Travel is Fatal to Prejudice

blog first published on September 22, 2016

"Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts.  Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime."   Mark Twain in Innocents Abroad.   

I think I caught the traveling bug from my Father.   Growing up, we didn't have a lot of time (and probably resources) to travel.   Wednesdays and Sundays were the two days each week that my Father didn't work at the warehouse.  The days were long and hard that he worked.   When Wednesday rolled around, however, we would find ourselves in the car going somewhere.   If the place was a distance away, we would even leave on Tuesday night and drive through the night.   With little or no sleep, we traveled by car to see things that were beyond.  We went to museums and battlefields.  We went to state parks and natural vistas.   These trips filled our summers and our imaginations.   Though it would have been easier to stay at home, my dad sought to show us as much of the world as he could. 

And it made an impact.   Although I can't remember every place we went, I fondly recall that we 'went'. We left our hovel in the shire and set out to see the wider world.  In the process we were exposed to things, ideas, and people that were different from the sameness of the shire.  Some of these experiences were memorable and some were quickly (and maybe for the best) forgotten.  Regardless, I experienced first-hand (not through the TV and someone else's filter) the life that was beyond the life that I was living.  Over the years, travel has taught me to fear less and wonder more.     

The prejudice and hatred that seem to be present up during this election cycle worry me deeply.  As a nation we have become content with sitting behind our TV or computers or hand-held devices.  We consume sound bites and half-truths that support our pre-determined views and quickly discard, unlike, and retaliate on social media against anything that is different or outside the sameness of our thinking.    Without ever experiencing the situation of others, without traveling into unfamiliar territory, we have the audacity of professing 'one-size-fits-all' judgments and half-truths.  Worse yet, we slack into a fear and demonize those whose experience is beyond our limited existence.  We are deceived into the kind of thinking that builds walls to keep immigrants out and allows words of hatred to be put on public signs with the delusion of free speech.  We arm ourselves, sometimes literally, board up our windows, and brace ourselves to defend our turf at all costs.

As a Doctor of Ministry, I don't write prescriptions as a matter of course.  The pharmacy doesn't recognize - even though it can read - my signature.  Deeply aware of the need to heal our prejudice, bigotry, homophobia, short-sightedness, this Doctor would like to prescribe something for our spiritual health.  Based on the gospel of Jesus Christ and its radical call to love our neighbor as ourselves, we need to turn off the TV, put down the mobile devices, shut off the radio and computers and get out there.  Travel.  Even if it is only to the other side of town, we need to experience difference.  This is a risky prescription, with potential side effects, for it requires more than just stepping out of our comfort zones; it involves opening our mind perspective in the process.  Travel.   We need to see for ourselves the struggle, joys, culture, and humanity of others.  Again, to do this the destination need not be (though it could be) exotic and far off. 

It is the same prescription that Mark Twain offered generations ago.  At a time when travel was more difficult, Twain noticed that it is hard to hold the anger and hatred of others when you actually meet them on their own turf.  When we see in the different face of another, the spark that God placed in their soul, then we will find it fatal to our prejudices, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.    

Time for us each to take a little trip...    

 

Reflection From a Mud Puddle

blog first published on June 2, 2016

As I was walking along a dirt road with my camera, I noticed a mud puddle.   This puddle was about the width of a tire and off to one side of the road.  At first, it wasn't all that remarkable.  It had rained the night prior and the depression in the road, made by successive passes of automobiles, served as a rain basin until the heat of the day would dry it all up.  On second glance, however, I noticed something that I would have missed had I been barreling down the road, splashing puddles and deepening the dirt depressions through the friction of my tires.  In the muddy waters, there was a reflection!  

I was startled...

Could the brownish and dirty water really image the blue sky and clouds above?  Sure enough.  Like a finely crafted and gilded mirror, I was seeing the beauty of the heavens through a mud puddle!   Not only did I see a glimpse of blued sky and white clouds, but also saw the outline of leaves and branches.  

Odd. Unexpected.  Graceful.  Merciful.  It was as though the earth was bearing witness to its Creator who waters the ground and allows for the forrest to grow a canopy over the paths of our lives.    

I wonder.  Might the dirty and muddy portions of creation, and our lives, be a portal to reflect the infinite beauty and wonder of God?  When we feel literally 'like dirt' might there still be the possibility of our lives serving as a vessel to reflect the Divine visage?   And what if this isn't just by chance?  What if the murkiness of a puddle is the chosen way for us to catch a glimpse of God's glory, for us to see in a mirror dimly?  What if in the moments when we are evaporating, there is a temporary opportunity unlike any other for viewing God's presence?  What an unlikely icon!  

And yet....    

 

Broken Chalice

blog first published on July 12, 2017

On a shelf in my pastor’s study, there is a broken communion chalice.  The pottery stem is still intact, but the upper portion is jagged.  Some of the pieces, which made up the vessel, are mere shards.  Without knowing their origin, you could speculate that they came from some ancient archeological dig.  In a previous time, I used this chalice to celebrate Eucharist on many retreats.  It was a gift from my wife, Katie, on the first anniversary of my ordination.  A member of my internship congregation handcrafted the chalice.  To say that the chalice was special to me is an understatement. 

Sadly, someone knocked it over by accident.  My chalice is now broken and can no longer hold the wine; I can no longer raise it in thanksgiving.

Instead of throwing it away, I have kept the chalice as a reminder that we come to the table as broken vessels in need of God’s transformation.  Simple repairs and quick fixes are not likely to repair our deep brokenness.   It is true for us as individuals who suffer a variety of grief and losses.  It is also true for families and congregations as well.

In When Steeples Cry: Leading Congregations Through Loss and Change, Jaco Hamman writes; “Grief is the painful discrepancy between what is perceived as reality and what continues to be dreamed of as coming to reality (page 70).”  Loss causes this discrepancy to happen.  In the case of my chalice, as soon as it broke a gap existed between the perceived reality of a worthless broken cup and the continuing dream of using that cup for Eucharistic celebration.  There is nothing that I can do to bridge that gap.  Like the children’s nursery rhyme, “all the Kings horses and all the King’s men could not put Humpty Dumpty together again.”   There is no glue that will allow me to piece together my broken cup.  That is howloss works.  When things are gone, they are gone.  When we are attached to those things (and people) that we have lost, it is not easy to ‘get over’ or ‘move beyond.’  When we experience loss, it can be hard to ‘move on.’  Loss can make us stuck in the muck of reality.  Emotions such as anger and resentment can wreak havoc.  We find ourselves in places where we simply would not want to be, reacting in ways that we find strangely uncharacteristic of ourselves.  In the face of this loss, grief will continue to the point at which we adjust our dreams for the future.  The way forward requires the difficult task of attaching to something new.

The larger church is currently experiencing a loss of numbers and status.  No longer are churches at the center of our culture or the lives of families.   It is a reality that faces not only St. James but also neighboring Lutheran congregations within the Synod, the E.L.C.A., and mainline Christian congregations within North America and Europe.  Sure, there are pockets of growth and exceptions, but in general, participation in organized religious institutions is on the decline.  People are fulfilling their spiritual needs – or not – outside long-established patterns.   As you might expect, some deny this reality or take pains to explain it away.  Others blame the pastor or leaders.

Still, others have sunken into the muck of self-deprecation.  If only we could be like one of those big and growing churches (those non-denominational mega-churches were everyone is going).  It is not that simple.  What is more, even these centers of prosperity gospel and entertainment-based religiosity have noticed a shift.  Growth rates are not as high as once ago and pale in comparison to the largest growing segment of the US religious population – “the nones.”  This group, which makes up almost 25% of the US population, believes in some god but does not attend any organized church.  This segment, according to Pew Research (http://www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2015/05/13/a-closer-look-at-americas-rapidly-growing-religious-nones/) continues to grow.  What is more, it is not going to the 'big-box' churches.

Unless we come to grips with the reality of loss within the church, we will waste a lot of precious time and resources trying to regain the past glory and status.  We can’t try harder to do what we have done before.  We can’t bring generations of wandering “nones” back through fancy gimmicks, flashy worship, and extending cafeterias of self-indulgent choices.  Some are trying these methods – with some short-term limited outcomes.  At the end of the day, however, Humpty Dumpty is not going to be put back together. 

One of my teachers at Union Presbyterian Seminary, The Rev. Dr. Kenneth McFayden writes,” despite a desire to cling to precious memories, despite heartfelt yearnings for leadership that will restore these broken bonds and relationships of the past, we cannot reattach to what it lost.  It is gone, and in our grieving, we must let it go to move into the future (Strategic Leadership for a Change; Facing Our Losses, Finding Our Future,  page 6).” Trying to recapture the past (which has become unrealistically golden in the minds of some) is not going to make us unstuck or restore the loss.   Remember, when we lose something, it is gone.  Our chalice that once we used, is broken and all we have left is the pieces (which by the way, don’t fit together without holes and cracks.)   

I had to adjust my dreams for my broken chalice.  Instead of using it to celebrate communion, it now sits on a shelf as a metaphor for my pastoral ministry.  I have been called to serve as a pastor in a context of change and loss.  The shards of the broken chalice remind me of this on a daily basis.  Just as there are many sizes and shapes of the shards, so too is the loss that the church is facing multi-layered and complex. 

Following a recognition of loss, which follows cessation of blaming and spinning our wheels in the muck trying to regain an imagined past, comes the important step of attaching to a new vision of what the church is.  Thankfully, our scripture becomes a wonderful resource in this work of imagination and visioning.  The stories of Jesus’ meal fellowship provide insight into what Christian community can be.  We can embrace a radical form of hospitality that reaches beyond social norms and expectations and reflects the dream of God as found in the words of the prophets who sought justice for all people.  We can set aside judgmental Christian community in favor of a version of Christain community that embraces open welcome and centers on love.  We can imagine that our purpose of being a church has more to do with what God wants for the sake of the world than it has to do with what we want as we try to shoe-horn God to fit our needs.

With the loss of what church was, there is an opportunity to become a church in a whole new way.  That is an exciting proposition.  Ultimately, it is an invitation from God.  It is also intimately connected to the work of the Spirit to bring about reformation.

We might not be able to use our broken chalices anymore, but we still have what we need for Eucharistic celebration.  The vessels might need to change, but God continues to be present to us in bread and wine.  Jesus continues to live in the heart, minds, and bodies of God’s people.   We have experienced loss, but we are not dead.  Even if we were, we are people that believe in the resurrection.  So there is hope.  There is hope.

Btw:  Three summers ago, I was gifted a new chalice.  It was handmade by Dr. Ken Olson, a member of St. James and an excellent potter.  It is a different size, shape, and color.  It is beautiful and deeply appreciated.  I am grateful for a new chalice and God’s continued blessings.   I now have a new chalice to raise on retreats in Eucharistic joy.

PRAYER: 

Gracious God, in the midst of our losses, let us experience your life-giving presence.  Surround us with your life and love so that we might live in hope.  Help us to attach anew as a church to the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus.  Through Christ, Amen.

Purple Baby

blog first published on March 5, 2018

It was a week after our soon-to-be firstborn’s due date.  We were told by more than one unofficial ‘expert’ that it is not uncommon for that initial child to be late.  Already, I was finding that there was so much wisdom to absorb, weigh, and remember.  Katie and I took the birth classes, we read the books, and as a young couple at a church, we were the frequent recipients of unsolicited advice.  We tried to take it all in, which was confusing given the inevitable contradictions.  

At our scheduled appointment, our doctor gave us unexpected news.  Our past-due baby had flipped in position!  He told us that the time had arrived for our baby’s birth and scheduled immediate c-section surgery.  A mixture of excitement, worry, and general confusion enfolded us.  We never considered emergency surgery in all of our planned birth scenarios.  

Even though I was only a second-year pastor, I had been in my share of hospital settings.  As the nurses were prepping Katie for surgery, I pulled on my paper gown and shower cap.  When I entered the operating room, Katie was lying down and covered with blue blankets.   A nurse directed me to stand by my wife and hold her hand.  I could do that.  A large draped cloth shielded our eyes from the site of the incision.  Within minutes the room filled with masked men and women and the operation began.

My training kicked into gear, which allowed me to be present.  Still, this was unlike any previous experience.  Time slowed down.  Every sound was both heard and muddled.  Finally, after what seemed like a long time, a baby was lifted up.  Above the drape, I could see our baby!  It was a miracle.  

The surgeon quickly handed the baby to a waiting nurse.  It was at this point that I noticed something terrifying.  Our baby was purple.  In an instant, it was as though a wave of fear, uncertainty, and absolute dread had crashed upon me.  Purple wasn’t a right color.  What was happening?  I needed to be strong in those seconds that each lasted an hour.  Things were spinning out of control.

No one said anything as a nurse passed the purple baby to a waiting table in the corner.  It looked like a miniature version of the table on which Katie was lying.  More lights, machines, and tubes lying in wait.  A huddle quickly formed around our baby as well-trained hands went into action.  I remained silent and scared.

The one piece of knowledge that our prenatal education did not cover was emergency cesarean birth.  I found out later that after the surgeon suddenly takes the baby from the womb, it takes a bit before the newborn’s body circulates oxygen.  Until it does, a blue-ish, purple color prevails.  This happens rather quickly unless of course you are caught in a first-time parent time warp.   It is a wonder that I didn’t need a burst of oxygen at that point!

Within a few minutes, when I heard my son’s cry, I was brought back to the joy of the present.  A pink-hued baby boy was presented to his radiant mother.  Indescribable delight pushed away from the terror of just a moment before.  It was a sacred moment that still brings tears to my eyes.

Herbie

blog first published on February 21, 2018

Bethany Lutheran Church was on the corner of a busy city street in North Bergan, New Jersey.  It was the place where my parents were married, all three of their children baptized, and where I had my Affirmation of Baptism.  The building was stone and stucco, resembled an old Spanish Mission.  To get inside, you had to go through iron gates and then either go up a wide flight of stairs into the main sanctuary or go down narrow stairs to the basement fellowship hall.  It was not handicap accessible.  At the time of the building’s construction mid-century, such considerations were not in the imagination of the architect or the pocketbook of the congregation.  Perhaps neither was aware of Jesus’ fondness for the disabled or their need for the healing word of God.

Mr. and Mrs. Johnson knew of such things.  Their son was born with cerebral palsy.  Using every ounce of their strength, they carried Herbie through a world that did not consider his special needs. It was a struggle that only intensified as they aged. 

Though I don’t know for certain, on the day of my baptism, the Johnsons were most likely present to witness the foundation faith event of my life.  The knowledge that they didn’t miss worship informs my guess.  In fact, for many years, they lived in the old parsonage building next to the church.  Each Sunday, Herbie was wheeled from his home to Bethany’s steep steps.  Mr. Johnson carried his son up the stone barrier.  At the top, Herbie settled back into his wheelchair. 

The only place inside the church that could accommodate a wheelchair was in the back corner behind the baptismal font.    There Herbie stayed throughout the entire worship time.  He didn’t move.  During communion, the pastor and his assistant would bring communion back to him.  In retrospect, I think that the reason he didn’t move had to do with the narrowness of the side aisles and the unmovable wooden pews.  It was a beautifully designed sanctuary - just not all that friendly for folks with mobility needs like Herbie.

After church each Sunday, my Dad would take my brother and I over to visit with Herbie.  Dad would talk to him and could interpret Herbie’s speech enough to converse.  Though I was unable to do the same, I do remember Herbie’s excitement and smile when we stopped by his chair.  I also recall that my Dad had us boys shake Herbie’s hand that was bent back at a unseemly angle by the palsy.  Strange the things that you remember from childhood, but I remember those handshakes.  They were a contradiction in themselves.  When Herbie extended his hand it came at you in a stiff and unbending manner.  His whole body contorted to accomplish this gesture.  Holding his hand, however, was filled with a warmth that connected with an expanding smile.  Instead of being rigid, Herbie's smile was of the welcoming kind.  His whole face got in the effort.  There were no pretensions about it - Herbie was genuinely glad to see us.  Behind the baptismal font, love was given and received in the simplest of ways between a middle-aged man in a wheelchair and a little boy.

Decades later, I recall how these encounters in Bethany’s back corner touched the heart of my young faith.  In a setting that did not accommodate, my Dad taught me an important lesson about community and inclusion.  Shake Herbie’s hand and say good morning.  Be present and available - don’t walk by without stopping.  Take the time and share your heart. 

Light in the Trees

blog first published on September 16, 2016

Learning to paint watercolor has taught me a few unexpected things about the spiritual life.  Before heading out on my sabbatical pilgrimage, I had the good fortune of receiving a few private lessons from a local, accomplished artist.  My teacher, Jill, was gracious, patient, and had that wonderful ability of meeting me where I was to give me the tools that I needed to go further.  I remember bringing her one of my first paintings, which was accomplished via some tips I picked up on u-tube.  It came out okay but it lacked some of the true essence of a watercolor.  It was as though I had painted an acrylic or oil painting.     

Years ago, I dabbled a little (very little) in acrylics.  Thanks to Jill's instruction, I was to find out that the difference between these mediums is truly ontological.  With acrylics (and oils), you build up layers of paint.  Highlights (brush strokes of white that mimic light) are added to the top of things that you paint on the canvas.  Watercolors, on the other hand, work from light to dark.  If you want to add highlights you need to either remove paint (which is rather easy when you are working in a medium that is water soluble) or you need to leave white space from the get-go.  You can mask an area with masking fluid; this rubber-cement-type material prevents paint from adhering to the area.  Your other option is to leave areas blank.  The white of the paper becomes an important participant in the painting.   

As I was painting on a daily basis throughout the sabbatical pilgrimage, I found myself applying Jill's wisdom.    I began going lighter with my colors earlier on in the painting process.  I also started to leave more white space in my work.   

In a recent conversation with my spiritual director, I reflected upon the progress I was making with my painting.  I shared that my painting had given me a new perspective as I looked at things.  Looking out the window, I described seeing the beautiful oak and maple trees in my backyard.  I noticed the multiple shades of green and the way that the light was moving through the leaves.  Were I to paint the tree, I would need to leave white space in order to allow for the light. 

Thinking back on this conversation, I wonder about leaving space in our days for the Light of God to find expression.  How might we pay attention to not only the colors that we see but also to the places where color is absent?  What are we missing in our incessant efforts to paint, paint, paint?  How would our imagination and creativity be served if we simply started to notice and revere the light?  

My painting and my spiritual awareness continues to be a work-in-progress.  Practice is an important discipline in that it allows for us to apply the wisdom (of teachers, faithful conversation partners, and sacred words) to our living and our response.  We grow as the light comes through the leaves of our days.  Joy happens when we become aware that the light which gently caresses our moments comes as a gift from our loving God.

A Crumby Presider

The following was originally posted on January 13, 2016: 

Things get a little messy at the communion table each week at St. James.   Call me a 'crumby' presider if you will.  That's okay.  I actually delight in the fact that we could use one of those little crumb scrapers that are used in the high-end restaurants to clear the table.   Here's why...

1) Wafers are suspect when it comes to being "bread".  Let's be honest.  Communion wafers taste like cardboard (or at least that is what I imagine because I am not in the habit of eating cardboard).  I know they are the traditional preference at communion tables the world over.  I also know that: they dissolve in your mouth without any effort; they are convenient to carry to shut-ins; come in large quantities that are easily procured from all over the world; and they have a seemingly 'eternal' shelf life.   In the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America's 1998 Sacramental practices document - the preferred bread offering departed away from using these 'divine disks' towards the use of real bread.  Real bread has none of the admirable quantities of wafers.  I can't leave it in my communion kit for more than a day or so - it will become hard as a rock and green as a shamrock.  I requires more effort to provide - you either have to make a special trip to the store or bake large quantities in advance and use the freezer.  Crumbs are almost unavoidable (as least in the practice of this presider).  For all the disadvantages found in using real bread, it all seems to pale behind a simple fact - it is real.  Real bread is just like the kind that you eat elsewhere.  Real bread that tastes good and takes a little while to chew.  With reality comes inevitable messiness.   

2) Life is messy... thank God we have communion.  I don't need to provide much of an explanation here, do I?   Life is messy and broken.  Try as we may, perfection eludes our efforts.  Keeping it real requires a realization that our lives are less than what we imagine they should be or could be or will be.  I return to the meal stories of Jesus and find solace in the fact that although the Pharisees had tried to preserve the holy boundaries at all costs (and exclusions to those deemed  'unclean'), Jesus never did.  Jesus, on the other hand, shared table fellowship with sinners and tax collectors - the very broken lives that were labeled/judged 'unclean' by the religious police of the time.   Jesus engaged in the messiness of life and helped to transform it with forgiveness, grace, and love.  Think of Zacchaeus and the restoration of this broken life to communion thanks to the insistent Jesus that 'had' to eat at his house.   I am grateful for a God who loves me and comes to me in all my own messiness.  I am filled with joy that there is a place at the communion table for me.  I don't need to clean up all the mess in order to come to the table where I find a brand new invitation to life.    

3) Real Presence is, well, real.  This is the point, isn't it?  In the meal of real bread and wine, we find that God is, honest to good, present.  How?  Martin Luther used a whole bunch of prepositions to try to describe the indescribable: IN, WITH, UNDER the bread and wine.   Transcending both logic and metaphysical categories, this doesn't seem to make all that much sense.  And yet, we have the promise of Jesus that he would be there... with us, in a real and life changing way.  I will leave the systematic wrestling to others that have more of a capacity and desire for such things.  As a simple parish pastor, I don't claim (or even want to be) that smart.  That said, I have seen the life giving presence of Jesus as I distribute chunks of freshly broken bread into the open and yearning hands of God's people.  I have seen the transformation and strength that is found in the sharing of this sacred meal.  Lives are given new hope and new direction.  The lonely find that they are not alone.   Jesus is really present - and that seems to make all the difference.   In another blog, I will explore how fleeting and elusive this presence can be (see the Emmaus table in Luke 24:28-35)... but that is for another day.

So there you have it, a theological explanation for why I celebrate at our messy table each week. More important is the fact that I celebrate the God who meets us at messy tables and provides the healing strength that we need as we struggle and live in our messy world.

Can Eucharist Involve Shellfish?

The following was originally posted on March 16, 2016.  It has been edited :

The last few days we have been camping on Galveston Island, Texas.  It has been a wonderful and refreshing time.  To hear the waves roll throughout the day/night about 100 yards from our campsite is restorative.  Flying kites on the Gulf shore breezes have allowed our imaginations to soar.  Biking on the sea wall has been a fun way of getting around town on our own power. 

On the first afternoon of our camping, a stranger came to our site.  He actually startled me at first because he awoke me from a little snooze that I was entertaining.  His intentions were neighborly as he wanted to share some extra crawfish that he had boiled up.   I had crawfish some years ago but I couldn't remember how they tasted.  I know that the rest of my family had not tried them.

With a bowl in hand, this crawfish neophyte headed toward the stranger's picnic table.  As I arrived I noticed that he had a group of people sitting around the table with mounds of crawfish debris everywhere.  In the center was a large tub filled with piping hot crawfish.  With a smile, the stranger took my bowl and put in two large scoops of crawfish.  He then proceeded to give me directions on how to eat this delectable.     

After I shared my thanks for his generousity, I headed back to my own campsite to share this shellfish gift with my family.  A line of folks, with bowls in hand, had formed at the stranger's site.  I could hear the stranger's joy as he scooped out crawfish and was making friends.

One Pair of Footprints

The following was originally posted on July 19, 2016. It has been edited.

 

I have long admired the poem, "Footprints."  This popular devotional recalls how a person looks back at their life with God and sees two sets of footprints in the sand where they walked side by side.  However, at one point it is noticed that there is only one set of footprints.  This raises concern until God points out that the one set of footprints bears testimony to God's carrying during the difficult times.  Nice.  It hopes onto and lifts up an important faith claim - God remains with us throughout all of life.  Good and bad.  Further, God carries us when we lack the strength to make footprints of our own.

The other morning, I was walking along the beach.  I was by myself and I noticed how cool the wet sand felt underneath my bare feet.  With each step I could feel a slight suction as the sand with futile effort tried to capture my feet.  The Pacific Ocean had already wiped the beach clean of all evidence of any other travelers.  I walked along an untouched beach and left my meager mark.  As far as I could look back and see where I had walked there was only one pair of footprints.

I thought to myself, "Wait.  There should be two sets of prints!"  The physical evidence of my presence pointed to a reality over looked by the poem.  As we travel on "terra firma" there is only one set of footprints that are left behind.  Unless, of course, we hold someone else's hand.  This is not to deny God's presence.  God's presence is near, ahead, behind, aside, and even within (with each "pneuma/spirit-rich" breath).  God accompanies, carries, and even prods us along the way.  That said, if we decide to walk along life's beach "just God and me" then something will be missed.  There will be only one step of footprints.

At the risk of inciting anger and indignation for challenging our beloved piety, I wonder if the "Footprints" poem sidetracks us.  If we take the biblical witness into account and assign it greater value than our popular devotion, then we need to address poetic oversight.  We were created to be in COMMUNITY.  According to Genesis 2:18, God's intention was that we were never to walk alone.  God desires that along our life's journey there would be at least two sets of footprints! 

It is time that we set aside our individual-centric religiosity.  This life that we have been gifted to live is meant to be lived with others.  Our guiding metaphors for living our lives of faith would better serve us if they departed from the "Jesus and me against the world as we walk that lonesome valley" mentality.  What if we began to include the created-intention of living life in relationship with others when we contemplate our faith walk? 

I'm not saying that we forego solitude.  As one who is an introverted processor, I need times when I am all by myself in order to think things through and refresh.  In those times when I am apart and by myself, I remain in community and relationship with others.  Desert monastic orders understood this truth.  If we are to stay true to our created selves, then we maintain a connection to community. 

The problem that I see with 'Me and Jesus' is that ultimately it deteriorates to a 'Me and ME' zeal.  We create (and judge) a way of spiritual travel that flows unchecked in the direction of our own desires.  God becomes relegated to our own fabrication.  Without the encouragement, presence, and even correction of others, we are destined to traverse down a path that ultimately is more a reflection of ourselves than it is of God; a lonely path to be sure.

The Eucharistic table can offer a good correction.  When we come to celebrate with thanksgiving at this table (or we drag our tired and worn bodies regardless) we encounter God's vision for our life.  We encounter others who, like ourselves, are hungry from the journey.  We find an invitation to participate in a community of fellow travelers... To add our unique footprints alongside the beautiful footprints of others.  After we leave the table, we ought to be able to look back and see the marks of travel of those with whom we have shared a common meal.  Footprints large and small, heading into a variety of directions.  We are not alone in our lives.  God walks with us (plural).  Thanks be to God!

Obscured Giant

This blog was originally published on August 17, 2016

Picture taken of the summit of Mt. Rainer as clouds clear. 

How do you hide a mountain, a very BIG mountain with glaciers crowning the summit?  Is such a thing even possible?  At Mt. Rainer, National Park, I found out the answer. 

Against a blue sky, Rainer was majestic in every sense of the word.  Following along the highway on the way to the visitor's center, which was designed almost a century ago to offer summit views at every turn, we were awe struck.  When we arrived at the parking lot, we quickly headed into the center as we were anxious to get in before it closed.  Heading into the building I recall thinking - the mountain will be here when we come out. 

Though new and modern, the facility was about what you'd expect from your standard National Park visitor center.  It had the introduction movie with amazing photography showing the park in all seasons narrated in a clear and calm voice (hint: these movies are great for a twenty minute nap).  There were a few exhibits and placards trying to explain complicated geological forces, an information desk staffed by Rangers, and a gift shop.  An hour later we headed back out to spend some time with the mountain.

Trouble was, however, that the mountain was gone!  Mt. Rainer went missing...

Back to my opening question: How do you hide a mountain? 

Answer: You hide a mountain by obscuring vision.  Dense clouds.  Mount Rainer is so massive that it influences its own weather.  Clouds obey the unspoken desires of the sleeping giant.  Often the mountain wishes to remain unseen.  Some visitors to Rainer are never able to see the summit.  What is more, the clouds can hover around the mountain for days. 

Looking into the thick cover - straining for a craggy glimpse - I was amazed again by this giant.  To be so prominent and visible one moment and to vanish within an hour's time.  I felt like I had just witnessed the work of a wizened sorcerer.  I also began to think, if a mountain could be hidden within a short period, what else could be obscured from our sight?  I began to drift into metaphorical space...

The ancient prophet Isaiah has a vision of a mountain scene where all the people of the world will come and gather for a feast that has no rival (Isaiah 25:6-9).  God hosts the party and provides fine wine and rich foods.  All are welcome.  This vision that God has is rock solid and figures prominently in the life of Jesus.  This mountain banquet is remembered by Jesus as he tells the parable of the King who hosts a mighty banquet and insists that even the poor are compelled to attend.  Despite how large God's abundant, inclusive, and open feast figures in scripture, over the years it has been obscured by narrow-focused, exclusive Christianity.  You might ask, how can this be the case? 

God's beautiful mountain is obscured by the clouds of our fear, prejudice, and our lack of contact with those who are different from ourselves.  Looking at the clouds, we can't conceive that a place would exist where all would be welcomed by the Creator of all life.  Our judgment of others (their moral and character deficiencies), their cultural practices that we label "strange", threatening orientations and political ideologies...all these things are reflected back to us.  We miss the mountain for the many clouds.  Sadly, we name our clouds divine and defend our obscured view as 'the only way'.  We will use scripture, of course, to sanction our traditions, biases, and practices on this side of the clouds.  Nevertheless God's dream remains obscured from view. 

Back to Mt. Rainer.  Eventually, the clouds parted, an I was given a glimpse of the summit.  Fortunately, on the subsequent days to follow I was gifted with seeing Rainer again in all of its glory.  It is truly a wonder to see the glacier topped summit against a deep blue sky.   

One of the ways that God's Spirit is active in this world is the parting and clearing of the clouds that hide God's dream from view.  Glimpses of the God's dream are caught from time to time. In many and courageous ways, whenever people come together to feast and share in a diversity of perspectives, lifestyles, cultures, languages, and life the clouds are pushed to the side.  It is something to celebrate for people of all different kinds of faith.  These are good vistas and they give us hope as we continue to live on this side of the clouds.  Make no mistake, though, there will be a day when we will see clearly - and the vista will be truly awesome.  On that day we will rejoice in God's dream:

  On this mountain the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples

a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines,

of rich food filled with marrow, of well-aged wines strained clear.

And he will destroy on this mountain

the shroud that is cast over all peoples,

the sheet that is spread over all nations;

he will swallow up death forever.

Then the Lord God will wipe away the tears from all faces,

and the disgrace of his people he will take away from all the earth,

for the Lord has spoken.

It will be said on that day,

Lo, this is our God; we have waited for him, so that he might save us.

This is the Lord for whom we have waited;

let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation.

For the hand of the Lord will rest on this mountain.  Isaiah 25:6-9

Sole Prayer

blog first published on October 21, 2016

My daily prayer practice has recently involved using a shoe.  Let me explain.  

Since returning from my sabbatical, I have been using my prayer bench in my study at church.  I close my study door, spread out a prayer rug that I made from remnants from my green chasuble, light an incense cone, and make ready my prayer bench.  Before kneeling, I remove my shoes.  This simple gesture helps to focus my attention on the sacredness of the moment into which I am entering with my silent prayer.  When I finish praying, in the incense-sweet aroma of the room, I sit in my rocking chair and get ready to put on my shoes again.  With shoe in hand, I pause for one more prayer - a shoe prayer.

It all began rather spontaneously one morning.   I recall that I was in the office extra early that day.  It was going to be a busy day and I was about to head in all points of the compass.   As one who is prone to sharing blessings on a variety of objects - asking for God's extraordinary presence among the ordinary things of our lives - I thought, "I should be blessing these shoes!"   Why not?  What followed was a simple prayer asking for God to bless my soles and to be present with me throughout my busy day.  

My shoe prayer and blessing ritual began as an unexpected blessing in of itself.

Now, each day, before I leave my prayer time, I hold my well-worn shoes in my hands and pause.  I think about all the places where my shoes might travel in the next few hours.  Pastors have schedules that are literally "all over the place".   From hospitals to nursery rooms, from home visitations to coffee shops, from classrooms to deathbeds, from travel around the synod to heading back to church for evening meetings, from sanctuaries to fellowship halls...   the shoes of a pastor do not follow a regular pattern within any given twenty four hours.   What is more, the travel is often unpredictable as we are called from one place to another with little warning or preparation.  The pace and diversity of varied destinations is part of what I love and cherish about this calling.   I truly like being 'on my feet' and taking 'side trips' while heading in the direction of sharing God's love.  

Delving into the realm of metaphor, I not only think the places that I go but also the manner of my traveling steps.   There are times when bold steps with confidence are needed.  There are other times when it is better to step carefully and with great sensitivity.   Building upon the wisdom of Ecclesiastes 3 - the many seasons and times in life, require different steps (and different footwear for that matter!)  Times of joy - dance.  Times of sorrow - solemnity.  Times to break down - stomp.  Times to build up - climb.  There are times when we must humbly retrace our steps and pause while we ask for forgiveness.  Some of our walking is down familiar and well- worn carpets and some paths require trailblazing for there are simply no markers to help out.   Sometimes our feet need to stop and we need to stand in the moment.   Or we need to sit down and take the load off our feet!

The practice of offering a shoe prayer is not one that needs to be reserved for pastors.  After all, clergy or not, we each travel our own day's journeys that involve similar struggles, joys, challenges, conflicts.   To walk and journey onward down varied roads/paths is the need of all humans -a part of our created and common existence.  Questions arise....  How will we walk?   What is the nature of our steps?  Will we venture forth in good courage or will we find ourselves stopped in our tracks?  Will we run our proverbial race with enthusiasm or drag our feet?  These questions remain open and before us all at the start of our day.  

What would it be like for us all to take the opportunity that putting on our shoes (sneakers, hiking boots, ballet shoes, Crocs, etc.) affords?  What if we were to ask for God's blessing as we put soles on our feet?   Take a moment.  Breathe.  Consider.  Ask for the strength, wisdom, courage, and humility needed for all that follows.  Trust in God who walks ahead, behind, and beside.  Try it out.  See if it works for you as it has for me...  

Thank you for reading this blog.  If it was helpful, please like it below or leave a comment.   I appreciate all feedback received.  In Christ, Walt.

Beside a Rapid Flowing Stream

The following was originally posted on August 10, 2016.  It has been edited: 

I took this picture near our campground in Mount Rainier, National Park, WA.    

On a small hike from the Cougar Rock Campground in Mt. Rainer National Park, I stopped beside a stream to pray.  There I followed a worn ritual.  I set my smart phone timer for ten minutes. I closed my eyes and began to focus on my breathing.  Deep breath in.  Deep breath out.  Live into the breath.  Clear mind of random thoughts.  Enter into a prayerful space where connections are made and peace is found.  That is my ritual and it has been a source of blessing for me as I have journeyed not only in the steps of this pilgrimage but also for the past few years.  Eight or nine times out of ten, I find myself called out of this restive state by my phone, which helps to keep track of the time so I don't have to worry about it. 

Contrary to what I expected, along the banks of a picturesque setting was not one of these times.  The sound of rushing water was too compelling and disturbing.  No matter how hard I tried to focus on my breathing; no matter how intently I sought to settle into the moment; no matter were my efforts to focus using a mantra.  Nothing worked.  I simply couldn't rest into any internal rhythm.  There was no peace to be found within and I heard the pounding cadence of water moving across well-beaten stones.  Somewhere in the midst of trying to establish serenity, I felt the light touch of sun on my face... A gentle pat that was to say, "It's okay. Let go of your prayerful efforts.  Open your eyes.  Go with this flow." 

So I opened my eyes and looked at the grayish, murky water that was rapidly pushing downstream from the mountain glaciers.  Mesmerized by the sheer force and flow, I found myself drawn away from peace and solitude.  Turbulence and tumult were my new prayer partners.  They disturbed and invited me to enter into the very chaos of creation.  Creative forces are active in the strong flow of murky water that carries silt, rocks, and logs in the direction of gravity's lure.  There is a great energy to be experienced in such things.  Resisting such energy in favor of a sanitized quiet would be draining and ultimately futile. 

So I allowed myself to be taken metaphorically downstream.  I delighted in the sun's rays as they glistened on the water-pounded stones.  I imagined being able to see the hard stones made smooth by the agency of this choppy water.  I wondered about whence they came and how far they would yet travel courtesy of the glacial slurry.  What if we were to delight in the active and abrupt forces of creation as much as we enjoyed the calm and serene nature of a peaceful setting?  What if our prayers were inspired by rushing rather than trickling water?  What if we were to think of God as a rushing stream that carries us along and changes forever our lives and our surroundings along the way with a creative power that we can't even comprehend?  What if we are meant to enter turbulent rapids with a trust that they will take us to a new place instead of sitting atop safe rocks? 

Broken Bodies, Open to the Heavens

This blog was first published on February 8, 2017

This picture was taken inside, looking out, the second sanctuary built at Gran Quivira, New Mexico.  

Salinas Pueblos National Monument is a little off the beaten path, but in our summer wanderings through the Southwest, we found it worth the trip.  This monument, located around Mountainair, New Mexico, is a combination of three separate ruins left by the early Spanish conquest of the area.  Although driving between all the sites will take a couple of hours, you can walk through the remains of ancient Christian sanctuaries at each of the areas: Gran Quivira, Quarai, and Abo.  Close by you can also witness the pueblo ruins of indigenous people of the area.  For a time, these two cultures inhabited the same land and interacted with each other.  Exploring the power dynamics of this relationship might prove fruitful, but it will have to wait for another day.  Instead, I am thinking today of ruins and broken bodies.

Perhaps this is because I began this reflection over two months ago as I was preparing for a regularly scheduled colonoscopy [note: everything is fine].    There is an awkwardness surrounding colonoscopies.  Anything involving tests, procedures, probing, examination, and exposing the southern half of our bodies tends to head in that direction.  There is an undeniable vulnerability that I've experienced since my colitis diagnosis fifteen years or so ago.  Whether it is the occasional flare-up, periodic examination, blood work, or regularly scheduled colonoscopy, I find myself torn between a sense of gratitude for the medical attention/treatment that I have received and a sense of betrayal from my body.  I have learned that I can't deny the fact that I am a broken creation.  With that brokenness comes frustration, loneliness, borderline despair, and occasional resignation to the powers and principalities beyond my control.   

In this place, I find myself connected to others who are hurting.  Let me be clear; I don't pretend to understand the fullness of the broken body struggles of others.  My colitis has taught me better than to be that presumptuous.  Unless you have traveled down the road of particular acute and chronic conditions, you can't know the actual nature of that unique journey.  Each of our struggles has a component that is unique and known only to us.  This reality contributes a loneliness to the pain as even our closest family members can't know the fullness of what we are experiencing.   

There is, however, some things that we can say about brokenness that is universal.  Broken body living involves vulnerability and a sense of powerlessness.  We hurt in mind and spirit when our bodies no longer work the way that used to ought to function.  Depression, loneliness, and despair might take up new or expanded residences within our being.  Walking through the ruins of Salinas Pueblos Missions, you see only the piles of stones that constitute the remnants of walls.  Roof-less these ruins are open to the elements and to further erosion. Gone also are the festive decorations that hung in sacred spaces and domestic dwellings.  The ruins at Salinas bear witness to a sad truth: once we lose something, it is gone and not returning.  The pueblos and missions that once were present in the Salinas area are now gone to history.  Even if the National Park Service were to reconstruct the buildings - the community that lived and prayed in that space would be no more.  Broken body living is ultimately left to grieve what has been lost.  In that place, we mourn and yearn for something new to emerge.

Inspired by faith, let us turn to the yearning piece.  Walking among the ruins in New Mexico, I saw the evidence of where a community once gathered to interact with each other and with God.  In these ancient and now vacant spaces, broken bodies came together and shared life.  Only weeds and wind occupy the places where there were once conversations, personalities, troubles, and dreams.  The outer shells of these buildings now open to the sky.  And the sky remains untouched by the ages.  

On the day of our stroll, the heavens were filled with promise.  A cerulean blue canopy, with wispy clouds, covered us.  My eucharistic imagination got the best of me.  We are not alone.  There is a presence that is as real as the things that we build with stones and mortar.  This real presence is available to broken bodies and dreams.  It lives among the weeds and is carried by the wind.  "Come," it beckons all who are hurting and weary.  "Come, live in me!" 

It is the same invitation that we share when we break bread, and we share in the cup.  Christ's body is given and received in the midst of broken lives.  In a ruined state of crumbled stones, Christian community enters into the mystery of Christ's resurrected body.  Entering this mystery, we find that our buildings or our carefully constructed doctrines cannot contain Christ's resurrected body.  It is a process that is ongoing, a journey without out end.  Along the way, however, we discover glimpses of the peace that passes all understanding touches the depths of our souls and has the audacity to heal our lives broken.  Along the way, something happens that is better than the reconstruction of the rubble - resurrection of our whole lives to new life.  That is our hope that opens to the sky, to the cup, to the mystery of it all.

Thanks for reading this blog.  Feel free to leave comments or "like it" below.  It would also be appreciated if you were to share it with friends on Facebook.  Thank you for helping me to share my writing with others.  In the Resurrected Body of Christ,  Walt

Holy Dirt

This blog was first published on February 22, 2017

In the village of Chimayo, nestled high in the northeastern mountains of New Mexico, there is a shrine that pilgrims have journeyed to for hundreds of years.  A small chapel sits in the center of the vast Christian complex; A sort of Disneyland for the faithful, minus the rides and costumed rodent.  There are a variety of buildings that house testimonials of those who trekked to this 'off-the-beaten-path' sort of place.  They came seeking healing and wholeness in a world that is sorely missing these needed attributes.  Some came bringing their crutches and ailments, which they miraculously left behind!

It was these stories that attracted this believer.  I came to see the 'crutch room' of the shrine.  I went to receive the 'holy dirt' that is credited to have miraculous powers.  In a world where such things are discredited, labeled as 'superstitious,' and then dismissed out of hand, I yearned to see for myself what mysteries Chimayo contained. 

As soon as I walked onto the property, I sensed that this was a special place, a holy place.  There was a peace that passed my rationale explanations.  As I walked through the shrine, I passed alcove upon alcove filled with the worn photographs of loved ones.  Here was a place where you brought your fondest hopes for the ones that are dearest.   I could just imagine the faithful with trembling hands as they pinned the photo to the wall, praying for things that the mind knew were impossible.  Like a moth drawn to a bright light, I found myself being drawn past the displays of foreign piety to the center chapel.  A silence overcame the multiple visitors as we shuffled through the 'crutch room' to the small door in the rear of the chapel. 

Although I'm of average height, I had to duck to enter the tiny room, which contained a sand pit in the center.  There you could fill containers of 'holy dirt' (Luckily the gift shop sold containers; I bought a hand painted clay jar).  Holding in my hand the fine sand, I noted its ordinary nature.  What was it about this dirt and this place that was so special?

I contemplated these questions as I made my way out of the chapel, passing the grotesque crucifix fastened to the stucco wall.  Here was clearly a place where both Jesus and his faithful followers were accustomed to suffering.  As I passed a small church office, I saw an official 'disclaimer' from the local diocese.  It proclaimed that the dirt wasn't magical, it was procured by the janitor who went to the local hillside with a bucket.  Instead of magic, the broadside gave credit for all healing to the grace of God.  God was the healer who brought transformation to the lives of the faithful who came with a prayerful posture yearning for healing.  Found in this place was not the transactional but rather the relational.  Those who came did so trusting in the relationship that they had with the crucified Christ.  They came with all their ailments to honor the one who shares their suffering on a cross. 

I left this holy place full of a sense of mystery.  Even though I couldn't explain what I had experienced at the shrine, I have come to the realization that my explanations or judgments don't matter.  Trust,  Faith, and seeking God's healing are the things that are important.  These are things that enter into divine mystery.  These are the things that live at Chimayo, alongside the donated crutches that no longer have a use. 

Thank you for reading this weekly blog.  If today's reflection was helpful, please 'like it' or leave a comment below or feel free to share it with others.  I appreciate your help in extending my writing to as large an audience as possible.  In the Resurrected Body of Christ,  Walt.