Wilshire Blog

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Thankful

The giant elm tree that leans across our back yard and over the fence is on fire today. While the rest of the trees and shrubs along the back property line are deep evergreen or crinkly brown, the elm is glowing bright yellow. In fact, this morning when I sat down at the table to play with some thoughts for this writing, I was so distracted by the glow from the tree – and the way it seemed to magnify and project the early sunlight into our rooms – that I changed what I was writing about.

A few days ago the elm was just another green tree. It didn't stand out, it wasn't remarkable. Its beauty was taken for granted along with its physical gifts: relief from the intense summer heat, nests for cooing doves, aerial highways for chattering squirrels, shady afternoons for our neighbor’s grandson as he shoots baskets beneath its canopy.

In another week the elm tree will be bare and I won’t give it any more thought until springtime when it leafs out again. Then, I will be thankful once more for the shade, but then I will forget those gifts and the cycle of disregard will begin anew.

And so my goal during this week of Thanksgiving is to take time to remember some of the people, places and things that enrich my life in ways that are too easily overlooked and taken for granted. I might start by making a list, as author Ann Voskamp challenges her readers to do in her book, “One Thousand Gifts.”

I’ve not read the book or started a list, but LeAnn has, and this morning I took a peek in her notebook and she is up to 868: rain. I wanted to look further but I resisted out of fear that the list is sort of like a diary and is private. LeAnn said it isn’t, so she played along as I called out a few random numbers and she told me what she listed:

5 – three days off
227 – beautiful anthems
264 – allergy medication
305 – friends who can help
434 – cornmeal pancakes

The listed items aren’t dated, and they aren’t exclusive, so the rain LeAnn listed most recently has probably been listed before. In that way, the list is a living, breathing account of moments of gratitude and thanksgiving.

I may start my own list, or I may not. But if I do, it will start with that beautiful elm tree that lit up our world this morning and in doing so raised my head, opened my eyes, and reminded me of so many things large and small for which to be thankful.

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Telling – and living – our story

“Is your book famous?” Leave it to a third grader to put me on the spot and cut to the heart of the matter. I read my children’s book at a school in Austin on Friday and that was one of the many good questions they asked. And my answer? “No, my book is not famous yet, but that’s not really why I wrote it.”

Oh how very humble, and not so completely honest, because I did use that word “yet.” Hidden in that word “yet” is hope and desire that something you’ve worked hard on will get attention, be noteworthy, generate some income and even exist beyond you. That last desire may be especially true of those of us without children. I once heard an author say that each of his books “is like my children.” I thought at the time, “How warped is that,” but as I’ve grown older I understand what he was saying even though I reject the comparison.

This desire for fame – to be known, appreciated, liked, rewarded, live on – is pervasive in our culture. That may be why the third-grader asked the question; the curiosity about fame begins so early. Sadly, so does the desire. But fame is about ourselves, and we were not created for fame, were we? We were created to serve God’s purpose and Kingdom with each of us contributing in our own way. Fame might be a by-product of what we do, but it isn’t the goal.

If you go to the Meyerson Symphony Center for a concert you can’t help but notice all the names of the major donors carved into the walls. I do appreciate their gift, but I’m struck by the fact that in God’s eyes their contribution to society is no greater than that of someone who had to scratch together enough money doing whatever they do to sit against the back wall on the highest tier of that same symphony hall. In God’s eyes, they are equals. But in ours?

When we study the words of Jesus as recorded in the Gospel of Luke – “Consider how the wild flowers grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.” – we usually say it describes God’s provision for each of us. But we also could read it as a lesson about our contribution to God’s world. Aside from their role in the production of honey and reduction of soil erosion, wild flowers don’t do anything other than bring beauty and pleasure to those who behold them. In God’s creation that is doing plenty; the beauty of the flower is as significant as the magnificent cathedral across the meadow.

Back to the third graders: Note that the student didn’t ask, “Are YOU famous?” That question would have been easier for me to answer because I truly do not want any part of that. Me and Boo Radley just want to make our contribution and be left alone. In fact, a better comparison would be Harper Lee, who created Boo and the Finch family in “To Kill a Mockingbird” and then lived quietly. Her book is definitely famous, but she chose not to be. And yet her contribution to the world in writing that one great story was to share a central truth about each of us: We were created to love, respect and protect each other; to speak for those who don’t have a voice or who are told to be quiet; and to make sure the difference between good and evil is taught to those who follow us through this life. And you can do that whether you are a courthouse lawyer, a hired hand, a wide-eyed child or a reclusive neighbor.

The end of my answer to the kids? “The main reason to write a story is because you have a story inside you and you write it down and you share it with your friends.” That’s an honest answer, but as I think about it now, most often it is not a story we sit down and write. It is our real life story that we share with each other every day.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Darkness to light

A journey from darkness to light can have many twists and turns, and sometimes we start out on foot and end up on wheels.

My journey this past Sunday started poorly when I was not allowed to donate blood because my hemoglobin was too low. I like to give blood because it’s a good gift that is easy to give. I always make sure I’m physically ready, and LeAnn helps by making sure I’ve had a good breakfast. But for whatever reason, I didn’t make the grade and I walked off to Sunday School in a dark blue mood.

The blues continued when I sat down to warm up with the Wilshire Winds and saw that the closing hymn for the service was “I Want to Walk as a Child of the Light.” That was one of my late wife’s favorite hymns and one I made sure we sang at her memorial service. That memory and rejection by the blood takers got me to thinking about how often she had to be poked and probed during her struggle with cancer.

I was still pondering that when it came time to sing the hymn, and then a glow of light came from the flute section. LeAnn, who knows what that hymn means to me, looked at me and mouthed, “Are you okay?” I nodded yes, and then joined with everyone in singing those beautiful, simple words:

“In him there is no darkness at all;
The night and the day are both alike.
The Lamb is the light of the city of God.
Shine in my heart, Lord Jesus.”
I swallowed hard a couple of times but I did not wallow in sadness. In fact, I felt like I crossed a threshold into some of that light.

That, in turn, somehow prepared me to hear in a new way the family dedication that followed. When George told the parents, “This little girl does not belong to you, she belongs to God, and she is a gift from God to you,” I realized that those words are true about anyone we love. I looked over at LeAnn and saw just such a gift.

By the end of the day, I was reminded too that some of God’s simple gifts come out of our silly disappointments. Had I been allowed to give blood, I might not have been in a reflective mood about all the bloodlettings of the past. I might have been too dull to be tweaked emotionally by that hymn, or to hear the family dedication with new ears. Most certainly, I’d have been in no physical shape to spend Sunday afternoon in such a wonderful way: on a long sunny bike ride with LeAnn.

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Casting votes and prayers

Whew, it’s finally over! I’m talking about Election Day 2014. After months of flyers in the mailbox, robocalls at all hours, and those gosh awful TV ads, it’s finally behind us and we can all get back to business. But does it have to be business as usual?

Let’s face it: Voting is the easy part of the process. The hard part is staying engaged, supporting, encouraging . . . praying. Contrary to the media’s non-stop, breathless coverage, most of us aren’t political animals; we don’t live and breathe the minutia of policy and policymaking. When we vote for someone, we wind them up like a toy, put them on the floor and walk away to do something else. When we come back later and find they’ve clattered off in a direction we didn’t expect or they’ve wound down and are doing nothing, our reaction is, “Hey, what gives? You’ve let us down.”

Perhaps the truth is we’ve let them down. We’ve not kept in touch, stayed informed, encouraged, gently chastised if warranted and prayed for their clarity of mind and discernment of what’s best as they work to do what we’ve asked them to do.

I don’t know what prayer actually accomplishes in any arena, including the political arena. On any given Saturday or Sunday I see fans and athletes alike praying for their team and praying for that win. Do we pray as much for our elected leaders who have bigger decisions to make than whether to pass or rush on third down? I don’t, but I should.

Will my prayers help the people I voted for today make good decisions? I don’t understand how those spiritual connections work. But I do know that when I pray for someone, it at least puts them in my head and I am more attentive, more caring, more compassionate. That, in turn, might stop me from casting a gripe worthlessly into the wind and instead prompt me to send a word of encouragement in a letter or email that might do some good.

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

One of a kind

Sitting all day at a high school holiday bazaar, watching thousands of people stream by while waiting for someone to stop and buy a book, my mind began playing tricks on me: I started seeing total strangers who, from a distance, looked a lot like people I know. After a while, it became sort of a game to pass the time.

The truth is that while there may be lookalikes among us, there are no duplicates. Even with identical twins, what’s going on behind those lookalike faces is totally unique and original. They may like many of the same things – and their parents may dress them alike starting out – but all of the twins I have known have grown up to have their own thoughts, ideas, dreams.

Still, it’s easy to get caught up in being like someone else. I experienced this in a subtle way recently when I was thanked for doing something and my response was, “I didn't do much.” Afterward, I regretted brushing off a genuine compliment. What’s more, I realized my response was prompted by a desire to do more – which isn’t too far from wanting to be like someone who actually did do more.

The response to my brush-off was, “We all do what we can,” which might be translated as, “We all do what we can based on who we are and our God-given talents.” Which brings to mind a popular quote that some attribute to Oscar Wilde: “Be yourself: Everyone else is already taken.” It’s a wonderful sentiment but a hard sell in a culture that breeds lookalikes – from smartphones and SUVs to pop singers and sitcoms.

But Psalm 139:14 provides an anthem of hope for the average Joe and the one of a kind: “I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.”

It’s a relief to know that we don’t have to live up to a standard set by anyone else. We only have to be the unique individual that God created.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Going viral

At first I cringed when I saw all the Facebook posts of photos and videos of our church and pastor in the media spotlight surrounding the presence of Ebola in Dallas. I feared that all the liking and sharing was a sign that we were enjoying the attention a little too much, and worse, becoming a little too pleased with ourselves for being “good Christians.”

I say that coming from my own personal history as an introvert, and having spent some of my career in media relations, which is not a good combination. I was fine as long as the job entailed helping my bosses get in front of the camera or in print, but I practically became ill if the microphone was in front of me. Now, by association, I’ve had the same queasy feeling about Wilshire. I’ve preferred the way we’ve gone about our business quietly and humbly over the years.

But now I see that perhaps the best way we can help curb the lingering fear, ignorance and misinformation about a viral disease is to go viral with a message of truth, grace and mercy. If the cameras are going to be in our church, recording our words and deeds, then we might as well use the technology of the day to share that message.

It’s really no different from what the Apostle Paul did in the early church. He used the means available – letters – to spread the news of what Christ’s life, death and resurrection revealed about God’s love for us and how we should treat each other. Those letters were read, copied and shared over and over again until they became part of the canon of our faith.

Paul’s most quoted message – “And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” – might just be one of the most viral messages of all time. It’s a message that needs to be liked, shared and demonstrated today more than ever. I think that’s what Wilshire has been doing during these days in the spotlight.

And with that statement perhaps I'm sounding a little too pleased with us. What I really want to say is that I’m grateful that God has shown us the way to clear heads and compassionate hearts – traits that we should always share with viral speed.

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Long shots and long views

Thursday we attended a luncheon in Sherman at the church where my grandparents were members. It had been years since I'd been in the church, including the Family Life Center that hosted the luncheon. I found that interesting because it is a building that I remember my grandfather grumbling about more than 30 years ago during the capital campaign to fund its construction.

Talking to the pastor of the church over lunch last week, I shared that bit of family history and he said the facility was recently renovated because it has been well used by the church and the community over the years. Most notably, the gym hosts an Upward Basketball league that on many Saturdays draws 1,500 adults and children from around the city. In other words, the Family Life Center is the focal point of a vibrant community ministry.

I’m not advocating for family life centers and sports leagues at Wilshire or any other church. But what seems to have been true three decades ago is true today: community ministry comes in many different forms, and sometimes it requires thinking outside of the box and looking well beyond the horizon.

In Wilshire’s case, hundreds attend the annual Wilshire Winds Patriotic Concert and BBQ dinner. Food trucks in our parking lot on Sunday afternoons have become a popular draw for the surrounding neighborhood. And the recent Makeshift Mission was well attended by church members and neighbors alike. On December 19 we’ll try something entirely new: One Starry Night, which will invite the community to experience a night in Bethlehem as it might have been at the time of Jesus’ birth.

As with the Family Life Center in Sherman, not everyone may see the potential of these events right away and thus the need for the time, energy and money put into them. On the other hand, lots of folks have volunteered to help with these events. They understand the idea of reaching the community – and sharing the message and love of Christ – through an event that is at the church but doesn’t look and feel like church.

I was too young to care about my grandfather’s objections to the Family Life Center at the time, but I’m sure it came out of his Depression-era frugality and his leaning toward more traditional ministries of the day such as revival meetings. For all I know, he trusted the leadership and new ideas of younger people in the church and supported the building campaign in the end. I know for a fact that he was a big basketball fan, and if he were here today he’d probably love the idea of young people from around the community shooting hoops at his church.

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Chaos and comfort

Last Thursday evening storms blew through North Texas, peeling back roofs and splitting trees. Our home and most of our neighborhood was spared serious damage, but LeAnn’s parents were without power. We navigated dark streets and piles of debris to bring them back to the light and comfort of our house for the night.

Friday morning was so different. The air was crisp and there was not a cloud in the sky. As I worked at my desk, I heard a mixture of sounds that caused me to run downstairs and out onto the porch. Somewhere down the street a whining chainsaw was turning broken trees into orderly piles. And from the north, the carillon at the Methodist church was playing its morning medley of hymns.

Chainsaws and chimes, chaos and comfort – fraternal twins that accompany many of our days. Usually they visit us separately, but sometimes they come at the same time. When they do, the results are intermingling joy and sorrow, peace and fear. It takes a steady faith to lean toward the hope of joy and peace. Sometimes it takes a family or a community pulling together.

Sunday morning at Wilshire Baptist Church we sang, prayed and shared communion as we normally do, but the presence of news media covering the story of Ebola in our community was a strong reminder that faith and hope share the pew with fear and anxiety. Cameras or no cameras, on any given Sunday any number of us may be suffering behind our reverent demeanor. Just something to keep in mind when the current crisis and attention ebbs.

As if Sunday morning was not full enough, that afternoon we stood at the bedside of a beloved cousin who suffered and fought disease far too long. The room became hushed when we thought he was taking his last breaths, but it wasn’t time yet and the holy silence and tears gave way to stories and laughter about a life lived well. He did finally depart in the wee hours, but not before his mother said, “You won: You got there first.”

For her, God’s promise of eternal peace is the ultimate comfort amid the chaos of this life. Let it be so for us as well.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

To flub is human

On Sunday we will observe the Lord’s Supper – or celebrate communion – as we do at Wilshire regularly on the first Sunday of every month. The Baptist church I grew up in did this once a quarter, and that is still the case in many Baptist churches. Because we do this more often at Wilshire, there are more opportunities for what I affectionately call communion flubs.

Communion flubs come in many varieties: deacons forget to stand, celebrant forgets to prompt the deacons to stand, deacons forget their assigned aisle, congregants forget to pass the tray down the pew, congregant forgets to wait to partake of the bread or juice or, celebrant forgets to serve the deacons, celebrant blesses the cup while holding the bread, to list just a few. And then there are the bread and juice spills – on carpet, on clothing, on each other.

As hard as we try to be perfectly reverent and respectful in our observance of communion, we’re only human and we make mistakes. But isn’t that the point of communion – that we’re only human, we make mistakes, and we need Christ living within us?

I’ve written in the past how I meet my friend Paul downtown occasionally for lunch and weekday mass at the cathedral. A couple of weeks ago as the priest, Paul and two other lay Eucharistic ministers prepared to serve the bread and the wine, there was a hushed meeting behind the altar and then two of the servers returned to their pews, leaving the priest and Paul to serve just the bread.

Afterward, I asked Paul what happened and he explained that the priest had forgotten to place the wine on the altar to be blessed and consecrated as the blood of Christ. Paul said that without the consecration, “the wine was just wine.” The wonderful irony is that in his homily just before communion, the priest said that none of the ceremonies observed in church – the prayers, the lighting of candles, the sprinkling of holy water, even the partaking of communion – have any actual saving power. “The only thing that will save you is to live with Christ in your heart,” he said.

Communion is a beautiful way of remembering Christ’s suffering, death and resurrection. With the partaking of the bread and wine, we reflect on the real presence of Christ within us. And when we flub the ceremony, we are reminded again that we are only human and we need that indwelling of Christ and the Holy Spirit so much.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Banned? Not hardly

In case you didn’t know, this is Banned Book Week. The organizers and sponsors have a web site, www.bannedbooksweek.org, that states: “From New York to Alaska, libraries, schools, bookstores and book-loving individuals across the country are fighting back against censorship and saying yes to their right to read.”

They go on to claim: “Hundreds of books have been either removed or challenged in schools and libraries in the United States every year. According to the American Library Association (ALA), there were at least 464 in 2012.”

It sounds like a noble cause and I was ready to hop on board until I gave it more thought and realized: There are no banned books in the United States of America today. It is physically and technically impossible. Certainly, a library, school, retailer or church can refuse to shelve, offer, sell, endorse or study a book. But that doesn’t mean it’s actually banned. With the click of a mouse and a credit card number we can have the most objectionable, offensive, outrageous or ignorantly stupid book delivered to our doorsteps in one day – immediately if we want to download it to our digital reader.

To say books are being banned in the United States makes light of real book bans, which throughout world history have been very real and dangerous. During the Cold War – and before the Internet and all the freedom it brings – books, music and films from the West were strictly banned in many communist states. To possess them brought the risk of imprisonment, physical harm or worse.

And today in some parts of the world there are still very real bans on both secular and religious books and the expression of the ideas and beliefs they represent. Our church has known and supported missionaries who work in these regions. They and the people they serve face the real threat of bans and the real dangers of religious persecution.

“Religious persecution” is another flag that some in this country like to wave, and again, it just doesn’t happen here. Not “persecution” as it is truly defined. Some groups may find their beliefs are heckled, mocked, derided, pushed into a corner, eliminated from the public square and the classroom, but that is not persecution. They can still safely believe, practice and partake of everything they want in their home, in their place of worship, on their own personal property and in their heart. Just because someone else doesn’t like it and says “not here,” that doesn’t make it persecution.

If there is anything that should be banned, it should be the improper, exaggerated use of words like “ban” and “persecution.” But a ban on those words stumbles into First Amendment rights to free speech, so the words are open to misuse. Instead, perhaps we can encourage people to read books that explain what words like “ban” and “persecution” really mean. And while they’re at it, “love,” “respect” and “tolerance.” Might I recommend the Bible – or if that is objectionable, then how about cracking open a dictionary.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Sticky situations

It’s interesting how things we do – and even things we don’t do – have a way of sticking around.

Amazon has a listing for a book titled: “The Pet Lover’s Guide to Touring America.” I’m listed as the author, and the book has an ISBN number, a publisher and a release date of October 1, 1993. There is no further information, and that is because the book does not exist.

Yes, it was an idea I had back when I had a dog and my in-laws had a dog and they traveled with theirs and were always seeking a dog-friendly hotel. So I did some preliminary research, pitched it to a small publisher and we were ready to go. Until they cancelled the project and went out of business – but apparently not before registering the book. And now it is there as if it happened.

I find it amusing until I begin to think about what I have actually done in my life and how everything – both the good and the bad – is “sticky” as they say and never goes away. It used to be that our words and deeds were kept in the minds and hearts of those we uplifted or offended. Now they are kept on hard drives and in clouds and Twitter feeds and selfies that bounce around the Internet and amuse our friends but also have the power to destroy reputations, families, careers, lives.

We’re told as children in church that God sees everything and knows everything about us. That is frightening at first and is a powerful deterrent until we reach the age where our ego puts us at the center of our own universe and we forget that God is watching – or anyone else for that matter – and we do things we shouldn’t. In earlier times we could escape punishment or embarrassment if “word of mouth” didn’t carry our deeds too far. But now in the age of social media and instant information we are getting a taste of what it is like to be exposed 24/7 for who and what we really are.

Maybe this newfound vulnerability will be the impetus for a much-needed bounce-back from self-indulgent social media and instant celebrity. Even if people forget that God is watching, perhaps they will realize that everyone else is watching and maybe the culture will become more careful and considerate. Perhaps in time we’ll set aside our devices and re-engage in a life that we can touch and feel rather than just the one that we stream and watch.

And maybe we’ll stop and remember that God really is still watching – not so much whether we are good or bad, but what is in our hearts and whether we love each other as God loves us.

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Ambassadors

Sometimes we set out to do something in the name of the Kingdom – and in Wilshire’s name too – and we are reminded that God is way out in front of us.

That was the case recently when I stopped by the church office after worship to see if there were any guests to visit. In case you don’t know, Wilshire deacons make what are called “Ambassador” visits to guests who have indicated some interest in learning more about Wilshire. It’s a low-key effort: We knock on the door, hand them a gift bag with some brochures and a coffee mug, invite them to come back, and we leave. No awkward pressure or pushing.

On this particular Sunday, a guest indicated that he was Baptist and his wife and children were Catholic. That caught my eye because I came to Wilshire in 1990 as a Baptist with a Catholic wife. Wilshire’s worship style and tendency to follow the liturgical calendar and lectionary of the church at large fit well with our dual allegiances. And Wilshire’s people accepted us as we were; nobody tried to turn a Catholic into a Baptist.

Ready to share that story, I knocked on the door of these Wilshire guests and that’s when I discovered that God was already at work. I had expected to speak to the Baptist husband and tell him that Wilshire would be a good fit for him and his Catholic family. Instead, I was met at the door by his Catholic wife and daughter. What’s more, she was the one who had brought the family to Wilshire, and she did that because she had been a caregiver for a Wilshire member and had learned about Wilshire from that member’s family. And when she attended that member’s funeral, she was touched by what she experienced and brought her family to Wilshire the next day. There was nothing for me to add except to encourage them to come again.

Which brings me back to those Ambassador visits, which got their name from 2 Corinthians 5:20: “We are therefore Christ’s ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us.” Ambassadors aren’t the big thing; ambassadors are just spokesmen for the big thing. And ambassadors aren’t only deacons on an official visit on a Sunday afternoon. Ambassadors are every one of us, sharing our faith in small subtle ways as we go about our lives – and even as we prepare for the life to come.

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

A Pentecost moment

As much as I love our pastor, our residents, and all of those who preach, pray and lead us in worship on Sunday mornings, the priests at the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris get extra credit for doing all of that while hundreds of tourists mill around looking, talking and taking pictures.

We were there on a Saturday morning just as the noon mass was starting, and the priest’s melodic French voice was ever-present through the opening prayers and liturgy of the word as we walked down the left wall aisle to explore the architecture and history. We stopped for a moment on his right to listen as he spoke in perfect English about the Gospel account of the death of John the Baptist, and then we continued our tour of the tombs and chapels behind the altar.

By the time we came around to the priest’s left side, he had come to the Lord’s Prayer – the “Our Father” as Catholics call it – and again he spoke in English and said: “This is the prayer that Christ gave to all of us, so please say it with me now in the language of your heart.” As he prayed in French, we prayed in English while others around us prayed in German, Spanish and languages from Asia, Africa and beyond.

In that moment everyone was speaking in their own tongue, but everyone knew what everyone was saying. It was a Pentecost moment.

Perhaps the takeaway from that visit isn’t the priest’s amazing concentration but rather his drawing us in to the knowledge that God is there for all of us and is with us no matter who we are, where we go or what we do – whether kneeling in the pews, milling down the aisles, or rushing down the streets outside.

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

How does your garden grow?

When LeAnn and I returned from vacation a few weeks ago, the first thing we did on our first morning home was go outside and see what was happening in the garden. We’d been away for just six days, but we got home after dark and couldn’t see what damage had been done by the Texas heat. We were surprised to find everything in good shape thanks to some unseasonable rain. In fact, the grass needed mowing, the zinnias and sweet potato vines were going crazy, there were handfuls of tomatoes and cucumbers to pick, and our lone cantaloupe was ready to be plucked and sliced for breakfast.

Our garden is a world away in size and scope from the two gardens we visited just two days earlier in France. At the Giverny home of impressionist painter Claude Monet, we found narrow paths shoulder high with flowering shrubs of every type. The story is told how Monet saw the house from the window of a train and rented it immediately. He cultivated and shaped the gardens until it became the ever-changing landscape for his paintings, including the famed lily pond with its gracefully arched bridge. I’m not familiar with Monet’s spiritual or religious leanings, but one gets the feeling he lived there as a guest of God’s creation around him.

Much different are the gardens of Versailles. Built by King Louis XIV in the 17th century, the palace is imposing and excessive, and the gardens are no less so. In stark contrast to Monet’s intimate walkways, Versailles has broad gravel boulevards lined with tall, severely shaped hedges guarding meticulously managed beds and fountains. The feeling is strictly “look but do not touch,” as probably dictated by the self-declared “Sun King” of France.

I’ve had other gardens in my life – some well-planned, some haphazard, some nothing more than a few flower pots on an apartment balcony. You do what you can with the resources you have, but the goal is always the same: to look out a window or step outside from the glass and plastic indoors and experience the colors and textures of God’s creation – some greens, for sure, and if you keep the watering can nearby and are not too busy to use it, perhaps some reds, yellows, whites and blues too.

Our garden is not as lush and varied as Monet’s, and not as kept and groomed as Louis’. It’s just a collection of beds we’ve experimented with over the past couple of years to find the right combination of flowering plants and producing vegetables. It’s a modest effort but it suits us. And as Robert Benson describes in his book “Digging In,” we’re pursuing a “lawn elimination program” that will result in less grass to mow and more colorful beds and paths in which to live, play, think and pray.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Fight, flight, and height

Ever just want to throw up your hands and say, “I quit. I don’t need this. Find someone else to take this abuse.”

That’s the way I felt recently when someone I don’t really know questioned my professionalism – my methods, my judgment, my skills. The real potboiler for me was when they implied that their years and experience in the same profession trumped mine and I basically didn’t know what I was doing. It was enough to cause me to stand up at my desk and curse out loud. But then a peace came over me and I settled down and got back to work.

I’d like to say I disarmed myself by tapping into the lessons I’ve been taught through a lifetime in Sunday School and church, such as “vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,” “turn the other cheek,” and any number of scriptures and parables about the Christian way to behave when one’s character is questioned. But none of that settled me.

What calmed me down was a voice inside of me that reminded me that I was doing what I believed I was called to do, I was doing it with talent given by a generous God, and I was doing it with a diligent spirit instilled in me by parents and teachers. The latter was perhaps the biggest mood changer, because I’d never been accused until now of sloppy, careless and insensitive work. If anything, I’ve been overly conscientious and careful, almost painfully and ploddingly so. It took the calming voice of the Holy Spirit to remind me that I am not perfect, but I’m pretty good at what God has called me to do.

The Holy Spirit always has the final word in these situations but we can’t hear it unless we set aside our human impulse for payback and instead sit still and listen. Physiologists talk of the automatic “fight or flight” reaction we have in potentially dangerous situations. Too often we lean on those instincts in interpersonal matters, and that is a huge mistake. Fight can lead to escalation of anger and hostility, while flight can cause loss of pride and dignity.

I believe when we listen to the Holy Spirit there is another option: height. As in rising above the situation and looking at it from God’s broad perspective. From that position you begin to see that you are good and worthy of God’s love, the other person is too, and perhaps they are responding based on unseen issues that have nothing to do with you. With that perspective, you can move on, get back to work, and have a humble and gentle heart should you ever meet face to face.

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Intentional tourists

Driving in downtown Dallas this morning, I saw a family standing on a street corner, waiting for the light to change. They were dressed in shorts and loose summer shirts with hats on heads, sunglasses on faces, and maps and brochures clutched in hands. They were tourists . . . in Dallas . . . in August.

I’m always baffled when I see that. I wonder what there is to see and do in Dallas that is so exciting for tourists. It’s not that I don’t like Dallas; I’ve lived in the area all but six years of my life. And that’s the problem: I’m too close to daily life here to understand what outsiders are interested in.

Ten days ago the roles were reversed. We were standing on a street corner in Paris, maps in hand, anxious for the light to change so we could see what was down the next street. At the next corner, we might be frozen in our tracks by the sight of a cathedral or palace while the locals would rush around us to their next appointment, seemingly oblivious to the wonders of their world.

Inspired by that spirit of discovery, LeAnn and I have challenged ourselves to engage in some hometown tourism. The idea is to choose a Saturday – a cooler day in the fall, of course – and take a tour of something we’ve never seen or something that we’ve known about but have been too busy or complacent to explore. We figure that we might experience something new, but we also believe we might gain a little more appreciation for this place we call home.

I get the same urge sometimes at Wilshire – to leave and come back to it from another direction or a different angle and try to discover something new. That’s difficult because you can never truly recreate that first “aha!” moment with a place. The best you can do is to find new ways to experience it or live within it. That is one of the reasons our Vision 20/20 emphasis is so vital. In addition to defining new areas of ministry and mission for our church, it is creating new avenues of involvement and growth for people of all ages and tenures.

If you’re a long-time member and you feel stuck in a rut or have become a little complacent, there are plenty of ways to get unstuck. It might start with challenging yourself to do something you’ve never done before: say yes to a committee assignment, join an innovation team, sign up for a mission trip, volunteer for a community project. Or it might be as simple as exploring a different Bible study group, attending a different worship service or even just sitting in a different pew.

Another great way to get new energy and a fresh perspective is to get to know some of our new members and guests. They come to us with new eyes, new expectations, and new awareness of who we are. They remind us of what brought us to the doors of the church ourselves whether that was two years or two decades ago.

Tuesday, August 4, 2014

Resting on the edge

Sunday night, sitting on the steps of Sacre-Coeur Basilica on the Montmartre butte above Paris, we found ourselves resting in one of those thin places where heaven and earth meet.

In the massive white-domed church above and behind us, parishioners and tourists alike recited the prayers and rites of the church in a late-night mass. A nun in full habit sang in a glorious voice the responsorial psalm and alleluias of the liturgy, and then the congregants stood as the priest read from the Gospel in the melodic language of the French.

Below us, the plaza and steps leading down through a hillside park was a carnival of humanity with families on vacation, couples in love, friends and schoolmates hanging out, and street vendors selling miniatures of the Eiffel Tower and illuminated whirlybirds that they launched high into the sky to float back to the ground. All was accompanied by laughter and conversations in every language imaginable, clinking bottles, and a trio of young men singing folk songs.

Resting in that place, with the city of Paris spread like a sparkling blanket to the far horizon, we thanked God for both worlds – the divine and the human. For if we are truly created in God’s image, then it is right to find time and place for fellowship and celebrating life. As LeAnn says, God likes to see his children play. Likewise, if we are truly spiritual beings created for God’s glory, then there is time and place for our echoing prayers and alleluias.

And if those two worlds – divine and human – become one, even for just a moment, it is a blessing to be cherished always.

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Adventures

As you read this we are off on an adventure – a family trip to Paris with a day trip to Normandy to see the beaches and battlefields of D-Day. I use the word “adventure” because that is a word LeAnn has taught me to embrace. She uses it to describe events that are going to be exciting and fun, but also those that are challenging and even daunting. In her thinking, when you tag an event with the word “adventure,” there is the expectation that it will at least be a time of learning and growth.

Of the six of us traveling today, I am the only one who has been to Paris, but that doesn’t inspire much confidence in me as a tour guide because my last visit was in 1988. That adventure involved delivering Debra to the city of Lyon for a six-week cultural exchange program for American journalists. Her parents went with us and we spent a couple of days seeing most of the postcard landmarks of Paris. I’m betting I can still locate the Eiffel Tower.

Of the four of us on that trip, only Debra’s mother and I remain. Life has thrown adventures at us that are not unusual but were not wanted: cancer in my home, heart disease in hers. In my case I thought my adventures were over. I didn’t imagine I’d ever return to Paris, and I certainly had no expectation of love again. But God never stops surprising us with new experiences, new life, new loves, new adventures.

I suspect that on the morning of July 31, as we walk through the American Cemetery at Normandy, the sight of those thousands of white crosses not only will spark thoughts of the sacrifice they represent but memories of the July 31 six years ago when Debra left on that adventure that awaits us all. But then I’ll look up and I’ll remember where I am, who I am with, and whose I am, and I’ll give thanks that the God of love keeps the adventures coming.

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Lost and found

A post on Facebook last week by Wilshire friend Mindy Logsdon – of a neon motel sign in Tucumcari, NM – brought a wave of memories of the summer of 1979 when I worked on the 50,000-acre Chappell-Spade Ranch about 15 miles north of that desert town. My older brother was working there full-time, and on a whim I wrote a letter to his boss and asked for a short-term job before going back to college. “Come on out,” he wrote back, and the result was a month of hard work and adventures, including the day I got lost.

It was round-up time and a dozen men and boys spread out on horseback over the tops of some rugged mesas to find stray cattle and lead them down to a pasture for branding and doctoring. I was riding with my brother and another kid when we saw a steer move in the brush and I was sent after it. The steer got away from me, and in my pursuit I got separated from the others. Turning back, it was as if everyone had just vanished. I was lost – as in all by myself on top of an unknown, heavily wooded mesa with no idea of how to get down or where to find the others.

After a harrowing time of looking for a way off the sheer cliffs – or even just a mesa-top view of where the other riders had gathered the herd – I leaned on my training from Scouts and decided to find a clearing and wait for help to find me. And it did. Some hours later, a four-wheel-drive truck came groaning up an eroded wash. It was the ranch cook and another woman who had brought lunch to the cowboys and had done the same for me. I was embarrassed but I was hungry too, so I ate what they graciously provided and then followed them back down the wash and off the mesa to where the others were working.

As I trotted up, I pulled my hat down so as not to make eye contact with anyone. I rode up to my brother, leaned across his saddle and whispered, “I’m so embarrassed, I better go home.” And he said, “Don’t be stupid; it’s happened to all of us,” and then I was given a job to do. The rest of the day went on as if nothing had happened. I got lost, I got found, and I got back to work. That was it.

I’ve been lost many times since then: physically, emotionally, intellectually, spiritually. As happened on that mesa, I’ve felt panic, embarrassment, fear and shame. I’ve tried to find my own way and just gotten more lost or gotten dangerously close to the cliffs. In most cases I’ve done best when I’ve stopped running, gotten still, and let myself be found.

I believe God works with us in that way, either directly or through those who he sends our way. Often, the ones who point us in the right direction have been lost themselves and have found the way back through God’s directing. And now they come to us with nourishment, compassion and directions back to where we belong. Best of all, they don’t make fun or pass judgment but offer a smile that says, “good to have you back.”

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Patience? Not really

Looking down at the front yard from our upstairs window, I almost gasped as I realized – yes, we have a lawn.

Our yard was planted just before the brutal summer of 2012 and then struggled through the equally harsh summer of 2013 and a couple of colder-than-normal winters. Throw in Stage 3 water restrictions that only allow watering once every two weeks, and it’s no wonder that just a month ago, I looked out across an expanse of dead St. Augustine and very prolific weeds.

But in the past six weeks something interesting happened. With some good early summer rains, some focused hand watering, and an unusually mild June, the St. Augustine that was still alive took off and spread. Meanwhile, chunks of Bermuda sod that were dropped along our new sidewalks for erosion control two years ago have raced across the dead spots. In fact, out at the corner where the sidewalks create an island of grass, the dead island of St. Augustine is now a lush Bermuda Triangle. As for the weeds, the July heat is finally killing the spring clover, and more stout varieties have been overtaken by the real grass. The remaining weeds that look like grass are doing just that – looking like grass.

The biggest factor in this dramatic turnaround has been patience. In late May, I was moaning loudly about how ugly and embarrassing our lawn had become. I had contemplated over-seeding with new grass or even digging out the dead sod and starting over. Several people said, “Give it time, it will be okay,” and they were right.

Now, as I read back over this saga, I am embarrassed. I started out intending to share something important about patience, but I’ve fallen victim to a spiritual bait and switch; perhaps you have too. While I was worrying about green grass and lawns, others have been dealing with heavier matters: children crossing continents alone, missiles falling into neighborhoods, crime and violence in our communities, poverty and hunger just down the street.

I only think I have worries; I only think I have patience. “Give it time, it will be okay” is not a good answer.

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

Aliens among us

Last night on the “Late Show,” host David Letterman was talking to actress Halle Berry about “Extant,” a new TV drama that premieres this week. The basic premise of the show is that she is an astronaut who has come home from a solo mission to find herself impregnated, perhaps by an alien being.

The conversation wandered into familiar territory: Is there intelligent life out there somewhere? Berry said her “ego” doesn’t allow her to believe that we are the only intelligent life form in the universe. Letterman said maybe so, but after years of searching and listening, science has found nothing.

The conversation ended there, but these discussions often lead to wonderings about what the discovery of intelligent life elsewhere would mean to our concept of our place in God’s creation. Until modern science took our attention out past the edges of what we call space, our Biblical knowledge – and our human “ego,” as Berry calls it – told us that Earth is the center of the universe, and we are God’s highest creation on Earth.

But science and more specifically science-fiction has challenged that with a steady flow of aliens visiting Earth – usually either to destroy us or to teach us a better way to live. I find these tales intriguing, but they don’t change my notion of who God is and who we are to God. Even if God created other planets inhabited with other beings who have their own histories and cultures and problems to work out, that doesn’t change the fact that God created us and that God has a specific history and relationship with us here on Earth.

Those science fiction stories also don’t address – or perhaps they do in an ironic way – the fact that we humans are perfectly capable of destroying ourselves on the one hand or saving ourselves on the other. We don’t need aliens to annihilate us or resurrect us. We just need to live as God taught us through the person of Jesus Christ. While sci-fi stories often have the aliens bringing superior technology that will improve our food, shelter, health, comfort, etc., Christ stripped life down to fleshy, personal relationships. He taught that if we get our motives and priorities in order and just treat each other as equals, we will have everything we need for a productive, meaningful life.

That’s a concept that is far too alien in our culture today.

Tuesday, July 1, 2014

To whom much has been entrusted . . .

So this is the scenario: You’re out for a Saturday evening walk and are approached by a man and woman who tell you they are homeless. He says he can make it on the street, but he says the woman, who he just met, is not so able. She is from out of state and has no ID because her purse was stolen. Without an ID, she can’t stay at one of the big downtown Dallas shelters. She looks exhausted, can barely speak and uses her hands to hold on clothing that is too big and probably not hers.

As you’re hearing their story, you’re standing on a street corner within two blocks of all the big-name denominational churches in town. All are closed, except the one that meets on Saturday night. You walk the couple over there and find that the last members remaining are turning off the lights and leaving. You ask if the pastor is there; he is, and you tell him the situation. He says that the church has nothing to offer at that time of night, and then he tells you privately that he has dealt with the man before and hints that he is uncertain of his honesty.

The pastor suggests that you check with the fire department, so you leave the couple sitting on the curb at the church and walk a couple of blocks to a fire station, where a fire crew is just returning from a call. You tell them the story and they say they have nothing to offer but suggest calling the 2-1-1 community services hotline.

You call 2-1-1 and you learn that no services are open or available at that hour. You also get confirmation that the big downtown shelters will not take people who have no ID. You go back to the couple and tell them that you've come up empty. You offer them all the cash that you have in your pockets—$12—and the man declines it but begins a rant about how so-called “caring churches” and “people of God” don't really care and aren't modeling God’s love at all. He says that in 31 days when he gets his six-figure military pension, he’s going to open a ministry and mission that truly cares.

You become irritated and practically shout at him, “That’s fine, but right now this is all we have for you; all we can give you is paper.” You shove the money into his hand. “Please take it. It won’t get you a room, but at least it will get you something to eat. Please.”

You are frustrated and irritated because there is nothing you can do. You also are torn because you in fact have two beds within walking distance, but . . . it just doesn’t feel safe. The man is a big talker, and the pastor you met raised your skepticism. And the woman? Well, as she walked with you she whispered through her fatigue that she had been in and out of jail but didn’t say why. On top of that, you have bad memories of that time 25 years ago when you tried to help someone on the street, got too close, and found yourself on a 12-month tumble into manipulation and lies. You won’t let that happen again.

Finally, this man agrees that there is nothing more to be done and takes the money you have offered. He asks you to pray with them, and while he asks for God’s mercy for better days and forgiveness for unnamed sins, you want to interrupt him and tell him, “This isn’t because of your sins; it’s because we have failed as a community.” But you keep that to yourself and let him confess his faith, which feels truer than your own in that moment.

You shake hands. He thanks you for your time, and she thanks you for trying to help. You walk away and don’t look back. You’re relieved that it is over but shaken that there was no real solution.

This happened to LeAnn and me Saturday night on the streets of downtown Garland. We were irritated by the interruption of our evening walk, frustrated by the total lack of services in the heart of a city of 233,000 people, and embarrassed by a seeming lack of faith and courage on our own part. We were convicted, sickened, frightened, saddened and shamed all at once.

There is no moral to this story, no quick solutions, no bold recommendations. Just a weary acknowledgement that we have a huge dilemma in our communities. It is private and public, spiritual and physical, financial and logistical. It can't be resolved easily, but it demands better solutions than $12 and a street corner prayer on a hot Saturday night.

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Still the man

“You da man!” That’s what we’d shout at Isaiah Austin and his Baylor basketball teammates the past two years as they climbed the steps through our section at Baylor football games. It was our fun, goofy way of helping pump them up for the season to come. Our shouts and huzzahs were acknowledged with sheepish grins and confident head nods.

Today, Isaiah Austin is climbing steps of a very different type and learning and showing just what type of man he is in the wake of the devastating news that he will no longer play basketball competitively. Routine physicals in preparation for the NBA draft revealed an irregular heartbeat, and further tests showed him to have Marfan syndrome, a genetic disorder that affects the connective tissues with potentially deadly impact on the heart.

In an interview on ESPN just hours after learning of his condition, Austin hung his head and fought back tears as he explained how his dreams of playing in the NBA had come to a halt. He didn’t say it, but we all know that dreams of playing professionally can include the unspoken dreams of being a star, a somebody, a man of wealth and access, a celebrity.

The beautiful irony is that the pre-draft physicals that killed Austin’s dreams may very well have saved his life. If he had stayed at Baylor and played one or two more seasons like many of us wished, his condition might have gone undetected. He might have died on the court or in practice, because that is a risk of his condition; there are documented examples.

It may be of little comfort initially but Austin is in good company with those whose dreams have been shattered and their direction in life changed. It happens every day – on the big stages of athletics and in the small arenas of everyday life. Anyone who has lost a job, a child, a spouse, a home, a (fill in the blank with something that helps define who you are), knows the sour taste of disappointment. In many cases it seems as if life will never be right because it will never be as we dreamed. It even can feel as if life will never be as God intended, especially if we’ve already overcome major obstacles. In Austin’s case, he had already learned to play with just one eye and was good enough to go pro. And now this?

Yes, this, because life never stops challenging us, and God never stops revealing opportunities to remake and redirect ourselves. Austin has already been invited to stay at Baylor, get his degree, and even join the coaching staff. Living on the other side of the out-of-bounds line may be too close for comfort, but the opportunity is there. Or he could do like former Baylor quarterback Nick Florence, who in one season led the NCAA in passing yards and out-passed and ran for as many touchdowns as his predecessor, Heisman Trophy winner Robert Griffin III, and then walked away from football to do something completely different. “Life is more than football,” Florence said. “Football is something I do, not who I am.”

While Florence made that decision on his own terms, Austin has been forced into that assessment way ahead of schedule – before age and grueling NBA seasons deplete his energy and slow his game. Now, his life will have to be defined by something other than points, rebounds and the culture of athletic celebrity. His manhood will have to come from some other source.

That is something Austin already seems to understand. During an interview in May at the NBA combine, he said: “I’m a strong Christian man, deep in my faith. We prayed before the combine today. We know that without God we’re nothing. We’re not even in this position without him. We’re thankful. We’re trying to help spread his word through this game of basketball.” And this week, through social media, he said: “I would love to thank EVERYONE who has reached out to me. Toughest days of my life. But not the last! Life goes on. GOD IS STILL GREAT!”

Yes God is still great, and Isaiah Austin is still “da man.”

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

In-between times

I was asked recently if there is a specific time of day when I like to write, and the short answer is no. I write when the deadlines arise and when the inspirations arrive. I do try to sit down every morning and afternoon and work at it, but life has a way of getting in the way. When that happens, I use transition and alternation to keep me going.

Sometimes the best ideas come during transition, which is when I’m not working on writing at all. I’m pretty helpful around the house because nothing busts up writer’s block better than doing a load of laundry, mopping a floor, mowing the lawn or whacking some weeds. This morning I was cleaning up the back porch in preparation for a weekend gathering, and sweeping the floor did more than just clean out the dust and cobwebs; it focused my thoughts on ideas that I’m eager to sit down and work on.

A close cousin to transition is alternation. Even now as I write this, I have another document on the screen – something I need to work on but of a completely different nature. Psychologist friends might call this “attention deficit disorder” or some similar syndrome, but for me, it’s just the way I work. While I’m focused on something rigid and concrete, ideas are growing for something more loose and creative. And when poking around at something fun, the more serious thoughts line up in the proper order.

I get a similar feeling this time of year as the church moves into ordinary time, that broad expanse on the liturgical calendar between Pentecost and Advent. It’s a great time for spiritual housekeeping, daydreaming, and focusing on matters less weighty than virgin birth, God incarnate, crucifixion, resurrection and salvation. But that doesn’t mean it’s a time to go on vacation from our faith and our spiritual life. Rather, it’s a time to feed it, explore it, nurture it, walk it out the door and into the real world where beautiful, amazing things can happen.

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

The small and large of it

“Really big checks, huh?” The bank teller smiled and then laughed a little.

“Yep, and I rushed to get them safely to the bank.” I was happy to play along with her amusement at my two book royalty checks. I get them periodically, and the largest of these two checks was a whopping $1.18 – not enough for a small cup of coffee at Starbucks.

No, I didn’t really rush them to the bank. The checks came in early May, and I almost lost them until going through a pile of papers this past weekend – the same pile where I had stashed the letter from Wilshire about the new Unified Budget and that contained the blue sheet that listed our giving to the church for each of the past seven years. The idea is that Wilshire covered its needs and its ambitions for ministry and mission during the past seven years, and we can do the same over the next seven years if we all just keep on keeping on, as the saying goes.

LeAnn and I were married in the middle of this past seven-year period and our giving records were combined on the blue sheet, so my curiosity prompted me to go to my files and look at my record of personal giving beginning in 2007. What I found there between the dollar signs and the decimal points was not just a record of giving but a recounting of life’s ups and downs. Within those seven years I experienced good health and illness, funeral and wedding, significant debt and financial freedom.

Lurking behind the numbers is an accounting of my response to these events. There were times when I held back my giving as I faced uncertain events, and times when I gave with reckless abandon. Sometimes I gave with joy, sometimes with grudging hesitation. There were days when I felt like I was giving my last dime, and days when I felt like a king tossing gold upon the altar. But I gave, and I mostly have my parents to thank for that; they helped make it a habitual desire, if not a habitual practice.

I wasn’t in the meetings that led to the letter and the blue sheet, but I know the point was not to create pressure or embarrassment. I say that because I’ve been at Wilshire long enough to know we are not that type of church. Rather, I believe the goal was to stir the imagination of what we can do for the Kingdom – individually and as a community – by recalling what we’ve already done and what God has done through us.

By giving together as a community, we help fill the gaps for each other as we go through the ebb and flow of life. Just as we can look back and marvel at what the past seven years have brought, none of us knows what the next seven years will bring.

My royalty checks may get bigger, or they may remain small. I could let that embarrass me and get me down, but LeAnn reminds me that even the little checks are a sign that I’m doing what I said I wanted to do, and I’m doing that because I felt it was a calling. She also reminds me that sometimes it is not what our work earns but what our work creates and stirs in others that counts the most.

When I look back at that blue sheet from the church, I’m reminded that if we are following God’s calling faithfully, God will faithfully provide. Even when our resources lag and our will falters, God still provides – for us individually and for our community and the Kingdom through us.

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

Peaceful emptiness

A few years ago as I was coming out of a season of sadness, I found myself in a state of peaceful emptiness. Many of the things that once consumed me no longer mattered. My appetites were diminished. Money and bling meant nothing. Lust and envy were completely gone. I remember how light and free I felt, and I hoped that part of the grief experience would remain.

Sadly, that part of the sadness didn’t last. The little pieces of life that weigh us down – irritations, frustrations, obsessions, desires, selfishness – began to fill my pockets again like little stones gathered slowly over time. Not as much as they had before, but enough to make me wistful for that simpler time though certainly not wistful for the events that put me there.

Recently during a periodic trip downtown to meet an old friend for lunch and noon mass, I was sitting in the dark and quiet of the Cathedral Guadalupe, looking up at the beautiful stained glass windows, and that peaceful emptiness swept over me again. The cathedral still does that to me, I think, because that is where I wrestled with God during some of those sad days. It was a safe place to wrestle because God has home court advantage there; the enormity of the space always reminds me who is ultimately in charge. But on this recent day, instead of the peaceful emptiness being prompted by a sense of, “Everything that matters has been taken, so why care about anything,” it was fed by the realization that, “I am so blessed, what more could I possibly want or need.”

Living peacefully empty doesn’t mean not caring, not thinking, not loving, not doing, not enjoying. It means clearing out all the junk that we hoard so that God can fill us up with whatever God has for us. Sometimes the dramatic events of life can do the clearing out, as happened with me. Sometimes we can do the clearing out ourselves, such as deliberately changing careers or lifestyles to make room for God’s new calling. I did that too.

The hard part is trusting that the new emptiness will be filled with God’s peace and blessings. We have to defend the space that’s been cleared against all the temptations “to have” and “to do” and “to be.” We have to be vigilant and push back against the little gnawing cares that get bigger and bigger because we forget what is really important.

In this we each must find our own way: prayer, reading scripture, meditation, serving others, whatever feeds our spirit and suits our unique personality. We all learn differently. For me, it helps to go some place quiet like a cathedral – where God looms large and I feel small. Not small as in “insignificant.” Rather, small as in, “God can do this.”

Tuesday, May 27, 2014

Playing it forward

In a recent sermon our pastor George Mason talked about a golfer whose coach was trying to teach him to hit down on the ball. If you want the ball to go up, you have to hit down. The friend was a “picker” who wanted to pick the ball up with the club so as not to disturb the turf beneath it. In frustration the coach finally said, “Leave some evidence behind that you have been here, man.” Meaning: don’t be afraid to leave a divot. In the context of the sermon, he was saying: we, as a church, should dig deep with our missions endeavors and leave positive signs of our presence in the community.

When I first tried my hand at golf, I tried to play cleanly too and what happens is you end up “topping” the ball – hitting the top of it, which causes it to roll forward an embarrassingly short distance or squirt out in some wild direction including behind you. While I’ve never become proficient at golf, I at least learned that if you focus on hitting down on the ball and not worrying about tearing up the grass, you have a better chance of getting airborne and then you can start to work on distance and direction.

Now, if I can add a stroke to George’s brilliant illustration, most golf courses don’t want you to tear up the earth and move on. The ones that care about their fairways send every golf cart out with a pail of sand and a little scoop. Yes, you should swing under the ball and take out a nice healthy divot, but then you should take a moment and fill the divot with sand. That way, when the grass grows back in, it will be level with the surrounding turf and not become a permanent pockmark that will catch other balls or get washed out by the next hard rain and become bigger. So, sometimes the benefit of “leave some evidence behind that you have been here” depends on what you leave behind.

When I was in Scouts, we camped almost monthly and were governed by the philosophy of “leave the campsite better than you found it.” That didn’t mean just cleaning up our trash or “filling our divots” as it were; that meant leaving a pile of wood next to the fire pit, clearing some brush from the trail, leaving arrows made of stones that point to water or other resources. The idea was to provide a better experience for the next troop that visited. You see pro golfers on TV do the same; they’ll walk up to the green and fix a ball mark even when it has no bearing on their next stroke. It’s just good etiquette.

So, what signs of our presence do we leave behind on our daily journey? Do we leave raw divots that will wash out and get bigger with the next storm? Do we leave depleted resources? Do we leave the wrappings and trappings of our affluence? Or do we leave our home, our neighborhood, our church, our community, our world better than we found it?

Tuesday, May 20, 2014

Walking and talking together

I made Edna cry this morning. I didn’t mean to, but I did. I was standing on the sidewalk, hand watering the dead, weedy lawn, and from behind me I heard a voice: “Trying to save your yard?”

I turned and it was Edna, one of the first people we met when we moved into the neighborhood two years ago. She caught our attention early because she would walk by almost every day with her dog – not on a leash tugging her along, but tucked up under her arm. And this wasn’t a little purse dog or a miniature. It was black and white and shaggy and about the size of a large watermelon. I asked Edna about this once and she said her dog had trouble walking, so she did the walking for both of them.

We hadn’t seen Edna in a while, so when I saw her this morning I was pleased. But I noticed immediately that her arms were empty, and embarrassed that I couldn’t remember the pup’s name, I asked, “Where’s your little dog today?”

She swallowed hard and in a soft voice said, “she passed away a week ago on Friday.”

I said, “I’m so sorry,” and she said, “I really miss her. I miss my husband too. ” And then her lips trembled and her eyes watered and she turned her head away and walked down the sidewalk.

“I’m sorry to have upset you,” I called after her but there was no reply.

And indeed I was sorry to have upset her, but maybe I didn’t do the upsetting. Maybe it was life that upset her, and maybe I just brought it to the surface. And maybe she needed to share that upset with someone, because she lives alone now and has nobody to talk to except perhaps people like me who she meets on the street.

We’re taught by society to strive for success and joy and all the good things in life, and when the big troubles come we don’t know what to do about it. Sometimes our family and friends don’t know what to do about it either and they keep a distance or even go away.

Having walked in Edna’s shoes – grieving a pet, mourning a spouse – I know how important it is to share those hurts. When my losses were still fresh, I was sometimes desperate to have someone ask something or say something so that I could release a little pressure and perhaps put words to a sweet memory. But most everyone else was ready to move on, or they thought that talking would upset me, so there was usually silence.

But I’m here to tell you: It can be awkward to ask people in pain how they are doing, and it may bring up emotions and it may get messy. And you can even stumble into it like I did with Edna and send someone walking away with tears running down their cheeks. But the danger is not in asking. The danger is in not caring enough to ask.

Tuesday, May 13, 2014

Trusting our ears

Last night after Wilshire Winds rehearsal, a couple of us stopped to ask organist Jeff Brummel about some of his playing on Sunday morning. Specifically, the high harmonic, almost dissonant notes on his introduction to “Like a Mother with Her Children.” Did you hear it? As one of us asked, “were you playing, like, in a totally different key?”

Jeff explained to us in greater detail than I can retell here that every note we play is tied to others in various chords and patterns that are all connected, even when they don’t seem to be. “That can throw some people off,” he said.

My response was, “well it totally threw me off . . . but I knew that because you were playing the organ, it must be okay.” And it was okay, because our Jeff Brummel is a master on the organ, and everything he does at the instrument can be trusted. What’s more, we can trust that he isn’t toying or playing with us or puffing himself up in front of us by playing music we don’t understand. More than just a gifted organist, Jeff is a gifted church organist. He understands his role and how his talent creates a setting for our worship and reverence.

It’s the kind of trust that we must have with our God if we are to go through this life with any understanding of what is happening and any sense of connection to the larger picture. There are things that happen to us, to people we know and love, and to total strangers that seem to make no sense whatsoever. In those cases we must trust that the one who created everything has a larger purpose in mind and that it will make sense in some way some day. I’m not saying that God causes the confusion and hurt we often feel, but I do believe God has a way of turning the dissonance of this life into harmony if we trust him.

As the hymn text states:
“Like a mother with her children, You will comfort us each day, giving guidance on our journey, as we seek to find our way. When we walk through fiery trials, You will help us take a stand; when we pass through troubled waters, You hold out Your tender hand.”

As I was thinking about this, I logged onto the Wilshire web site and to the video from Sunday morning and listened to Jeff’s introduction again. It still tweaks my ears a little, but as I listened I heard something new. In the context of Mother’s Day, Jeff’s melody has the quality of a child sitting at a keyboard, touching the keys with imperfect abandon as a child might, while the chord behind it has the strength and reliability of a parent – or our God – watching over.

Incidentally, just before replaying the hymn, I listened again to Sarah Stafford’s wonderful prayer for all mothers in all their conditions and situations, and in the background you can hear a baby softly crying. There is a dissonance there too, and yet it fits so perfectly in that moment.

Oh, and one last thing I just noticed in the hymnal: The text of “Like a Mother with Her Children” was written by Jann Aldredge-Clanton, wife of Wilshire’s very own David Clanton. Nice!

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

Transition

I went out this morning to water the flowerbeds and was reminded again that we are living in a season of transition.

The winter pansies are tired and pale, the stalks of the daffodils and tulips are brown and dry. The zinnias and other seeds we planted are sprouting but with no color yet, and the crepe myrtles and butterfly bushes have leafed out but they still hold on to their dead blooms from last year. Meanwhile, the lawn under my feet is mostly brown with precious few sprigs of St. Augustine and entirely too much clover and nut grass.

The sun is out but the wind is howling, blowing the water from the hose back onto me and making me shiver. It’s cool in the shade and warm in the sunshine, and it’s that same convergence of opposites that can boil up into thunderstorms that feed the thirsty landscape but can also fill the sky with dangerous lightning and spinning funnels of destruction.

It’s a season that is disheveled and disorganized, and yet it is full of such promise and expectation. It is life, and it is good.

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Going up

“Do you have an elevator speech?” Last year I went to a book festival where a man went from author to author asking that question. I was puzzled at first but he explained: “How would you describe your book during a one-minute elevator ride with a stranger?”

It seemed like a simple exercise, but my inclination was to start talking about the plot with some description of the main character, and I quickly found myself mired in minutia. And with the pressure of the ticking clock, my instinct was to cram in more and more details, and that just created more confusion for both the listener and me. What was missing in the telling, and what people ultimately want to know, is the essence of the story – those qualities that create an emotional connection rather than just an intellectual understanding.

The season of Lent and Easter that we’ve just observed might be described in an over-long way with all the main events found in the Gospels: Jesus’ birth, childhood visit to the temple, the missing years, baptism, calling the disciples, preaching, miracles, and finally, betrayal, trial, crucifixion, death, resurrection. An elevator speech for the Easter story might be simply to quote John 3:16, which gives the essence of the story. Or, we could simplify further with a few choice words: love, grace, mercy, hope. That is what Easter is about.

In our never-ending struggle to be Godly and Christ-like, perhaps it’s good to focus on a few choice words like love, grace, mercy, hope rather than memorize long passages of scripture for street-corner preaching. If we can keep those few words – those qualities – in mind, maybe we can live as God intended and as Christ taught and modeled. And maybe some day our own lives can be described in those simple but elegant terms.

I did finally hone an elevator speech for my book. In fact, I got it down to one good word: citizenship. Several more books are coming, and I’ve already thought them out and reduced each to one word: respect, obedience, redemption. I pray there is some love, grace, mercy and hope in the pages as well.

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Leaning together

I’ve been on the Gulf Coast today, Rockport to be exact, and one of the interesting natural features here are the large groves of live oak trees on the sandy soil up from the beaches. Their trunks are relatively thin, they are short in stature, and their canopies are thick and tangled together as one, creating what almost could serve as a sheltering pavilion.

Most interesting is the way they all lean together in the same direction. From inside a passing car, they look as if the wind must be howling. But step out of the car and you find that wind or no wind, the trees are leaning. They’re leaning away from the prevailing wind. They’ve grown up leaning that way, and they’ve learned to lean together. Alone, they might not stand for long, but in groves, their joined canopies provide mutual support.

I sort of felt that way on Easter Sunday at Wilshire as we stood together to sing, pray and read the scriptures. Individually our trunks may be thin and breakable, but with our canopies woven together, we can lean away from the buffeting winds of life and toward the living God. We can stand strong together.

That’s what the church can do, and that’s what Wilshire does.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Public domain

In November I related how I was seeking permission to use a modern translation of the entire Book of Jonah to publish alongside my own contemporary allegory of the tale.

After months of waiting I’ve learned that I can use it – but I must pay a large fee, or pay a small fee and then a royalty for every book sold. The cost of option one and the accounting required for option two were too much for my publisher and myself to accept. My Plan B was to use the King James Version, which is in the public domain. But after reading it again . . . verily, I tell you, I believest sorely that mine and thine interest in such proclamations would be diminished exceedingly by the words bespoken thusly by ancient tongues.

I was desperate for a Plan C and I found it. A more thorough search found that a modern translation called the World English Bible is there for the taking. In fact, the rules for using the translation are as follows:

“You may copy, publish, proclaim, distribute, redistribute, sell, give away, quote, memorize, read publicly, broadcast, transmit, share, back up, post on the Internet, print, reproduce, preach, teach from, and use the World English Bible as much as you want, and others may also do so. . . . The Holy Bible is God’s Word. It belongs to God. He gave it to us freely, and we who have worked on this translation freely give it to you by dedicating it to the Public Domain.”

I like their style, because it is God’s style.

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

A flood of unanswered questions

LeAnn and I saw the new “Noah” movie Friday night and there is much to like and much to dislike about the film. I knew when I first saw the promos that it wouldn’t be an accurate telling of the story, and I’ve been okay with that because it is just a movie and most movies by definition are fiction or have fictional elements, even when they claim to be true stories or based on true stories.

So, here’s my “Biblical scorecard” for the movie (don’t read further if you don’t want to know some surprises):
• Noah. Check.
• God. Check, although he’s called “The Creator.”
• Noah’s wife. Check.
• Noah’s sons Shem, Ham and Japheth. Check, check, check.
• Ark. Check.
• Animals two-by-two. Check-by-check.
• Flood. Check.
• Noah’s son’s wives. No.
• Transformer-like mud and light beings that help build and defend the ark. Huh?
• Evil warlord who wants to capture the ark and ultimately is a stowaway. What?
• Epic battle to defend the ark from the warlord and his army of evil-doers? Really?
• Crazed and confused Noah who misunderstands God’s plan and decides that all humans must die, including his own family. Wait a minute now!
• Humankind saved. Yes, but it was touch and go there for a while.

As you may deduce, this “Noah” strays wildly from the Biblical story, mainly because the Biblical story is short on details and the movie attempts to fill the gaps with typical Hollywood magic and drama. For that reason, numerous pastors and leaders of Christian, Jewish and Muslim groups have urged their followers to stay away. In response to the harsh criticism, Paramount Pictures added a message to their promotional material:

“The film is inspired by the story of Noah. While artistic license has been taken, we believe that this film is true to the essence, values, and integrity of a story that is a cornerstone of faith for millions of people worldwide. The Biblical story of Noah can be found in the book of Genesis.”

My own opinion is that if you were to change the name of the main character to something other than Noah and remove some of the other Biblical elements, this movie would stand well on its own as a great piece of action-adventure along the lines of the “Lord of the Rings” movies.

Still, I like the fact that this “Noah” raises some interesting questions above and beyond the obvious mysteries of how the ark was built and how the animals were gathered and cared for.

A few:
1. Did Noah have doubts about the task God gave him?
2. Did Noah’s family ever question his sanity or God’s will?
3. What was the mood and the actions of the people being left behind to perish?
4. Was the evil and sin of humankind in that day any worse than what we know today?

While “Noah” tries to provide some answers, the answers can’t be trusted because this is, after all, just a movie. As Paramount wisely said, the Biblical story can be found in the Book of Genesis. But be warned that Genesis doesn’t answer these questions either.

Tuesday, April 2, 2014

There’s not just one way

Did you notice all the college basketball teams wearing t-shirts that say “The _____ Way,” such as “The Wolverine Way,” “The Badger Way,” “The Cardinal Way?” The only difference is the color of the shirt and the name of the mascot. Otherwise the design is identical.

I first saw the t-shirts worn by the Baylor team toward the end of the Big 12 tournament. I thought they had something unique and special with “The Bears Way” shirts until I watched the NCAA Tournament Selection Show and saw that schools from coast to coast had the same style shirts.

Apparently Adidas provided the shirts to teams that buy their equipment, and I have just two things to say about that: Shame on the teams for being so easily bamboozled into a one-style-suits-all spirit gimmick, and shame on Adidas for trying to make everyone look the same. Every school has its own unique cultures and traditions, and every school should express that in their own way.

I feel the same way when someone in the media or theological circles or even from the local church tries to paint all the members of a religion or a denomination with the same brush. The truth is that regardless of the affiliation, no two Baptist or Catholic or Presbyterian or (fill in the blank) churches are exactly alike. Each has it’s own personality and culture and way of expressing “the way” as led by group experience and the Holy Spirit.

That was brought to wonderful light Sunday afternoon at Wilshire at a celebration of the five congregations that worship at Gaston Oaks Baptist Church: Bhutanese Baptist Church, Iglesia Bautista Le Promesa, Afrika Community Church, Karen Baptist Church and Gaston Oaks itself. The churches are embodied by people from the Bhutan region of Nepal and the Himalayas, Mexico, the Congo and elsewhere in Africa, Burma and Northeast Dallas.

The service included worship music by choral groups from each of these churches, and each expression of faith was unique and meaningful, made so by the languages that were spoken, the clothing that was worn, and the melodies and harmonies of their homelands. Even if a group sang a hymn with a familiar English name and melody, it was sung in their own language. The women from the Afrika Community Church wore their full native dress as did the Bhutanese choir and dancers, while others added native colors to more familiar western styles.

As Wilshire Associate Pastor Mark Wingfield suggested at the start of the service, some of us might be a little uncomfortable but we were certain to learn from each other. I don’t know about discomfort, but there was plenty to learn. Gary Cook, pastor of Gaston Oaks, which hosts the other congregations in its building, told how his church offered to ordain the young pastor of the Karen Baptist Church because that is our local Baptist way: we ordain those called to the ministry so they can get down to work. But the congregation told him they were not ready yet, and in fact they came back for the ordination a year and a half later. Presumably they wanted to give their pastor time to mature, and time for pastor and congregation to grow together. That was their way – and it is a very good way.

While our ways may be different, the love, caring and hospitality that we model comes from the same divine source. LeAnn tells how when she and members of the Wilshire choir were returning to their seats as the congregation sang “Jesus Loves Me, This I know,” they were met in the aisle by a small boy from the Afrika church who held out his hand to greet each person. That was his special gift, his special way.

Clearly, while we all may wear the same label of Christian and be clothed in the same Holy Spirit, ours is not a one-size-fits all or a one-style-suits all faith. As Wilshire’s Patty Lane said in a prayer during the service, our ways can be distinct and yet alike. To which I add, don’t let Adidas or anyone else tell you different.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

Payday some day

Up until last week it was the blazing neon signs that offended me most about payday lenders. I knew intellectually that they were bad news, but other than turning local shopping corners into garish little “Vegas strips,” I didn’t give them much thought. But after hearing real stories from real people about who have been hurt by payday loans, I’ve found new reason for offense – and defense too.

The setting was Garland City Hall where the city council was to decide whether to adopt new payday loan regulations proposed by the Texas Municipal League and endorsed by the United Way of Metropolitan Dallas. There was concern in the community that the council might accept a version proposed by the payday loan industry that would allow people to borrow more money against their income.

I’ll cut to the chase and report that the council unanimously adopted the tighter version, and it appears these good public servants were going to do that from the start. Still, they sat attentively and let the public speak, and what we heard was real stories of people pushed into financial disaster. Most stories begin the same: Someone without sufficient credit or assets for a bank loan borrows from a payday lender to get through a cash-flow pinch. But the loans carry heavy paperwork fees and finance charges along with high interest rates. Payback is usually due in two weeks and if the deadline isn’t met, it all rolls over and escalates.

We heard a man tell how he had borrowed money and now he is paying and paying and not even touching repayment of the principal. His tears were real as he despaired that he can’t see how his family will ever get out from under the debt. A young man told how his parents, both military veterans, had taken out payday loans and now the family is struggling to stay afloat. And a member of the city council told how his own son had borrowed $1,000 and quickly found himself owing $7,000 and being “practically bankrupt.”

Several members of a Garland church told how people who might have just needed typical benevolent assistance (food, clothing, rent) are now coming to them with serious financial issues. The church is deeply concerned about them, of course, but it also is worried about the pressure this is putting on their ability to help.

Two men spoke on behalf of the payday and title loan industry, and I can tell you that they were not the devil incarnate. They admitted honestly and openly that their loans are “very expensive” and that “they aren’t for everyone.” One said they send people away who don’t understand the terms; the other one said they welcome regulation. The men were courteous and polite and I have no reason to doubt their sincerity.

Still, more regulation and “buyer beware” are not defense enough. Payday loans are fine for people that are certain they will have the money in hand to pay fully on the first due date. For them the loan is a bridge, although an expensive one. But for those who can’t borrow from a bank and who shouldn’t go to payday lenders either, there are no good options.

And that is where more action is needed by smart people, caring people, church people. Some might disagree, but I believe this is part of the real work of the real church in the real world today. It takes money to live, and financial stability leads to life with promise, hope, dignity productivity and the pursuit of one’s best self.

I know we have a group at Wilshire that is looking at the issue with the intent of generating ideas for solutions. Two Wilshire members spoke at the Garland council meeting, and they spoke well about our concerns. But is there something concrete that we can do alone or in partnership with other churches to provide real options? Certainly we can’t go into the banking business, but is there a way we can shape and target our existing benevolent activities to help people BEFORE they go to a payday lender?

Like the church in Garland, we at least have a vested interest in protecting our ability to provide assistance. Just as payday loans can drown individuals, they can swamp the boat that the church is trying to row out to those who need help.

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

March traditions

March brings an interesting confluence of heritage and tradition that I could claim loudly and boldly if I wanted to, but most of it just doesn’t quite fit.

Monday was St. Patrick’s Day, and with all of my ancestry coming from the British Isles, including the Wallace clan, I could claim an authentic Irish birthright and party and celebrate with the best of them. But I never have. As a kid going to school I would always wear green on St. Patrick’s Day to keep from getting pinched, but there wasn’t enough green in my veins for my mother to kneel in front of me at the door and say, ““okay laddie, if someone gives you any trouble you just give them a big Irish punch in the nose.” We never had special days when we ate Irish food (thank goodness); most of the cooking in our house and in my grandmothers’ kitchens was of the Southern U.S./Texas variety, with some Cajun influence from the swamps of Southeast Texas.

And then of course this week begins March Madness and the season when people claim allegiance to a school and a team with all their accompanying colors and traditions. As a third-generation Baylor grad (with a fourth on campus), I certainly can claim my heritage there. But we Bears don’t have a long tradition of winning so most of us older alums don’t go crazy like they do at other schools. I don’t wear green and gold day in and day out, and I don’t have a green car with a horn that plays the Baylor fight song. I enjoy it when we win, but in-your-face fandom doesn’t fit me.

Another heritage that comes to the forefront this time of year requires no birthrights or diplomas. It also has no signature colors, fight songs or mascots. If there is a meal that identifies it, it is a pinch of bread and a small cup of grape juice. There are no pep rallies, only reverent worship. The annual parade commemorates a lowly donkey ride to a trial and torture. There is no banner or flag, just an empty cross. The hero is not a little man of myth or a 7-foot center, but God himself come down to live with us and die for us.

As with the other traditions, I don’t quite fit in. None of us ever could, but that’s okay because belonging is a gift and not something to be claimed or earned.

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

Driven

While driving to Fort Worth these past couple of mornings for some writing work, I had memories of a time when I drove to Fort Worth from East Dallas every day for a full-time job. It was a job I wanted and a job I liked, but some people at home in Dallas and at the office in Fort Worth thought I was crazy. They asked, “How can you endure that much time on the road?”

My technical answer was that it was a reverse traffic commute so it wasn’t such a big deal. My rationalized answer was that I could use the morning drive getting my mind and spirit ready for the day and the time coming home unwinding. I was helped coming and going with lots of good music.

My philosophical answer was that nothing lasts forever and the commute would not be a forever thing. And I was right; the job lasted just five years. I had some expertise in that regard because I had several jobs before the Fort Worth job, not because I wanted to change my life every few years but just because things change for a lot of reasons — both good and bad. It’s just the way life goes.

My spiritual answer is that I go where God takes me. And that’s a more recent insight, because when I look in the rearview mirror now, I can see how one opportunity has led to another. A job that was denied led to a great opportunity elsewhere. The full-time job in Fort Worth ended abruptly and that put me closer to home at a time when I needed to be there. A job that didn’t seem to fit gave me experiences and knowledge that I’ve benefitted from ever since. And the best freelance work I’ve had these past few years has come out of relationships built in those other workplaces.

So, I’m headed back over to Fort Worth today, grateful for the journey and open to whatever God has in store.

Tuesday, March 4, 2014

From Moriah to Calvary

Recently in Wilshire’s Epiphany class we wondered what Abraham and Isaac talked about on their three-day journey to Mount Moriah, where Abraham was instructed by God to take his son Isaac to be sacrificed. (Genesis 22)

We imagined they might have talked about everyday things the way we do when we take a trip with family or friends. Surely Abraham didn’t spend the time talking about what was going to happen, because the scriptures tell us that when they arrived at the site, Isaac asked his father, “where is the lamb for the burnt offering?” Isaac still didn’t know what was happening. Lisa Butler in our class suggested that while Abraham trusted God’s will, he probably spent that entire three-day walk poking in the brush and looking over his shoulder for a lamb to sacrifice. He still had hope for a different way.

Anyone who has walked alongside someone who is seriously ill knows something about this walk to Moriah. Often you talk about everything except for what is actually happening. For some that “changing the subject” might be denial or just plain fear. But for believers, it should be an act of faith. With the outcome out of your control but in God’s hands, you talk about other things, everyday things, things where you still have decisions and choices: what to eat, what to wear, what to do with your time. Yet even with faith, you still keep an eye out for that lamb in the thicket — the pill or the procedure that will change the outcome when you get to Moriah.

Tomorrow, Ash Wednesday, begins the season of Lent and our walk toward another mountain. The good news is that just as God provided Abraham with a lamb in the thicket, we too are spared the ultimate sacrifice. We still have trouble and trials, but we don’t have to poke in the brush or look over our shoulder for resolution. We know that Christ is the lamb in the thicket, and his mountain is not Moriah but is Calvary.

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Rites of spring

I recently was walking around the yard, looking things over and wondering if there was something I might do that could become an annual “rite of spring“ — something intentional that would have me turning my back on the dreariness of winter and welcoming the warmth and new life of spring. This will be our third full spring at this house, and with the yard planted new when we moved in, we’re still forming our seasonal rites or traditions.

So I drove a few blocks to Roach Feed & Seed in downtown Garland to see if there is something that might be planted. Adding to my search was the fact that it was Valentine’s Day and I wanted to get something for LeAnn. I asked the clerk about tomato plants but she said they didn’t have any because it was too early, and of course it was; the last potential freeze is in mid-March. I walked out back and looked around and saw flats of strawberry plants. I started to load up on those but then I remembered how we planted some last year and they burned up in the heat. Not going to do that again.

I was almost out the front door when I noticed the rack of seed packets and that sparked my interest. While the potential of another freeze makes live plants a little risky yet, seeds are a promise of things to come. Their little packets can be held and read and even shaken, with the rattle from inside generating visions of rows of cucumbers, squash, beans and cantaloupe, along with big bushy clumps of parsley, sage and thyme. I grabbed a bunch of those, and looking further, I couldn’t resist the pictures on the Morning Glory packets and their promise of blue, pink and white blooms crawling up and down the trellises and even up into the trees and beyond.

And that is my new rite of spring — to buy seeds on Valentine’s Day and dream about what they will bring when the freezes are behind us and the warm sunshine returns. Next year when I buy seeds it won’t be a surprise for LeAnn, but that’s okay because a rite of spring only becomes a rite when it is no longer a surprise but an expectation and a tradition. And all the better if it is shared with someone.

So, do you have a rite of spring? For some people it may come under the heading of “spring cleaning, “ such as scrubbing the windows, shaking out the rugs, cleaning out the garage, washing the car for the first time in months. For others it is a seasonal first or last, such as a first chilly dip in the ocean, or a final ski down a mountain before the thaw.

Of course the ultimate spring rites are coming next week with the beginning of Lent and the walk toward Easter. Like buying seeds, it is a time when we hold and shake the granules of our faith and consider the hope and promise that has been planted within us. There still is a chill in the air, and quiet waiting too, but then comes the sunshine and new life.

Tuesday, February 19, 2014

Pleasant view of the kingdom

Last week in this space I wrote about a good work that is being done at Highland Park United Methodist Church with adults with special needs. Today I want to talk about a good work that has been done by a church that is no longer a church — at least not in a brick-and-mortar way.

Recently while driving west on Mockingbird Lane from White Rock Lake to get to Wilshire, LeAnn noticed something missing as we crossed the bridge over Santa Barbara Dr. and the railroad tracks. Passing that way later, we verified that, yes, the yellow wood-frame church building that could always be seen from the overpass was completely gone.

For more than 20 years we had seen Pleasant View Baptist Church as we drove from our homes to Wilshire each week. A move to downtown Garland a few years ago changed our regular route and so we hadn’t noticed that the building was gone. If we had been reading The Dallas Morning News more thoroughly, we would have seen the article last September reporting that the church, faced with dwindling membership, had voted to disband after 166 years, including some 90 years in that building.

What’s more, we would have read about the church’s wonderful spirit of giving as they used the proceeds from the sale of their property to support ministries both locally and around the world. Judy Hendley, the pastor’s wife, said in the Morning News article: “I had the joy — because I’m the acting treasurer — of giving money to all the different organizations around the world, helping pastors, helping churches, helping missionaries.”

That included an orphanage in Kenya, an international relief fund, an evangelistic organization and a pregnancy crisis center. Locally, they helped a church that was growing purchase a new building, while New Mount Calvary Baptist Church got its pews. James Jones, interim pastor of that church, said Pleasant View Baptist is “not dead. . . . It still lives in us.”

The dismantling of Pleasant View Baptist presents an interesting challenge — if not a model — for a church like Wilshire. If a church can be so gracious and giving in its closing, shouldn’t a church that is alive and well be at least as giving and sharing of what it has and Who it represents? And what about the people, who we always like to say are “the church” more so than the physical building? It’s wonderful to give our possessions and investments to the church when we die, but wouldn’t it be nice to do some of that while we are alive — to experience “the joy“ of giving, as Judy Hendley described it?

We have so much happening that is good at Wilshire. Coming out of our Vision 20/20 strategic planning emphasis, we have a good number of groups working on ideas for projects that will strengthen our work on building the Kingdom — from traditional ministries to new ways of being the hands and feet of Christ. There’s still time and room for people to get involved, not just within our walls but in the community and the world. And that’s important because as the experience of Pleasant View Baptist shows, walls don’t last forever.

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

These Jesters are serious

“What is love and where can it be found? ” That is the question that the cast of the Jesters wanted to explore as they began writing this year’s show. And by the time they took their bows, everyone knew the answer.

The Jesters is a theatrical troupe sponsored by Highland Park United Methodist Church that stages a musical every year performed by adults with special needs. This year’s production, “Paradise Island,” was presented Saturday and Sunday evening and it was a rollicking good time. The players performed wonderfully, and the audience of more than 500 applauded enthusiastically.

We’ve come to know about the Jesters through Wilshire’s own George Gagliardi, who composes and arranges the music. This year he asked LeAnn to play the flute in the show orchestra, and she was pleased to do so. The actors and writers this year included Wilshire’s Justin Waters and Austin and Christi Davenport. (Austin created the program artwork.) And I say “writers” because as George explains, these shows are not created for these adults to perform; they are created by these adults. The plot and characters are theirs, and the songs are written by them too. George, the director, Lisa Lee Schmidt, and dozens of other volunteers just help shape it into a great piece of musical theatre.

The story this year was about a vacation island where tourists are told that if they can find a red feather from the mythical Bird of Paradise, they will find true love. They discover that there is no real Bird of Paradise, but through their interactions with each other as they search for the bird and survive a tropical storm, they do find true love – among family members, friends, and between guys and gals.

The story behind the story is that this program is not about adults with special needs getting the opportunity to act on the stage; it is about these adults experiencing the most wonderful part of being human – feeling the love and respect of others.

There are some good lessons, too, for any church worth the name. Nowhere in the show, on the printed program, in the pre-show introductions or during intermission was there any evangelizing, proselytizing or pressure to join. This production and this ministry isn’t about growing a specific church or even the church in general. It is about being the church — by helping our brothers and sisters be fully involved in the human experience.

So, to answer the question posed by the Jesters: Love is caring for and respecting each other, and it can be found in the people of God.

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Getting out of the gym

One winter my employer gave me a free health club membership, and I gladly took full advantage of it. I went regularly and hit the weight machines, walked the treadmills, rode the stationary bikes, even entered a racquetball tournament with a coworker. It was great on cold winter days like today, but as soon as the first warm day came along, I ached to be out in the sunshine working in the yard or riding a real bike and going somewhere. So I quit the club and was immediately more content and probably more healthy because my exercise and work had purpose.

The spiritual life is much the same. It’s fine to spend time in study and prayer, working our spiritual muscles and building our faith, but if that is all we do, then what is the point? If we’re not building up anyone but ourselves, are we building the Kingdom of God at all?

Much like a stationary bike can help build endurance for a cross-country trek, time spent in prayer and study can give us the emotional strength we need to step outside of ourselves and help deliver faith, hope and love to those in need. The key is to “step outside” of the gym.

As usual, I am preaching to myself as I write this and get ready to hit the send button. I have a friend who needs a helping hand, and while I do pray for him regularly, prayer is not enough. What he needs requires me to leave the warmth and safety of the gym, both figuratively and literally, and go see him. His need is genuine, and he deserves a genuine response. And since I profess to be a follower of Christ, the response should be Christ-like. Isn’t that what I’ve been training for?

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

Working out this life

LeAnn and I are working hard at building this life together. Seriously. We celebrated our joint birthdays this past weekend by shoveling, wheeling and raking a dump truck load of garden dirt into our flowerbeds and garden. We even built a new raised bed and planted camellias, which are blooming red and pink while everything else is dormant.

Two years ago we celebrated our first anniversary with a couple of tons of flagstone and crushed granite. And before that, we built a house together, which is not something you should do unless you know who you are working with. We’ve tackled these projects and others because we both like the work and we enjoy working together. Most of all, we have confidence that God is working out the details.

Our working knowledge of each other began five years ago this week. I was six months into being a widower, and turning 50 years old in that situation had me in no mood for celebrating. But in a casual conversation after Wilshire Winds rehearsal, LeAnn and I discovered that our birthdays are four days apart. She told me how she and Estelle Slater have the same birthday week too and they had enjoyed lots of birthday dinners together. She suggested we do the same. “You must do something on your 50th,” she said.

I was hesitant, but Wilshire friend John Hall pulled me aside weeks earlier and gave me some advice. “You shouldn’t just spend time with the guys now that you’re single. You still need a woman’s perspective. It doesn’t have to be a date. Just go eat dinner and talk.” Dating was definitely a type of work that I had no desire to ever do again. But dinner? Okay, I could handle that. Just this once.

So LeAnn and I met for dinner at Sweet Temptations. The food was great but the service was lousy; the waiters left us alone for long gaps of time and we had to make conversation, which is another kind of work I don’t especially enjoy. But God likes to work in our lives if we let go a little, and in those long gaps at the dinner table LeAnn and I discovered some remarkable connections that became the seeds of friendship.

It took a couple of years for those seeds to grow, but by trusting God with the nurturing work and just sort of accepting the sunshine and showers, we’ve enjoyed the unexpected blooms of this life together. And every late January, as we both grow a little older together, we’ll look out at the camellias and remember God’s grace in making it so.

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

And the winner is . . .

It’s award season in Hollywood, that exciting time of the year when people who make a lot of money to put on costumes and pretend they are someone else enjoy a giant group hug and celebrate each other for being such wonderful make believe play actors.

They dress up in designer gowns and tuxes and then gush and blush and place each other on pedestals and proclaim that theirs is the most noble of all professions, which of course is the reason they merit all the attention and kudos. And in the process some of them are rude and profane, while others are serious and earnest as they tell us how we should be more kind and generous and genuine – like the characters they portray.

While the celebrities party the night away at their victory balls, the rest of us turn off our televisions and crawl into bed because we have to get up early and go to our real jobs with real people to face real issues and real drama. And some of these real people do the kind of real work that the Hollywood play actors pretend to do, but it is much different because the real people don’t go home to a hotel at night to read the next day’s script, and they don’t recover from the hard work of pretending by taking a hiatus at Lake Como in Italy. In fact, they may not take a break for years because on top of their real work they raise families and help their neighbors and volunteer at the school and church. And they most definitely don’t dress up and go to award shows because their real jobs don’t have award shows.

My point is that during this season of fawning over the make-believers who entertain us (and there is a value to their entertainment), why not take a moment to offer a word of gratitude and thanks to the real people around us who are truly worthy of our appreciation and respect.

For each of us that is a different cast of characters. For me it is my spouse, my parents and close family and friends, of course, but it also is: my neighbors who support and help each other, the people who serve me at my favorite restaurants, the woman who cuts my hair, the man at the small shop who sells me office supplies, the folks at the nursery who help us keep the flowers and vegetables growing, the people who built our house and still check on us, and all the people who work behind the scenes at Wilshire to ensure we have a wonderful place for worship and fellowship.

For all of these and more, I have no gold statuettes to offer. But I hope you’ll accept this heartfelt, enthusiastic Thank You!

Tuesday, January 14, 2014

A corner of Eden

Sunday afternoon we planted 50 daffodil bulbs to add to the several dozen we planted last year and the more than 200 tulips, hyacinths and pansies we planted a few weeks ago. That’s a lot, but it’s nothing compared to the half-million that have been tucked into the beds eight miles down Garland Road at the Dallas Arboretum. We’d love to do the same but our yard is smaller than theirs. Okay, our budget is much smaller, too.

Still, we won’t enjoy the color in our little corner of Eden any less than the tens of thousands of people who will “ooh” and “ah” at the Arboretum in a couple of months. While people are walking shoulder-to-shoulder down the paseos and allees at the Arboretum, stopping and waiting their turn to pose for pictures, we’ll enjoy sitting quietly on our porch swing and watching the yellow trumpets of the daffodils and the purple and white heads of the tulips sway in the breeze in our modest beds. It’s all a matter of appreciation and scale – appreciating what you have at the scale in which you live.

We all live at different scales based on our backgrounds and incomes, but that doesn’t have to limit our level of appreciation or contentment. Which is a hard message to sell in our consumer-oriented culture, where the pressure is high to have and to hold the newest fashions, the latest gadgets, the best stuff. Giving in to the desire can lead to credit card debt, payday and title loans, not to mention the stress and depression that comes from falling behind and never achieving “the dream.”

Wouldn’t it be so much easier and more sane to take Jesus at his word regarding our comfort and contentment in comparison to the birds of the air and the lilies of the fields? Wasn’t Eden spoiled – and isn’t it still today – by a lack of trust in God’s provision rather than a lack of actual provision?

I’ve just read “Digging In,” a great little book by Robert Benson about how he and his wife and children designed and built their garden – and formed a family and created community in the process. Describing how the garden comes to life each morning, Benson writes:

“I do not know what your portion of Eden looks like, nor do I know what it sounds like each day as it blinks and shuffles and murmurs and whistles its way into being. I will say this: it is the portion of Eden that you have been given for this season of your journey. The portion of Eden that I have been given is fairly modest – and it is more than I ever hoped for.”

Me too, Robert. Me too.

Tuesday, January 7, 2014

New year confessions

A young man I love and admire pulled me aside last week to confess a serious mistake. He didn‘t have to tell me about it. I‘m not his parent, principal or pastor. It was none of my business and it didn‘t really impact me – except that I do care about his wellbeing and his future. And yet he told me about it and said it wouldn‘t happen again.

And not happening again was the point. He told me, I believe, because he needed to make himself accountable. He knew that if he told me about his mistake, and if he told me it won‘t happen again, then I would be watching him and will expect him to keep that promise. And I will.

It was a bold move and an unusual act of maturity from a kid who is only in the seventh grade and not yet mature. At his age, mistakes and poor judgment are a regular part of growing up, so I was not so much surprised by his mistake as I was impressed with how he is handling it. Confession and accountability are in short supply nowadays, and I‘m talking about us grownups.

Confession has long been a tenet of many Christian traditions, most notably in the Catholic faith. There are many negative stereotypes associated with that, including the notion that if you tell a priest what you have done, he will make it right with a prayer and a prescription for penance. But most Catholics will tell you that is not the way it works; God does the forgiving, and people are only conduits in the process. In more recent times the act has become known as “reconciliation, ” which has a more realistic and productive ring to it. We need to get ourselves right with those we have hurt or disappointed – including God.

At this time of the year when many of us are jotting down resolutions, we might consider confession too. As Chad Mustain said on this blog yesterday, resolutions are usually all about oneself and that is good up to a point. Confession, on the other hand, is more of a two-way street. It builds bridges to trust and restores relationships. Many resolutions are made in private and nobody knows if you fail. But a confession and a promise to not misstep again has a higher success rate because of the accountability.

I‘m not talking about confessing long-forgotten crimes or mistakes that have been resolved. I‘m talking about habits and situations we are still struggling with, that are still hurting us and others, and that we can‘t seem to overcome on our own. Pulling someone aside, confessing the situation, and making yourself accountable as my young friend did is a powerful tool for change.

How public should a confession be? I think who you tell is more important than how many people you tell. Most important is the honesty in your heart when you confess. A good model is found in James 5:16: “Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective.”

Please click the Archives buttons above for previous posts.

Copyright © 2014 Jeff Hampton