Choose Well

Yesterday, February 17,  would have been my mother’s 87^th birthday had she not died nearly 30 years ago of a heart attack. It is odd to think that my mother has been gone for half my life. I think of all the things she missed: grandkids’ births and confirmations and ball games and graduations and weddings and becoming parents themselves. I think of how she never experienced cell phones or laptops or tablets. I think she would have little use for the first two but I think she would have loved to have a tablet on which she could download library books at any time of the day or night—Mom was a voracious reader. I think of all the advances in medical science that have come in the past generation-and-a-half, which may have been of benefit to the patients she cared for as a nurse. And I wonder if some of those medical advances could have helped prolong her life—or maybe not.

I’ve shared this so many times that if you’ve heard it before, please bear with me. When I was a fairly new pastor, a wise man—who was dying— told me that we all have to die of something and we don’t get to choose. I have pondered that wisdom for almost 20 years, and its abiding truth that we nearly always die of something not of our choosing—whether it is an accident or a disease or an addiction or a sudden, massive heart attack for which there were no prior symptoms.

For some, coming to this reality might lead them to try to do all the things they think they want to do before death seeks them out. Perhaps they might travel to exotic places or change careers or move to their dream home. I think those may be wonderful ideas for some, but not always financially possible or logistically reasonable for most of us.

In the case of my wise parishioner-friend, his cancer was so far gone when he was diagnosed that even if he’d wanted to do the more exotic things, he could not have. Instead, he used his final months to become more kind, more gentle, more merciful, more compassionate towards those around him: his family, his friends, his caregivers, his pastor. He was already a very good man, but as he faced the end of his earthly existence, he chose to spend his final days becoming more like Christ.

That’s always a good choice, of course—to become more like Christ—even when we are not dying. But it’s very tempting to think that we’ll always have tomorrow to forgive someone or repair a relationship or spend more time with our families or sit and look at the clouds for no reason other than clouds are beautiful.

One day, perhaps when we least expect it, we will have no more tomorrows. So why wait? Why not seek to forgive today, to act with compassion today, to show kindness today, to look at the clouds today? Why not seek to love our family and friends even more fully today? They deserve it. You deserve it. And then you will not need to worry about tomorrow for you have chosen today to be like Christ.

Happy birthday, Mom. I still miss you.

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Memory Man

We all do it. We walk into a room and forget why we went there. It happens to me fairly often. I get up with every intention of doing something or getting something and by the time I’m there, my purpose has evaporated into the ether. Sometimes if I go back to where I started, I will see something that will trigger the memory of what I was trying do. However, this doesn’t always happen. And sometimes I remember what I wanted to do when it’s too late to do it or I’ve left the building where I was supposed to do it. Forgetting things makes me very frustrated with myself.

I’m currently reading a book called Memory Man by David Baldacci. It’s a murder mystery in which the lead character, Amos Decker, has an infallible memory. Amos had been a police officer but due to a tragedy (I won’t tell you and spoil the book for you), is no longer serving in that capacity. Yet because of his remarkable ability to see and remember obscure things, he becomes a consultant for the police department for which he once worked.

Amos didn’t always have this ability. Apparently a head injury (again, I won’t go into details and spoil it for you) activated a part of his brain to which most of us never have access. Mostly he has hidden his ability, and everyone just thinks he’s an extraordinarily smart and observant fellow.

I wonder…what would it be like to remember absolutely EVERYTHING that ever happened to you? What would it be like to read a book and remember not only what you read, but the page number of the book and the day that you read it? What would it be like to remember every detail of the best day of your life? What would it be like to remember every detail of the worst day of your life? What would it be like never to  forget things you really would like to forget?

Many of you probably have or had a family member with dementia or Alzheimer’s. These conditions gradually strip away all the memories of a lifetime, so that person loses the ability to know how to hold a spoon or tie a shoe or speak coherently. Ultimately, they forget who they are. It’s a terrible thing to watch someone forgetting their own life. I imagine it is a sort of hell for the one who is disappearing and perhaps even more so for the ones who must watch them go.

But to remember everything forever—that would be its own sort of hell, I think. I cannot imagine that any one of us would desire to remember everything. I think the memories of the bad stuff in our lives would cause us such emotional pain that we would finally go mad—or become psychopaths who refuse to feel any pain.

For most of us, I think forgetting is the brain’s natural way to make the bad stuff hurt less and the good stuff to be wrapped in a fuzzy warm haze, untouched by reality. Selective forgetting leaves us free to reshape some of that less pleasant stuff into manageable memories that have softer edges and less power to hurt. I think that’s probably best for most of us most of the time. It makes life a bit more bearable, I think.

By contrast, God never forgets. God never forgets us. God’s memories of us are clear and sharp and untainted by warm fuzzy hazes or convenient reshapings of the past. Knowing the breadth of God’s memory might make us cringe in shame for our failures and our sins. And yet time and again, Jesus promised that God forgives us even those things for which we may not able to forgive ourselves. God remembers and God forgives. It is the best of all possibilities: A God who never forgets and who always forgives.

For my part, I don’t envy Memory Man his ability. I find myself feeling a bit sorry for this Amos character and grateful that my memory is what it is—regardless of that irritating forgetfulness I mentioned above. And every day I am grateful for a Creator who always remembers me and who always shows me love and mercy.

Stragglers

It’s been a long time since I posted. Hopefully that was a quirk.

A couple of days ago, I saw a flock of large birds—not sure what sort—flocking. You know, they were flying in various patterns, back and forth, probably following wind currents. As is typical with flocks of birds, they changed directions in unison, as though one mind was directing them all. They were functioning as a single unit instead of a bunch of individual birds.

Then I noticed two other birds trying to catch up with the group. They were consistently out of sync, however, so in the time that I was watching, they never got into the group’s rhythm. The two flew too far to one side, then too far behind, then they turned in the wrong direction. Just when it seemed they were about to join the group, the flock would change direction and the two stragglers would be left behind again.

It was almost as if the flock was rejecting them, although I know this is anthropomorphizing birds—assigning human qualities where none exist. I doubt that flocks of birds have admission criteria or carry grudges.

Maybe the two laggards were injured—or were young and still learning the rhythm of the flight. Maybe they were newcomers trying to fit in. Or maybe they were just bad fliers. Not knowing much about birds, I have no idea what might have been going on. I just remember looking at those two stragglers and thinking they were like lost souls trying to find their way home.

We all know what that feels like: to be left out, left behind, or simply left. We all know what it is like to be out of sync or inexperienced or the “new guy.” And sometimes we just don’t measure up to expectations—we are simply bad at fitting in or finding our way.

What helps us to get over this feeling of left-ness? The kindness of others; the compassion of friends and loved ones; the forgiveness of our shortcomings and faults; the willingness of others to make space for us.

And because we ALL know what it feels like to be those left-behind stragglers, it seems fitting that when we see others who are struggling to catch up, that we make space for them, forgive them their failings, and show them compassion and kindness—the very things that help bring us into the fold when we are lagging behind.

This holy season, what people is God putting your path and inviting you to welcome into the flock? Look closely: I’m sure you’ll see someone who needs help finding their way. And when you figure out who it is, be Jesus to them.

Sooner or Later

A Dakota Plain

Sooner or later everyone comes home.

I read that line in a mystery novel last week. Even though it was spoken by a detective about a murder suspect returning to the scene of the crime, the truth of it struck home for me.

When I was 18, I couldn’t wait to leave my hometown of Tiffin, Ohio to move to the big city of Columbus to attend college. I lived in Columbus for 20 years. After seminary, I asked to be sent out west. The bishops, in their wisdom, sent me as far west as northeast Indiana. I lived there for 10 great years. Then the Spirit called me to Perrysburg, outside Toledo, Ohio and suddenly I found myself only an hour away from my hometown. Now I am less than an hour away from my hometown, serving in Norwalk, Ohio, a small city very much like where I grew up. Over the past 40 years, I made a little circle, winding up pretty much right back where I started. And you know what? It’s OK.

Sooner or later everyone comes home.

Here’s why it’s OK that I’m back home: home is a place where you know the people. Even though I knew no one in Norwalk before I came, I knew who they were. I knew how they thought, how their lives went, and what was important to them. I knew this because they are the very people who shaped the early years of my life which prepared me for ministry.

And I know the landscape of this place—not just the physical landscape, but the spiritual and emotional landscape. It’s my landscape too. Even with all those years of city living, the landscapes of this part of Ohio are deeply ingrained in my being and continue to shape the person that I am today.

Sooner or later everyone comes home.

Theologian Kathleen Norris wrote an excellent book entitled Dakota, in which she talked about our spiritual landscapes and how the geography in which we live shapes us in profound ways. As someone who grew up in western North Dakota, she was shaped by the unique beauty and emptiness-that-is-not-empty which is the American plains. No matter where she went or lived, the plains were always home. (I commend her book to you.)

Sooner or later everyone comes home.

Often, people come home when they die. I have spoken that line at many a funeral: that so-and-so came home to this town/this church/this people. There’s something so compelling about home that even someone who has lived the majority of their life somewhere else will often want to come home to be buried. I suppose that’s the “later” part of “sooner or later.”

Sooner or later everyone comes home.

And of course, as people of faith, we trust that one day we will all be home with God. I don’t agree with theology that says our “true” home is with God: that belittles and ignores the importance of the earthly homes that so deeply shape our lives. But I do believe that our ultimate home will be when we return to the One who created us out of love and who will welcome us back into the fullness of that love when our earthly lives end.

Until that time, I invite you to consider how your spirit/soul/being was shaped by your home—good or bad—and to consider what home means for you. Because, sooner or later, everyone comes home.

 

A-maze-d

Last Sunday some of us from St. Peter went to Brasee’s Corn Maze and Pumpkin Patch in Wellington. There were some kid-friendly games, a hay ride around the property, a few greedy goats and other animals to feed, and several mazes, including a small corn maze, a large corn maze, and a crawl-your-way-through-a-pitch-black-hay-bale maze in the barn.

The crawl-your-way-through maze was an immediate “no” for me. I do not like enclosed spaces and crawling around in the dark with strangers before or aft does NOT appeal to me. The kids loved it though.

I thought I would try the corn maze. The big one. My first corn maze, if I’m being truthful. I followed of the heels of a couple of our teens, but about 10 or 15 minutes in, when it was apparent we were lost, I separated from them and eventually found my way out—out the entrance, that is. That was OK with me. 20 minutes of wandering around a muddy corn maze was enough.

A bit later, a larger group from our church decided to go into the big maze. I took a deep breath and went with them. We wandered and wandered. About 15 minutes in, we found some more St. Peter folks who were also lost in the maze and we joined forces. They’d already been at it for at least 30 minutes and their frustration was showing. As a large group, we tramped around for a while, laughing and enjoying our time together. One of our younger members kept saying “At least we are lost together.” Good theology, I thought.

However, after we’d been at it about 40 minutes, we were getting anxious. Our scheduled hayride time was fast approaching, and we needed to get to the pick-up spot. A large part of our group—including the folks who’d been in the maze much longer than me—decided to head through the corn to the edge of the field and forget about the maze. And that’s what they did: went out the side and walked around the outside edge of the field.

The rest of us followed the instructions of a group member who said we should keep turning right in the maze. We hit a few dead ends but using her instructions, we actually found our way to the exit—the correct exit, not the entrance I’d used the first time or the self-made exit of the rest of the group. And everyone made it to the hayride pick-up spot in time.

I confess I didn’t much like the maze. I didn’t like feeling lost and out of control. I did enjoy the companionship and there were lots of laughs and groans as we slip-slided through the mud and standing water. But I kept wishing that the farmer would have given us some clues—a map or flags at the entrance and exit—something to give a reference point. Alas, there was no such assistance.

What a great analogy for life—and for the life of faith too! Even when the path is clear and well-marked, it’s often hard to tell if it’s the right path or a dead end or one that will lead us the wrong direction. Even as we made directional choices, we didn’t always know what we were doing. Mostly we were making our best guess and hoping it turned out.

A couple of members of our group showed both initiative and wisdom. One decided to get off the path entirely and forge a new way. That worked for them, even if it meant the going was more difficult and that they had to walk the long way around to their destination.

The other member of the group used knowledge she’d gleaned in the past and she persisted in walking the maze, making turns based on her prior experience. Her choices were not always correct, but she was accurate more often than not. And thanks to her knowledge and our willingness to trust in her greater experience, we eventually found our way out.

I don’t think I have to say much more. You’ve got the analogy by now. Sometimes we have to forge a new way and sometimes we just have to be persistent and trust in someone who has greater knowledge or experience than us. Both ways led to the same end point, just using different routes.

And even though we were at times frustrated and even maybe a bit anxious about being lost, it was SO much better to be lost together. We were able to encourage each other and pool our shared resources to get to the right destination. That’s why we are church. It’s too hard and confusing to walk the path of faith alone.

And of course, as people of faith, we trust that no matter what bad turns we make, no matter if we must forge a new way or patiently walk the path before us, no matter how muddy or frustrated we get, we never walk alone. God is always present to encourage and sustain us and maybe even to laugh a bit when we turn into yet another dead end or fall into another puddle. To rephrase my young parishioner: At least we are lost with God.

I did not really enjoy my time in the corn maze. I don’t plan on doing it again any time soon. And when I DO try it again, I’ll make sure I don’t do it alone.

Violence Begets Violence

This week on the Today Show, they have been talking about a recent major study that documents the negative effects of screen time on children. Part of the study revealed that children who play violent video games are more likely to act violently towards others.

Duh.

I could have told them that without spending however many millions of dollars on a study. (Although I do understand the importance and value of documenting and quantifying results.) Anything that we consume with our minds has the power affect our behavior. For example, it has long been known that pornography affects the way people act sexually. People who act in sexually deviant ways (child molesters, rapists, etc.) are nearly always consumers of pornography. Nobody is surprised to discover that a rapist has pornographic materials that depict rape fantasies. It’s a connection that makes perfectly rational sense.

The purpose of this new study was to clarify if violent video games CAUSE violent behavior, rather than serve as a harmless outlet for violent tendencies that already exist—which is the perspective of many gamers and game developers. I say potato, you say potato. Surely the correct answer is that it’s both.

Human beings have violent tendencies. This is part of our hard-wiring. If we feel threatened or are protecting love ones, even the most benevolent of us is capable of violent behavior. Violent tendencies can also be increased by childhood experiences of violence.

But regardless of genetics or childhood experiences, when we choose to experience or participate in explicitly-violent activities, we are also shaping our minds and our behaviors. Even when we know that a game is “pretend,” I firmly believe that what we consume with our minds affects us as much as the food we consume with our bodies. We are what we eat.

When we are talking about the minds of children, the effects of such consumption (body and mind) is substantially increased. Just as the food children eat profoundly affects their physical development, so do emotional and mental experiences affect the development of their minds, egos and self-esteem. Of course violent games shape children’s minds in ways that lead them to practice violence in their own lives. The games teach these malleable minds that if you don’t like someone, violence towards that person will “fix” the situation.

But it’s not just true for children. As adults, our personalities are already mostly formed, so what we feed our minds and spirits may affect us less profoundly than it would a still-developing child. Yet it is still true that if we “consume” violence or pornography or hate-based rhetoric, we do damage to our spirits, to  our sense of self, and to our view of the world. While some may argue that violent games are a release for them, I would suggest that’s only half the story and that violence experienced in any form shapes character and affects future behavior. We are—or we become—what we eat.

And now we have some proof.

So who do you want to be in the world? What sort of person is God calling you to become? After you decide this, then choose activities and actions that will help create and nurture that person. Mahatma Gandhi famously said: “Be the change you want to see in the world.” Or as Ann less-famously paraphrased: “Be the person that you want to be in the world.”

Kohlrabi

I ate a kohlrabi for the first time recently. I’ve heard of them—even seen them in stores—but never eaten one. I got the kohlrabi as part of my farm share. I bought into a Community Supported Agriculture farm from which I get a weekly bag of vegetables. (You can check out my CSA here or go to funacres.net.) Before the season begins, one can choose which vegetables you like. I had decided to be a bit adventurous and checked “Like” next to veggies and fresh herbs with which I do not have much experience—such as Swiss chard, dill, and kohlrabi.

Thanks to the internet, I learned that kohlrabi are also called “German turnips” and that the name kohlrabi means “cabbage turnip.” However, the kohlrabi is not part of the turnip family. Instead, it belongs to the same plant family as broccoli, cabbage and Brussel sprouts. Both the bulb and the leaves are edible. The internet had a lot of recipes for preparing kohlrabi and the one I tried turned out quite well.

I’m not a terribly adventurous eater most of the time. I tend to find things I like and stick with them. But occasionally, I feel daring and eat something completely new. Sometimes it works out and sometimes I wished I stayed with the tried and true.

I’m presently reading a book on Christian leadership called Canoeing Up the Mountains: Christian Leadership in Uncharted Territory by Tod Bolsinger. I’m only a few chapters in, but already I am resonating with Bolsinger’s premise. Essentially, he is saying that most pastors today have been trained to lead churches from the 20^th century, not churches from the 21^st century. Moreover, he says that most church members, especially long-term church people, are in the same canoe—the church they knew and loved and served is rapidly disappearing and they (we) do not know what to do. We are in uncharted territory.

Already the book has given glimpses of where the author is headed: that we the church need to try something entirely new or we will die. In a recent sermon, I said something similar: that churches that do not change will die. Bolsinger is even more blunt: the church doesn’t need to change a few things—we need a radical overhaul or we will die.

While I find myself agreeing with Bolsinger, I also find myself a bit overwhelmed by what he is saying. I am one of those pastors who was trained to pastor a 1980’s or 1990’s congregation. Some of my congregation members feel I’ve already introduced too many changes to St. Peter because they long for the St. Peter of the 1960’s or 1970’s. Yet Bolsinger has already made the point—because this is a book on Christian leadership—that the first person who must change is the leader, AKA, the pastor. The pastor is not the only one who must change, but s/he is certainly must go first. That’s a little intimidating to me. If it’s uncharted territory, how do I know where to begin? What happens if no one else in the congregation wants to enter the uncharted territory with me? What if we enter this entirely new paradigm and it falls apart around us or blows up in our faces? What if we hurt our church instead of helping it?

And I thought: kohlrabi. It was new to me just a few weeks ago, a vegetable about which I knew nothing. I was hesitant about preparing and eating it, but I found that kohlrabi was quite tasty.

I suppose this is the attitude I would need to take into this uncharted future for the church. What if this radical shift for the congregation turns out to be a good thing? What if we get energized and excited again about the Gospel? What if we grow in faith and service and maybe in membership?

After all, if I hadn’t liked the kohlrabi recipe, I probably would have tried another recipe. If I eventually decided I didn’t like kohlrabi, that would not stop me from trying some other new vegetable—say, Swiss chard or parsnips or collard greens. Alternatively, I could go back to what I know—the tried and true.

Unfortunately, going back to what we know is not an option for the church. We have already been doing things that we know how to do—tried and true—only it’s not working or not working as well as it once did. Instead, Bolsinger’s book urges churches to honor their past without getting stuck there and then to try some kohlrabi—something utterly new. If the kohlrabi is a bust, you go on to Swiss chard or rutabagas or some other new possibility. Eventually, something will work. It’s about learning to be church in an almost entirely different way, he says. After all, the purpose of the church is to proclaim the Gospel of Jesus Christ and that never changes. Christ is the message—the church is part of the delivery system. The message is eternal; the means of delivery can change at any time.

Tod Bolsinger also makes the point that the declining of the Christian church will not lead to the failure of the Gospel. As disciples of Jesus, we know that the Gospel is more powerful than the church and that whatever failures the church may experience, the Gospel will survive and thrive. Hopefully that provides some comfort and courage for those who are adventurous enough to move forward into the uncharted territory that lays before the people of God.