Some of you may remember how perhaps a year ago I asked for prayer for a young girl, Anastasia. She lives in Louisville and is the granddaughter of the woman who was teaching me Ukrainian. She had a difficult medical problem, and was not getting any relief. The family had exhausted the medical options-- she was just going to have to live with it.
Ira, my teacher, told me tonight about how Anastasia was healed. The young girl has always been very devout (the family is Ukrainian Orthodox) and had prayed for some time about her condition, but was feeling very discouraged. She had a dream back in the winter; an angel came to her and told her she would receive a gift on her birthday. "What kind of gift?" she asked. "Wait," the angel said.
Her birthday came and her problem was gone. I was very glad to receive the report, and gratified by the power of prayer. It was not just that Anastasia and those closest to her prayed, but so many of you joined with her.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Growing Up Beige
I am hoping that more or the Congolese immigrants will come to the Rock tomorrow. There is so much potential for ministry under our noses... Wake up, Church! The world is coming to this nation, and we can send them back out as missionaries and supporters of Jesus' mission in their home countries!
When the World Cup was going on this summer, there were some interesting matches. I don't mean interesting in terms of soccer, but in terms of history. I was riveted to the Angola-Portugal match. Portugal was my team this year, but that match raised some difficult questions. Portugal ruled Angola until 1975 (I think; at any rate Angola's independence is recent). What are the emotions bound up in playing the "colonial masters?"
That phrase, "colonial masters," is tough. I first paid attention to it when Gaston Mukaz, a Congolese friend in Louisville used it to talk about the French. And then a family here used it about the Belgians. There's something disturbing about that phrase.
There are three Congos-- the former Zaire, now embattled Democratic Republic of Congo, Congo Brazzaville, and Congo Cabinda (taken by Angola). So much to learn, so much twisted history.
I guess it was Wednesday that I showed some of the Itoula family where the church is, and had a chance to talk to them about spiritual matters. At one point, one of the sons mentioned "Les blancs," "The whites." we can say so much in so little! Mostly it made me think of a humorous moment from childhood.
When I started Kindergarten, we lived on Cape Charles, on Virginia's Eastern Shore. It was an isolated radar station across the bay from Norfolk. My grandmother called me after the first day of school and asked how things went. Fine, I said. "And, Mimi, me and Cathy are the only beige kids on the bus." No way was I white!
Jim Grayson said, "give me directions to the church in Winchester." Here goes: If you get off at the second winchester exit on 64 from Lexington, head towards town, the church is on your left, just before you get to downtown. There is a large stone sign, "Trinity United Methodist." Come as you are! 6:30 each night, Sunday-Wednesday! The pastor is Eric Patterson, a great guy to know!
When the World Cup was going on this summer, there were some interesting matches. I don't mean interesting in terms of soccer, but in terms of history. I was riveted to the Angola-Portugal match. Portugal was my team this year, but that match raised some difficult questions. Portugal ruled Angola until 1975 (I think; at any rate Angola's independence is recent). What are the emotions bound up in playing the "colonial masters?"
That phrase, "colonial masters," is tough. I first paid attention to it when Gaston Mukaz, a Congolese friend in Louisville used it to talk about the French. And then a family here used it about the Belgians. There's something disturbing about that phrase.
There are three Congos-- the former Zaire, now embattled Democratic Republic of Congo, Congo Brazzaville, and Congo Cabinda (taken by Angola). So much to learn, so much twisted history.
I guess it was Wednesday that I showed some of the Itoula family where the church is, and had a chance to talk to them about spiritual matters. At one point, one of the sons mentioned "Les blancs," "The whites." we can say so much in so little! Mostly it made me think of a humorous moment from childhood.
When I started Kindergarten, we lived on Cape Charles, on Virginia's Eastern Shore. It was an isolated radar station across the bay from Norfolk. My grandmother called me after the first day of school and asked how things went. Fine, I said. "And, Mimi, me and Cathy are the only beige kids on the bus." No way was I white!
Jim Grayson said, "give me directions to the church in Winchester." Here goes: If you get off at the second winchester exit on 64 from Lexington, head towards town, the church is on your left, just before you get to downtown. There is a large stone sign, "Trinity United Methodist." Come as you are! 6:30 each night, Sunday-Wednesday! The pastor is Eric Patterson, a great guy to know!
Let's See...
In the strange world of bone marrow transplant, Melissa is doing well while still battling infections and the occasional debilitating stomach cramps. Her counts are good, and her platelets actually came up! They were 24 Wed, 38 Friday, and she didn't get any since Monday. Could be a fluke, but Dr. Herzig says she is making them, but not enough yet. Melissa kept syaing if they were going to take the spleen, hurry up and do it, but it looks like patience may be winning out.
Did I mention her platelets were up?
We ask for continued prayers. It's a long haul. We're about halfway thru the normal recovery time, so keep praying and seding Melissa cards:
2041 Osprey Cover
Shelbyville, KY 40065
John, Joe, and I are heading to Texas week after next, for my grandparents' 60th anniversary! Lots of family the boys have not seen in a while.
I am preaching the revival services at Trinity United Methodist in Winchester, KY tomorrow thru Wed at 6:30 each evening. I am looking forward to it, not just in terms of getting back to Winchester, but also because I have wanted to do some revival preaching for a long time. We'll see what the Lord has planned.
Did I mention her platelets were up?
We ask for continued prayers. It's a long haul. We're about halfway thru the normal recovery time, so keep praying and seding Melissa cards:
2041 Osprey Cover
Shelbyville, KY 40065
John, Joe, and I are heading to Texas week after next, for my grandparents' 60th anniversary! Lots of family the boys have not seen in a while.
I am preaching the revival services at Trinity United Methodist in Winchester, KY tomorrow thru Wed at 6:30 each evening. I am looking forward to it, not just in terms of getting back to Winchester, but also because I have wanted to do some revival preaching for a long time. We'll see what the Lord has planned.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Fall
Last night, the cold front really cleared out the air. You could look straight up and see the Milky Way. To think we are on the far edge of the one of the arms of this galaxy…
When I was a boy in Germany, we used to camp out most of the summer. We were like savages who came in only to get more supplies for our outdoor living. We stole potatoes and beer from our parents for our Kartoffelfeuer—“potato fire,” a big bonfire, potatoes baking in the coals, sausages and the pilfered beer. Then as the village slept we would creep out to mischief.
We slept in rough tents—bean poles with clear plastic draped over them. If we got caught, we told our parents we had to smoke to keep the mosquitoes out. They didn’t buy it and when our cigarettes were confiscated we smoked twigs of some plant, maybe clematis—if you cut off the ends just right, the stem was hollow.
As we lay on the ground, looking up at the stars, you could see the white haze we call the Milky Way. In German it is “Milchstrasse,” or “Milk Street.” It made sense then—it is a path in the sky that looks white—Milky Way sounds a bit archaic, I guess.
There’s too much light from the ground in most places to see the Milky Way. I wanted to wake the boys up, to see it, but there is time. As the night was turning cold and windy, I could see leaves falling, and planned out how we will bundle up, go to the creek and see what leaves are down. John is interested in collecting leaves, and Joe keeps waiting for the leaves on “the pretty road--” Old Frankfort Pike—to change.
Melissa said yesterday that God keeps reminding her that He is here. The recovery from all the infection and continued stomach problems taxes her endurance. Each day brings some new understanding of patient (or not so patient) endurance, reminders in our lives that only for brief moments are things normal.
I hope I will quit being such a whiner! I know one thing, now when I get sick or feel bad (I have a bruised tooth socket—I think from a wrestling match with the boys that did not go my way and believe me, I understand my fate; I know Tom and Chris Baker, and my boys are on their way), I realize it is nothing compared to what many people are dealing with. Perspective is always nice. I used to think I knew a lot.
When I was a boy in Germany, we used to camp out most of the summer. We were like savages who came in only to get more supplies for our outdoor living. We stole potatoes and beer from our parents for our Kartoffelfeuer—“potato fire,” a big bonfire, potatoes baking in the coals, sausages and the pilfered beer. Then as the village slept we would creep out to mischief.
We slept in rough tents—bean poles with clear plastic draped over them. If we got caught, we told our parents we had to smoke to keep the mosquitoes out. They didn’t buy it and when our cigarettes were confiscated we smoked twigs of some plant, maybe clematis—if you cut off the ends just right, the stem was hollow.
As we lay on the ground, looking up at the stars, you could see the white haze we call the Milky Way. In German it is “Milchstrasse,” or “Milk Street.” It made sense then—it is a path in the sky that looks white—Milky Way sounds a bit archaic, I guess.
There’s too much light from the ground in most places to see the Milky Way. I wanted to wake the boys up, to see it, but there is time. As the night was turning cold and windy, I could see leaves falling, and planned out how we will bundle up, go to the creek and see what leaves are down. John is interested in collecting leaves, and Joe keeps waiting for the leaves on “the pretty road--” Old Frankfort Pike—to change.
Melissa said yesterday that God keeps reminding her that He is here. The recovery from all the infection and continued stomach problems taxes her endurance. Each day brings some new understanding of patient (or not so patient) endurance, reminders in our lives that only for brief moments are things normal.
I hope I will quit being such a whiner! I know one thing, now when I get sick or feel bad (I have a bruised tooth socket—I think from a wrestling match with the boys that did not go my way and believe me, I understand my fate; I know Tom and Chris Baker, and my boys are on their way), I realize it is nothing compared to what many people are dealing with. Perspective is always nice. I used to think I knew a lot.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Church for All Nations
I was able to visit some of the new Congolese families yesterday. I think it is going to be hard to figure out how the work among them will happen, but I believe it will happen. They are simply overjoyed to have someone speak to them in a language they are used to hearing. I wonder how hard it is going to be for them to get acclimated to life in Lexington. They are refugees from the terrible war and massacres in Congo, so it’s not simply immigration to find a better life. It’s to save life and adjusting from that to a very strange culture can be hard.
It’s counter-intuitive work, as well. It’s not a ministry that can really bring the rewards that churches look for. The numbers won’t be huge, either in terms of attendance or money. I think the clear answer is that those measures condemn us if they keep us from real ministry. Friends, this is why the Gospel is not practical-- if it works because it’s a naturally attractive and productive thing, we will boast that we did the work!
America is in a golden age of immigration. Hispanics are only a part of that. To all my pastor friends and members of churches: do not miss this chance to reach out to a huge part of the population. We missed it in the early 20th century, and it is no surprise that our churches are fading. We totally missed that the demographics of the nation were shifting. We totally missed the missionary and evangelistic impulse of the Spirit. I fear that if we miss this latest chance to minister, we will fall even more into the system of bureaucracy that knows only how to manage dying churches. Maybe you can hold on long enough for your pension funds to last your lifetime…
The Lord does not rest! Many of you know how 10 years ago as I kept running into Russians in Lexington, I tried to minister to them, begging the District to do something, anything, to reach out. It didn’t happen, and I vowed that if it happened again, that the Lord placed people in my path that perhaps I might be uniquely qualified to minister to that I would not let the chance go by. So, the Congolese are here, and I never thought speaking French would be much use in Kentucky.
When I got to Louisville, it seemed I met Ukrainians everywhere. I took that as a sign from the Lord, looked for someone to teach me Ukrainian (enough like Russian that I should be able to pick it up fairly quickly), found a woman who would. But it wasn’t going to jibe with were I was, so I had to let it go, and I trusted (kind of) that when I left Louisville, something would happen.
But I was worried. Why did the ministry to Ukrainians fail? What happened such that it was not going to be possible? What about the time I put into learning? How does ministry get so skewed that we can’t pursue what is of God? And if my vow had to be let go like that… There was a lot of soul-searching. You can spot Hispanics and Congolese people pretty easily. But Russians and Ukrainians, they look enough like us to blend in. I was not running into them by chance any more in Lexington.
Yesterday in John’s classroom, in a little Christian school in Shelby County, KY, I heard his teacher ask another boy, “has your mommy gotten back from the Ukraine?”
I made a note to call his parents. Last night, I did. His mother is Ukrainian, will be back in a few weeks. The boy’s father said she would love to meet with me, teach me Ukrainian and connect with some of the Ukrainians I know in Louisville.
Ruben and I have been worrying about our name, The Rock La Roca. Does it communicate that we are only Anglo and Hispanic? We joke about just having a symbol, being like Prince, “The Church Formerly Known As…” But something hit me earlier this week-- in for a penny, in for a pound. English and Spanish are our two languages. Ruben and I are the pastors. If we get labelled, so what-- that’s not our problem. But if we hedge ourselves in and say because I am Anglo and Ruben is Hispanic that we can’t minister to African-Americans or Congolese or Ukrainians or whatever, then we have much bigger problems than a name. No matter the language, who we are is who we are.
It’s counter-intuitive work, as well. It’s not a ministry that can really bring the rewards that churches look for. The numbers won’t be huge, either in terms of attendance or money. I think the clear answer is that those measures condemn us if they keep us from real ministry. Friends, this is why the Gospel is not practical-- if it works because it’s a naturally attractive and productive thing, we will boast that we did the work!
America is in a golden age of immigration. Hispanics are only a part of that. To all my pastor friends and members of churches: do not miss this chance to reach out to a huge part of the population. We missed it in the early 20th century, and it is no surprise that our churches are fading. We totally missed that the demographics of the nation were shifting. We totally missed the missionary and evangelistic impulse of the Spirit. I fear that if we miss this latest chance to minister, we will fall even more into the system of bureaucracy that knows only how to manage dying churches. Maybe you can hold on long enough for your pension funds to last your lifetime…
The Lord does not rest! Many of you know how 10 years ago as I kept running into Russians in Lexington, I tried to minister to them, begging the District to do something, anything, to reach out. It didn’t happen, and I vowed that if it happened again, that the Lord placed people in my path that perhaps I might be uniquely qualified to minister to that I would not let the chance go by. So, the Congolese are here, and I never thought speaking French would be much use in Kentucky.
When I got to Louisville, it seemed I met Ukrainians everywhere. I took that as a sign from the Lord, looked for someone to teach me Ukrainian (enough like Russian that I should be able to pick it up fairly quickly), found a woman who would. But it wasn’t going to jibe with were I was, so I had to let it go, and I trusted (kind of) that when I left Louisville, something would happen.
But I was worried. Why did the ministry to Ukrainians fail? What happened such that it was not going to be possible? What about the time I put into learning? How does ministry get so skewed that we can’t pursue what is of God? And if my vow had to be let go like that… There was a lot of soul-searching. You can spot Hispanics and Congolese people pretty easily. But Russians and Ukrainians, they look enough like us to blend in. I was not running into them by chance any more in Lexington.
Yesterday in John’s classroom, in a little Christian school in Shelby County, KY, I heard his teacher ask another boy, “has your mommy gotten back from the Ukraine?”
I made a note to call his parents. Last night, I did. His mother is Ukrainian, will be back in a few weeks. The boy’s father said she would love to meet with me, teach me Ukrainian and connect with some of the Ukrainians I know in Louisville.
Ruben and I have been worrying about our name, The Rock La Roca. Does it communicate that we are only Anglo and Hispanic? We joke about just having a symbol, being like Prince, “The Church Formerly Known As…” But something hit me earlier this week-- in for a penny, in for a pound. English and Spanish are our two languages. Ruben and I are the pastors. If we get labelled, so what-- that’s not our problem. But if we hedge ourselves in and say because I am Anglo and Ruben is Hispanic that we can’t minister to African-Americans or Congolese or Ukrainians or whatever, then we have much bigger problems than a name. No matter the language, who we are is who we are.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
WOW
Wow is an Irma word. Irma Rodriguez is known for saying wow about the things of God. We definitely have a wow.
Yesterday, the day after her surgery, we had a day unlike any other. First, Melissa and I took the boys to her uncle's church in Henry County for a Fall Festival. The boys had a great time, and Melissa did ok. Then in the evening, she went out to eat. That is the first time she has done two things in one day. she paid for it today, being tired, but it was a big day. A day of small things!
Maybe lots of wows. The first Congolese man and his son came to the Rock this morning.
The evangelism team is out visiting, and one of the members has said he would like to take on training another team. Could it be possible to get a massive group of people out into the community spreading the Good News?!
WOW.
Yesterday, the day after her surgery, we had a day unlike any other. First, Melissa and I took the boys to her uncle's church in Henry County for a Fall Festival. The boys had a great time, and Melissa did ok. Then in the evening, she went out to eat. That is the first time she has done two things in one day. she paid for it today, being tired, but it was a big day. A day of small things!
Maybe lots of wows. The first Congolese man and his son came to the Rock this morning.
The evangelism team is out visiting, and one of the members has said he would like to take on training another team. Could it be possible to get a massive group of people out into the community spreading the Good News?!
WOW.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
She's Doing Fine
Melissa came out of surgery fine. She didn't go completely under. She is sore from where they removed the port and put in the new line. The procedure seemed more like an interruption in the day than anything else. It just took longer at the office. We were happy that she didn't have much pain. Hopefully this clears up the infection. Before she went in, the idea of having to do it was aggravating her. She wants to be done with all this, wants to get to feeling better, not go to the clinic everyday. It keeps coming back to: you can get thru the huge stuff ok, but things like this are insult to injury. It's one thing to have to face one big issue. Or a really huge issue. But really huge issues come with every kind of smaller issue, and it takes a lot of endurance to see past each day's inconvenience and discomfort.
When we got home, I took the boys down to the creek. We were pretty quickly led away from interest in the clay bank by finding other things, namely an arrowhead and some bones.
It looks like an arrowhead, but it doesn't, so maybe it isn't. It's the right shape, looks like it has been worked, but something about the back, where it would fit the shaft doesn't seem right, or looks only half-right. The rocks around the creek are perfect for making arrows. I think there must have been a whole lot more people in North America than we think, or all they did was make arrows.
We also found some bones. I am guessing they are a hip and thigh from a deer. They were right by the water, couldn't find anything else. I wonder if something dragged that part of the deer to the water. Or perhaps the bones have been long buried and the recent floods exposed them?
When we got home, I took the boys down to the creek. We were pretty quickly led away from interest in the clay bank by finding other things, namely an arrowhead and some bones.
It looks like an arrowhead, but it doesn't, so maybe it isn't. It's the right shape, looks like it has been worked, but something about the back, where it would fit the shaft doesn't seem right, or looks only half-right. The rocks around the creek are perfect for making arrows. I think there must have been a whole lot more people in North America than we think, or all they did was make arrows.
We also found some bones. I am guessing they are a hip and thigh from a deer. They were right by the water, couldn't find anything else. I wonder if something dragged that part of the deer to the water. Or perhaps the bones have been long buried and the recent floods exposed them?
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Prayer Request
Melissa will be having a short surgery tomorrow (Friday). She will have her port taken out. She has been batlling an infection for a month, and they think it is in the port. They have wanted to put in a different port anyway, one that can handle more lines-- right now hers is a single line, and that makes it time consuming to run thru all the stuff they want to. So, she'll get a new line that can handle four different IV bags, and when the infection is cleared up, she'll get a new port. Yikes.
It has been the little things that are hardest. They needle at you. You don't feel right to begin with and then there are these many little things (some not so little, but when compared to the treatment, they're not as dire or severe) that add to your discomfort.
Melissa has been thinking and praying a lot about Job. On the outside, when we are well, we're not sure what to do with that book. It seems alien, foreign, menacing. Perhaps only the ill and suffering ought to have any say in its interpretation!
It has been the little things that are hardest. They needle at you. You don't feel right to begin with and then there are these many little things (some not so little, but when compared to the treatment, they're not as dire or severe) that add to your discomfort.
Melissa has been thinking and praying a lot about Job. On the outside, when we are well, we're not sure what to do with that book. It seems alien, foreign, menacing. Perhaps only the ill and suffering ought to have any say in its interpretation!
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
What Don Quixote Taught Me
Don Quixote, as a knight-errant, needed a fair maiden to love, and have that love unrequited until he could perform some daring feat and earn her favor. He settles on a peasant wench of no particular beauty. He changes her plain, even coarse, name to Dulcinea del Toboso, granting her some aristocracy.
Of course, we laugh at his folly. But there, I think, is the trap Cervantes sets for us. We have already laughed at his squire, Sancho Panza. We think, “This is a joke!” He’s no Percival or Gawain; no Oliver if Don Quixote could fancy himself to be Roland.
We crack up when he addresses the whores outside the tavern as if they were women worthy of respect.
And yet, they are. Don Quixote, towards the end of his life says that St. Paul was the greatest knight-errant there ever was. There, I think, is a key to understanding how Cervantes tweaks us.
Sure, Don Quixote isn’t all there. But, he is the forerunner of Dostoevsky’s Idiot, the prototypical holy fool. In the end, it is clear that Jesus would have greeted the whores outside the tavern as actual women, in spite of what anyone else might think. And what if God chose us, exalted us, based on our usefulness? This is precisely why Sancho Panza is such a precious character in literature. He is one of the “nothings” that St. Paul says God uses to shame the people who think they are something.
And then, Dulcinea. Only a hardened heart indeed would say that the young peasant woman did not deserve someone to love her, to give her a sweet nickname, to be willing to fight and even die for her.
Maybe the problem is that we find fault with Don Quixote’s sense of reality. Maybe the problem is that only a madman can see what ought to be in human relationships! The rest of us keep judging by the world’s standards, confessing (if ever we are ashamed or wonder, “How did it get this way?”) that it is a dog-eat-dog world.
And yet, who said you had to live with the dogs?
Of course, we laugh at his folly. But there, I think, is the trap Cervantes sets for us. We have already laughed at his squire, Sancho Panza. We think, “This is a joke!” He’s no Percival or Gawain; no Oliver if Don Quixote could fancy himself to be Roland.
We crack up when he addresses the whores outside the tavern as if they were women worthy of respect.
And yet, they are. Don Quixote, towards the end of his life says that St. Paul was the greatest knight-errant there ever was. There, I think, is a key to understanding how Cervantes tweaks us.
Sure, Don Quixote isn’t all there. But, he is the forerunner of Dostoevsky’s Idiot, the prototypical holy fool. In the end, it is clear that Jesus would have greeted the whores outside the tavern as actual women, in spite of what anyone else might think. And what if God chose us, exalted us, based on our usefulness? This is precisely why Sancho Panza is such a precious character in literature. He is one of the “nothings” that St. Paul says God uses to shame the people who think they are something.
And then, Dulcinea. Only a hardened heart indeed would say that the young peasant woman did not deserve someone to love her, to give her a sweet nickname, to be willing to fight and even die for her.
Maybe the problem is that we find fault with Don Quixote’s sense of reality. Maybe the problem is that only a madman can see what ought to be in human relationships! The rest of us keep judging by the world’s standards, confessing (if ever we are ashamed or wonder, “How did it get this way?”) that it is a dog-eat-dog world.
And yet, who said you had to live with the dogs?
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Sudoku
It seems a simple thing, Sudoku. 9 9x9 grids that you fill in, all numbers from 1-9 present and not repeated in any line or grid. It's addictive. Melissa and I started doing them back at the beginning of the year. When the cancer was causing a lot of pain back in April, she quit, and the transplant was pretty rough, and days were to be gotten through.
But yesterday, she picked up her pencil and started Sudoku again! I know it seems small, but it's huge. Not a return to anything other than her becoming herself. She keeps saying, "I can't wait to be normal again." Ha. Normal waved bye-bye to her a long time ago.
About ten years ago, we got to hankering to play battleship. We went and bought a game right as Toys R Us was closing. She beat me 11 straight times, which I think is statistically impossible. She just kept saying, "I look for the holes." THE WHOLE BOARD IS A HOLE!!!!! She says the same thing about Sudoku, and it's no help to me, plodding along. I keep wondering if there is some secret, some way to figure out the sum of the numbers not already there and find where they belong. An algorithm, anything to let off the hook of patiently trying to plug numbers in...
Melissa heard that it may be possible that if the spot in the brain is completely gone, they will not put the brain port in, they'll just keep doing chemo trough spinal injections.
Prayers: that she keeps getting stronger; that we are done with this; that our house sells.
Oh, a few months ago we were listening to the radio and the DJ gave the call sign and said, "Where Lexington comes to ROck!" One of the boys said, "Hey! That's our church!" Amen!
But yesterday, she picked up her pencil and started Sudoku again! I know it seems small, but it's huge. Not a return to anything other than her becoming herself. She keeps saying, "I can't wait to be normal again." Ha. Normal waved bye-bye to her a long time ago.
About ten years ago, we got to hankering to play battleship. We went and bought a game right as Toys R Us was closing. She beat me 11 straight times, which I think is statistically impossible. She just kept saying, "I look for the holes." THE WHOLE BOARD IS A HOLE!!!!! She says the same thing about Sudoku, and it's no help to me, plodding along. I keep wondering if there is some secret, some way to figure out the sum of the numbers not already there and find where they belong. An algorithm, anything to let off the hook of patiently trying to plug numbers in...
Melissa heard that it may be possible that if the spot in the brain is completely gone, they will not put the brain port in, they'll just keep doing chemo trough spinal injections.
Prayers: that she keeps getting stronger; that we are done with this; that our house sells.
Oh, a few months ago we were listening to the radio and the DJ gave the call sign and said, "Where Lexington comes to ROck!" One of the boys said, "Hey! That's our church!" Amen!
A City Went Mad
The first three years of my college life, my parents lived in Vaihingen, Germany, a well-to do university-town and suburb of Stuttgart. I went there for Christmas and Summer breaks. I spent my days going into Stuttgart and exploring. It is a wonderful city, particularly the city center, with its long pedestrian thoroughfare, easy access to all kinds of shops, museums, and cafes. Stuttgart was almost entirely destroyed by Allied bombing; much of it is new. I suspect it gets left off of most tourists’ itinerary—Munich and Berlin are the big cities you visit in Germany. But Stuttgart is a good stop.
One vacation while I was there, Mikhail Gorbachev was coming to the university to speak. We lived perhaps a kilometer away. The university subway station was where I caught the train to the city, and so as I walked there, crowds were pouring out and you could hear the buzz of tens of thousands of people somewhere in the distance, gathering to hear Gorbachev. I went down the stairs, onto the train that would take me to Koenigstrasse.
I was disgusted. That Gorbachev now has some kind of rehabilitated status is bad enough, but that he could in 1990 draw a crowd of educated people in Germany (of all nations!) was revolting. Many perhaps do not care who Gorbachev is. But for some who do, and perhaps have held him in esteem, let me caution you.
I have jokingly said I was a cold warrior as a kid, but it’s true. I had my own copy of the Army Field Manual Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape. I had a bag boy job in 8th grade and sent money to a fund that said it bought bullets and supplies for the mujahedin in Afghanistan fighting the Soviet invasion.
I hated the Berlin Wall, and was ashamed to live in times where such a thing existed. I thought it would never come down.
I learned Russian for the purpose of fighting the enemy.
Most of my feelings came because of book on my father’s bookshelf, a big multivolume book. Each volume was huge. Where they were on the shelf, the back cover was visible from the side of the shelves. A bearded man with kind, intense eyes looked out from the cover. He was (is) Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. The books now sit on my shelf: Gulag Archipelago, a stunning piece of literature that chronicled in personal, legal, and historical terms the string of soviet prison camps (thus the Archipelago image). Millions died and tens of millions were brutalized in the camps. They even had Gulags for children. In some ways, people already knew what he wrote, but maybe it was better not to know. Maybe by not saying anything we wouldn’t aggravate the Soviets. Blah blah blah. When there are concentration camps, the world is always silent. Even today, the Chinese run an even more brutal system than the Soviets—the laogai camps. How we pretend that they are civilized or that we should even talk with their leaders as if they are men is beyond me.
One of my distant cousins was an expert on the Czar’s secret police and he worked with the team of people at the Hoover Institute who worked with Solzhenitsyn when he came to this country in exile, so I had some knowledge of Solzhenitsyn as a person, not just a famous, distant writer. I have read Gulag Archipelago perhaps 4 times. I do it to remember what happened. I do it because it is a great book by the greatest writer of the twentieth century. And it may be that after all is said and done, Solzhenitsyn passes his countrymen, Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, in honor as the greatest writer, period.
I went to Berlin after the Fall of Communism. (I had been there in 83 --I think it was 83-- when you could not go to the East.) Of course, there was a lot of Soviet memorabilia. I picked up a so-called Officer’s Watch. Who knows if it was authentic. But it had a red star. Some years later, I had a moment of shame and threw the watch away, because that red star stands for death; the red star and the hammer and sickle are every bit as revolting and evil as a swastika. No one thinks twice about a t-shirt with the hammer and sickle—no thought for the millions of Ukrainians killed under that banner. Or Poles. Or Russians. In a sick way, we learned to tolerate the Soviets. Imagine if we had gotten familiar enough with Nazis to think it was not as serious as it was? But wait! We did—it was called the 1930s! And we did it again in Rwanda. Doing it in Darfur. And in a strange fit of blindness that cannot see that anti-Semitism will not go away, that some people want another holocaust, the world coddles Hezbollah and Iran.
In Woody Allen’s great movie, Hannah and Her Sisters, Max von Sydow’s character says some memorable lines: “It has been ages since I sat in front of the television, aimlessly flipping channels. I came across a documentary on Auschwitz. More gruesome film footage, and more puzzled intellectuals proclaiming their mystification as to how it could have happened. The reason they will never answer that question is because it is the wrong question. The real question is, ‘Given what humans are, why doesn’t it happen more often?’”
I was not going to listen to Gorbachev. I was not going to allow myself to be polluted. See, his reputation is that he brought down the Soviet Union, that he tried to move it to some rapprochement with West, to avoid conflict. He gets to say that because that was the unintended result. Glasnost, perestroika, these were more propaganda tools to help the Soviet Union survive. His goal was to strengthen the weakening position of the Soviet Union, particularly in relation to the United States and our growing parity with their military power in the 1980s.
Gorbachev was a KGB man (like the current Russian President, Putin. And beware—lying and killing is their business). As such, he knew about and was involved in all kinds of repressive activities against anyone who wrote, said, or thought anything that the Communist Party did not like. While the Gulags were gone, torture, and numerous other kinds of repression were alive and well under comrade Gorbachev. His posturing as some kind of hero or statesman was typical of the ways such minds work; one of their own kind said, “The people will believe a big lie more readily than a small one,”
And again, “One death is a tragedy, a million is a statistic.”
In the past few years, some great books about or by Solzhenitsyn have come out (or been republished). In his Invisible Allies, he writes about the people who helped him get his work out. Most of it was banned in the Soviet Union. So people would get a copy and type out a few more and pass them around. In a book filled with personalities, one chapter is devoted to a group of people—“The Estonians.” Many of you know of my love for Estonia and Estonians. Over and over again in the literature of the Gulag, the Estonians come across as truly unique as a nation. They were well-respected by fellow prisoners for the suffering of their tiny nation, for their devotion to their language and culture, and for their resistance to the overwhelming force of first the Nazis then the Soviets.
I was filled with great excitement when I read that Solzhenitsyn not only spent time there, but that he and some others also worked cranking out the first typed copies of his greatest novel, First Circle, at a farmhouse near Voru, Estonia. Voru is where First Church’s last trip to Estonia went.
What it is about the Estonians, to survive the Nazi invasion, to be the first to pull out of the Soviet Union, to be the only group of Methodists who survived Soviet Rule?
I think it is part of God’s delicious irony that I got to go to Estonia on a mission trip. I went to the places I thought I might only go if there was a war. Russian was useful in making friends for Christ. I couldn’t have planned it any better! Where my thoughts were war, the Lord’s were peace, a peace that shattered the spear and bow.
If you want a good read, check our Solzhenitsyn: Soul in Exile, a study of his Orthodox faith. Most striking is how much the Western intelligentsia turned their backs on him when he openly professed his faith. It was one thing to attack Stalin and his legacy; quite another to stand up for Jesus!
One vacation while I was there, Mikhail Gorbachev was coming to the university to speak. We lived perhaps a kilometer away. The university subway station was where I caught the train to the city, and so as I walked there, crowds were pouring out and you could hear the buzz of tens of thousands of people somewhere in the distance, gathering to hear Gorbachev. I went down the stairs, onto the train that would take me to Koenigstrasse.
I was disgusted. That Gorbachev now has some kind of rehabilitated status is bad enough, but that he could in 1990 draw a crowd of educated people in Germany (of all nations!) was revolting. Many perhaps do not care who Gorbachev is. But for some who do, and perhaps have held him in esteem, let me caution you.
I have jokingly said I was a cold warrior as a kid, but it’s true. I had my own copy of the Army Field Manual Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape. I had a bag boy job in 8th grade and sent money to a fund that said it bought bullets and supplies for the mujahedin in Afghanistan fighting the Soviet invasion.
I hated the Berlin Wall, and was ashamed to live in times where such a thing existed. I thought it would never come down.
I learned Russian for the purpose of fighting the enemy.
Most of my feelings came because of book on my father’s bookshelf, a big multivolume book. Each volume was huge. Where they were on the shelf, the back cover was visible from the side of the shelves. A bearded man with kind, intense eyes looked out from the cover. He was (is) Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. The books now sit on my shelf: Gulag Archipelago, a stunning piece of literature that chronicled in personal, legal, and historical terms the string of soviet prison camps (thus the Archipelago image). Millions died and tens of millions were brutalized in the camps. They even had Gulags for children. In some ways, people already knew what he wrote, but maybe it was better not to know. Maybe by not saying anything we wouldn’t aggravate the Soviets. Blah blah blah. When there are concentration camps, the world is always silent. Even today, the Chinese run an even more brutal system than the Soviets—the laogai camps. How we pretend that they are civilized or that we should even talk with their leaders as if they are men is beyond me.
One of my distant cousins was an expert on the Czar’s secret police and he worked with the team of people at the Hoover Institute who worked with Solzhenitsyn when he came to this country in exile, so I had some knowledge of Solzhenitsyn as a person, not just a famous, distant writer. I have read Gulag Archipelago perhaps 4 times. I do it to remember what happened. I do it because it is a great book by the greatest writer of the twentieth century. And it may be that after all is said and done, Solzhenitsyn passes his countrymen, Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, in honor as the greatest writer, period.
I went to Berlin after the Fall of Communism. (I had been there in 83 --I think it was 83-- when you could not go to the East.) Of course, there was a lot of Soviet memorabilia. I picked up a so-called Officer’s Watch. Who knows if it was authentic. But it had a red star. Some years later, I had a moment of shame and threw the watch away, because that red star stands for death; the red star and the hammer and sickle are every bit as revolting and evil as a swastika. No one thinks twice about a t-shirt with the hammer and sickle—no thought for the millions of Ukrainians killed under that banner. Or Poles. Or Russians. In a sick way, we learned to tolerate the Soviets. Imagine if we had gotten familiar enough with Nazis to think it was not as serious as it was? But wait! We did—it was called the 1930s! And we did it again in Rwanda. Doing it in Darfur. And in a strange fit of blindness that cannot see that anti-Semitism will not go away, that some people want another holocaust, the world coddles Hezbollah and Iran.
In Woody Allen’s great movie, Hannah and Her Sisters, Max von Sydow’s character says some memorable lines: “It has been ages since I sat in front of the television, aimlessly flipping channels. I came across a documentary on Auschwitz. More gruesome film footage, and more puzzled intellectuals proclaiming their mystification as to how it could have happened. The reason they will never answer that question is because it is the wrong question. The real question is, ‘Given what humans are, why doesn’t it happen more often?’”
I was not going to listen to Gorbachev. I was not going to allow myself to be polluted. See, his reputation is that he brought down the Soviet Union, that he tried to move it to some rapprochement with West, to avoid conflict. He gets to say that because that was the unintended result. Glasnost, perestroika, these were more propaganda tools to help the Soviet Union survive. His goal was to strengthen the weakening position of the Soviet Union, particularly in relation to the United States and our growing parity with their military power in the 1980s.
Gorbachev was a KGB man (like the current Russian President, Putin. And beware—lying and killing is their business). As such, he knew about and was involved in all kinds of repressive activities against anyone who wrote, said, or thought anything that the Communist Party did not like. While the Gulags were gone, torture, and numerous other kinds of repression were alive and well under comrade Gorbachev. His posturing as some kind of hero or statesman was typical of the ways such minds work; one of their own kind said, “The people will believe a big lie more readily than a small one,”
And again, “One death is a tragedy, a million is a statistic.”
In the past few years, some great books about or by Solzhenitsyn have come out (or been republished). In his Invisible Allies, he writes about the people who helped him get his work out. Most of it was banned in the Soviet Union. So people would get a copy and type out a few more and pass them around. In a book filled with personalities, one chapter is devoted to a group of people—“The Estonians.” Many of you know of my love for Estonia and Estonians. Over and over again in the literature of the Gulag, the Estonians come across as truly unique as a nation. They were well-respected by fellow prisoners for the suffering of their tiny nation, for their devotion to their language and culture, and for their resistance to the overwhelming force of first the Nazis then the Soviets.
I was filled with great excitement when I read that Solzhenitsyn not only spent time there, but that he and some others also worked cranking out the first typed copies of his greatest novel, First Circle, at a farmhouse near Voru, Estonia. Voru is where First Church’s last trip to Estonia went.
What it is about the Estonians, to survive the Nazi invasion, to be the first to pull out of the Soviet Union, to be the only group of Methodists who survived Soviet Rule?
I think it is part of God’s delicious irony that I got to go to Estonia on a mission trip. I went to the places I thought I might only go if there was a war. Russian was useful in making friends for Christ. I couldn’t have planned it any better! Where my thoughts were war, the Lord’s were peace, a peace that shattered the spear and bow.
If you want a good read, check our Solzhenitsyn: Soul in Exile, a study of his Orthodox faith. Most striking is how much the Western intelligentsia turned their backs on him when he openly professed his faith. It was one thing to attack Stalin and his legacy; quite another to stand up for Jesus!
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
The Return of Saturn
"Out of touch with the weather and the wind direction,
with the sunrise and the phases of the moon"
--Rush, "Earthshine"
This morning I was up early and outside to pray, a place and time I have not found much chance to pray in/at. I saw Orion and then quickly found Jupiter and Saturn, remembering how for quite a few years I did not go to bed until I found them. I got used to where they were in the sky.
Today was Barb Bryant's funeral, and I guess that's why I was restless this morning. When we got to First Church, one of the hymns was "Great is Thy Faithfulness:"
"Summer and winter and springtime and harvest,
Sun moon and stars in their course above
Join with all nature in manifold witness
To thy great faithfulness, mercy and love."
Melissa went with me to the funeral. She loved Barb and her children, and so I figured she would go. But I was not sure what to think; Barb lost a long fight with cancer, and I knew that was weighing on Melissa. But a good funeral preaches the gospel in the face of death, and if you listen closely, you understand that indeed, it is a war, and finally there must be great courage to stick with Christ to the end.
Tonight, I was probably calmer than I have been in a while, and so had more patience with the boys. We even survived bath time. We read one of their current favorite stories, The Tale of the Three Trees. Joe lets me read it then he retells it. I like his version better.
I talked to the boys a little bit about baptism. I take on all challengers who don't like infant baptism, and I was feeling the need to teach the boys why they were baptized, what it means, etc. And as I have said, theologically I have not moved much past the 4th century. So imagine my pride when I told the boys that baptism by water was the promise of God, the sign of entry into the fellowship of believers, and Joe says, "Just like Noah." St. Peter says, "In it [the Ark] only a few people, eight in all, were saved through water, and this water symbolizes baptism that now saves you also..." (I Peter 3:20-21)
The letters of Peter and John don't get near enough attention. All week, 1 Peter 1:1-9 has been on my heart. Carol Sparks said, "Maybe it's because of Barb?" 1 Peter 1:1-9 is a reminder that we don't belong here, and that "you greatly rejoice, even though for a little while you have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials (1 Peter 1:6)
with the sunrise and the phases of the moon"
--Rush, "Earthshine"
This morning I was up early and outside to pray, a place and time I have not found much chance to pray in/at. I saw Orion and then quickly found Jupiter and Saturn, remembering how for quite a few years I did not go to bed until I found them. I got used to where they were in the sky.
Today was Barb Bryant's funeral, and I guess that's why I was restless this morning. When we got to First Church, one of the hymns was "Great is Thy Faithfulness:"
"Summer and winter and springtime and harvest,
Sun moon and stars in their course above
Join with all nature in manifold witness
To thy great faithfulness, mercy and love."
Melissa went with me to the funeral. She loved Barb and her children, and so I figured she would go. But I was not sure what to think; Barb lost a long fight with cancer, and I knew that was weighing on Melissa. But a good funeral preaches the gospel in the face of death, and if you listen closely, you understand that indeed, it is a war, and finally there must be great courage to stick with Christ to the end.
Tonight, I was probably calmer than I have been in a while, and so had more patience with the boys. We even survived bath time. We read one of their current favorite stories, The Tale of the Three Trees. Joe lets me read it then he retells it. I like his version better.
I talked to the boys a little bit about baptism. I take on all challengers who don't like infant baptism, and I was feeling the need to teach the boys why they were baptized, what it means, etc. And as I have said, theologically I have not moved much past the 4th century. So imagine my pride when I told the boys that baptism by water was the promise of God, the sign of entry into the fellowship of believers, and Joe says, "Just like Noah." St. Peter says, "In it [the Ark] only a few people, eight in all, were saved through water, and this water symbolizes baptism that now saves you also..." (I Peter 3:20-21)
The letters of Peter and John don't get near enough attention. All week, 1 Peter 1:1-9 has been on my heart. Carol Sparks said, "Maybe it's because of Barb?" 1 Peter 1:1-9 is a reminder that we don't belong here, and that "you greatly rejoice, even though for a little while you have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials (1 Peter 1:6)
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Cain and Abel
Apparently, when you add water to small children, it makes them do the opposite of what you tell them to. “Stop!” means “More!” “Don’t splash!” means “Cannonball!” “Don’t drink the water!” means “dive in such that you would be kicked out of Gideon’s Army!” Bath time can be a challenge. I think my grandmother’s plan of spraying us off in the driveway makes more sense. Getting clean is not on any boy’s agenda, so you have to trick them. Melissa has said, and I can vouch, “If I ever snap and lose it, it will be at bath time…”
One of the challenges of doing in-depth Bible study is that people think it is a G-rated book, or that the dominant figures in the Bible are supposed to be morality-tale good guys. I always say the Bible is brutally honest and that’s why so many people have a hard time with God. Straight talk is what we need, but it’s hard to see ourselves the way we really are. Jacob is a conniver. David is by turns violent and adulterous, distant and ineffective. I remember one preacher who said that you can see yourself in the three great patriarchs, and as the story went on, I was praying, “Lord, let me be like Isaac, or maybe Abraham, but not Jacob” because I knew Jacob was the one I resemble most. Joe apparently learned about Cain and Abel in school. It was interesting to see how as he told the story, that he and John were disturbed. Joe asked how did Cain kill Abel. I said, “maybe with a rock?” Joe broke the tension with a bit of humor, “That HAD to hurt.” Joe said that Cain’s sacrifice (he actually used that word) was not accepted because Abel kept sheep and God didn’t like vegetables. Now there is an example of contextual ministry; you could sense a new love for God! Maybe He will come down and stop me and Melissa from making the boys eat vegetables? Dare they dream?
One of the challenges of doing in-depth Bible study is that people think it is a G-rated book, or that the dominant figures in the Bible are supposed to be morality-tale good guys. I always say the Bible is brutally honest and that’s why so many people have a hard time with God. Straight talk is what we need, but it’s hard to see ourselves the way we really are. Jacob is a conniver. David is by turns violent and adulterous, distant and ineffective. I remember one preacher who said that you can see yourself in the three great patriarchs, and as the story went on, I was praying, “Lord, let me be like Isaac, or maybe Abraham, but not Jacob” because I knew Jacob was the one I resemble most. Joe apparently learned about Cain and Abel in school. It was interesting to see how as he told the story, that he and John were disturbed. Joe asked how did Cain kill Abel. I said, “maybe with a rock?” Joe broke the tension with a bit of humor, “That HAD to hurt.” Joe said that Cain’s sacrifice (he actually used that word) was not accepted because Abel kept sheep and God didn’t like vegetables. Now there is an example of contextual ministry; you could sense a new love for God! Maybe He will come down and stop me and Melissa from making the boys eat vegetables? Dare they dream?
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Sabbath, or Fra Lupo Lupi
Today was a good Sabbath for me and the boys. Poor Melissa was back in the clinic. I had some things I guess I could have done, productive things, but it seemed important to take this time, and it was well-rewarded.
A nurse who is very fond of Melissa gave us some passes to Kentucky Kingdom, so we rode some kid rides in the morning. When we got home, the boys and I napped. Then Melissa came home and we sat in the garage (she can't be in the sun much) and talked to her. The boys played and then asked if we could go to the clay bank, where we have not been in a while. So we got into old clothes and headed down to the creek.
They know the way. You go past the dog-leg and turn at Joe-Joe's Drum. It's a big tank my brother-in-law scavenged so he can one day make a smoker out of it. We bang on it and it bellows all thru the woods. While we were down at the creek, Joe banged on it, and it really sounded like the natives were restless.
As we were fiddling with clay and finding more veins of it (if that's the right word), talk turned to theology. That's a rare commodity in my line of work. I mean, I guess we talk about it a lot, but so often it comes down to proving this or that point, or adopting this or that measure. It seems that you always have to be "on," as if there were some contest going on, or we're all scrutinizing each other. It is rarely unburdened from purpose to the point where it becomes a simple sharing of Christ and His life in us.
Joe I guess started it by talking about how all Adam and Eve had to do was not eat from "that one tree." "Why did that devil do that, daddy?" Joe asked. What do you say? "Is the devil mean?"
"Yes," I answered. "He wants people to hurt and kill each other, and he makes sickness and death."
"Why?"
"Because he wants to hurt God. He knows he can't win, so he tries to go after God's children. It's like this: I would rather die than anything happen to you boys." I was getting nervous. They were into the deep stuff, and I feared lest I say something that could warp future frames of reference. But they got it. John even going so far as to say, "The devil is the king of the people who killed Jesus." My, my; that is going to go deep one day. As Charles Wesley wrote, "Died He for me, who caused His pain? For me, who Him to death pursued?"
John had huge chunks of clay that he was molding to a rock. He kept saying he was making the Word of God. I wasn't sure what he meant. After some heavy rains recently, the ground above the creek bed had some nice mounds of new dirt, just wonderfully rich earth-smelling stuff. I told John about how in bottomlands, the dirt that is left behind is so rich; that's why there's such huge farms in Mississippi, a place they are fascinated with because they know it means so much to me.
Then John took some of the dirt. "I am going to dough this into my clay." He started sprinkling it all over the "sculpture" and then pressed it in.
"Why are you calling it the Word of God?" I asked.
"Because God made Adam and Eve from dirt. He didn't use tools or concreke [as he says]. He just said it." Man, now that is abstraction. I was not sure what to say except, "Praise the Lord."
The Little Seminary is in effect. But it takes lots of teachers. John and Joe have had and have some good ones who teach them all kinds of things. The talking about God is natural with them. And as we were leaving, John said, like the time we talked about clover, "I know a prayer we can pray:
Bless us O Lord, as we leave here,
wrap us in your loving care,
guide our footsteps, show the way,
keep us safe we pray."
I have on two occasions had the chance to preach to the animals. Once, about 3 years ago, a spike buck came down the hill, walked across the creek and came to me on the deck at the creek, all the while that I preached-- and many of you know how much I move around. I led him out of the woods and he ate from my hands.
Maybe two months ago a similar thing happened. But this time a squirrel and two chipmunks and two bucks listened. The squirrel and chipmunks darting around not two feet away and the bucks just coming slowly down the creek, grazing and drinking. The does ran away.
Perhaps it is too mystical for some to hear, but why should we be surprised that the animals know the Word that made them and the Spirit that sustains them? I long to hear it that way, to trust it beyond its difficulty.
A nurse who is very fond of Melissa gave us some passes to Kentucky Kingdom, so we rode some kid rides in the morning. When we got home, the boys and I napped. Then Melissa came home and we sat in the garage (she can't be in the sun much) and talked to her. The boys played and then asked if we could go to the clay bank, where we have not been in a while. So we got into old clothes and headed down to the creek.
They know the way. You go past the dog-leg and turn at Joe-Joe's Drum. It's a big tank my brother-in-law scavenged so he can one day make a smoker out of it. We bang on it and it bellows all thru the woods. While we were down at the creek, Joe banged on it, and it really sounded like the natives were restless.
As we were fiddling with clay and finding more veins of it (if that's the right word), talk turned to theology. That's a rare commodity in my line of work. I mean, I guess we talk about it a lot, but so often it comes down to proving this or that point, or adopting this or that measure. It seems that you always have to be "on," as if there were some contest going on, or we're all scrutinizing each other. It is rarely unburdened from purpose to the point where it becomes a simple sharing of Christ and His life in us.
Joe I guess started it by talking about how all Adam and Eve had to do was not eat from "that one tree." "Why did that devil do that, daddy?" Joe asked. What do you say? "Is the devil mean?"
"Yes," I answered. "He wants people to hurt and kill each other, and he makes sickness and death."
"Why?"
"Because he wants to hurt God. He knows he can't win, so he tries to go after God's children. It's like this: I would rather die than anything happen to you boys." I was getting nervous. They were into the deep stuff, and I feared lest I say something that could warp future frames of reference. But they got it. John even going so far as to say, "The devil is the king of the people who killed Jesus." My, my; that is going to go deep one day. As Charles Wesley wrote, "Died He for me, who caused His pain? For me, who Him to death pursued?"
John had huge chunks of clay that he was molding to a rock. He kept saying he was making the Word of God. I wasn't sure what he meant. After some heavy rains recently, the ground above the creek bed had some nice mounds of new dirt, just wonderfully rich earth-smelling stuff. I told John about how in bottomlands, the dirt that is left behind is so rich; that's why there's such huge farms in Mississippi, a place they are fascinated with because they know it means so much to me.
Then John took some of the dirt. "I am going to dough this into my clay." He started sprinkling it all over the "sculpture" and then pressed it in.
"Why are you calling it the Word of God?" I asked.
"Because God made Adam and Eve from dirt. He didn't use tools or concreke [as he says]. He just said it." Man, now that is abstraction. I was not sure what to say except, "Praise the Lord."
The Little Seminary is in effect. But it takes lots of teachers. John and Joe have had and have some good ones who teach them all kinds of things. The talking about God is natural with them. And as we were leaving, John said, like the time we talked about clover, "I know a prayer we can pray:
Bless us O Lord, as we leave here,
wrap us in your loving care,
guide our footsteps, show the way,
keep us safe we pray."
I have on two occasions had the chance to preach to the animals. Once, about 3 years ago, a spike buck came down the hill, walked across the creek and came to me on the deck at the creek, all the while that I preached-- and many of you know how much I move around. I led him out of the woods and he ate from my hands.
Maybe two months ago a similar thing happened. But this time a squirrel and two chipmunks and two bucks listened. The squirrel and chipmunks darting around not two feet away and the bucks just coming slowly down the creek, grazing and drinking. The does ran away.
Perhaps it is too mystical for some to hear, but why should we be surprised that the animals know the Word that made them and the Spirit that sustains them? I long to hear it that way, to trust it beyond its difficulty.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Some Psalms
About two weeks ago when Melissa was in the hospital, Psalm 77 seemed to speak to something important. Barb Foster highlighted these verses:
“The waters saw you, O God, the waters saw you and writhed; the very depths were convulsed. The clouds poured down water, the skies resounded with thunder; your arrows flashed back and forth. Your thunder was heard in the whirlwind, your lightning lit up the world; the earth trembled and quaked. Your path led through the sea, your way through the mighty waters, though your footprints were not seen” (Psalm 77:16-19). Many of us are familiar with the “Footprints” poem that talk about seeing two sets of footprints, ours and God’s, then, when trouble comes, seeing only one and wondering where God is, but it’s His footprints because He’s carrying us. These verses add a twist to that. This God of Creation, the God if Israel, His footprints don’t show up! In spite of unbelievable power, no footprints—just the deep shadows of the natural world. We meditated on God being present in ways much more powerful than if we actually saw His footprints.
And then a few days ago, I read Psalms 126-130. I like reading 126-128, especially now. As prayer, I think they say everything I am needing to say lately.
“When the Lord brought back the captives to Zion, we were like men who dreamed. Our mouths were filled with laughter, our tongues with songs of joy. Then it was said among the nations, ‘The Lord has done great things for them’” (Psalm 126:1-2).
“Sons are a heritage from the Lord, children a reward from Him. Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one’s youth. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them” (Psalm 127:3-5).
“Blessed are all who fear the Lord and walk in His ways. You will eat the fruit of your labors. Blessings and prosperity will be yours. Your wife will be like a fruitful vine within your house; your sons will be like olive shoots around your table” (Psalm 128:1-3).
“The waters saw you, O God, the waters saw you and writhed; the very depths were convulsed. The clouds poured down water, the skies resounded with thunder; your arrows flashed back and forth. Your thunder was heard in the whirlwind, your lightning lit up the world; the earth trembled and quaked. Your path led through the sea, your way through the mighty waters, though your footprints were not seen” (Psalm 77:16-19). Many of us are familiar with the “Footprints” poem that talk about seeing two sets of footprints, ours and God’s, then, when trouble comes, seeing only one and wondering where God is, but it’s His footprints because He’s carrying us. These verses add a twist to that. This God of Creation, the God if Israel, His footprints don’t show up! In spite of unbelievable power, no footprints—just the deep shadows of the natural world. We meditated on God being present in ways much more powerful than if we actually saw His footprints.
And then a few days ago, I read Psalms 126-130. I like reading 126-128, especially now. As prayer, I think they say everything I am needing to say lately.
“When the Lord brought back the captives to Zion, we were like men who dreamed. Our mouths were filled with laughter, our tongues with songs of joy. Then it was said among the nations, ‘The Lord has done great things for them’” (Psalm 126:1-2).
“Sons are a heritage from the Lord, children a reward from Him. Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are sons born in one’s youth. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them” (Psalm 127:3-5).
“Blessed are all who fear the Lord and walk in His ways. You will eat the fruit of your labors. Blessings and prosperity will be yours. Your wife will be like a fruitful vine within your house; your sons will be like olive shoots around your table” (Psalm 128:1-3).
Congo
I made my first visit to the Congolese families Monday. When I arrived, they were eating, and as the young man who answered the door spoke in English, I said in English that I would be back later, and left my card. As I turned to walk down the stairs, another man said Hello, one of the elder sons of the family. I asked him if it would be easier to speak in French. He said yes, it would. And so I told him who I was, why I was there. The door flew back open as the people inside heard French. They invited me in, and we talked for a while. They have only been here for a month, and are still getting acclimated to being in America.
They have church sponsors, but not really a place to worship. Some speak English, some not yet.
The really powerful thing was how much it meant to them to hear a language they understood and were comfortable with. It meant a lot that an American came to visit them, and that I came as a pastor to them. The father kept saying that it was such a good thing that I came by. The mother and children kept putting their hands together and bowing to me. You can never underestimate how important a visit is. We need to think about this not only in terms of immigrants, but also in terms of our being Ambassadors for Christ. We ought to be able to say that we are hoping to welcome people into the Kingdom, which is a foreign country, and welcome them generously... but I digress. The elder son I talked to said, “it is a good thing when people come together with the Word of God.”
The French I speak is a bit childlike-- there are a lot of words I don't know, especially theological words.
Yesterday, a man from Liberia walked into the church asking about our GED programs. He had a long history of working with missionaries, and he had a good time telling his story. Then later that afternoon, a Congolese man called me. He is a Methodist pastor! Son of the first democratically elected leader of the Congo (back in the 60s). Sad that someone so educated has to start over so dramatically... When I told him that I wanted to minister to the Congo immigrants and provide spiritual care, he jumped on it. I am hoping to meet him this week.
La Roche roule toujours...
They have church sponsors, but not really a place to worship. Some speak English, some not yet.
The really powerful thing was how much it meant to them to hear a language they understood and were comfortable with. It meant a lot that an American came to visit them, and that I came as a pastor to them. The father kept saying that it was such a good thing that I came by. The mother and children kept putting their hands together and bowing to me. You can never underestimate how important a visit is. We need to think about this not only in terms of immigrants, but also in terms of our being Ambassadors for Christ. We ought to be able to say that we are hoping to welcome people into the Kingdom, which is a foreign country, and welcome them generously... but I digress. The elder son I talked to said, “it is a good thing when people come together with the Word of God.”
The French I speak is a bit childlike-- there are a lot of words I don't know, especially theological words.
Yesterday, a man from Liberia walked into the church asking about our GED programs. He had a long history of working with missionaries, and he had a good time telling his story. Then later that afternoon, a Congolese man called me. He is a Methodist pastor! Son of the first democratically elected leader of the Congo (back in the 60s). Sad that someone so educated has to start over so dramatically... When I told him that I wanted to minister to the Congo immigrants and provide spiritual care, he jumped on it. I am hoping to meet him this week.
La Roche roule toujours...
Monday, September 11, 2006
A Winding Road
You never can tell how where you've been, what you've done, what you've heard, or who you are is going to come into play for the Kingdom of God. This is a long story, so maybe I will spread it out. Or maybe not.
About ten years ago, I met a woman in the UK Library. She looked lost and no one was helping her. I asked if she needed something and could tell from her accent that she was a Russian speaker. Her name was Svetlana, and because of a simple gesture of help, she took me to her house to meet her husband and parents. There was an impromptu concert, because her dad was an unbelievable tenor and Svetlana was a great pianist. Over the course of the next few months, I met many Russians, especially a babushka who was lost downtown and I helped her get home. I had just come back from First Church's mission trip to Estonia, and was blown away that the Russian I learned to be of use during the Cold War was turned to the Gospel. I asked the powers that be to find a way to minister to the rising tide of Russian immigrants. But there wasn't much interest, and a Russian pastor was assigned to Eastern Kentucky, when he could have a fruitful ministry right here in Lexington.
I vowed that if the opportunity to minister to immigrants ever came up again, I would jump on it. So, some of you know of my attempt to minister in the Ukrainian community. It came about because shortly after I got to Louisville, I kept running into Ukrainians. Unfortunately, I could see that a ministry to Ukrainians and immigrants generally was not going to mesh with where I was at that time. So, even though it was clearly a God-thing, I did not carry through. That said, I do believe that it will one day. I just have to be patient.
But perhaps not. There ends up being more to it than I can see. The Rock/La Roca has a subversive value behind its mission: to be a multicultural ministry. It is subversive not only in terms of the usual structure of churches, but I think we are finding that it is even subversive to our own comfort zones. To whit: Ruben and I discovered that we are perceived as an Hispanic ministry, or a church that has an Hispanic ministry. Not only do others see us this way, we see ourselves this way. And then we think we have done our job in being multicultural because we have Anglos and Hispanics together! We realized that we have a problem in our name. What will happen if Koreans or Sudanese begin to be a part of our church? Will we add a new name, “The Rock” in whatever language is coming? We're thinking maybe we just use a symbol, and become “The Church formerly known as...”
Here's how this comes to a head. Again about ten years ago, I was working for a small construction company. We were building a wooden fence with stone pillars. We had rebuilt a large rock wall and with all the masonry work going on, I got to thinking of my great-grandfather, who was a stonemason in France. He left because he did not really like his future as a stonemason in France. I got to thinking, “I am not so sure he left France thinking his great-grandson would end up doing masonry work in Kentucky, and preparing to be a Protestant minister at that.”
I grew up speaking French. In some ways I suppose most people expected that speaking a few languages I would be working overseas, if not doing something glamorous, at least not living the counter-intuitive life I have now. But then... the Kentucky Refugee Ministries in Lexington is settling a lot of Congolese refugees. Two things about the Congolese-- they speak French and they are often Methodists. There are a number of families here, and there are more on the way (26 this month).
America is in a golden age of immigration. Every wave of immigration has made us stronger, made us, well, more American. Let me tell you some sad facts:
There is no county in America that has more people in church than it did in 1990. So, that means that if your church has grown it has done so by transfer, by people moving to the suburbs, or by luring people from a church they use to go to. This last is especially pernicious because what it amounts to is larger churches siphoning people away from smaller churches that can't provide the “programs” that Christians who are retreating to fortress/enclave churches want. So, if you have seen a church grow, the sad fact is, it is hardly a church, because the mission of the Church is to go into all nations making disciples, not sit around providing a place for us to relax.
Add to that the pathetic excuse mainline churches give for their decline: educated people have fewer children, so therefore, there are not as many people in the churches. This is a subset of my “This-Is-Why-There-Are-Nazis” theory: there are some people who are not good enough to come to our churches! If they aren't white, college-educated homeowners, then the Assemblies of God can have them...
And finally, the coup de tache: the last time the mainline churches' growth kept pace with the rate of U.S. Population growth was 1896. This is really tough news; it mean the rot spans generations. In fact, there is no one alive who has a functioning knowledge of the work it took (and will take again) to grow.
My take on this (not that anyone listens) comes down to two issues. First, the mainline churches were very well established before the U.S. became an urban nation (1920). So, we weren't really prepared for the shift the nation was undergoing. Second, the immigrants of the early 20th century were predominantly Southern and Eastern European, who were mainly Roman Catholic. Previously, we did not have much trouble assimilating the various Northern Europeans who made up the wave of immigration in the second half of the nineteenth century. And we had become Anglicized Americans. So these boisterous large family Catholics were not quite what we wanted to deal with.
I know that we are comfortable with monocultural (homogenous) churches to the extent that we believe they are the Gospel way. And yet even a cursory read of the New Testament reveals a very diverse mix of languages, races, classes, etc. They were united in a very clear understanding of Jesus as Lord. The irony today is that our monocultural churches can't even agree on the authority of Scripture, the divinity of Jesus, or appropriate moral standards regarding the controversial issues of their times (two of which were homosexuality and abortion). The early Christians fought and died for these issues (among many others crucial to what we call “orthodoxy”).
I guess in the end, this is just personal to me. It's not just the business of ministry. As one old school preacher used to say, “If I wasn't a Methodist, I'd be A-Shamed.” I get sick when I see us continuing to decline, and comforting ourselves when some churches grow, as if they have done anything to bring new converts to the faith! Or how we get excited by a church like The Rock/La Roca. It shouldn't be an exception!
The population continues to grow. New immigrants come to our cities every day. There are close to 9,000 people from the former Yugoslavia in Louisville, 5500 Russians, maybe 1500 Ukrainians. Don't be fooled; they are not all, or even many, members of the Orthodox Church, or Muslims. They lived for 70 years under enforced atheism. We, it seems, are under something worse. I am not sure of the immigrant demographics in Lexington yet. But I will find out. Then again, I don't really need to. I have the names and addresses of some of the Congolese immigrants already here. And with 26 more coming just this month, I see a new church meeting at The Rock/La Roca/La Roche.
About ten years ago, I met a woman in the UK Library. She looked lost and no one was helping her. I asked if she needed something and could tell from her accent that she was a Russian speaker. Her name was Svetlana, and because of a simple gesture of help, she took me to her house to meet her husband and parents. There was an impromptu concert, because her dad was an unbelievable tenor and Svetlana was a great pianist. Over the course of the next few months, I met many Russians, especially a babushka who was lost downtown and I helped her get home. I had just come back from First Church's mission trip to Estonia, and was blown away that the Russian I learned to be of use during the Cold War was turned to the Gospel. I asked the powers that be to find a way to minister to the rising tide of Russian immigrants. But there wasn't much interest, and a Russian pastor was assigned to Eastern Kentucky, when he could have a fruitful ministry right here in Lexington.
I vowed that if the opportunity to minister to immigrants ever came up again, I would jump on it. So, some of you know of my attempt to minister in the Ukrainian community. It came about because shortly after I got to Louisville, I kept running into Ukrainians. Unfortunately, I could see that a ministry to Ukrainians and immigrants generally was not going to mesh with where I was at that time. So, even though it was clearly a God-thing, I did not carry through. That said, I do believe that it will one day. I just have to be patient.
But perhaps not. There ends up being more to it than I can see. The Rock/La Roca has a subversive value behind its mission: to be a multicultural ministry. It is subversive not only in terms of the usual structure of churches, but I think we are finding that it is even subversive to our own comfort zones. To whit: Ruben and I discovered that we are perceived as an Hispanic ministry, or a church that has an Hispanic ministry. Not only do others see us this way, we see ourselves this way. And then we think we have done our job in being multicultural because we have Anglos and Hispanics together! We realized that we have a problem in our name. What will happen if Koreans or Sudanese begin to be a part of our church? Will we add a new name, “The Rock” in whatever language is coming? We're thinking maybe we just use a symbol, and become “The Church formerly known as...”
Here's how this comes to a head. Again about ten years ago, I was working for a small construction company. We were building a wooden fence with stone pillars. We had rebuilt a large rock wall and with all the masonry work going on, I got to thinking of my great-grandfather, who was a stonemason in France. He left because he did not really like his future as a stonemason in France. I got to thinking, “I am not so sure he left France thinking his great-grandson would end up doing masonry work in Kentucky, and preparing to be a Protestant minister at that.”
I grew up speaking French. In some ways I suppose most people expected that speaking a few languages I would be working overseas, if not doing something glamorous, at least not living the counter-intuitive life I have now. But then... the Kentucky Refugee Ministries in Lexington is settling a lot of Congolese refugees. Two things about the Congolese-- they speak French and they are often Methodists. There are a number of families here, and there are more on the way (26 this month).
America is in a golden age of immigration. Every wave of immigration has made us stronger, made us, well, more American. Let me tell you some sad facts:
There is no county in America that has more people in church than it did in 1990. So, that means that if your church has grown it has done so by transfer, by people moving to the suburbs, or by luring people from a church they use to go to. This last is especially pernicious because what it amounts to is larger churches siphoning people away from smaller churches that can't provide the “programs” that Christians who are retreating to fortress/enclave churches want. So, if you have seen a church grow, the sad fact is, it is hardly a church, because the mission of the Church is to go into all nations making disciples, not sit around providing a place for us to relax.
Add to that the pathetic excuse mainline churches give for their decline: educated people have fewer children, so therefore, there are not as many people in the churches. This is a subset of my “This-Is-Why-There-Are-Nazis” theory: there are some people who are not good enough to come to our churches! If they aren't white, college-educated homeowners, then the Assemblies of God can have them...
And finally, the coup de tache: the last time the mainline churches' growth kept pace with the rate of U.S. Population growth was 1896. This is really tough news; it mean the rot spans generations. In fact, there is no one alive who has a functioning knowledge of the work it took (and will take again) to grow.
My take on this (not that anyone listens) comes down to two issues. First, the mainline churches were very well established before the U.S. became an urban nation (1920). So, we weren't really prepared for the shift the nation was undergoing. Second, the immigrants of the early 20th century were predominantly Southern and Eastern European, who were mainly Roman Catholic. Previously, we did not have much trouble assimilating the various Northern Europeans who made up the wave of immigration in the second half of the nineteenth century. And we had become Anglicized Americans. So these boisterous large family Catholics were not quite what we wanted to deal with.
I know that we are comfortable with monocultural (homogenous) churches to the extent that we believe they are the Gospel way. And yet even a cursory read of the New Testament reveals a very diverse mix of languages, races, classes, etc. They were united in a very clear understanding of Jesus as Lord. The irony today is that our monocultural churches can't even agree on the authority of Scripture, the divinity of Jesus, or appropriate moral standards regarding the controversial issues of their times (two of which were homosexuality and abortion). The early Christians fought and died for these issues (among many others crucial to what we call “orthodoxy”).
I guess in the end, this is just personal to me. It's not just the business of ministry. As one old school preacher used to say, “If I wasn't a Methodist, I'd be A-Shamed.” I get sick when I see us continuing to decline, and comforting ourselves when some churches grow, as if they have done anything to bring new converts to the faith! Or how we get excited by a church like The Rock/La Roca. It shouldn't be an exception!
The population continues to grow. New immigrants come to our cities every day. There are close to 9,000 people from the former Yugoslavia in Louisville, 5500 Russians, maybe 1500 Ukrainians. Don't be fooled; they are not all, or even many, members of the Orthodox Church, or Muslims. They lived for 70 years under enforced atheism. We, it seems, are under something worse. I am not sure of the immigrant demographics in Lexington yet. But I will find out. Then again, I don't really need to. I have the names and addresses of some of the Congolese immigrants already here. And with 26 more coming just this month, I see a new church meeting at The Rock/La Roca/La Roche.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
John's Birthday
His name is John, meaning "God is gracious," or "God's gift," and that is very appropriate. Yesterday was his 6th birthday, and we are celebrating today. He seems very happy to hear stories from when he was a baby, like how we brought him home from the hospital, or how he liked to clunk heads in a game we call "Bulls." We still play it occasionally.
Melissa wanted to be home from the hospital in time for his birthday. You get fixated on things-- there are things (your health) that trump a birthday. Melissa thought she was going to be in the hospital thru the weekend, but she told the doctors her story and they worked hard to get her home. Maybe she went home a little early, but there were two happy boys. Through all this, John has been a rock for Joseph. It is at once touching and sad. He stands up for his brother, soothes him, lawyers for him. But somehow he has had to grow too quickly into that role. He was starting to crack a little as he wondered if Melissa was going to be in the hospital fro as long as last time. I think he got his birthday present when she came home. I wish I knew how to tell him what it means for a PET scan to be clear. I wish I knew how to push back his inevitable anxiety. I'm not much for waiting on time to do its work. The adults feel relieved, but what do you say to children?
Today has been Waffle House, wrestling, a nap (now, thankfully) and later cake and ice cream and presents, and maybe swimming. My in-laws keep saying they need to close the pool because it is too cold. We keep showing them it's not that bad. They're mine, and I guess all those years of swimming in the cold water on California's Central Coast is paying off...
I can't believe John is 6. Time flies. I used to think how cool it was going to be, to get to know him. That's a rapid-fire thing, as kids change quickly-- know more, say more, do more. Sometimes I wish you could stop them at each point, but the next points will be good, too!
Melissa wanted to be home from the hospital in time for his birthday. You get fixated on things-- there are things (your health) that trump a birthday. Melissa thought she was going to be in the hospital thru the weekend, but she told the doctors her story and they worked hard to get her home. Maybe she went home a little early, but there were two happy boys. Through all this, John has been a rock for Joseph. It is at once touching and sad. He stands up for his brother, soothes him, lawyers for him. But somehow he has had to grow too quickly into that role. He was starting to crack a little as he wondered if Melissa was going to be in the hospital fro as long as last time. I think he got his birthday present when she came home. I wish I knew how to tell him what it means for a PET scan to be clear. I wish I knew how to push back his inevitable anxiety. I'm not much for waiting on time to do its work. The adults feel relieved, but what do you say to children?
Today has been Waffle House, wrestling, a nap (now, thankfully) and later cake and ice cream and presents, and maybe swimming. My in-laws keep saying they need to close the pool because it is too cold. We keep showing them it's not that bad. They're mine, and I guess all those years of swimming in the cold water on California's Central Coast is paying off...
I can't believe John is 6. Time flies. I used to think how cool it was going to be, to get to know him. That's a rapid-fire thing, as kids change quickly-- know more, say more, do more. Sometimes I wish you could stop them at each point, but the next points will be good, too!
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Carrying On
Well, let's see. Melissa is still in the hospital. It's the little things that get you. In fact, evil is in the little things. Strangely enough, it seems you can steel yourself for really hard and diffcult things, but it's the minor aggravations that take their toll.
It's the dilemma I mean when I say it's not enough to have cancer. And it's not enough to have the things that come with it-- feeling badly, feeling tired. Even those are bearable. And you can even handle how you've been robbed. Melissa wants nothing more than to be a mom, to take care of John and Joe. But when you have been beaten and robbed, it is too much to be needled by things that those of us who are well just take in stride.
And even when you can hear that graft-versus-host disease is a good thing, an expected thing-- such that if you don't develop it, they will introduce more of the donor's stem cells to cause it-- it still gnaws at you that just as you were feeling better, you had to go back to the place where you were radiated and poisoned, where you spent many painful and bitter days.
It strikes me that a lot of people don't like this kind of talk, as if somehow in all this there is some lesson on patient endurance. And yet, it is in the very pain and frustration that the presence of God is found. So if I say something negative or angry, it is not a sign of losing faith or hope (read the Psalms is all I can say).
About ten years ago, I wrote a country song with the awkward title, “Merle Haggard, I Wish I Didn't Know What Your Songs Were All About.” The function of country music (real country music) or the Blues is mostly to realize that someone else has been where you are, or even worse. You can't fix what happened to them, they can't fix what happened to you, but you share. You can never underestimate the power of solidarity. It shouldn't surprise us that God came to us in Jesus; after that, you can't doubt that He knows. He knows.
Sometimes there's nothing to say. You just sit with the person who is suffering. Sometimes you have to know when you can venture some word of encouragement, some word to keep things in perspective. And then you have to know when to keep quiet. And yet, both say something. And sometimes God shows you something. In the half-awake half-asleep time this morning, I started out bitter, all the things robbed from us. It was really focusing on how for four months now, closer to five, Melissa has been separated from us, from me. There she was, in the hospital bed. There I was on the uncomfortable bed/chair. But then, it hit me. I was there with her. She is still here. And even though the Evil One's threats are dire, he has yet to make good on them. And even so, we were still there together. It sounds like madness or some half-awake delirium, but I started chuckling. Even though we get stretched to the breaking point, we're still here, still have two sweet boys and all the same hopes we had before, perhaps more refined.
You don't want something like this to happen, but when we come through it, there will be a savor to life we did not have before, if only because we realize that since you're always under a threat, you may as well get the best revenge-- living well.
It's the dilemma I mean when I say it's not enough to have cancer. And it's not enough to have the things that come with it-- feeling badly, feeling tired. Even those are bearable. And you can even handle how you've been robbed. Melissa wants nothing more than to be a mom, to take care of John and Joe. But when you have been beaten and robbed, it is too much to be needled by things that those of us who are well just take in stride.
And even when you can hear that graft-versus-host disease is a good thing, an expected thing-- such that if you don't develop it, they will introduce more of the donor's stem cells to cause it-- it still gnaws at you that just as you were feeling better, you had to go back to the place where you were radiated and poisoned, where you spent many painful and bitter days.
It strikes me that a lot of people don't like this kind of talk, as if somehow in all this there is some lesson on patient endurance. And yet, it is in the very pain and frustration that the presence of God is found. So if I say something negative or angry, it is not a sign of losing faith or hope (read the Psalms is all I can say).
About ten years ago, I wrote a country song with the awkward title, “Merle Haggard, I Wish I Didn't Know What Your Songs Were All About.” The function of country music (real country music) or the Blues is mostly to realize that someone else has been where you are, or even worse. You can't fix what happened to them, they can't fix what happened to you, but you share. You can never underestimate the power of solidarity. It shouldn't surprise us that God came to us in Jesus; after that, you can't doubt that He knows. He knows.
Sometimes there's nothing to say. You just sit with the person who is suffering. Sometimes you have to know when you can venture some word of encouragement, some word to keep things in perspective. And then you have to know when to keep quiet. And yet, both say something. And sometimes God shows you something. In the half-awake half-asleep time this morning, I started out bitter, all the things robbed from us. It was really focusing on how for four months now, closer to five, Melissa has been separated from us, from me. There she was, in the hospital bed. There I was on the uncomfortable bed/chair. But then, it hit me. I was there with her. She is still here. And even though the Evil One's threats are dire, he has yet to make good on them. And even so, we were still there together. It sounds like madness or some half-awake delirium, but I started chuckling. Even though we get stretched to the breaking point, we're still here, still have two sweet boys and all the same hopes we had before, perhaps more refined.
You don't want something like this to happen, but when we come through it, there will be a savor to life we did not have before, if only because we realize that since you're always under a threat, you may as well get the best revenge-- living well.
Tekna-logy 2
Saturday night it was just me and the boys. One of those first cool nights. I love Fall, and can't wait for those times when you have to break out a light jacket. Anyway, we had spent some time just being outside in the cool air.
We walked up and down the driveway, John wanting us to get exercise, Joe wanting to wave at cars. On one of the trips back up, John spotted a patch of clover. The boys looked down and remembered what i had told them about perhaps the greatest evangelist, St. Patrick, who used the clover to describe the mystery of the Trinity; three leaves, one plant. You can't separate them and still have clover. Neither can clover be clover without the three parts. There's a good lesson for the church: almost every problem the mainline churches face have to do with not understanding or adequately respecting the Trinity. But I digress. John and Joe each told about “Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”
Then John blew me away. “Let's pray. Thank you Heavenly Father for clover and trees and grass. Make mommy all better. Amen.”
Later that night, we were all sitting at the bar in the kitchen. I was writing in my journal and the boys were coloring pictures. They asked me what I was doing and I tried to explain the idea of a journal to them. As they were coloring, I realized that they were pretty much doing the same thing, drawing what was important to them, what made them laugh, or what stuck out. John was drawing “everything what's in the sky” (he talks like a British working man for some reason...) Joseph was drawing the pool. More specifically, “a big splash,” one of their favorite things. I throw them way up in the air and they make huge waves. Well, Joe had drawn John making a big splash, and his picture of John was revealing. A few months ago, I learned an interesting perspective when I saw the pictures they took. It makes you realize, kids live in a big world. We adults generally take pictures on the level. These the boys took were skewed, either obviously coming from someone short, or not centered. They really live in a foreign world! (Thus John's insistence that at Daddy School, the fathers must sit in the little kid chairs...) Joe's version of John was very sweet. There are some legs sticking down from a big head with big eyes. If you know John, you know that he has a large head and very large sweet eyes. It was a moment where you could catch a slight glimpse of how Joe perceives John, maybe the most important person in his world. I remember my mom used to tell me that my brother was the person most closely related to me. That stuck with me, and I guess I unconsciously share that with John and Joe. Or maybe it just happens. They eat together, play together, and sleep together. One day, you know, such times end. They say you have to become an adult. But does anyone really want to? It comes at the price of loneliness and alienation. No wonder Jesus said you have to receive the Kingdom like a little child would receive it.
We walked up and down the driveway, John wanting us to get exercise, Joe wanting to wave at cars. On one of the trips back up, John spotted a patch of clover. The boys looked down and remembered what i had told them about perhaps the greatest evangelist, St. Patrick, who used the clover to describe the mystery of the Trinity; three leaves, one plant. You can't separate them and still have clover. Neither can clover be clover without the three parts. There's a good lesson for the church: almost every problem the mainline churches face have to do with not understanding or adequately respecting the Trinity. But I digress. John and Joe each told about “Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”
Then John blew me away. “Let's pray. Thank you Heavenly Father for clover and trees and grass. Make mommy all better. Amen.”
Later that night, we were all sitting at the bar in the kitchen. I was writing in my journal and the boys were coloring pictures. They asked me what I was doing and I tried to explain the idea of a journal to them. As they were coloring, I realized that they were pretty much doing the same thing, drawing what was important to them, what made them laugh, or what stuck out. John was drawing “everything what's in the sky” (he talks like a British working man for some reason...) Joseph was drawing the pool. More specifically, “a big splash,” one of their favorite things. I throw them way up in the air and they make huge waves. Well, Joe had drawn John making a big splash, and his picture of John was revealing. A few months ago, I learned an interesting perspective when I saw the pictures they took. It makes you realize, kids live in a big world. We adults generally take pictures on the level. These the boys took were skewed, either obviously coming from someone short, or not centered. They really live in a foreign world! (Thus John's insistence that at Daddy School, the fathers must sit in the little kid chairs...) Joe's version of John was very sweet. There are some legs sticking down from a big head with big eyes. If you know John, you know that he has a large head and very large sweet eyes. It was a moment where you could catch a slight glimpse of how Joe perceives John, maybe the most important person in his world. I remember my mom used to tell me that my brother was the person most closely related to me. That stuck with me, and I guess I unconsciously share that with John and Joe. Or maybe it just happens. They eat together, play together, and sleep together. One day, you know, such times end. They say you have to become an adult. But does anyone really want to? It comes at the price of loneliness and alienation. No wonder Jesus said you have to receive the Kingdom like a little child would receive it.
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