might add,) we were taking our project and ourselves too seriously. The end result was a lot of preaching at each other and not much progress.

Cash and Carry

In those early days I was basically a part of a functioning communist kibbutz. We shared everything. Money, cars, pizza, laundry duty, etc.  No one demanded that we live collectively. We did it to survive (we were poor) and we did it because of our belief in the power of community.

We were taught that the mission of man was reconciliation – first with God and then with each other. Late into the night we dialogued about every implication of the Greek pronoun allelous. Love one another, carry one another’s burdens, and forgive one another were our topics de jour.

God was the “with” God – triune and Immanuel. He was the relational instigator with Abram, Moses, David, the disciples and all of mankind. The ultimate means by which he demonstrated His “with” nature was the cross.  It was clear to us – real communities instigated relationship and made sacrifices for each other.

The real problem in my little art group was simple selfishness.  If we couldn’t find a way to sacrifice for one another, we were not gong to be able to work together.

The first step was getting us to talk.  Out of desperation they agreed to my suggestion that we sit in a circle and follow some small group 101 ground rules. No one interrupts. All eyes on whoever has the floor. Ask questions instead of making criticisms. I made them chitchat about their lives and just as the conversation started to ease, I asked each one to admit to one area in which they had personally failed the group.  I took the first turn at confessing and as I mocked myself for an unmet deadline, they laughed. Right then, I knew I had ‘em.

As we continued our conversation, the fun and the sense of mutual deference began to grow. By 6:00 a.m. we were finished with the project and all fear of living in vans under bridges had left the room. As we packed to leave someone asked me if I had taken a masters course in group dynamics. “Nope,” I told ‘em. “Just four years living out community in small group Bible studies.”

I played Jr. High Football. I am not sure why. Maybe it was because I wanted to be as cool as my team captain brother Cary or as skilled as my play making brother Craig. I was neither. I was too clumsy to be a star like Craig and to me – no one will ever be as cool as my big brother Cary. Regardless, I played ball.

I can literally remember running down the field in the small town of Omak on the opening night of a Jr. High football season and in the midst of the deafening chaos of body hitting 14-year-old-body I could actually still hear the exact moment my mother arrived in the stadium.

When she routed for you, the clamor she made could cut through the sound of tackling, blocking, and running – even above the sounds of the crowd cheering. Yes, it was the volume of her voice, she could get very loud, but mostly it was the giant stew pot that she would bring to the games and bang with a soup ladle to punctuate her every cheer.

And she did not cheer the way other moms cheered.  She did not yell,  “Defense” or “go team” or “we’ve got spirit.” As I ran down that field I actually would hear her shout, “BABY! OH MY LORD! CURTIS MATTHEW HARLOW!!! DON’T GET HURT!!!! PAT! DO SOMETHING.”

I am sure most mothers think these same thoughts as their children play football but my mom did not just think them – she yelled them unashamedly to the rhythm of a metal vessel being beaten to death.

And almost no one dared to get close to her while she hit her pot. No matter how crowed the stadium got she would clear away all that seats within a five foot circle around her. Almost, no one that is.  My Father, Pat – in spite of the physical danger of getting an unintentional right hook of enthusiasm from Mom- never left her side.

It is impossible to talk about how much we loved mom without talking about how much she loved Pat. And is impossible not to mention how much we all love Pat. My father wants us to believe that his devotion to her was normal, no big deal but he is just being self-effacing. His love for her and their love for each other was amazingly consistent and truly rare.

Thank you Pat for standing next to her at those football games… and baseball games and basketball games and plays and dances and dates and long drives and weddings and babies and weddings and babies and more wedding and more babies (etc. etc.) and now even at the arrival of great-grand children.

In so many moments of our lives, even as adults, you and mom are there together -not as Pat or Carol but always as “Pat and Carol.” You are faithfully standing next to us and faithfully standing next to each other.

Thank you most of all for standing next to her during the days when mom could not stand that well for herself. I want to be a husband and father like you.

Many others were faithful to mom too, especially in those last years.  On behalf of my siblings I want to say thank you to all the amazing care givers in her care facility and to everyone who sat by her, washed her, talked with her, helped her eat and brushed her hair as she battled her illness. We will be forever grateful to you.

I am glad I played football. It has been a long time since those Jr. High days but my life is not all that different from those fall Eastern Washington nights. I am still running and all around me there is still noise. But through it all I can still hear her cheering for me – for all of us. I am convinced that the faith my mother had in me and in all of her family and friends will remain long after this day is over.

Remaining Hope and A Snowy Cabin

By far the funniest and most poignant storytellers I know are my siblings and my father Pat.  To be at the dinner table with my brother Chris and hear even one of his hilarious quips was to risk having microwaved Banquet Fried Chicken come flying out of your nose.

Mom loved funny stories (or to be more accurate, she loved it when the family was altogether telling stories). Sometime students ask me how I learn to communicate. I tell them all, I learned at Carol Phalen U.

Memorializing her should be about telling funny stories. And it should be a party. Mom loved parties of all sorts. Whether it was an impromptu visit by one of the thousands of people that she called friend or a highly planned popcorn and potato chip extravaganza orchestrated for the big game (by the way – every single time the Seahawks played it was the big game) Mom was always up for a celebration.

Birthdays were enormous. For years my mother and father competed in a sort of arms race of who could surprise the other on their birthdays’. These surprise parties would involve hundreds of people, lodges, bowling allies, duct tape, forcible kidnappings, and on at least one occasion Pat riding around tied up in the trunk of a car for an hour or two.

As big as birthdays were, reunions were even bigger. Mom loved to be surrounded by a million grand kids playing capture the flag while fainting goats bleated for their lives and someone like Karen Harlow, her daughter-in-law, was belting out Garth Brooks on the Karaoke machine.  To see my sister Lisa’s girl, Taylor, throw a fast ball next to the big evergreen tree in her yard was always a thrill for her. It was in these grandchildren at play moments that she was happiest.

And on these occasions, she loved to serve mounds of fat free burritos for everyone and anyone who dared enter the reunion vortex that everyone knew as the Phalen’s Phunny Pharm. In this way, “Phalen’s Phunny Pharm” was not just the name for her home – it was the description of her entire life.

Birthdays and reunions were special, but Christmas was the undisputed pinnacle of these celebrations. Mom loved to have EVERYONE and I really mean EVERYONE with her at Christmas. All seven kids and their spouses and grandkids were needed. On top of these, multiple friends, new and old, would be enfolded into our brood each year as if they had lived with us their entire lives.

Every Christmas was an adventure. Sometimes the adventure was dangerous.  One year, mom wanted all of us to go deep into the back woods and do some version of Little House on the Prairie meets the Pharlow (Phalen/Harlow) clan. With multiple grand kids in tow we drove our vehicles literally down dirt roads into eight feet of snow covered back country.

As we drove in, it quickly became clear to all of us, expect Mom, that just getting to the small cabin she had rented might be impossible. Mom refused to even consider turning back. She never gave up. Mom was always determined. She had overcome so much in life and a little snow was not going to ruin her Yule season outback Christmas dream. Urged on by he we packed in both the gear and the kids for the last half-mile.

When we got inside the cabin, we found the situation less than ideal for survival. The walls literally had holes in them and the fireplace would not draw enough air to get a serious flame going without filling the room with smoke.  That night we had to chose between heat and black lung.

By morning we were bone tired, froze to the core and, my always-responsible oldest sister Leslie was chastising the males because, “the yellow snow is way to close to the door of the cabin.” Little Danielle, mom’s first grandchild, had soot lining her tiny nostrils from breathing in the smoke.

At this point in the adventure 99.9% of all humans would be grumbling. Mom however was completely positive and undaunted. I remember her standing outside sipping coco and looking at the snow-laden branches of the pine trees saying, “Isn’t this the best time ever.”

Beside snow-laden evergreens, mom loved giving Christmas gifts. Some families are rip and tear people. They jump into the presents and seconds later every package has been opened. Mom hated this approach. At her house, opening the mounds of gifts that she had literally spent all year buying would start early in the morning and not finish until late into Christmas afternoon.

Every gift was to be savored. Little hints and jokes were written on each label and if ever we were not watching close enough mom would insist, “Look, everyone look. Slow down! Watch, your sister (or brother or friend). They are opening a big one.”

In her determination and hope filled outlook mom gave me her most valuable gift. Her exhortation to slow down as well seems all the more wise to me now. It is clear to me more then ever that not even one gift that we exchange should be rushed.

Remaining Love and Cattail Seeds

Another gift mom gave me was letting us move back in with her for a short time when I was an adult. I always knew that Mom had rubbed off on me a lot but living with her that year, at age 35, gave me the full measure of just how very much I am like my mother.

Anyone who lived with her or who has been near her was stamped by her presence. As I listen to those who gather to remember her today, in a hundred little ways, I can see her influence.  In the small things like the sound of the laughter and in the big things like how Kelli, her step-daughter, shows the same intense devotion to her children that my mother did for us.

Like mom, I worry. Her concern for every member of the family never went on vacation. When you called her you had to start the conversation every time by saying, “Don’t worry, I’m fine” and God forbid if you ever tried to wake her as she slept on the couch. She was easily startled as she dozed. Anyone trying to nudge her awake would inevitable be startled by her half awake cry of, “It is a fire! Get the kids out!”

I too startle easy. Like mom, I also have no sense of direction. Like mom I am often late. Like mom I love dogs. Like mom, I need to garden and collect old things and clean obsessively and have parties and make Christmas bigger and bigger each year.  And please don’t sit next to me, (or my sister Leslie), while we are watching our kids play ball. You might get a scream or two in your ear.

And like mom, there is something in me that longs for eternity. Mom was not a theologian or overly public about her faith in Christ. She did however spend her life trying to get to mass on time. Sometimes doing a good job of it and on a few occasions showing up just as everyone else was pouring out of the church.

While I lived with them that year, Mom and Pat let me set up my office in the back room they both used for office space. One night I was pouring over papers, worried about some financial dilemma or another that has already faded from my memory when mom came back to the office to sit with me and play solitaire on her computer.

As we both stared at screens, we passed the time laughing and talking about kids and then very uncharacteristically, Mom got serious. She wanted to discuss my job as a minister and she began telling stories about the many wonderful experiences she had in the church growing up.

At one point she asked me, “why did you become a minister?”  I do not remember now exactly what I told her but I do remember what she said in response, “I know that feeling,” she told me. “The one you get when God is all around.” Then she paused for a long moment. “The first time I felt him was when I was a little girl, and I was alone in the church. I felt him there.”

We both said nothing for another long moment and then she told me a story I had heard her share several times before. “One year, while we were spring cleaning the church a nun asked me to remove the cattail plants from the altar area. They were in full bloom, with thousands of seeds ready to fly everywhere.  As I took them in my hand the nun knew exactly what my little girl heart was tempted to do. “Carol Margret, don’t you dare make a mess in this church.”

“She was too late.” Mom told me, “I just could not help myself and I ran down the middle of the church releasing those cattail seeds in a giant cloud behind me.”

For the past two days whenever I close my eyes that is the image I see first. Mom running free down the middle of a church releasing those seeds everywhere. It is important to remember today mom, in spite of or maybe even because of all of the trials of her life, she found the presence of God.

That image of her running through the church, the prayer we later shared alone that night in the back office fill me now with deep gratitude. I am so thankful for her and for the God who made her. Along with gratitude however I am also deeply sad. The sorrow is crushing.

Loosing my mother is hard. Watching my mother suffer from Alzheimer’s was even harder. The blessing of being her son more then makes up for all of this pain and I am willing to experience the grief of loosing her in exchange for the privilege of having been loved by her.

St. Paul writing over 2000 years ago in the harsh world of the 1^st century said it best. To the young believers of that day he promised that today with all of its trials and questions and hurt is not the end. For those who are know the presence of God, “these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” (I Cor. 13:13)

Mom lived these words. She had faith in us. She had hope no matter how bleak or cold was the moment and she had amazing love. Love that cheered for us and saw the best in us and wanted that joy for us that she felt while running down the middle of that church.

She is gone now but the faith, hope and love of her life will remain. Make no mistake, Mersi’s words still echo loudly. I can hear the banging of her pot and as she yells, “Don’t get hurt.” And I will not forget to “Sit down and watch” as we continue to open the gifts she has left for us. And I know that even if it makes a big mess, she would want to find us – with a large bunch of cattails in our hands – running and laughing together.

The Chevy I rented had plenty of room for her once the backseats were folded down. In spite of this she insisted on leaning her heavy body up against the back of my seat, and placing her giant head on my shoulder as I drove. Mile after mile she panted heavy stress filled exhales into my face without making any other sounds.

I did not mind. The breathing and the weight of her large head kept me awake. I was exhausted. My father had tried his hardest to avoid moving my mother into an assisted living home for Alzheimer’s patients. She had become combative and would not eat for him. Emergency room visits had became the norm. It became clear that he just could not do it alone so I cashed in some frequent flyer miles and with the help of family we spent a week moving her out of her house and into a facility.

We all knew the move was coming, and we all knew it would be very hard but it was harder then I could imagine. There are some thing in life for which you cannot prepare. On the day she moved to the home no one breathed.

The only bright spot of that day came in the form of Aragon, a black standard poodle who roamed freely in the halls of the home. My mom, who due to the agitation of her dementia did not sit still for anyone. When Aragon trotted over to her she stopped, smiled and patted his head.

That he was able to calm her when we could not was not a surprise to me. She had spent her entire adult life with dogs as her friends. Don’t call them pets. They were much more then pets – beyond animals, they were more like an entourage.

Yeti resting on my bed after our trip

With dad spending almost all of his time at the home, I volunteer to take her last dog, a Great Dane mix named Yeti, home with me. The day after mom moved in I loaded her into a rental car and headed back to my home in Sacramento.

As I drove I tried to remember all the dogs my mom had brought into our lives.

Licorice, also a black poodle, but a miniature, was the first dog I remember. He never liked the silly haircut my mother insisted he wear. It did not fit his fiery temperament or keen abilities.  He was smart. One of those dogs you must spell around when leaving the house.

Above all he was loyal. After my great grandfather’s funeral a family friend thought that tickling my 3-year-old sister would lighten the mood. Licorice heard her scream of laughter from two rooms away and mistook it as a cry for help. Running at a million miles an hour he nearly took off our friend head at the neck. No one messed with us when our ferocious miniature poodle was around.

Mom liked German Sheppards. We had at least two that I remeber. They were also loyal to a fault. In spite of prolific shedding, they lived, slept and ate with us at all times. They served as expert guest screeners. Picking up on subtle clues from us, they would dispense licks or scary barks depending on our comfort level with a visitor.

Clouseau, another Poodle, this time a standard, only exists vaguely in my memory now. I was too focused on 15 teen year old social stresses at the time but. I do remember that my mother loved him in spite of the fact that he was just as bumbling as his detective namesake.  Before him there was an afghan hound. He was exotic but somehow not so exotic that his name or temperament has lasted in my memory.

There were so many (my sister Leslie will remember them all). So many that, some I have forgotten completely.

I clearly remember “Saddie” a dog she had when I started college.  Her name came from my father’s quip to guests, “Say-do-ya want a dog.” He made this joke because she was so ugly and because my mom always had one or two more dogs then she needed.

Her overbite was prehistoric. She could not move her awkward body without grunting and frequent room clearing farts afflicted her. Somehow, however, the combination of the ugly mug, grunts and gas made for one of the sweetest dogs I have ever known. She was a love factory, eager to give it and just as eager to receive.

Even when her own six kids and one stepdaughter were fully grown, mom still had an abundance of mother love to give. To help absorb a little of this abundance, small dogs Muldoon and Kujo (mockingly named after the monster dog of Stephen King fame) were acquired during the empty ness years.

I am not a fan of the small dog. Mom’s two were Gollum eyed, shrill barking, ADD infected dust mops to me. When she spoke to them I always heard the exact same singsong tone that she had used on us as kids. For this reason I came to refer to them as “the replacements.”  I am sure now that my lack of affection for her dog children was not just about their breed.  I was jealously of the love they were getting.

My mom was fiercely faithful to her kids. As a young girl, she lost her mother suddenly. Her Father, whom she loved fiercely, responded to the loss of his wife by destroying his liver.

With one parent deceased and one drunk, she was put the fast track for adulthood. She became fiercely independent, unreasonably cheery in the face of trials and frenzied in her work ethic.  Her will made iron seem like playdough.

This will made for some dramatic disagreements with her equally stubborn family. No matter how intense the conflict, however it was impossible to doubt her love. This will and love endured last, even in the midst of intense dementia.

Her sometimes lonely and always intense teen years seemed to come to the surface the week before we moved her. She began to spend long portions of her day constantly mumbling. Bits and pieces of jumbled past memories about long workdays and arguments with her father flowed from her. Even though the stories were too confused to be interpreted, it was a clear reminder that her youth was not a time of ease or innocence.

Denied childhood as a child, she compensated as an adult. She kept ponies, and donkeys and fainting goats and exotic birds and cats – lots of cats. Our house was a petting zoo. The undisputed pinnacles of this menagerie were always the dogs. Dogs were innocence. Dogs were fun. Dogs equaled normalcy. They gave he what her childhood could not.

The best of the dogs she owned were affectionate, very smart, and passionately protective. Even the most flawed of them were skilled at turning a blind eye to our flaws. Most were not pure breed but all were willing to give purely. They loved fun and they loved family.

In these ways, they are just like my mother.

As I write this, her last dog Yeti the Great Dane mix is sleeping at my feet. She is an old dog now. Gentle. Fragile. Affectionate and a bit sad. As I watch the steady rhythm of her large chest it occurs to me that mom’s life is reflected in the animals she loved and just like her last dog, my mom has become also become very fragile.

Alzheimer’s is a crushing weight of slowly descending sorrow. Watching my father bare it is just as hard as watching Mom suffer it. Even though I am tempted, I will not let the grief swallow me. I will follow Mom’s example. I too will compensate. I will live as tough and as love intensely. And I will love dogs – especially her dog.

Forgive my departure from campus ministry and family update into the political for a moment please. Christian author, liberal activist and pastor Brian Mclaren has written An Open Letter to Conservative Christians in the U.S., on Health Care that has me thinking.

He makes the point that Christians are called to civil and truthful debate regardless of their politics. Sadly, in doing so I think Brian engages in some of the same patronizing and marginalizing techniques that he is critical of on the right. Read the letter and decided for yourself here.

He is highly critical of Christians on the right distroting facts to scar people, a lack of courage to speak up among Christian leaders against this “propaganda” and he takes particular issue with Sara Palin.

I fully agree that some on the right have been overly dramatic and a few have even been misleading. However, he fails to even mention the equally disturbing rhetorical problems on the left undermines.

Sadly, liberals have also played the Hitler card (http://www.seattlepi.com/local/6420ap_wa_town_halls_baird.html) and thrown in the KKK card to boot (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lfoGCYFRQlM). And if we want to talk whoppers, no discussion of truth in health care should fail to mention our Presidents often repeated claim that this reform “will be paid for” (http://factcheck.org/2009/07/obamas-health-care-news-conference/). Does any Limbough, Hannity, Beck or Palin misrepresentation even compare to this 700 billion dollar fib?

I would not have used the phrase “death panel,” as Palin did, but neither do I find her analysis completely “flippant.”

Wouldn’t it be better to focus our dialogue on the impact of health care reform for kids like Trig, instead focusing on the particular rhetoric of his mother? To that end, is it really so irrational to suggest that the final form of this legislation may not protect us from government abuses at the end of life?

Camille Pagalia an Obama support and well know liberal commentator can see Palin’s logic with total clarity (http://www.salon.com/opinion/paglia/2009/08/12/town_halls/index.html). Even factcheck.org admitted that HR 3200 “requires Medicare to cover counseling sessions for seniors” introducing a government funded financial motive for doctors in end of life issues.

The reality is that five competing bills are being pushed on a time line that is clearly designed to discourage careful analysis. In light of this deliberate hurry up tactic, and the exponential growth of our national debt we all need to prayerfully educate ourselves on the issues and speak up responsibly.

I could not agree with you Brian more that “little discernment was being exercised “ in some aspects of the Iraq war. We agree, as well, that again our nation is rushing over a cliff with the timeline(s) purposed for this massive legislation.

Growing up, both my wife and I ate enough government cheese to learn about the de-habilitating humiliation induced by government dependency. As adults, we belong to faith communities where the Biblical mandate to help the poor is emphasized. Because of this background we a deeply committed to real solutions for the poor and uninsured.

This is not just rhetoric for us. 8 to 15 at risk teens eat, laugh, study and talk about their faith and future in our living room 2-4 nights every week. We are personally and intimately engaged with the kids behind California mammoth graduation rate failure statistics. We have to get this right for these kids, for my kids and our nation.

To that end, I am for one am gong to fully engage on this issue and do my best to truthful speak up in a civil manner. I hope you will as well.