Sunday Morning Worship, April 19

As a female pastor, I'm still an object of curiosity to Adriana and Rocio, both raised Roman Catholic and educated in RC schools in Colombia.  During lunch yesterday, we had some conversation about their spiritual lives and their willingness to abide by certain Roman Catholic doctrines, particularly the ban against any kinds of artificial birth control.  Essentially, they were told by the nuns who taught them to ignore that requirement, which they have both quite firmly done.  We also talked about the differences between Methodist (in England), United Methodist (in the USA), Anglican (state sponsored religion here) and Roman Catholicism.  I was talking with them about the serious decline of the Methodist church here and they both surprised me by saying that the Catholic and Anglican churches in this part of London are bursting at the seams with families and children.

Here's why:  The RC and Anglican churches have started very, very good schools, and the only children who are permitted to register MUST have parents who attend church so regularly that the priest is able to recognize them and know their names.  So, if a parent wants his/her child in the best schools around (and I'm guessing the tuition is pretty reasonable), they'd better get up on Sunday morning and attend church.

I had at first asked Jonathan if he would consider taking me to London today so I could go to St. Paul's Cathedral for worship, but changed my mind--it would be a pretty exhausting trip and it meant not having the time with the children.  I then asked him if there is a Methodist Chapel nearby where I could go.  He found one, and then said, "Mom, stop being a Methodist for the day and go to the Catholic church with us."  This led to a discussion about whether or not I could participate in the sacrament of Holy Communion there.  Church law forbids it:  first, I've not been baptized RC; second, should I choose to convert I am divorced and the first marriage not annulled.  This, according to church law, makes me forever unable to communicate there.  Now, Rocio and Adriana both insisted it was up to me, if I felt in my heart that it was right that I should do so.  I'm also aware that open communion was practiced at the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris where Jonathan and I attended worship last year.  But I do know church law . . .

Anyway, after a good night's sleep, we got everyone dressed and in the car and headed to the Roman Catholic church.  As we got near, I began to see what they meant by children:  multiple families with little children were making their way to the service.  As in lots and lots of babies, toddlers, pre-schoolers, and elementary aged children.  Few teens, naturally.

We walked in and were handed a hymnbook, a book of liturgy, and various pieces of paper with announcements, schedules, and a sketchy order of worship.  Very sketchy.

Because we got there just before worship began, I didn't have time to get my bearings with all this paper and books, and never was able to get caught up.  

The sanctuary area was high ceilinged, with stone floors, wooden benches, padded kneeling rails, an inadequate sound system and bouncy acoustics.  Bouncy, as in, every time a child cried or fussed or whispered or was shushed, the sound went all over the place.  At the beginning of the service, children and parents were encouraged to come to toward the altar and then went to Sunday School until the Eucharist began.  Jonathan and Adriana took Samuel and Joshua and I was left to try to figure out what I was supposed to do at any given moment.  While much of the liturgy is quite familiar, the need to jump from a printed page to a liturgy book to a hymn book and back again was so confusing that I really did give up after a while and just enjoyed the flow of worship and tried to do what the others were doing.  

The prayers and homily were essentially impossible to hear.  Even though a lot of the children went out, many others stayed and their voices were constant.  Nevertheless, I quite enjoyed it and had a sense of the presence of God in the midst of the chaos.

These children will all be going to this church school.  In school, they will learn their academic subjects and they will also learn the liturgy and the meaning of worship and why the priest does this or the acolytes do that or the responses are such and such.  They will learn their Bible stories and even if they can't hear the priest, they will have some sense of the reading because they will have been taught these things day in and day out.  They will know why they kneel for certain parts and stand for other parts of worship.  They will understand why the children who are not yet confirmed get a blessing rather than the Host when coming forward to receive during the Eucharist.  Sunday morning will be a routine, essential part of their lives that will fit seamlessly into their academic lives.

It's a brilliant move on the part of the RC and Anglican churches here.  They know that we must, we must, we simply must reach the children if there is to be hope for the words and grace of Jesus to yet permeate the world.  And this nation needs it--its culture is in serious trouble and is collapsing under the weight of immorality and ignorance.  The church may yet triumph here. Yes, I know that many of these will leave the church as teens--but they will have the foundation laid for them and they will return and they will know that God is, and that God is good, and that salvation is ours as a gift from God--and that we must cooperate in the process of salvation.

Now, considering how confused I was, and considering that I didn't get greeted, nor did anyone seem to know that I was a visitor, and no one gave me a brochure, or will be calling me later because there was no visitor info card to fill out, would I go back if I lived here?  Yes. First, I'm well educated, understand the liturgy and could figure it out by next week.  But that is a unique situation.  Second, because I do enjoy the sounds of children in worship--I find those voices to be the voice of God calling us to mission and future.  Third, even though I did in the end choose not to communicate, I sat in awe and an awareness of the mystery of salvation in God during the Eucharist.  

But were I not already churched, were I unaware of the power of the mystery because I had no background, and no explanation was given, were it necessary for me to feel that I was welcomed and affirmed when I came, had I needed an entertaining, smooth, professionally led service then I would not come back.  And that is where most adults are now--no background, no understanding of the mystery of God, a strong need to be entertained and a sense of entitlement and expectation of someone knowing their name and "making them feel welcome" and lots of follow up and multiple invitations to show up so that perhaps they'll put some money in the offering plate and help pay the bills . . . then I would not come back.

Personally, I wish that every single person who thinks that just anyone can come into a worship service and find it a welcoming, understandable and friendly place would take a few Sundays and attend worship at someplace radically different from their knowledge, upbringing and culture.  It could be quite an eye-opener.

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Saturday Afternoon, April 18

Last year while I was in France with this family, laundry became my mission.  I would and did wrestle those washing machine into submission, dealt with constant flooding and left the family for at least one day all laundry washed, sorted, folded (put not put away--no closets there).

Here, it is the garden.  Adriana and I got the giggles together yesterday as we were sitting outside on a gorgeous day as she finally told me they had hoped I'd do something about their yard and get a vegetable garden started for them, but didn't want to tell me ahead of time so it would look like they were bringing me over here just to work.

Well, by not telling me, I also didn't pack any work clothes.  In fact, I, the master of the light packer, may have truly outdone myself.  As in one pair of jeans, one pair of shoes, a few shirts and a couple of nicer pants, one skirt just in case, and a limited supply of other necessities.  Nothing I could garden in and get dirty.

When I first mentioned this, Adriana in all her beautiful skinniness turned to me and said, "Oh no problem, you can wear something of mine!"  Since two of her would still not make one of me, I thanked her graciously for the compliment and said perhaps we could find a place that sells cheap clothing and just get something that I can get dirty in and then throw away when I leave.

Yesterday (Saturday) morning, Jonathan kept the children while Adriana, Rocio and I went to a nearby garden center to get some plants, some tools, and, I kept insisting, some work clothes for me.

Now, before going on with this, please know that EVERYONE gardens here.  In their small lots are profusions of flowers and green, green grass and cascading shrubs and vines.  Few yards (they are all called gardens here) look neglected, although some get more care than others.  So when we drove into the garden center, I landed in gardening heaven.  And by the time we drove into the one Rocio chose for shopping, we had passed at least five others--all within two or three miles of their houses.  This is MAJOR INDUSTRY here. 

I happily picked out necessary tools, found some knee pads and garden clogs for my feet, and we bought a profusion of vegetables and flowers to dress up the front and add even more beauty to the back.  However, we didn't find any work clothes and had to get back to the house because Jonathan was getting ready to cook out and needed us back there.

As I said, it was a gorgeous day--light blue skies, temperature around 65 degrees, gentle breeze.  The two families gathered around outside to eat and drink and relax.  Joshua and Samuel, sated by sunshine and good food, both fell asleep and were carried in for long naps.  I wanted to start working and asked if one of them would drive me to a shop where I could get some things.  (I will NOT drive here--that is a whole 'nother story).  Then Rocio says, "O don't worry--you can wear some of mine."  OK, Rocio, if possible, is even skinnier than Adriana.  I'm thinking:  do these women not have eyes?  But she said, "I have just what you need.  I'll go get it for you."  A few minutes later, she brought in a bag of old paint clothes, including a pair of stretch pants, beautifully paint spattered, that my some miracle did manage to make it around me with adequate comfort, and some old sweaters of Ian's (Rocio's husband) that will work fine.

Jonathan and I, and eventually, the children and Adriana, then spent the rest of the lovely afternoon cleaning out some overgrown beds, clearing a space for the vegetable garden, planning how he can build a sandbox for the children.  Jonathan is a bit naive about how much strength it will take to haul several thousand pounds of sand up a very steep hill to the sandbox location.  After some conversation, he has decided to hire help for that part of the construction.  We had bought Joshua some tools and a set of gloves for him, knowing he would want to mimic what he saw me and his dad doing, and he had a great time.  He was helping me pull some weeds and chattering happily in Spanish.  I apologized to him for not knowing Spanish and asked if he would be willing to speak to me in English.  He gave me his happy smile that lights up his lovely face and began to talk in English to me.  Clearly, he understands all that is said to him in English, but his spoken vocabulary is still limited. Nonetheless, he is now working to speak only English to me and this will be a big help to him when he goes back to nursery school at the end of April when the long spring break is over.

The long nap meant the children were extremely difficult to get to bed last night, but it was finally accomplished, and Jonathan, Adriana and I set around the small kitchen bar and ate leftover and shared a bottle of wine and told stories.  One that will be the family legend is how Adriana told Jonathan that she was leaving him THAT DAY if he didn't get her moved out of their New York apartment as it was becoming increasingly rat infested.  This was when Joshua was about 15 months old and she was seven months pregnant with Samuel.  He most definitely took her at her word and had them in a different apartment by the next day.  Good thing they can laugh at all this now!

Friday afternoon in London

Yes, we are definitely into English Spring weather, as in a drizzling rain all day yesterday, Friday.  Adriana and I were extremely busy with the children all morning--it really passed with a blur, just dealing with their needs.  Around noon, Rocio brought her girls over, and Adriana, as usual, fixed all a lovely and nutritious lunch (and yes, even after just a few days here, I am losing some weight--this healthy and very low-fat eating will do it to me), and about an hour later, when the children were getting pretty obstreperous, the sisters decided it was time for a movie, popcorn and juice for the children, popcorn and a bottle of wine for the adults.  

We watched Shrek II (I think--I know it was not the first one).  We women nearly rolled on the floor in laughter but seriously doubted the children caught any of the allusions to the many fairy tales.  Unfortunately, Joshua fell sound asleep during the movie--which meant he stayed up very late last night.  Anyway, after the movie, we decided to walk to Rocio's house for a change of scenery.

Everyone put on rain gear and we took the three block walk, Joshua happily walking with his Granny, hand in hand.  Our visit there gave me a chance to see another house here.  Again, like this one, it is a double house.  Up a steep set of stairs (it is quite hilly here), and in the front door, there is about 3 feet from the front door a steep set of stairs on the wall on the left, and a hall beside them leads to a living room and separate dining room on the right, a small toilet room under the stairs on the left, and then straight back to the kitchen and then a small garden/play room with a door to the lovely backyard.

Upstairs there is a small study (maybe 5x7), two bedrooms, a toilet room and a bathroom.  No closets in the house, but both bedrooms are fitted with closets and shelves built after the house was built.  I figure the house is 20 feet wide.  Yes, 20 feet.  Probably about 40 feet deep.  As with Jonathan and Adriana's house, it is well equipped with good quality washer and dryer in the kitchen as well as a dishwasher.  I'm really understanding more and more why Jonathan and Adriana saw the parsonage where I live as exceptionally large.  I am guessing the master bedroom, bath and closet there are the size of the entire first floor at Rocio's house.

And it is charming, and I would guess quite English.  Yes, it is also full--again, picture a house with minimal storage, two children, and a wife who works from home three days a week.  Rocio fixed us afternoon tea (hot chocolate for the children) and the four youngsters played together.  I somewhat redeemed myself in the eyes of Katie, the oldest niece.  She was just about terminally disappointed in me when she discovered that I am absolutely no good at "games," i.e., soccer (football here) or anything else dealing with running, hiding, hitting or catching balls or anything like that.  But yesterday, I delightedly listened to her read aloud for about an hour and helped her with learning new words and meanings.  So, perhaps I'm not all useless in her eight-year-old eyes.

Rocio then fed the children some dinner, and Adriana I walked Joshua and Samuel home. Actually, Adriana carried Samuel, who was pretty tired by then, and Joshua leapt excitedly into every single puddle on the way home and made lots of big splashes.  We got them home, bathed--actually Joshua showers and just loves it, had them in the night clothes and were just about to settle them for the night when . . . Daddy (Jonathan) comes home!!!!  Yes, Papa is here--the one who just loves to laugh and tickle and play!!!  And get them totally stimulated so that sleep is impossible!!!!!

Yes, a long evening, indeed.  

It is now Saturday and we women will get our revenge.  He and Ian, Rocio's husband, are keeping the little darlings and Rocio and Adriana and I are going to the gardening store.  I didn't think to bring gardening clothes, and discovered that Jonathan and Adriana would love it if I would get yard somewhat cleaned up and some flowers planted.  Very much my joy to do so, so we'll get started later today.

The Play Day

It was a typical early spring London afternoon, damp, occasional sprinkles, low overhanging clouds.  I'm here in London enjoying a couple of weeks playing "Granny" to three year old and 1 1/2 year old grandsons.  We had been joined for the day by their cousins, two girls, aged 8 and 5 and they had all played together quite well most of the day.  But now the littlest one was up from his nap, and a long, unplanned afternoon spread out before us.  The natives, i.e., the children, were definitely restless.  They had creatively managed to entertain themselves until now, but any parent can guess at what was going to happen if the adults didn't take action.

There's a large outdoor park with a well equipped recreation center nearby with scheduled activities for children.  We loaded the boys and the oldest niece into the car and headed over there, and "queued" up (I'm learning British English as fast a possible), to get tickets for the next Kid's House of Fun hour.  About 15 minutes later, we headed toward a room with the largest bounce house I've ever seen.  Three stories tall, with at least a 900 sq. ft footprint, it was clearly a child's paradise.  For about 20 minutes, that is exactly what it was.  Even the baby was having a marvelous time exploring and falling and jumping and climbing and hiding--a delight. 

And then . . . two larger groups entered, probably birthday parties, most of the children between 6 and 11 years old.  I watched in fascination as these exuberant children, also restive from a long day inside (it is a school holiday here), did what comes naturally to all children, and started racing through the tunnels and down the slides, bumping one another, knocking each other over, and running faster, faster, faster.  After a while, I felt like I was watching a movie with speeded up motion as they raced by my watchful chair in hyper-speed, screaming louder with each pass, heedless who they trampled in the rush to get . . . nowhere.  It was just a large maze, and all eventually ended at the same place, exactly where they started.  

The rush to get nowhere--how typical of so much of human activity.  Rush, rush, rush, hurry here, make that deadline there, don't be late because something bad will happen, quicker, faster, speedier--GET THERE NOW BECAUSE IT HAS TO BE DONE THIS MINUTE OR  . . .!!!!  

Or what?  What if it doesn't get done?  Well, frankly, sometimes it is pretty darn serious if it doesn't get done.  Silly to pretend otherwise--some parts of life must be met head on with speed and expertise.  But there is a franticness to much of our lives that insists if something can be done faster, then it should be done faster.  There are times, however, when our lives are so much like than House of Fun maze that doing it faster only means getting back to where we began, and when we get there, we are tired, sweaty, and pretty unsatisfied.  

The movement for "slow" seems to be growing (we would like to think slowly, of course.)  Slow food, not only cooked slowly with love and care, but also eaten slowly with appreciation and real appetite, has become quite a trend (which, I suppose by the nature of trends, means it is catching on with increasing rapidity).  There's a fascinating bit of research emerging showing that super-slow exercising may create far more strength and endurance than the normal higher speed routines.  The best athletes are taught to work through their moves in very slow motion as they train their muscles to respond to changing circumstances.

Then there is my area of expertise: the growth into spiritual maturity.  This growth simply cannot be rushed.  Shortcuts mean lingering and ultimately destructive immature attitudes. It takes a long, long time for the purity of heart and soul and mind and body to work their way as the predominant way of being.  That path toward spiritual maturity is started best in the earliest of childhood moments.  Of the things I've seen since this short trip to England began, it is that need to start early that frightens me the most.  Because they are not starting at all over here.  And it is showing up in some pretty horrific ways with the teens and young adults.

More later on this.

Thursday, April 16, in London

A typical British morning here--foggy, damp, chilly but not cold.  Adriana and the children up early, I slept later, still adjusting to the time change, but doing much, much better.  

Katie and Grace, Adriana's nieces, are here for the day as Rocio needs to work and it is actually easier to have the extra ones here as they help entertain Joshua and Sammy.  Katie is a very mature 8, and Grace, a sweet five year old.  Grace has not been feeling well--a bit of a tummy upset--so Adriana is preparing one of her homemade remedies for her.  It fascinates me to hear the girls speak--very proper British accent, and easy switch to Spanish when necessary.  Grace looked me straight in the eye this morning and asked, "Do you speak Spanish."  She looked disapprovingly at me when I answered, "no," but Adriana said that she asked that so she could speak Spanish around me and I wouldn't understand.  Yes, these bi-lingual children have figured out much.

One of Adriana's big frustrations here is that the owners of the house have left much of their stuff here, leaving them with little storage.  The "garage" (an 8 foot wide by 11 foot long box--one could get a small European car in there, but I can't imagine how the door could be opened to let the driver out), is quite full of their stuff--bikes and boxes and suitcases.  There is also another refrigerator out here--that certainly helps with the food storage situation.  Anyway, I've told Adriana I will tackle it and see if I can at least re-order things so they have more storage.  Apparently the owners of the house promise much, but deliver little in terms of removal of their things.

I'm hoping to make a trip next week to Sheffield to see a friend of mine, and so need to learn about the extensive train/bus system here.  Should be an adventure, but at least knowing the language means I can ask for directions and get some help.  We'll see what happens.  The children like riding the train, so perhaps we'll all go to Victoria Station together so I can see what it takes to find the proper trains.  I have this image of a huge confusing underground with trains taking off from multiple stations and levels--probably been reading too many British detective novels.

So, I continue to enter into the domestic details here.  Can now use the dishwasher and washing machine, and hope to relieve Adriana of a few things while I am here.  Feels good to be a part of her life and talk with her about what it means to rear children in a culture with extremely low standards of sexual morality and almost no Christian influence.  A big challenge in front of them.  

At this point, it looks like they will be in London for five years, and are thinking about buying a house.  The plans for a Paris office have been put on hold because of the economy, and, if so, that would mean some more settledness for them.  They want to stay in this area.  They've found a great school for Joshua and want to offer him some stability.  Both of the boys really do struggle with separation anxiety--they've just moved so much that it has affected them that way.  Joshua has already lived in Australia, New York City (and moved twice while there), Canada, Colombia, France, and now London.  A lot for this not quite three year old child. 

Now, back to helping out a bit here.

Wednesday, April 15, in London

Well, the combination of weeks and weeks of exhaustion and nonstop work, the long plane flight and the six hours time difference has had its way with me.  Twelve hours of sleep last night and a nap this afternoon have helped quite a bit, but it looks like it will be tomorrow before I am freed from the need to fall asleep if I sit down for more than three minutes.

When I started writing this, Sammy "The Rocket" Sullivan Peňa, was still down for this afternoon nap, and Joshua, who at three thinks he is too old for a nap, is playing quietly by himself, chattering away in Spanish.  Adriana speeds through the typical day of the mother of two toddlers--the constant juggle of children, cooking, laundry, play time and all else connected with this time of her life.  I woke from my brief nap thinking about the famous "octomom" and wonder what kind of mental illness she is suffering from to even consider having that many children at once and to think she can handle it.

Now, for a brief description:  if you will type this address into maps.google.com, you'll get a pretty good idea of what the house looks like:  38 Harbury Road Carshalton SM5 4LA. I can't get the actual address to show on the street view, but that one is very much like the one they live in.  As are many dwellings here, it is an attached house--another abutted right next to it, similar to a duplex in the US.  Jonathan and Adriana live on the left side, but they do have a front garden--it is not completely concreted over as the one in the photo.  The back yard of the two houses is separated only by a low fence, so both have a full view of the other's back yard.

The interior of the house is charming.  We have no idea how old the house is--surely at least fifty or sixty years old and probably much older, but it has had considerable work done on it in the last ten years.  The floors, however, are probably original--they look like maple hardwood in the main areas, and brick in the kitchen. The entry space is light and generous with a lovely aquarium at one end.  The ground floor has a living room, dining room, half-bath and kitchen.  All rooms are smaller than found in current US houses--the living room is probably 12x12 and the others smaller.  They are nicely furnished with the current owner's furniture. 

There is a set of stairs, naturally, very steep stairs, that lead to a landing where Jonathan's office is (and where I am writing) and then a short flight to the upper level with three bedrooms and a very nice bathroom, with shower, tub and all the other necessities.  One room, large and open, is Jonathan and Adriana's bedroom.  "With closets!" as Adriana gratefully proclaimed (not walk in, but closets built after the house was done, and take up quite a bit of two walls.)  One room is for the children, and it really does have a closet--approximately 3 feet wide and 2 feet deep.  I am sharing this room with the children.  The last bedroom is the playroom/guest room but the furniture as not yet arrived for the guest room part of it. The children do use the play room to some extent, but really prefer to be downstairs.  A complex set of baby gates guards the top and bottom of the stairs so the children do not have access to them without an adult having unlocked them.

The kitchen is amazingly well equipped, with six burner stove, dishwasher (hidden behind a cabinet that matches the other cabinets), washing machine and dryer (also hidden), small refrigerator (very small refrigerator--the size they had in France), microwave, and adequate drawer/cabinet space.  Much better equipped than the French kitchen.

The windows from the kitchen and dining room look onto the back yard.  There is a patio area, flagstones for flooring, and then two sets of steep steps lead to the garden proper, a very upward sloping yard that culminates at least 12 feet higher from the first patio in another flagstone patio area with a couple of flower beds and a garden shed on it.  

Yes, lovely, and yes, nearly as inconvenient as the French house.  Adriana's sister, Rocio, and her husband, Ian, and their daughters, Katie and Grace, came by late afternoon to eat as they had just arrived from a vacation in France and Adriana had fixed some soup and rice for dinner for them, knowing they'd be hungry on their arrival.  That meant four adults and four children--and that's when I realized that there is no room large enough to really accommodate that many people at once.  A couple of hours of wild conversation and excited children later, Rocio and Ian left with their children and Adriana managed to get the overly-stimulated Joshua and Samuel to sleep while I worked on cleaning the kitchen.  I've talked Adriana into showing me how the appliances work so I can be of some help to her in there.  Also will try to get some gardening done for them while I am here.

Just talked with Jonathan.  Complicated with his Greece assignment are weighing him down but he hopes to arrive late tomorrow afternoon.

We took the children to a nearby park for most of the afternoon.  It was full of children because school is on hiatus right now, and the playground itself was a little overwhelming to them.  But we found a nice place to sit and Joshua learned to roll down the hill and Samuel tried to talk the squirrels into take peanuts from his hands.  There is a spacious pond with ducks and geese, and everything is very green except for the shrubs that froze with the very unexpected two feet of snow late winter here.  Clearly, from the care that is taken with the gardens here, they will be replaced soon.  Early spring blooms everywhere.

OK, time for me to head to bed and finish my time adjustment.  

Arrival In London

It is mid-afternoon on Tuesday, April 14, London time, and I'm at Jonathan's and Adriana's house, have just eaten a lovely, healthy, "Adriana" lunch, unpacked my bags, distributed gifts to all, and am wondering how on earth I'm going to stay awake until evening, but know it is necessary if I'm to overcome jet lag quickly.

Essentially, I've been awake now since since  5 a.m. Monday morning with just snatches of sleep during this time.  Flights were comfortable, but sleep still just didn't happen.  But a nap this afternoon will just make it worse, so think we'll take the children out for a walk soon.

The children:  Adriana met me at the airport with Joshua in tow and Samuel in her arms.  Jonathan had a sudden trip to Greece and will be back Thursday evening, so Adriana braved the confusing trip to Heathrow Airport to pick me up.

Joshua immediately knew me and flashed me a big smile and gave me a kiss.  Samuel was a little more hesitant, but is quickly warming up.  The boys are gorgeous and now, at 3 and 18 months are beginning to make good playmates for each other.

Highways seem very confusing to me.  As in France, many of the intersections are roundabouts with people entering the circle at numerous points, all needing to change lanes and exit within seconds.  Somehow they work.  Also, as in France, the residential streets are narrow and people park on both sides and there are often just inches of clearance on either side.  Adriana, of course, manages all this with speed and agility--I'm just hanging on to the passenger seat (on the left side of the car, of course.)

Their house is gorgeous--will write more later.  Must go now.

The Traffic Jam

Late last week, my husband and I were hosting a birthday party for a business friend of his at a restaurant in East Dallas. The party was to begin at 6:30; we left Krum at 5:25, cutting it pretty close timewise. Of course, if I had been driving, we would have left earlier, but that is a story for another time!



After a brief slowdown on I35 at the south end of Denton, we enjoyed smooth driving through Lewisville and across town on the George Bush Tollway. Then we headed south on 75, the often infamous Central Expressway. A few seconds later, we saw flashing lights ahead of us. We both took a deep breath, expecting a major problem, and guessing we would be late.

As it turned out, the problem was on the northbound side. As we and all the other rubberneckers inched by, we could clearly see that it must have been a major accident. Two fire trucks, along multiple police and emergency vehicles, completely blocked the northbound lanes.

I decided to see how long the back-up was: turned out to be nearly five miles of non-moving cars. After that, cars were still traveling at a reasonable speed and I thought, “I wonder if they knew what was coming if they would have taken this route home?”

Which also led to this thought, “I wonder what changes I would make if I really knew the future?” And then I began to ponder this time in the Christian year when we move from Jesus’ celebratory entrance into Jerusalem, which we honor this Sunday on Palm Sunday, through the horror of the week to follow. That week when all betrayed him and left him to the mercies of those who, for reasons that surely must have seemed right to them, hated Jesus enough to condemn him to an excruciating death. What must it have been like for him to know what was coming? How he suffered! His agonizing prayer rings in my mind, “Please let this cup pass from me!” In the end, love overcame all, the love of all humanity that continues to betray the call of God upon up; the love of all humanity that is far more interested in inviting us into heaven than in condemning us to hell, the love of all humanity that finally says, “Father, forgive them because they don’t know what they are doing.”

Thank you, Jesus, for facing the future with love and courage, even as it took you all the way to death. Thank you for laying down your life for us. Help us to learn to do that for others.

Disappearing Churches

“If all the churches in your community disappeared, what difference would it make?” I read this question this week and felt it worth exploring. If all the churches in Krum disappeared, what difference would it make?


Now, I don't know the inner workings of all the churches here, just the one where I serve. But I will affirm this: the people of every church in our community work diligently to add value to us. I know that people are fed and clothed, that sorrows are comforted, that joys are celebrated, that children are nurtured, that moral living is both modeled and taught, the Bible is read and studied, All powerful and important activities.


Yet, I know there must be something more. A church, not a building, but a group of people who meet regularly, do something that no other organization can do. A church gives a space to intentionally encounter the mystery of the universe that we call “God.” A church, not a building but the people who come together in some space, provide the setting to engage in acts of worship.

Worship is a difficult word to define. Many in the world today declare, “I'm spiritual but not religious.” I understand that sentiment—it affirms something that is true of all: a need deep inside us to connect with something far, far greater than we are. That spirituality springs from awareness that we humans have a tiny role in something much bigger than we are. A tiny role, but an important one, for the actions of any one person ultimately affect the lives of everyone. More than that, the word “religious” has taken on a difficult connotation, because much harm has been done in the name of religion. So has much good, but that good is often forgotten because the harm overshadows it. The harm done is generally more public, and shouted loudly about, while the good being done is hidden, quiet, unacknowledged.

So the “spiritual but not religious” person acknowledges the larger Something out there. The church, not the building but the people who make it up, provides a place for that spirituality to flower and bloom in community and connection and accountability and service and education and wisdom. Private spirituality is necessary and good. Private spirituality affirmed and shaped and expressed in a church, not the building but with the people who also practice private spirituality, then matures into the perfection defined by the perfect, that is, Jesus the Messiah. It is Jesus who told the spiritually-minded people of his day, “Love God with all that you are and love your neighbor in the same way you want to be loved.”

It is the act of public worship that ultimately the community can't do without. It is the open acknowledgment that God has a claim upon us and that claim includes us learning to love God fully. None of us in our human limitation can enter more than a tiny way into the hugeness of God. We're just not smart enough or good enough or even spiritual enough. However, in public worship, we can go much further than we can when we only exercise our spirituality in private.

What would happen if the churches here were to disappear? We would lose our souls. Our private spirituality would wither without nurture, and all would suffer. The church, not the building but the people who link together to grow mature in God, offer something that no other organization can offer: complete confidence in the future, for we know that God is good

Our Bags Are Packed, We're Ready to Go

Almost everything is packed now, except for items absolutely essential for worship and last minute work. We've sorted, tossed, given away, cleaned out, filled boxes and bins, each room slowly emptied of its contents. On March 29th, we'll end our last service in this historic building with words of thanksgiving. We'll carry out together the items that most mark us as people of faith: those symbols that center us on Jesus. The big Bible, the altar cross and candlesticks, the cups and plates we use when we remember Jesus' last meal with his disciples in the act we call Holy Communion--these and many other items will be carried out by the people of this community at the conclusion of the 11:00 worship on that Sunday. At that point, the building itself is officially freed for other uses--and it will be put to great use as the new owner, Dr. Richard Moore, continues with his creative remodeling and turns it into a wedding chapel/conference center.

April 1 is our official moving day. We're all making light of the fact that we're moving on April Fool's Day, but it is quite appropriate--we are people of the Good News, the foolishness of God that pours out grace and reconciliation on us and invites all of us, no matter how broken, how unworthy we might feel, how tarnished or unprepared we see ourselves, into new life and new hope.

I have become exquisitely aware this week in new ways that the church itself is most definitely not the building, but the people in it. While we're certainly all looking forward to our new facility--fully accessible, lots of restrooms (if you've never been in the old facility, you cannot understand how happy we are about this!!!), gracious greeting area, fabulous spaces for our children and youth, room to grow, and so much more--the church is not that. The church really is the called-out people, the ones who've decided that we will accept the invitation from God to live as forgiven and reconciled ones, even though we know we don't deserve it. The church is all of us who fumble and fall on our way to learning about grace, who roll up our sleeves and get our hands dirty as we seek to serve the world, who intentionally lose our our lives because we've learned that this is the way to really, really find life.

The church is not perfect people living perfect lives, with no room for the imperfect. The church is the place where the imperfections are celebrated as they are slowly transformed by grace into hope for ourselves and others. Real church takes place when we bring all of ourselves, our beliefs AND our doubts, our joys AND our concerns, our victories AND our defeats, our visible AND our invisible selves, our unselfishness AND our selfishness, our goodness AND our badness, our health AND our sickness. We bring it all, and learn to love God and love each other.

Yes, our bags are packed and we're ready to go. Let the new adventure begin!

It's All Around Us

As I write today, it is a cold, wet Thursday morning. I have ensconced myself at a window seat in a Macdonald's near Baylor Hospital, close to downtown Dallas. I just dropped off a friend for his daily radiation treatment in his fight against cancer and headed here to think and write and read a bit.

It's late morning and busy here. Mostly with senior citizens who come and enjoy the low priced “senior coffee” and conversation each each other. I like the atmosphere—people of every color and background, some alone, some conversing, all feeling some level of comfort and warmth and safety. Cleanliness and order rule the day: the tables and floors immaculately clean, the bathroom sparkles with frequent attention. 

A gentleman with a walking stick, backpack and bluetooth set just took the table next to mine, a phone conversation in progress—sounds like important business. An older couple with two adorable, smiling grandchildren wrapped against the wet cold enter. The already pleasant atmosphere brightens even more. One senior citizen, putting his trash in the receptacle, immediately greets them and says, “Give me five!” I offer my own joy and words of greeting. The two small boys simply beam on anyone who walks by. Their smiles are sunshine on this gray, damp day.

Spanish predominates. I enjoy the rhythms of the language even when I cannot understand the words. It's a language of beauty and grace—easy to see why my oldest son fell in love with it and has insisted that his own children learn Spanish first, and then English. This is heritage worth preserving.

A young African-American man converses animatedly with an older man of Asian ancestry. A white woman sits in companionable closeness to her Hispanic friend. The man with the backpack and bluetooth continues his conversation—he's counseling someone not to panic over some sort of health-related business issue. His deep south accent soothes, offering comfort to one clearly in distress.

I grew up not far from this part of Dallas. I remember the days of great racial tension, and being told by my parents not to venture into this part of town alone. I remember a life when this kind of racially mixed company would have been viewed with horror or fear. I am grateful that we have made progress, that we are all seen as human and worthy of respect and dignity.

Jesus spoke all the time about the Kingdom of Heaven being all around his followers. He told them, “if you've got ears to hear, then listen.” I'm gaining those ears. I'm listening. Right off this busy intersection in old East Dallas, the Kingdom of Heaven is all around me. It permeates quietly, supported by small acts of kindness and love and generosity. The changes are often gradual—so tiny we don't even recognize them until suddenly our eyes are opened and we see, “Wow—look what has happened over the years.”

A Special Place in Hell

I have come to the final, irrevocable, unchangeable, frustrated conclusion that there will be a special place reserved in hell for the person who invented that rigid, clear packaging that now entombs so many consumer goods.  I have just spent 15 minutes trying to get to a new hairdryer without bleeding to death by cutting myself on the sharp edges of that material. I now have a new tension point in my back, and aching hands from tying to manipulate a pair of scissors through the impermeable stuff. 

I've made the decision that if I ever have to purchase something wrapped like that again, I will insist that the personnel from the store actually open it for me.  Perhaps if we all do that, the store owners will stop ordering things in such packaging.  And if the store owners stop ordering such things, the manufacturers will stop using it.

C'mon, folks. Let's start a revolution.  This is ridiculous.

The "Who's Who" Application

Recently, I received a letter from something called the "Cambridge Who's Who" telling me what an important person I am and that my candidacy to be included in this prestigious directory has been approved. All I have to do is visit my personalized website and fill out the application form there and I'll be in. 

Well, it is about time someone recognized how important I am and acknowledged my growing celebrity!  Yes, this is written tongue-in-cheek.  I get these things all the time, and they are a great way to lose money in the name of vanity and recognition.  I was speaking of these one time to a friend of mine who has achieved much prominence in her field.  She said that she arranged for her cat to be nominated and included in one of those scam "Who's Who" books.  No accomplishments required--just a willingness to part with some money to purchase some fame.

Last week, at what we call our Midweek Miracle program for children and youth, the theme for the evening was "Celebrity Night."  It was great fun, and everyone walked the red carpet when coming in, pasted stars all over themselves, and learned how do to celebrity introductions.  One of our most creative nine-year-olds fashioned an elegant evening gown out of craft paper, completed by two of the younger girls who managed the sweeping train attached to the dress.  We all had great fun play-acting as sought after celebrities. 

But as the evening drew to a close, I looked at the adults who had just given up hours of time and energy to create this miracle time for the children and youth.  Here were the real celebrities:  The kitchen crew who manage to cook and serve a fabulous meal each week, and make sure there is enough left over to deliver meals to shut-ins around the neighborhood; the table parents who patiently teach the children manners and courtesy as they form family groups with unrelated children; the Bible study leaders who bring such wisdom and knowledge to their task that our youth became so engaged in discovering the Bible that we couldn't even get them to stop for their next activity; the worship skills leaders who tap into what seem to be bottomless wells of creativity as they lead the children with drama and visual exercises that help them retain God's word in a way that they can share it with the congregation on Sunday mornings; the recreation leaders who never run out of fun games that teach our young people that they can have great fun without having to divide themselves into winners and losers. 

These are the quiet and faithful people who take seriously the commands in the Bible to become disciples of Jesus Christ.  They live out their lives as disciples with zest, joy, companionship and service.  At the end of each Midweek Miracle evening, we all look at each other knowing we are physically tired yet infused with the energy that comes from a job well done.  Would that there is a "Who's Who" for these faithful saints and all the others around the world who seek to live out the God-infused life!  But perhaps there is one--perhaps these are the ones whose names are written in God's book of life, the ones to whom God will say, "Well done, good and faithful servant.  You have been faithful in little; now be faithful in much."

That's the best recognition of all.

The Walk Through

One day last week, I just needed a break and decided to take a quick walk-through of the new building which will soon become the physical home of the United Methodist Church here in Krum. As I wandered through the rooms at 1001 E. McCart, the construction workers good-naturedly offered a chance to go to work with them.  Having no skills in that area at all, I happily declined, just being delighted to see what is happening.

A long-held dream coming true for us--hard to believe that we are so close to the move.

The current building at the corner of 2nd and McCart pulses with memories.  Baptisms, marriages, funerals, messages, Bible study, service, love, meals, teaching children, laughter and joy, tears and shared sorrow, babies born and others going onto eternity, all done in holy connection with one another.  I've only had three years here, and in those three years have come to a deeper and deeper appreciation of the ways this group of people live as the hands and feet of Jesus in this community and in the world beyond.  So many lives changed, so much good done in the name of Jesus.

And now we will move.  Our last Sunday in the current location is March 29. On that day, as the 11:00 service ends, we will carry out of the Sanctuary all items that are part of our worship life.  The Bibles, hymnals, the cloths that drape the altar and the pulpit, the wall hangings that represent the movement of the Christian year, the candles that give us the light of Christ during worship, the candlelighters that bring in and take out that light, the baptismal font where the waters remind us that God has called us to be his own people--all this and more will be carried out and packed so that it might be carried back in at the 9:00 a.m. service on Palm Sunday, April 5.

Yes, a long-held dream is coming true as the following week we occupy space that is fully accessible to all, that is especially geared for the nurture and care and spiritual education of children and youth, that gives us space and light and reflects our hope in the future because God is with us.

All are invited to join us in these last four weeks of worship in our current space.  Come and share those sweet memories there and then help us build new ones of transformational living in this transformational move to 1001 E. McCart St., next to the Blanche Dodd Intermediate School.  Blanche Dodd, herself a lifetime member of this church and a woman of service and love, would be proud of us.

Life Hurts

As I write this, I'm sitting in the waiting room of Methodist Hospital, Dallas.  I've just heard a piece of very difficult news about a treasured colleague and friend.  Shortly, I'll be speaking with her about this, but right now, all I can do is weep.

My distress is obvious, and a woman sitting across from me comes over and puts her arms around me.  "Just cry.  It's OK, let it out."  We talked for a little while.  She speaks of losing a daughter to leukemia and the way they've kept her memory alive by telling stories, so many stories, about her.  She tells me of her husband, successful survivor of two liver transplants, and still in active practice as a pediatrician.  I look at her face and see powerful strength and beauty in the clear eyes, the lines, the hair gone fully gray.  We are the same age.  We have both learned something over the years:  life just hurts.  Life hurts.  There is no escape from pain unless we die, and she and I had both decided that we would live.

A decision to live means that we will indeed embrace the pain of life and find in it reservoirs of courage and strength.  We'll need it.  When those hurts come, we'll need every drop of it.  When the bad news hits, we've got to be able to go deep inside and find our rock to stand firmly upon.  When we do stand firmly upon those rocks of integrity and faith and courage, the blows come, but we're still standing. The blows come like the never ending waves on the ocean shore. Some big, some small, some like huge storms where we've got to hold on with all our strength, some are more gentle, and almost no trouble at all.  But they never, ever stop coming, for if they did, it would mean that life itself stopped. 

So we choose life and when we do, we see the hope and possibilities in those never ending waves.  We must be like the woman in labor who is sure she cannot endure yet another gripping contraction from the powerful muscles in her womb, yet does so because with each more powerful contraction comes the hope that this one indeed will bring forth a new life.  I spoke recently with a friend whose fourth child was born at home while the fury of Hurricane Ike spent itself in her neighborhood.  It was a hard labor, nothing quiet and gentle about it.  Hours of never-ending contractions.  She said she was just hanging onto the end of the bathtub, staring at the drain.  It was all she could focus on as she endured the increasing waves of pain.

As she told me this story, I looked down.  In my arms was nestled the beautiful result of those hours of pain, a gorgeous daughter, peacefully asleep.

Yes, life does hurt.  It never, ever goes quite the way we want it.  We certainly do get respites periodically.  The tide goes out, we bask in the warm sunshine and watch diamonds of light flicker over the waves, and find something close to absolute peace. But those waves are coming back.  It's time to stand up again and get ready to embrace it with courage and dignity.  We may emerge wet and sputtering and bruised and gasping for breath, but we will emerge or we will die.  Stand firm, my friends.  The Lord is with you.

The Gray Zone

Some people are just mean. Mean as in nasty, intentionally hurtful to others in words, actions and thoughts.   "Mean" can also describe someone who is stingy with finances, time, love and compassion, but that is not the direction I'm going here. I'm just talking about plain old meanness.  People who appear to live with such a sense of entitlement that they carry no concern about their treatment of others.  Other people, animals, nature:  all these are simply objects to be used and discarded as necessary.

Other words that can describe such people are "wicked" and "evil."  We don't hear or use those words so often any more.  Perhaps we should.  There are times when we must recognize evil for what it is.  Without speaking truth about such things, there can be no way to get back to goodness again.

Recently I viewed a very difficult to watch movie called, "The Gray Zone."  It is set in the time of huge evil:  the Holocaust, that time of horror perpetuated by Nazi Germany and dedicated to the total removal of all those of Jewish descent from the face of the earth.  The movie focuses on the experiences of a crew of Polish Jews who were treated relatively well for several months in exchange for their work in the killing chambers and in the crematoria.  The "Gray Zone" meant, among other things, the fine line they tread in trying to hold onto their lives and integrity while helping thousands to die in the gas chambers and then shoving their lifeless bodies into the fires.  A key subplot in the movie is their discovery of a young girl who was knocked unconscious but not killed in the gas chamber and their decision to rescue her rather than send her alive into the cremation fires.  That decision ultimately hastened their own executions. Just before their death, the two main characters looked at each other and knew that in that one fruitless act (in one of the most awful moments in the film, the young woman ended up being killed by the Nazis anyway), they had nevertheless transformed something evil into a least a moment of goodness and righteousness. 

We all live in some sort of "Gray Zone" of life. Some have just given in to the pull of evil.  They are the mean ones.  They are the ones who ruthlessly kill anyone in their way so they can save their own skins.  Gas chambers and crematoria were just one of countless ways to do this.  Suicide bombers are another. 

But let's get closer to home--those are so removed from us.  What about people who drive vehicles with excessive speed and reckless abandon thinking only their agenda counts?  Recently I was waiting for a light to turn green.  Long ago, I learned always to look to the left and right when entering an intersection even with a green light.  On this occasion, upon my quick glance to the right I saw an 18 wheeler speeding toward me.  Had I not looked, I would have undoubtedly been hit and probably killed.  That driver was just in a hurry--no one and nothing else mattered except for him and his need not to wait 90 seconds for the light to cycle green again.  That's entitlement.  That's mean. That's evil.

But that's still "out there."  Let's get even closer.  What about adults who hit one another with fists and words because their anger button gets pushed by the other?  What about parents who scream at their children because those children have gotten in the way of the parents' need for peace and quiet?  What about youth who think it is great fun to isolate and treat with deliberate cruelty classmates who are different from them?  What about religious leaders who threateningly condemn people to hell who don't think or believe the way they do?  What about people who spread untrue rumors about others in order to gain attention and status for themselves and perhaps distract attention from their own misdeeds? 

Personally, I think we've all got mean streaks in us.  Every one of us is more than capable of yelling out "crucify him" if it means saving our own skin. It is the season of Lent, that time of intentionally taking careful stock of our own souls.  Forget about those who are "out there."  Let's find out what is "in here."  Let us be those who will leave meanness behind, no matter what the cost.  Then we are the light of the world as Jesus has called us to be.

Heathy Gardens and A Holy Lent

My yard is full of weeds this late winter week.  I've seen this happen before when we've moved into a different house and started the progress to an organic lawn and garden maintenance program.  Without harsh weed suppressants, the not yet healthy lawn is permeable to every possible weed right now. It's messy and a little frustrating.  I want to just blast it with some magic quick fix product and be done with it.  I also know the cost of doing that.  While it may better in the short run, I'm continuing to contribute to the essential unhealth and unsustainability of the system in the long run.

So, as I take the longer, slower route to creating a vibrant and healthy soil to nourish healthy and beautiful plants.  The underlying health has to be there, though, for the visible beauty of the eventual product to be more than just show.  Too often, I just want the outward "show" without the time and energy necessary for the more hidden health underneath to do its work.

As the Christian season known as "Lent" approaches, I keep coming back to this need for a healthy foundation in order to produce a good outward show.  This 40 day period is set aside as a time for an honest and rigorous examination of our own selves.  It's a time to ask:  "In what ways do I love God and love my neighbor as myself?"  And, "In what ways do I NOT love God and love my neighbor as myself?"  So much like growing a healthy and productive garden, which needs well-nourished soil, we need to check and see what kind of nourishment we ourselves need so our lives show themselves full of productivity. 

What needs to be added?  What needs to be changed?  What habits, attitudes, practices, patterns of thinking and living mean more health and wholeness and which ones means less?  In what ways are we cooperating with God in learning to live as people who have received love and reconnection?  In what ways are we resistant to the movement of the Spirit of God in our lives? 

This six week period, starting February 25 and ending on Easter Sunday, April 12, is an ideal time for that careful self-examination.  The best way to begin it is to attend a Service of Ashes on February 25 (we'll have on at 7 a.m. and 7 p.m. at Krum United Methodist Church and many other churches will be holding them as well).  When the ashes are marked upon your forehead or hand, it is a sign that you take seriously the need for careful examination of your mind and soul and heart.  You have taken the first step to a more mindful life, and a better foundation on which to base it.  Out of that springs such beauty!!!! 

Let us all have a holy Lent together.

Cell phones and crying babies

"Is that your cell phone?" I squirmed in embarrassment as a well-known theologian and pastor turned to me in the midst of a presentation in a crowded auditorium on the SMU campus and asked that question. I started to apologize when he interrupted me and said, "In our church, we insist that everyone leave their cell phones on and that babies are never shushed. If we don't have time to listen to crying babies, what do we have time for? If we can't recognize that God may be speaking through us in our cell phone interruptions, perhaps we don't know how God works very well."

He then told about the time he was preaching on the Bible story where some friends of a paralyzed man were trying to carry their friend to Jesus and couldn't get near him. In desperation, they cut a hole through the roof of the house where Jesus was teaching and lowered their sick friend down, hoping for a healing touch. While he was preaching about this story, someones cell phone starting ringing. It stopped and then started again. Finally, the owner of the phone answered it with a loud "hello." Yes, this was definitely a disruption in the worship time. As it turns out, it was his elderly mother telling him that his father was on the way to the hospital with a probable heart attack.

Immediately, this pastor stopped his message, and everyone circled around this man, laid hands on him and prayed for him and his father. The roof had been broken in at that church in downtown Minneapolis. The words of Scripture suddenly became very, very alive. The sermon was in the cell phone.

In a questionnaire recently circulated on Facebook as a way to help people get to know one another, this question is asked, "What is your favorite sound?" Mine? It is the sound of children whispering and talking and squirming and coloring and playing and even crying as the adults in the congregation quiet themselves for a time of prayer. I always tell the adults that these are their prayers and must not be shushed or squelched. I had not thought before of adding the various ring tones of cell phones to the mix. But it makes sense. Many of us have special ringtones for the people we hear from the most. So what if my husband were to phone and the sounds of "My Guy" entered the sanctuary, or my sister and "The Flight of the Bumblebee" raced forth? Would it be awkward? Yes. Would it upset the usual routine? You'd better believe it. Would I be embarrassed? Probably.But the movement of God into our lives is rarely convenient or managed and can indeed be embarrassing.

We just don't have the privilege of controlling when God decides to becoming more manifestly present, although most of us try. We tell God that we'll offer a few minutes on Sunday, and perhaps in a short time of daily prayer, but that is enough, thank you. We effectively say to God, "Don't show up in a business meeting and ask me to turn the other cheek--it's my job to be ruthless there." Or, "Don't wander in when I'm angry with my children and insist that they are valuable to you and that I control my temper." Or, "Don't You dare intervene when I'm looking at my finances and tell me that I'm supposed to give some of this way--I don't have enough for myself." Or "How dare You permit my loved one or me to suffer like this? What kind of a God are You that asks for me to learn endurance through sorrow?"

No, we want God to just show up on our schedule in a simple, non-threatening way and pat us on the back and keep us all well and happy and wealthy. Thank goodness God does not work on our schedule or on our demands! Let's all learn to celebrate the crying babies and the cell phones and discover new possibilities of the holy transforming our lives.

Geezers and Youth

I sat in the seminar room watching the young and articulate woman across from me explain how she was serving as pastor to a church in what is called the "emergent" stream of Christianity. This young, energetic, vitally alive woman described how they meet in rented facilities on Sunday evenings, all go out to dinner together afterward, and then hit a pub or bar in the area and often have conversations that take them into the next day. How alive! Such energy flowing through her! Such lack of child-care responsibilities!

I looked around the room at the other seminar participants. A couple of those there, in this case all United Methodist clergy, were near the age of the presenter. Most of us were considerably older, and had many years of experience, both in church life and in life-life. I would guess from the vantage point of the presenter, we were a bunch of old geezers, too stuck, too set in our ways, to uninformed to possibly understand how her generation feels and wants to "do church."

Let's see--I grew up in the generation that said, "never trust anyone over 30." At least we said that until we ourselves turned 30--somehow that phrase just magically disappeared then. And I also remember being sure that my generation had discovered Jesus in a way that no other generation before us could possibly have done. Clearly, we were the ones divinely appointed to actually save the world. Those going before us simply had no clue, were too old, too stuck, too set in their ways to possibly understand our we felt and how we wanted to "do church."

With age does come some wisdom, thank goodness. I finally learned that I knew what I knew and believed what I believed because, and only because, others had gone before me. Those others had also sought to discover Jesus, and it was on their shoulders that I stood, not terribly firmly, to be sure, but stood nonetheless. I have also learned that those coming after me must have a voice, and a strong one, if the church is to stay alive and do its subversive work of transforming the world.

While the world around us changes radically, human nature does not fundamentally change. We still need to be connected to one another in God-honoring and mutually accountable community. We still need to learn to worship a holy God and recognize how dramatically each of us falls short of the ideal so we can live together in tolerance, forbearance and forgiveness as we work out our salvation together. This young pastor's primary way to stay in touch with her church members is gmail chat. I'm still using old-fashioned email (I preached a sermon a few years ago on the topic, "Email is for Old People") and snail mail, although we're slowly moving over to Facebook connections. No matter what the method, we still need to connect.

She and her community worship and celebrate the sacraments of baptism and holy communion in rented facilities that may change every few years. My community has been worshipping and celebrating the sacraments in the same location for 80 years now--although that will soon change. Nonetheless, when we do move one mile down the street, we have every expectation of another 80 years in that location.

Her community places a high value on confrontation and fluidity. My community places a high value on mission and nurturing children so they will grow into mature and godly adults.

We both base our life and authority on the revealed word of God, although we may offer radically differing interpretations of the Bible.

With all these differences, we do indeed worship the same God. So I say to her, and to all of this next generation coming forth: I thank God for you. Thank you for your energy and your arrogance and your ability to articulate your faith and your courage and your willingness to live lives of powerful sacrifice because you do indeed love Jesus. Come, stand on my shoulders just as I stood on the shoulders of others. Let me help you as I also hand off the reigns to you, because you are indeed the hope of the world. May your voices be heard . . . for the church will not move forward without you.

Not A Tame Lion

Mr. Tumnus: He's not a tame lion.
Lucy Pevensie: No... but he is good.

“He's not a tame lion.” Anyone who has read The Chronicles of Narnia series by C.S. Lewis or seen either of the two Narnia movies would recognize that line. It is spoken of Aslan, the great lion who inhabits Narnia and who shows up periodically, generally to bring right a situation where great injustice is being perpetuated. Lucy Pevensie, the smallest of the four Pevensie children, is able to recognize that while Aslan is not a tame lion, he is good.

Why is the distinction important? Because when we confuse "tame" with "good" we lose a gigantic amount of power and creativity. Power and creativity are two of the most important ways we live out the image of God that is stamped upon our souls. When we insist on taming everything, we really lose the ability to live radically good lives.

There was a great article in the NY Times health section recently on how our children really do need to eat dirt in order to build up healthy immune systems. The article is here in case you are interested: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/27/health/27brod.html?ref=health. Spoiler alert: it concludes by suggesting we're all better off if some worms periodically inhabit our bodies. So, if you are squeamish about such things, don't read the article.

I liked it, however, because I'm growing more concerned about the need to tame (i.e., make perfectly safe) the world we live in. When we insist on taming it this way, we risk robbing it of its goodness. Let's face it: "tame" tomatoes, those grown on huge farms with carefully metered chemical fertilizers, grown to a perfectly uniform size and washed in a bleach solution in order to remove all possible contamination by field workers, simply do not belong in the same world as "good" tomatoes--those grown in rich, well composted animal manure, often uneven in texture, sometimes cracked and sunburnt, and then picked right off the vine and eaten there, with a saltshaker in hand. The rich flavor of the tomato is enhanced with the warmth of the sunshine having penetrated deep inside. The juice drips down the chin, and heaven enters in. But it's not tame. It's not washed and sterilized and checked for any kind of possible contaminant. It's just good.

About eight years ago I saw my oldest son board a train, headed for Mexico, his life on his back. He was well on his way to a conventionally successful (read: tame) life as a CPA when he suddenly sold everything he owned, grew a beard, and headed out to follow a dream. He thought he already spoke adequate Spanish. When he got across the border, he realized he didn't understand a word. He managed to find a bus to Guadalajara, where he thought there was a family there awaiting his arrival where he could board. When he got there, he discovered they had no idea he was coming. Fortunately, the joy of hospitality informed their lives (that is goodness at work--and there is nothing tame about opening one's home to total strangers) and they welcomed him and made him a part of his family.

He entered a school to become a certified ESL teacher and then found work teaching English at a private high school. His income was $2.35/hour. He wrote to me about jogging along the city streets often chased by packs of wild dogs. No, his life was no longer tame at all. But it was good. His increasing facility in Spanish eventually landed him a job with a firm that does airline financial reconstruction work, which then took him to Bogota, Colombia--definitely not a "tame" country. And there he met his lovely wife and found yet another family that made him his own. They have since lived all over the world, with one child born in Australia, another in Canada, followed by a year in France, and now somewhat settled in London Maybe. There is not one thing really "tame" about his life. But it is so good.

We've lost the spirit of adventure by our need to tame the world. Yes, when things aren't tame, sometimes we get hurt, or sick, or go hungry, or have heartache. But without illness, hunger, pain, anguish, we completely lose the ability to recognize real good when it comes. And we especially fail to recognize it when it comes in the form of Jesus who was also most definitely not tame. He called his disciples to leave everything behind, to live lives of radical goodness, to go all the way to death for their enemies. Jesus modeled exactly that for them--and was resurrected to show us goodness, not tame safety. It's just time to quit thinking we can tame our lives and starting living really good ones instead. It just time.

The Greater the Relationship

"The greater the relationship, the fewer the rules."  I read that phrase many years ago and it has stuck with me since. The truth of it reverberates deep inside me.  I see it play itself out over and over.  In situations of loving trust, few rules are needed.  But when trust begins to break, when one party no longer believes the best of the other, when intentions are questioned, the rules start to mushroom.

The financial markets are facing the disastrous revelation that Bernie Maydoff lost his investment clients over 50 billion dollars in a giant ponzi scheme that finally collapsed.  The big issue is that so many trusted this man who turned out to be a creep and a thief. This, as much or even more than the loss of money, exacerbated the anguish.  The result will be lowered trust, more requirements, rapidly multiplying outside regulators with heightened invasive powers, padded bureaucracy, bigger policy manuals, lessoned joy, and no delight in unexpected friendship for there will be no space for it to form. 

Same thing happened after 9/11.  While airplane flights had long ceased being comfortable and privileged ways to travel, suddenly it became necessary to nearly disrobe in order to get through security.  The latest technology in scanning equipment effectively strips the body of all clothing, giving the screening personnel x-ray vision, kind of like Superman, as the people walking through the equipment are seen unclothed.  Sadly, there have been few protests.  The horrifying intents of a few have meant all of us pay the price of having to obey increasingly burdensome and intrusive rules along with lessoned freedom.

In the church, because of the despicable actions of a tiny percentage of clergy, nearly all of us who are seeking to enter the ministry endure years of investigations, interviews, reports, background and credit checks and examinations.  The hurdles to ordination have become so burdensome that we have lost the talents of some of the best and brightest of our young people who have sensed a call to ministry.  It's a huge loss to the church.

What happens in that public stage repeats itself in less public but equally as important private interactions.  Trust is lost in one relationship, so this lack of trust is then projected upon the next possible relationship accompanied by an often hidden list of "do's and don'ts" that turn into mine fields of explosive possibilities.  

What is most sad about this?  The increased rules just don't solve the problem.  Schemers will still con people out of their money; terrorists will figure out new and more creative ways to wreak mayhem; slimeballs who masquerade as holy people will still prey on the weak and vulnerable.  We've solved nothing by layering regulation upon regulation on us. Government can't save us.  The State makes a poor and ineffective Redeemer.  Policy manuals do not open the door to the kingdom of heaven.  

There's only one solution and that is the internal transformation that comes from relationship with a loving and holy God.  When that internal transformation is matched by an intentional choice to treat others with honor and graceful forbearance, then, and only then will goodness be able to penetrate and bring light to darkness.  

Atheist Bus Signs

There are advertising campaigns in England and Spain which publicize the atheist contention that God does not exist. Apparently highly Roman Catholic Spain has many, many atheists who feel very much discriminated against. So the local atheists have purchased an ad to run on the side of an occasional city bus that reads: "There's probably no God. Now stop worrying and enjoy life."

Now, while I don't agree with the atheists, I find I disagree even more with the people who responded to the ads like this, "God is going to get them for this. They'll be punished. You can't talk about God like this and get away with it."

Apparently, we have a thin-skinned, insecure God, ready to jump on anyone who disagrees or struggles with belief. This touchy and angry God seems quick to send to eternal punishment those who, when seeking intellectual honesty, come to the point where they just don't think God exists.

If that is the case, then I suspect a lot of the world has a real problem.

I occasionally experience what I call my "2 a.m. atheism," those nights when I'm so troubled by the cruelty and nastiness in this world that I do wonder if God exists.

What would the world be like if God just . . . disappeared? If there is no absolute goodness that holds the world together?

When my thoughts reach that point, I find I enter into a dark, dark place properly called "hell." I am longer embraced by the gentle darkness of night that gives good sleep; such gentleness is replaced by raging and desperate darkness where goodness and hope are absent--an empty place, truly terrifying in its emptiness. Empty of hope, empty of possibility, empty of any sense of goodness or justice or righteousness or gentleness or faithfulness or love.

This place is empty of gestures of kindness, empty of efforts to free the oppressed or give sight to the blind, empty of sacrificial generosity, empty of loving parents getting up in the middle of the night to care for their children, empty of dogs happily wagging their tales when their humans come home, empty of flower or vegetable gardens to provide beauty and food, empty of work that brings the satisfaction of a job well done, empty of clean laundry or home-cooked meals; it is without order, art, or music or dance.

It is a terrible vision that I receive in the moment of my atheism, those moments when God seems to disappear. That is what hell is: a place empty of God and therefore empty of good. And so, for me, I come from those times grateful all over again that God does exist and that God is good, and in that goodness, continues to invite us into redemptive relationship.

Now, does this God, who invites into relationship, but does not demand that humanity respond, become violently angry against those who just can't make the leap into belief? Is God furious with me when I enter those times when I must re-examine the basis of my faith? Or does God use those times to reinforce the mystery of faith?

Personally, I think God much prefers an honest atheist to those who calls themselves "Christian" but who live and act in a such a manner that no one ever sees even a glimpse of Jesus in their words or actions. Those are the ones Jesus termed "hypocrites," or "play actors." All pretense, no substance. And those who are quick to condemn the atheists may need to take a hard look at themselves--perhaps it is their own tendency to playact that have sent some in the direction of "there is probably no God."

Sanity Score

So what is health anyway?  If we can't define it well, we can't figure out if we have it.  Here's a test to check your mental health:  http://www.sanityscore.com/ .  I took it and am considered pretty healthy mentally.  How nice of them.  But I'd sure like some good definitions of health, physical, mental, spiritual.  Give us a place to start.

Western Medicine and the Healing Process

How does a person get well?  What is healing?  Does God really heal miraculously?  How does western medicine cooperate with the healing process?  How does one maintain spiritual health when the body appears to be suffering from un-health?

Perhaps an even better question:  what IS health anyway?

I've got a lot of these questions racing through my mind after the last few months in particular of seeing many dear friends and relatives get hit hard by various illnesses, some absolutely life-threatening, others simply bringing misery and pain and some despair.  All of us who are United Methodist here in this Conference are aware that one known as a spiritual giant among us, Rev. Kathleen Baskin-Ball, died of a very invasive cancer.  Was it possible that in her passion for her call as a clergy person she drove herself so hard that even she got off balance and did not have reserves to fight off the cancer when it began?

I write that because there is some evidence now that many malignant cancers form and then disappear--the body is able to fight them off.  How can some bodies fight them off, and some not be able to?  

As I wrote in an earlier post, all three of my grandchildren experienced significant illnesses this fall.  One was potentially life-threatening, the other two were simply felled by nasty viruses and other infections.  Are these normal experiences of growing up in a crowded world with constant exposure to others who are ill?  

A book I am currently reading about this history of ideas suggests that as soon as people stopped the roving hunter/gatherer lifestyle, they began to experience greater bouts of ill-health.  These are guesses from archaeological evidence, but the theory is intriguing.  People become more settled, the diet becomes less varied (with the development of agriculture and the domestication of animals), along with less physical exertion required to survive:  perhaps all together make us more vulnerable to the disease process.

And then there is the question of stress:  how much "stress" makes us more vulnerable to illness and how much is necessary in order to grow and thrive and create?

I've not got answers here, but am hoping to ponder and write about these things for a while.  I just don't think that our spiritual health is a separate issue from our physical and emotional health, and I don't think one can be addressed without addressing the other.  We shall see where these thoughts go.  Any suggestions and ideas are welcome.

Children, Grandchildren and the Hoidays

I was enormously privileged this year over the Christmas break to enjoy visits from my three sons, their gorgeous wives and significant others, and my three grandchildren, Joshua, 2 1/2; his brother Samuel, 13 months (my oldest son's children), and Kate, 1 1/2, (my middle son's child).

I have not had the opportunity to spend much time with any of the grandchildren.  The two grandsons lived most of the last year in France and Colombia, and have now moved to London, England. The granddaughter lives in New York City.  Because I work on weekends, and do not get more normal three-day holidays that would make quick trips up there feasible, I've missed much of their first years.  In both cases, circumstances and different life choices have meant that the maternal grandmothers have had multiple days, weeks and even months with them.  I am grateful to these two women who have poured out that special kind of grandmotherly love on these children.  Clearly, it is different from being a parent.  And just as clearly, these two women will have much stronger bonds with these children.  So in my gratefulness, there is certainly some tinge of envy and yet . . . I know that each of us is doing what is right for us and that each of us has joy in our calls and that joy can be mingled with sorrow over the things that must be left out in order to be faithful.

Each of these grandchildren is bright, beautiful, and utterly charming. Naturally. There is not a grandparent around who does not say the same about his/her own grandchildren.  That is our privilege--to see the absolute best in each of them.  Each had been very sick during December with colds, other viruses, and in the case of Samuel, a very serious antibiotic resistant e-coli infection.  Each had recovered enough health to make the trip here and brighten my life and the lives of all their other doting relatives, including their grandfather (from whom I am divorced), two great grandmothers, and a variety of other relatives.  I marveled at the flexibility of all three children--to have traveled so far, to be in the midst of jet lag, and yet to play and laugh and sleep and eat (and occasionally fuss) and to seem to be able to adapt to the constant change around them, both of physical place and of people who were interested in them.

As I looked at my sons and the families they are developing, I had a good sense of my life coming full circle.  While I suspect I shall live many, many more years, I also am aware of some sort of completion about myself.  Yes, I have much to do.  This wonderful church to serve and to encourage others to become radical disciples of Jesus the Messiah, the years left with my current and very much appreciated husband, articles and books to write, gardens to grow, sunrises to enjoy, other family members to savor.  But in all this, there is something about giving birth and seeing that birth come to maturity that is enormously satisfying.  

I looked at my daughters-in-law, who with good grace and a lot of endurance were enduring those small child years of minimal sleep and nearly no time to themselves, I was filled with admiration.  And again, filled with a sense of completion.  I have done what they have done.  I remember those years, but not clearly, because my memories are filtered through the exhaustion I also experienced in those years.  I'm glad I did that.  I'm glad it is now passed.  I loved having them here and enjoyed every single moment of the life and noise and chaos they brought.  And now I am also enjoying the silence and quiet and a different kind of order.

I am simply aware today that I am a very, very fortunate woman.  Thank you, God.

The Fountain Pen

"Here's a gift for you." We were out to dinner with some very good friends just before Christmas and my husband was doing one of his favorite things: distributing gifts to friends and loved ones. I opened the gift he handed me. He's a creative shopper and often finds unusual things. But this one left me in some initial dismay: it was an elegant fountain pen and a bottle of ink.

Because I have terrible handwriting, am left-handed so writing is awkward anyway, and because my hands tend to cramp painfully when writing, I pretty well gave up doing any writing by hand years ago and have long used the computer for all my correspondence and other written work. I also consistently lose pens. Personally, I think that when we get to heaven, we are first going to be greeted by three large piles. The first one will be all the lost socks. When I had three teen boys and did 25 loads of laundry a week, I don't think I ever had a time when the socks all matched. The second will be all the lost reading glasses. All you of a certain age know exactly what I'm talking about here. And the third will be all the lost pens. A bunch of those will be mine. Frankly, I think people can be divided into two groups by way they use or lose pens. On one side will be those who have used the same pen for 20 or 30 or 50 years. On the other side, there will be those who can't ever find one at all even though a dozen of them were just purchased. Guess which side I fall in? For that reason, plus the handwriting situation, I have long refused to spend more than a small amount of money for any writing instrument at all.

Now, suddenly I am gifted with an exquisite writing instrument--one of those German-made, handcrafted-with-precision type pens. In fact, they are so unusual that there are on-line forums dedicated just to discussing them. These are definitely NOT bought in bulk at the local office supply store.

As has long been my pattern, on New Years Eve I sat down to write thank-you notes. I looked at that pen and ink, and then looked longingly at my computer. Resolutely, I inked up the pen, took some stationary, and began to write.
Now, I don't want you to get the idea that there was some miracle here and I suddenly began to write with perfectly shaped and legible letters. My handwriting is still pretty bad. But this pen glided effortlessly across the paper. There was no resistance, but almost a pull to make the letters that form the words. Something I have avoided for years because of the pain suddenly became the intriguing pleasure of discovery. Exquisite workmanship, time spent in perfecting the pattern, a good quality ink--and the words of gratefulness came flowing out.

Those kinds of pens don't just come rolling off a mass-production assembly line. They are the product of careful individual attention. I think there is a strong analogy here with the individuals who pay careful attention to their spiritual lives and have the marks of the Master permeating even the smallest part of their being and those who have just been quickly put together and sent out the door. Both types of pens will write, and both types of people will have impact on those around them. But some will be so touched with the thumbprints of God upon them that they will operate with exquisite grace and endurance no matter what they face. Others will quickly quit being effective or not be treasured because of cheap workmanship and little attention paid to the details. The smallest trial or obstacle sends them to the trash.

Pens don't have a choice as to whether they will be manufactured quickly and cheaply or by the slower, more expensive hand-crafted method. But people do. We can decide if we will submit thoroughly to the work of God and be shaped inside and out for lives of transformational holiness. We can also decide if we are unwilling to submit to such discipline. God is both patient and loving and will honor us when we say "no." God will not go where we will not give invitation. But those who do say "yes" to the work of God await great glory. Eyes are suddenly opened to see the possibilities of a Jesus-filled life in every moment. The fruitless pursuit of happiness gives way to the enduring joy and delight of the creative energies of God in our lives and in our world. Doomed-to-fail self-improvement programs are transformed into a journey to holy living. A salvation that looks only to escaping from eternal damnation gradually becomes a salvation that begins now by being real disciples of Jesus Christ and continues when we pass onto the other side of death. For 2009, let us all chose to let the work of God permeate every detail of our lives. It's a great place to start this journey to discipleship.

First Day of His Retirement

As of midnight, December 31, 2008, my husband entered retirement.  Kind of.  He was immediately reappointed to his current church, but on a half-time basis, not full time. He's also starting a new business venture with some friends, but this will be a while gearing up and is full of uncertainties.  Many life changes marked at that moment.

We drank a toast to all of this, and then I immediately went to bed, having a sense the the flu was coming on.  That would be no surprise as my Beloved had been deathly ill from just before Christmas until a day and a half ago.  My turn was coming.

This morning, I woke to the sounds of busy kitchen activity, and soon the odor of beautifully-cooked black-eyed peas began to fill the house.  I straggled to the breakfast table, managed to make a pot of lovely Irish Breakfast Tea (both the elegant tea set and the tea being a Christmas gift from him), and just sat there, hoping some energy would return.   In the meantime, my Beloved busily cooked me a fabulous breakfast, and began the makings of an elegant mid-day meal.  As he served me, he reminded me that I am now the major wage-earner, and that as the retired one, it was his privilege to see how he could make my life easier.  An hour and a half later, as I'm still not moving from the table, the refrigerator has been cleaned out, the pots and pans stacked neatly in their appointed places, the dishwasher emptied, and the traces of lipstick, which I never can get off, removed from the glassware.  He then fed the dogs, gave them yet another lesson in dog etiquette, reminded them of their proper place in our household dog pack, and then joined me for a cup of Emerald Bamboo Forest tea (another part of the Christmas tea set gift).

I'm still just sitting here, but did bring the laptop in so I could write a bit and enjoy the morning light.  Clearly, I could get used to this very, very quickly.

In the last few months, as I've gone through a grueling time with multiple professional challenges and a sense that all the balls I had in the air were about to come crashing down, I mentioned to some friends that what I really needed was a wife.  It's really not fair to the word "wife" to say that--what I really wanted was a butler.  Someone to fix my meals and make sure I eat properly, get my clothes to the cleaners and pick them up, keep the house orderly because I work so much better in an orderly environment, do the grocery shopping, make sure the dogs get good attention, and thus help free some of my energy for the work issues on my plate and for more refreshing relaxation time.

Only if these things were combined with profound affection, respectful love and occasional romance could such a position be called a "wife."  And suddenly, at least for this day, I have that "wife."

For me, it is a bit of a challenge to consent to being served this way.  I've spent most of my life serving.  First being that "wife," and then rearing my children and then in various school and work situations where my primary responsibility has been the success of someone else who was the responsible one.  But now I'm that one. I am the primary wage-earner. I am the senior pastor of this thriving church that is experiencing so much change and transformation.  I still have the privilege of serving, yet really, and truly, the buck does stop at my desk. 

I sense in these hours with my Beloved the aroma of the Presence of the Spirit of God.  These acts are a reminder to me that I am not alone, ever, no matter how alone I may feel on occasion.  Nice things to savor on this first day of 2009. 

Low Reserves Revisited

Well, the challenging week continues, but I'm beginning to see some daylight.  I took yesterday off, declined to meet with some people over important issues because I knew I shouldn't trust my insight in this exhausted state, and then worked outside in the flower beds for much of the afternoon.  I cleaned out the beds with summer/fall plants, now dead from front.  Onto the compost heap.  I looked sadly at the house plants I had put on the front and south facing porch, thinking it might protect them adequately from the more extreme cold and realized many hadn't made it.  Each of those houseplants had a history.  Many came from the funerals of my mother and father in law, two years ago.  Others were rescued from my mother who systematically kills every plant ever given her. Another is a now 8 foot ficus tree I had grown from a 1 footer, acquired about five years ago for my office.  That ficus may make it, but another is gone.  So, more onto the compost pile.

 

Then I began to pull some weeds from the new beds we put in this past fall, and started placing newspaper down and covering it with compost to put a good barrier against others growing.  Didn't get too far--just don't have the physical strength right now to do too much.  But being out in the sunshine helped. Getting a few things cleaned out helped.  Tossing things on the compost heap helped.  All part of the cycle of life--even the most tenderly cared for plants eventually die, but in their death, they can bring life again.

 

My grandson in France seems to be responding to the huge doses of powerful antibiotics being pumped into his system, and all are cautiously optimistic.  The church administrator at my church has very likely experienced a miracle of healing.  A diagnosis of rampant and quickly fatal liver cancer from two and a half weeks ago is suddenly, "Well, the biopsy shows NO signs of cancer, but I don't trust it and want you to have another." 

 

In a couple of hours, I'll head to Dallas to do a wedding rehearsal and enjoy an evening there along with what should be a beautiful wedding on Saturday.  My Beloved, as always loving and supportive, has agreed to take the lead in this wedding and just let me be the tag along.  He's really better at these than I am, and I will ride gratefully on his strength for these two days.

 

My sermon for Sunday is ready and waiting for me on my pulpit.  My article for next week will be sent to the newspaper editor soon.  There's a sense of completion here that really helps.  I know I still need a long, long break, much sleep and sunshine to really recover again, but have a sense of hope again. Thank all of you for praying.

Bless and Curse Not

A few weeks ago, a horrific terrorist attack left a number of people dead and wounded in Mumbai, India. I didn't pay a whole lot of attention to this--it was just another piece of bad news filling the newspapers and airways. My inner response, "It doesn't really affect me anyway." Then I got an email from my oldest son who has been doing some graduate work in France. One of his classmate's father was injured in the attack. Although the whole description of the attack is too long to print in full, here is a snippet of what happened after the terrorists entered a hotel restaurant and began to shoot:

"The terrorists then rounded up anyone alive (about 20 people) and made them climb the service staircase to the 18th floor. On reaching the 18th floor landing they made the people line up against a wall. One terrorist then positioned himself on the staircase going up from the landing and the other on the staircase going down from the landing. Then, in a scene right out of the Holocaust, they simultaneously opened fire on the people. My father was towards the center of the line with his two friends on either side. Out of reflex, or presence of mind, he ducked as soon as the firing began. One bullet grazed his neck, and he fell to the floor as his two friends and several other bodies piled on top of him. The terrorists then pumped another series of bullets into the heap of bodies to finish the job. This time a bullet hit my father in the back hip. Bent almost in double, crushed by the weight of the bodies above him, and suffocating in the torrent of blood rushing down on him from the various bodies my father held on for ten minutes while the terrorists left the area."

After further description of the horrors and the eventual rescue of the four who survived this particular attack, my son's classmate wrote this:

"How do we fight such hate? How do we inject humanity into such monstrosity? How do we convince those who think they kill in god’s name that no God would condone such barbarity? How do we maintain our own values and humanity when faced with such hate and provocation?"

Yes, how do we fight such hate? Do we fight it with more hate? With more violence? With escalated wars? There are no simplistic answers here and I'm not naive enough to suggest them. But it surely does answer the question that many Christians are encouraged to ask during Advent, that time of waiting for Christmas. The question: "Does the world need a Savior?" How do you answer it? What will you do when the Savior appears? What will you do when the Savior appears and is not what you expected? What will you do when the Savior appears and instead of destroying your enemies he says, "Bless those who persecute you.  Bless and curse not." 

Just a few words to ponder as we prepare for a week of celebration, family, gifts and fun. Be sure and attend a Christmas Eve service--hear again those words and remember, "Christ the Savior has come!"