"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)
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
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.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Valediction: Forbidding Weeping
Today is our anniversary. And I guess you could say, “what a way to spend it.” But I'm not saying that. Not just because to do so would be counter-productive or depressing, but because it's not accurate. We've been married nine years, have two wonderful boys and for all the sadness and difficulty of the past 18 months, it doesn't compare to the love and friendship we have. I suppose that sounds too good to be true, or trite, or denial of reality. Of course, I wish that we never had to deal with all this. But if you let it take away who you are and what the Lord has given you, you have something worse than cancer.
So, while there is not world enough and time, I have found that the Lord redeems the past. And when this is the past, there will be plenty of time to get back what has been put on hold. And more than that: Melissa and I have never needed a special day. Each day has been enough on its own to reinforce the love and joy in our hearts.
Believe it or not.
So, while there is not world enough and time, I have found that the Lord redeems the past. And when this is the past, there will be plenty of time to get back what has been put on hold. And more than that: Melissa and I have never needed a special day. Each day has been enough on its own to reinforce the love and joy in our hearts.
Believe it or not.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Melissa is still in the hospital. Doing a little better. She is still not able to take all her meds, but she is getting there. Keep lifting her up in prayer. I am not sure what else to say at this time. The docs are waiting for test results to see if this is from the brain radiation or if it is a sign of graft-versus-hsot disease, which sounds bad but is good-- it means the transplant will fight cancer cells. It is a long road and I think that is where Melissa is in all this: seeing that it is a long road.
Tekna-logy
Ruben, one of our pastoral staff, let me borrow a book, Jesus is My Uncle, a look at how language and culture interact with theology. It comes on the heels of a few conversations Ruben and I have had concerning multi-cultural ministry. We're fully aware that it's not supposed to work-- people like others just like them. For example, isn't it interesting that often the people who talk the most about diversity live, work, and worship in monocultural places? It's hard to let diversity be more than an idea. For example, in history, you will find nothing more diverse than Christian orthodoxy. Being hard-core and sold out to the Trinity and to the authority of the Scriptures is an incredible basis for entering into relationship with all peoples, nations, and races. But I digress.
This is a strange direction to take this, but I guess if you know me, it'll start to make sense. A friend of mine sent me this list:
If I had my child to raise all over again,
I'd build self-esteem first and the house later.
I'd finger paint more and point the finger less.
I would do less correcting and more connecting.
I'd take my eyes off my watch and watch with my eyes.
I would care to know less and know to care more.
I'd take more hikes and fly more kites.
I'd stop playing serious and seriously play.
I would run through more fields and gaze at more stars.
I'd do more hugging and less tugging.
I'd see the oak tree in the acorn more often.
I would be firm less often and affirm much more.
I'd model less about the love of power and more about the power of love.
It's really good advice, and hard to pull off! Morning is when you have to decide what kind of day you're going to have. I think especially with the boys, I have to make the decision that today will be good. What does this have to do with multicultural ministry? Glad you asked...
A few days ago, I did not make the decision to be calm enough to deal with the boys early in the morning. I made no decision, which, spiritually, is a decision. Things were going along fine until it was time to leave. It was the first day of school and Joseph looked at his new backpack and saw that he did not have a lunch bag. He balked at leaving and I told him we needed to go. He said, but where's my lunch? I said, “you'll eat at school, in the lunchroom.” He got a little more agitated. I said, “Come on! Let's go!” I started pushing him out the door. He said, “But I brought my ice-packs back, Daddy, and Mammaw said...” I cut him off and sent him to the car crying.
It took me until later that day to realize what had happened in his mind. At his daycare during the summer, he started taking his lunch the last two weeks he was there. He had ice packs in them, but forgot to bring them home, so he couldn't take his lunch until he brought them back. So when he saw his backpack ready for school but no lunch, he thought he was being punished when he had done right.
So while that was not the case, it was the case in Joe's mind. And not only did he not get to take a lunch (meaning being punished), he also got yelled at and hurried along. And on the first day of school no less!
At its heart, the situation was a misunderstanding between cultures. It's hard to see it that way, because we think of children as... people becoming adults. No doubt, that is true. But, at some point we have to recognize that children have a worth all their own, that they stand as independent beings who at each stage of their development need to be seen as people, people who have a right to their culture and language. It is our denial of the basic humanity of children that makes abortion possible. Short of that, they die a thousand deaths of cruelty, abuse, poverty, and neglect.
So, while we can on the one side say that Joseph needed to know that he was going to a new school where he would be eating in the lunchroom and not taking his lunch, I also needed to try to figure out why he was so adamant about having brought his ice packs back. The whole problem could have been solved by stepping back. Even if I could not have made the connection, I could have at least tried to handle it differently. But, I was on a time-table. My own, really. 5 minutes would not have made a bit of difference in my day.
But, see, we want what we want. I wanted Joe to hop-to, when I said. [Now, of course there are times when children have to learn to listen and obey]. This is the challenge for dealing with other cultures; we want what we want when we want it. We don't want to deal with another language, or accommodate ways of thinking that don't mesh with ours [and you have to know that I am not a relativist].
In my encounter with Joe, in all my encounters with the lovely, frustrating, funny, heartbreaking, and always entertaining and enlightening culture of my boys, I find this end at work: I am trying to learn to speak to them, to work with where they are. And yes, part of that is to help raise them, to usher them into “adult culture.” Which I wonder about-- do I want to be in adult culture?!?! But another part is to find a way to usher them into Kingdom Culture. It's a question of evangelism (you knew it had to come back to that!): am I winsome enough and open enough and (most important) motivated enough to cross the barriers that separate us from each other? To be united in Christ! Not as an idea, that we share the same values, or something, but that we are one in Him.
This is a strange direction to take this, but I guess if you know me, it'll start to make sense. A friend of mine sent me this list:
If I had my child to raise all over again,
I'd build self-esteem first and the house later.
I'd finger paint more and point the finger less.
I would do less correcting and more connecting.
I'd take my eyes off my watch and watch with my eyes.
I would care to know less and know to care more.
I'd take more hikes and fly more kites.
I'd stop playing serious and seriously play.
I would run through more fields and gaze at more stars.
I'd do more hugging and less tugging.
I'd see the oak tree in the acorn more often.
I would be firm less often and affirm much more.
I'd model less about the love of power and more about the power of love.
It's really good advice, and hard to pull off! Morning is when you have to decide what kind of day you're going to have. I think especially with the boys, I have to make the decision that today will be good. What does this have to do with multicultural ministry? Glad you asked...
A few days ago, I did not make the decision to be calm enough to deal with the boys early in the morning. I made no decision, which, spiritually, is a decision. Things were going along fine until it was time to leave. It was the first day of school and Joseph looked at his new backpack and saw that he did not have a lunch bag. He balked at leaving and I told him we needed to go. He said, but where's my lunch? I said, “you'll eat at school, in the lunchroom.” He got a little more agitated. I said, “Come on! Let's go!” I started pushing him out the door. He said, “But I brought my ice-packs back, Daddy, and Mammaw said...” I cut him off and sent him to the car crying.
It took me until later that day to realize what had happened in his mind. At his daycare during the summer, he started taking his lunch the last two weeks he was there. He had ice packs in them, but forgot to bring them home, so he couldn't take his lunch until he brought them back. So when he saw his backpack ready for school but no lunch, he thought he was being punished when he had done right.
So while that was not the case, it was the case in Joe's mind. And not only did he not get to take a lunch (meaning being punished), he also got yelled at and hurried along. And on the first day of school no less!
At its heart, the situation was a misunderstanding between cultures. It's hard to see it that way, because we think of children as... people becoming adults. No doubt, that is true. But, at some point we have to recognize that children have a worth all their own, that they stand as independent beings who at each stage of their development need to be seen as people, people who have a right to their culture and language. It is our denial of the basic humanity of children that makes abortion possible. Short of that, they die a thousand deaths of cruelty, abuse, poverty, and neglect.
So, while we can on the one side say that Joseph needed to know that he was going to a new school where he would be eating in the lunchroom and not taking his lunch, I also needed to try to figure out why he was so adamant about having brought his ice packs back. The whole problem could have been solved by stepping back. Even if I could not have made the connection, I could have at least tried to handle it differently. But, I was on a time-table. My own, really. 5 minutes would not have made a bit of difference in my day.
But, see, we want what we want. I wanted Joe to hop-to, when I said. [Now, of course there are times when children have to learn to listen and obey]. This is the challenge for dealing with other cultures; we want what we want when we want it. We don't want to deal with another language, or accommodate ways of thinking that don't mesh with ours [and you have to know that I am not a relativist].
In my encounter with Joe, in all my encounters with the lovely, frustrating, funny, heartbreaking, and always entertaining and enlightening culture of my boys, I find this end at work: I am trying to learn to speak to them, to work with where they are. And yes, part of that is to help raise them, to usher them into “adult culture.” Which I wonder about-- do I want to be in adult culture?!?! But another part is to find a way to usher them into Kingdom Culture. It's a question of evangelism (you knew it had to come back to that!): am I winsome enough and open enough and (most important) motivated enough to cross the barriers that separate us from each other? To be united in Christ! Not as an idea, that we share the same values, or something, but that we are one in Him.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
No Title, Which is a Title...
Melissa has been fighting a staph infection the past few days. She had a high fever, but no other symptoms and her labs looked normal. But then blood cultures showed something, most likely staph. So she is on a strong iv antibiotic.
Last night her fever broke, which is hopefully a good thing.
Staph infection sounds horrible, but there's many different kinds, and as she has not been admitted to the hospital, we're hoping it's minor and over with quickly. It's one of those OMDTs. But we had a good time in prayer, and you always find the truth with Jesus; so often we fool ourselves, or we say things that aren't true to make others (and ourselves!) feel better. But the Psalms especially are honest about the battle and the fear and the trials-- and about God and His mercies, His grace, His ministries.
When I came in from prayer meeting last night, the boys were in bed, sort of. They had a lamp on and had my Willie Nelson song book out. “Sing us a song out of this book.” So I sang “Yesterday's Wine,” my favorite Willie song. Then “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.” Then I went with some Bob Wills, “Still Waters,” “I Wonder if You Feel the Way I Do?” and ended with “Dusty Skies.” I could feel them fall asleep in my arms.
Last night her fever broke, which is hopefully a good thing.
Staph infection sounds horrible, but there's many different kinds, and as she has not been admitted to the hospital, we're hoping it's minor and over with quickly. It's one of those OMDTs. But we had a good time in prayer, and you always find the truth with Jesus; so often we fool ourselves, or we say things that aren't true to make others (and ourselves!) feel better. But the Psalms especially are honest about the battle and the fear and the trials-- and about God and His mercies, His grace, His ministries.
When I came in from prayer meeting last night, the boys were in bed, sort of. They had a lamp on and had my Willie Nelson song book out. “Sing us a song out of this book.” So I sang “Yesterday's Wine,” my favorite Willie song. Then “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.” Then I went with some Bob Wills, “Still Waters,” “I Wonder if You Feel the Way I Do?” and ended with “Dusty Skies.” I could feel them fall asleep in my arms.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Sweet Boys
A friend said to me yesterday something like, “the boys have Melissa's sunshine face, so it must be a real joy to walk into the house and see them.” Absolutely. Whoever comes home first, me or them, there is a big welcome. It's been that way since they were very small. It's pretty special.
Melissa went to the clinic Friday, and her platelets are holding steady, down a little bit, but not drastically. All the other levels are looking good. She has more energy. To wit: Friday afternoon, she and I went and got the boys' school supplies. This is for real-- John starts Kindergarten, so it felt different to get those kind of school supplies. I was so glad that Melissa was able to go with me and even walk thru Wal-Mart! I know it meant a lot to her, too.
Then yesterday, we took the boys to get their hair cuts. After that we went to let them get their back packs for school. Then we went to Barnes and Noble (a favorite hangout for the whole family). It was raining a little bit so I ran John and Joe up to the door, and Melissa was behind, walking a little more slowly. John reached out his arms, as if to say, “Come on, Mommy!” Then he ran out into the rain to get her. He waited at the edge of the sidewalk with his arms out. I guess words can't do justice to the sweetness of the picture.
Melissa went to the clinic Friday, and her platelets are holding steady, down a little bit, but not drastically. All the other levels are looking good. She has more energy. To wit: Friday afternoon, she and I went and got the boys' school supplies. This is for real-- John starts Kindergarten, so it felt different to get those kind of school supplies. I was so glad that Melissa was able to go with me and even walk thru Wal-Mart! I know it meant a lot to her, too.
Then yesterday, we took the boys to get their hair cuts. After that we went to let them get their back packs for school. Then we went to Barnes and Noble (a favorite hangout for the whole family). It was raining a little bit so I ran John and Joe up to the door, and Melissa was behind, walking a little more slowly. John reached out his arms, as if to say, “Come on, Mommy!” Then he ran out into the rain to get her. He waited at the edge of the sidewalk with his arms out. I guess words can't do justice to the sweetness of the picture.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Strange Praise
“You have now tasted the bitter brew that is a captain's life”
--Captain Sir Edward Pellew, HMS Indefatigable
I guess about 6 years ago I went to the VA Hospital to visit my best friend in seminary, David Crow. He was a retired Navy Officer. His cancer had returned, and it looked like it was probably going to get him. I went back to the parking lot after visiting with him and cried. I kept thinking, “Lord, I can't drink the cup.”
There was one last hurrah, Annual Conference. We ate some meals together, esp at Mark's BBQ (Conference was in Louisville) and we talked about the deep things: salvation, heaven on earth (we are Methodists, after all!), and the hard demands of the Gospel. David died the next February.
Melissa's uncle Jerry called me a few days ago. A fellow he works with has a granddaughter at UK Hospital, leukemia. The family did not know much about it yesterday. I went back today and Amanda, the mother, told me that the little girl, Brianna, has ALL, the same leukemia Melissa has.
I knew they were going to be pretty freaked out by the treatment regimen, so I took some time to encourage them, to let them know someone else knows the language. (And Polly, you should be proud of me. I think I did an ok job of explaining the mechanism of the disease in layman's terms. I know you don't agree, but I should have some kind of honorary degree after all this...)
Early on, when Melissa was diagnosed, she said that she hoped no matter what happened that she could have some hand in helping people come to faith and/or be comforted in their own struggle. I guess the liminal place I am is recognizing that we are in a war. And the sooner people figure that out, the better. And when they have figured it out, then we stick together and tough it out.
If you're lucky, a fellowship develops in the worst situations. I don't know why it's this way, that from Melissa's illness has come this moment of being able to say to a scared and sad mother, “You will get through this!” Some of you know I don't have a lot of patience for arguing about the problem of evil. While I appreciate the minds that can delve into it, in the end you want something you can take into the concentration camp, and modal logic ain't it. The answer to the problem of evil and suffering is the Cross.
I remember the most powerful sermon I have ever heard. Olav Parnemets talking about John 19, the Calvary Congregation, staying close to the cross of Jesus. From a man who had to fight the KGB. I keep learning what he means about staying close to the Cross. You know, the Cross should be more obvious to us than it is. Things can end badly. At least, you should know it is war. If it doesn't kill us, it'll surely break our hearts. In the battle of Belleau Wood, USMC Gunnery Sergeant Dan Daly yelled at his troops before they attacked, “What's the matter with you s.o.b.'s? Do you want to live forever?”
Take an ironic (irenic?) twist on those words: do you want to live forever?
Then lay down your life. Greater love hath no man but that he lay down his life for his friends.
--Captain Sir Edward Pellew, HMS Indefatigable
I guess about 6 years ago I went to the VA Hospital to visit my best friend in seminary, David Crow. He was a retired Navy Officer. His cancer had returned, and it looked like it was probably going to get him. I went back to the parking lot after visiting with him and cried. I kept thinking, “Lord, I can't drink the cup.”
There was one last hurrah, Annual Conference. We ate some meals together, esp at Mark's BBQ (Conference was in Louisville) and we talked about the deep things: salvation, heaven on earth (we are Methodists, after all!), and the hard demands of the Gospel. David died the next February.
Melissa's uncle Jerry called me a few days ago. A fellow he works with has a granddaughter at UK Hospital, leukemia. The family did not know much about it yesterday. I went back today and Amanda, the mother, told me that the little girl, Brianna, has ALL, the same leukemia Melissa has.
I knew they were going to be pretty freaked out by the treatment regimen, so I took some time to encourage them, to let them know someone else knows the language. (And Polly, you should be proud of me. I think I did an ok job of explaining the mechanism of the disease in layman's terms. I know you don't agree, but I should have some kind of honorary degree after all this...)
Early on, when Melissa was diagnosed, she said that she hoped no matter what happened that she could have some hand in helping people come to faith and/or be comforted in their own struggle. I guess the liminal place I am is recognizing that we are in a war. And the sooner people figure that out, the better. And when they have figured it out, then we stick together and tough it out.
If you're lucky, a fellowship develops in the worst situations. I don't know why it's this way, that from Melissa's illness has come this moment of being able to say to a scared and sad mother, “You will get through this!” Some of you know I don't have a lot of patience for arguing about the problem of evil. While I appreciate the minds that can delve into it, in the end you want something you can take into the concentration camp, and modal logic ain't it. The answer to the problem of evil and suffering is the Cross.
I remember the most powerful sermon I have ever heard. Olav Parnemets talking about John 19, the Calvary Congregation, staying close to the cross of Jesus. From a man who had to fight the KGB. I keep learning what he means about staying close to the Cross. You know, the Cross should be more obvious to us than it is. Things can end badly. At least, you should know it is war. If it doesn't kill us, it'll surely break our hearts. In the battle of Belleau Wood, USMC Gunnery Sergeant Dan Daly yelled at his troops before they attacked, “What's the matter with you s.o.b.'s? Do you want to live forever?”
Take an ironic (irenic?) twist on those words: do you want to live forever?
Then lay down your life. Greater love hath no man but that he lay down his life for his friends.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Sunday's Notes
Here's a totally random thought that has been bugging me. There is no animal that plays dead to trick a buzzard into coming close enough, and then the animal can eat the buzzard. I am sure a buzzard is just too nasty to eat, but then again, it's a big bird, more meat than most, and you'd think somehow, somewhere, some animal would be desperate enough to try this.
Melissa has been holding steady. Her platelet levels are holding at levels higher than they have been, so we are grateful. Not out of the woods; the docs say we're on a week-by-week schedule to see about taking out her spleen. Taking the spleen is probably the answer to the platelet issue. They might be inclined to let her platelets come up slowly, but they would really like to have a port in her brain to give the preventive chemo to her. The neurosurgeon won't put it in until the platelets are 100. So we have a ways to go. It would be wonderful if we could get her platelets up without having to take her spleen.
Me and the boys had a magic evening Saturday night. They had had a good time going to the Rock for a back-to-school bash for the neighborhood kids. We came home, they took a nap and then we swam, grilled hamburgers and played some sort of football/rugby game. It was a moment to live for-- a few hours where you let go of so many things holding you down.
Our evangelism team met again today. I have 15 people signed up to learn how to go out into the neighborhood and share faith. I am amazed that that many people are interested in such work. Anyway, as I tried to think about what we would need to get the work done, I realized we'd need a small group feel for the project. The work of evangelism takes a lot of hard work and patience, two things people in church generally don't do well. We think because it's church, and therefore spiritual, it needs to bring quick and gratifying rewards. Evangelism, however, has many pitfalls.
The idea of talking to total strangers, hoping that one day they won't be total strangers, scares most people. And then, when you realize that most people will reject you, it's discouraging. And when you have been faithfully visiting and sharing the gospel for 6 months and no one has even come to church, it gets to feel like you're not accomplishing anything. You're ready to teach 2nd grade Sunday school, or even go downtown to the soup kitchen—anything to get a quick fix of do-good.
“Evangelism fatigue,” we can call it. It hits anyone who pounds the pavement for the gospel.
But the incontrovertible fact is the best way to reach unchurched people is to visit in their homes. It's not by having events or advertising. You do those when you can't get any one to visit with you.
So I figured I need to get a group of people together to study, pray, and get to know each other. And mostly to get to the point where we could encourage each other when things are slow or difficult, and also to hold each other accountable to actually getting out and visiting people.
Well, we met today, and in only our second meeting, the things that need to happen started happening. We shared how we had come to faith, and we saw how many ways there are for people to come to believe in Christ, how many ways we have to be prepared to understand when we interact with people. And two people shared something about the difficulties in their lives that made them feel like they probably weren't cut out for faith-sharing. We were able to say to them that it is precisely the difficult places in our lives that make us the best witnesses. At some point as we get to know people, they will say to themselves, “If this fellow can go to church, so can I!” Or as people share with us the difficulties in their lives, they know that we can empathize with them.
It hit me as we were leaving that this is something like what Jesus must have been up to before he sent the 70 out on their evangelism mission. I can't emphasize enough that it it is one of the most difficult areas in church work. It's like planting an orchard or vineyard; it takes a lot of time and work to get to the fruit.
Melissa has been holding steady. Her platelet levels are holding at levels higher than they have been, so we are grateful. Not out of the woods; the docs say we're on a week-by-week schedule to see about taking out her spleen. Taking the spleen is probably the answer to the platelet issue. They might be inclined to let her platelets come up slowly, but they would really like to have a port in her brain to give the preventive chemo to her. The neurosurgeon won't put it in until the platelets are 100. So we have a ways to go. It would be wonderful if we could get her platelets up without having to take her spleen.
Me and the boys had a magic evening Saturday night. They had had a good time going to the Rock for a back-to-school bash for the neighborhood kids. We came home, they took a nap and then we swam, grilled hamburgers and played some sort of football/rugby game. It was a moment to live for-- a few hours where you let go of so many things holding you down.
Our evangelism team met again today. I have 15 people signed up to learn how to go out into the neighborhood and share faith. I am amazed that that many people are interested in such work. Anyway, as I tried to think about what we would need to get the work done, I realized we'd need a small group feel for the project. The work of evangelism takes a lot of hard work and patience, two things people in church generally don't do well. We think because it's church, and therefore spiritual, it needs to bring quick and gratifying rewards. Evangelism, however, has many pitfalls.
The idea of talking to total strangers, hoping that one day they won't be total strangers, scares most people. And then, when you realize that most people will reject you, it's discouraging. And when you have been faithfully visiting and sharing the gospel for 6 months and no one has even come to church, it gets to feel like you're not accomplishing anything. You're ready to teach 2nd grade Sunday school, or even go downtown to the soup kitchen—anything to get a quick fix of do-good.
“Evangelism fatigue,” we can call it. It hits anyone who pounds the pavement for the gospel.
But the incontrovertible fact is the best way to reach unchurched people is to visit in their homes. It's not by having events or advertising. You do those when you can't get any one to visit with you.
So I figured I need to get a group of people together to study, pray, and get to know each other. And mostly to get to the point where we could encourage each other when things are slow or difficult, and also to hold each other accountable to actually getting out and visiting people.
Well, we met today, and in only our second meeting, the things that need to happen started happening. We shared how we had come to faith, and we saw how many ways there are for people to come to believe in Christ, how many ways we have to be prepared to understand when we interact with people. And two people shared something about the difficulties in their lives that made them feel like they probably weren't cut out for faith-sharing. We were able to say to them that it is precisely the difficult places in our lives that make us the best witnesses. At some point as we get to know people, they will say to themselves, “If this fellow can go to church, so can I!” Or as people share with us the difficulties in their lives, they know that we can empathize with them.
It hit me as we were leaving that this is something like what Jesus must have been up to before he sent the 70 out on their evangelism mission. I can't emphasize enough that it it is one of the most difficult areas in church work. It's like planting an orchard or vineyard; it takes a lot of time and work to get to the fruit.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
When do I get my tattoo?
I had my first 911 call at the church. A fellow we have seen before came in and was really insistent about wanting help. But it was one of those cases where help would just enable him. He has to hit bottom, and the quicker he gets there the better for him. So I told him there wasn't anything we could do. He started getting agitated and blamed a fellow with me for getting in his business, telling bad stories about him, etc. I escorted him out and he was really torn up that a pastor was going to let him spend the night on the street. I tried to calm him down, but he was pretty upset, said he was going to kill the guy who had been with me. He lunged at the door and I held him back and told him he better go. He was a wiry fellow, and I would have had to pack a lunch to handle him. But since we can't have someone acting like that (even tho he is harmless), we called the police. Meanwhile, he started begging pretty hard in the parking lot from some folks who had left the service. I sent my muscle, two bodybuilders, Rosario and Walt, to keep an eye on things.
When things calmed down everyone was laughing and saying I finally got my first 911 call. I asked, when do I get my tattoo? We could each get a notch or something, and when we get 5 we could be “aces...”
A few nights ago, we were in the pool. I saw an Apache helicopter about ½ mile away, over HWY 60. We have those foam noodles that help you float and I got to waving one and so did John or Joe. I didn't think they'd see us or do anything, but after a minute or so of waving, the Apache turned to us and then did a steep dive. The boys loved it! God bless the troops.
Melissa is doing pretty good. After stomach flu and seizure, she's back to where she was, I think. Her platelets were 32 yesterday, and while we're not jumping up and down yet, it's good news. She is done with the radiation, has more energy. Let's keep praying that the transplant's anti-leukemic effect will take care of everything and we can be pronounced cancer-free and be done. It's a lot to ask, but when I think of the God of Israel that we know through and in Jesus Christ, it's not much, really.
Pray for the peace of Jerusalem.
When things calmed down everyone was laughing and saying I finally got my first 911 call. I asked, when do I get my tattoo? We could each get a notch or something, and when we get 5 we could be “aces...”
A few nights ago, we were in the pool. I saw an Apache helicopter about ½ mile away, over HWY 60. We have those foam noodles that help you float and I got to waving one and so did John or Joe. I didn't think they'd see us or do anything, but after a minute or so of waving, the Apache turned to us and then did a steep dive. The boys loved it! God bless the troops.
Melissa is doing pretty good. After stomach flu and seizure, she's back to where she was, I think. Her platelets were 32 yesterday, and while we're not jumping up and down yet, it's good news. She is done with the radiation, has more energy. Let's keep praying that the transplant's anti-leukemic effect will take care of everything and we can be pronounced cancer-free and be done. It's a lot to ask, but when I think of the God of Israel that we know through and in Jesus Christ, it's not much, really.
Pray for the peace of Jerusalem.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Birthday After
Joe had a really good birthday. It was a special day for him-- Waffle House, swimming, family, cake, presents. At one point, someone asked him why was he getting so many presents? He said, “Because everybody loves me.” True; he is surrounded by love.
Melissa was very tired; she had a long morning at the clinic and as soon as she got home, we ate lunch and opened presents. But, she seems to be ok and her platelets were at 29. Slowly but surely. But it's easy to get caught up in this or that piece of data. It can send a mood up or down. And we have to keep in mind we're always looking at more than platelets or magnesium levels. Healing. We're waiting for healing.
Joe slept with Melissa for a while last night. The boys came and piled in her bed and when I told them it was time to go down, Joe balked. “Mommy needs a bear to sleep with.” I call the boys “bears,” and what do you do when he says something so cute. So I told Melissa I would come get him when he fell asleep. John was pretty jealous. I told him we would take turns.
Well, I get up a little bit later to go get Joe. John says, “If Joe is crying, bring him down here. If he isn't crying, let him stay there.” John did a good job of making it a special day for Joseph. Joseph woke up this morning, and remembered a good day: “Thank you for my power rangers and my raptor.”
Melissa was very tired; she had a long morning at the clinic and as soon as she got home, we ate lunch and opened presents. But, she seems to be ok and her platelets were at 29. Slowly but surely. But it's easy to get caught up in this or that piece of data. It can send a mood up or down. And we have to keep in mind we're always looking at more than platelets or magnesium levels. Healing. We're waiting for healing.
Joe slept with Melissa for a while last night. The boys came and piled in her bed and when I told them it was time to go down, Joe balked. “Mommy needs a bear to sleep with.” I call the boys “bears,” and what do you do when he says something so cute. So I told Melissa I would come get him when he fell asleep. John was pretty jealous. I told him we would take turns.
Well, I get up a little bit later to go get Joe. John says, “If Joe is crying, bring him down here. If he isn't crying, let him stay there.” John did a good job of making it a special day for Joseph. Joseph woke up this morning, and remembered a good day: “Thank you for my power rangers and my raptor.”
Friday, August 04, 2006
Making Room
The boys don't make room, and I love them for that. When they sit next to you, they sit next to you. Or on you. At some point we grow up and we learn to make room. Maybe it's a good thing, but I'm not so sure. It seems vaguely tied up with isolation and making sure I keep what's mine.
Joseph's birthday is Saturday, and he is really pumped. The boys have had two birthdays while Melissa has been undergoing treatment. Like anything else you try to plan, there are pitfalls. How will she feel? Will there be some thing like going to the hospital to get in the way of the plans? More than anything, I want the boys to be able to stop and just be what we all want little kids to be: care-free.
I have been spending some time reading about Joseph, particularly in the New Testament. My fascination with him grew of course, because of our own Joseph. But also with an early church writer who said God chose Joseph to care for Jesus because He knew the devil was too vain to look in a humble place for the son of God! Matthew 1-3 is where you find Joseph. Go back and read it and be amazed by the man you've forgotten-- the one who heard from God quite a bit, took personal risks, and raised quite a boy. Tellingly for our age, Ignatius, an early church Father (early 2nd century) says that Joseph protected Jesus even in the womb, by still marrying Mary when she could have been stoned for being pregnant out of wedlock.
Joseph means "The Lord has added to" because He surely did increase our joy.
Melissa had a seizure yesterday in the clinic. A very difficult thing because she has not had one in 8 years, and not only did I obviously hope we could avoid it, we avoided when it seemed likely she would have one-- run-up to the transplant, changing her very successful anti-seizure med, etc. It revealed how much we're all on edge. We get generally good news about her progress. But a seizure crops up and my first thought was the radiation has fried her brain or the cancer has spread further in her brain and now they'll tell us, "Well, good fight, sorry about your luck."
The inevitable questions: why does she still have seizures? why didn't God stop it? why doe she have cancer? when will it be gone? will it be gone? Psalms are more important than ever right now.
Two years ago around this time, I was in California, and while there was scheduled to read Psalm 121-- so much to tell about that Psalm in that place! Today, I am scheduled to read Psalms 111-115. So I have stayed about on schedule; if you read 5 Psalms a day, you will get thru the book in 1 month, 12 times a year. If you can keep up this discipline consistently, it will do more than anything I know for your prayer life. It will increase your ability, desire, vocabulary, and (most important for our days) endurance for prayer.
Joseph's birthday is Saturday, and he is really pumped. The boys have had two birthdays while Melissa has been undergoing treatment. Like anything else you try to plan, there are pitfalls. How will she feel? Will there be some thing like going to the hospital to get in the way of the plans? More than anything, I want the boys to be able to stop and just be what we all want little kids to be: care-free.
I have been spending some time reading about Joseph, particularly in the New Testament. My fascination with him grew of course, because of our own Joseph. But also with an early church writer who said God chose Joseph to care for Jesus because He knew the devil was too vain to look in a humble place for the son of God! Matthew 1-3 is where you find Joseph. Go back and read it and be amazed by the man you've forgotten-- the one who heard from God quite a bit, took personal risks, and raised quite a boy. Tellingly for our age, Ignatius, an early church Father (early 2nd century) says that Joseph protected Jesus even in the womb, by still marrying Mary when she could have been stoned for being pregnant out of wedlock.
Joseph means "The Lord has added to" because He surely did increase our joy.
Melissa had a seizure yesterday in the clinic. A very difficult thing because she has not had one in 8 years, and not only did I obviously hope we could avoid it, we avoided when it seemed likely she would have one-- run-up to the transplant, changing her very successful anti-seizure med, etc. It revealed how much we're all on edge. We get generally good news about her progress. But a seizure crops up and my first thought was the radiation has fried her brain or the cancer has spread further in her brain and now they'll tell us, "Well, good fight, sorry about your luck."
The inevitable questions: why does she still have seizures? why didn't God stop it? why doe she have cancer? when will it be gone? will it be gone? Psalms are more important than ever right now.
Two years ago around this time, I was in California, and while there was scheduled to read Psalm 121-- so much to tell about that Psalm in that place! Today, I am scheduled to read Psalms 111-115. So I have stayed about on schedule; if you read 5 Psalms a day, you will get thru the book in 1 month, 12 times a year. If you can keep up this discipline consistently, it will do more than anything I know for your prayer life. It will increase your ability, desire, vocabulary, and (most important for our days) endurance for prayer.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Waffle House
Waffle House
The boys and I go to Waffle House on Saturday mornings. Big fun. Except because I am a smart aleck, I call the place Awful Waffle. And Joe hollers out, “where’s my awful waffle?!” Some of those waitresses look like they could take me. Man, I’d hate to fight my way out of a Waffle House. Give me a bar fight anyday.
Stanley Hauerwas says he thinks Christians should have to learn to do masonry work. He says they need to learn the hard work, vocabulary, traditions, and skill of a craft like masonry to get an accurate picture of discipleship. I see what he means. I’d say that learning to be a Waffle House cook would be just as good. I was watching the guy in there this Saturday. He was handling all kinds of orders. And every so often he would say to the apprentice cook, “See how I stacked those orders?” or “Don’t put the rings down yet.” The kid had to learn a vocabulary, a set of skills, how to do it when it was fast and furious. I was and am impressed.
What would it be like if discipleship was like that? If we had mentors who helped us learn the skills, language, tradition, and discipline it takes to be a Christian? See, we think it’s magic fairy dust. We say we are Christians, go to church and that’s it. I was lucky to have people who showed me how to pray, how to go to Scripture, how to visit the sick and imprisoned. At some point, I have to be humble enough to hear a mentor say, “I am going to teach you to be just like me.” That goes against the grain. We all want to find our own way, be individuals. But Jesus did not say, “go figure it out. Whatever works for you. It’s all good.” It’s more like, “I am the way, the truth and the life;” “whoever would be my disciple must take up his cross and follow me.” Did I learn to do it His way? Or do I want the freedom (read: self-indulgence) to find my owe have my own way? We glorify finding “my own way.” But there is only one way, and it is narrow. I am going to need help to navigate correctly. But am I humble enough?
Melissa is at the clinic today. As I wrote before, we are hoping for platelets in the 30s. We’re in this place where we don’t really know what to say to each other. There was this unspoken thing, unspoken til last night: “tell me we’re going to beat this.” “I hope it doesn’t come back.” Maybe that’s why we don’t know what to say, because what we have to say is difficult. I’m writing myself through a script I have played so many times—so many things to say to people that we don’t say because it would make us uncomfortable. But it’s honest. The funny thing is, avoidance doesn’t feel good.
The boys and I go to Waffle House on Saturday mornings. Big fun. Except because I am a smart aleck, I call the place Awful Waffle. And Joe hollers out, “where’s my awful waffle?!” Some of those waitresses look like they could take me. Man, I’d hate to fight my way out of a Waffle House. Give me a bar fight anyday.
Stanley Hauerwas says he thinks Christians should have to learn to do masonry work. He says they need to learn the hard work, vocabulary, traditions, and skill of a craft like masonry to get an accurate picture of discipleship. I see what he means. I’d say that learning to be a Waffle House cook would be just as good. I was watching the guy in there this Saturday. He was handling all kinds of orders. And every so often he would say to the apprentice cook, “See how I stacked those orders?” or “Don’t put the rings down yet.” The kid had to learn a vocabulary, a set of skills, how to do it when it was fast and furious. I was and am impressed.
What would it be like if discipleship was like that? If we had mentors who helped us learn the skills, language, tradition, and discipline it takes to be a Christian? See, we think it’s magic fairy dust. We say we are Christians, go to church and that’s it. I was lucky to have people who showed me how to pray, how to go to Scripture, how to visit the sick and imprisoned. At some point, I have to be humble enough to hear a mentor say, “I am going to teach you to be just like me.” That goes against the grain. We all want to find our own way, be individuals. But Jesus did not say, “go figure it out. Whatever works for you. It’s all good.” It’s more like, “I am the way, the truth and the life;” “whoever would be my disciple must take up his cross and follow me.” Did I learn to do it His way? Or do I want the freedom (read: self-indulgence) to find my owe have my own way? We glorify finding “my own way.” But there is only one way, and it is narrow. I am going to need help to navigate correctly. But am I humble enough?
Melissa is at the clinic today. As I wrote before, we are hoping for platelets in the 30s. We’re in this place where we don’t really know what to say to each other. There was this unspoken thing, unspoken til last night: “tell me we’re going to beat this.” “I hope it doesn’t come back.” Maybe that’s why we don’t know what to say, because what we have to say is difficult. I’m writing myself through a script I have played so many times—so many things to say to people that we don’t say because it would make us uncomfortable. But it’s honest. The funny thing is, avoidance doesn’t feel good.
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