Not a Sermon - Just a Thought, March 30, 2007
I know you’re getting ready for Sunday. It’s April 1, the Day of Fools, a day for pranks and jokes and tricks. But don’t forget ‘tis Palm Sunday, too. This is the Sunday we remember Jesus’ triumphal parade into Jerusalem, when he was received with the shouts of “Hosanna!” It’s a good change of pace after five Sundays of Lenten suffering, woe, and weal. The choir and children will wave palms, and we’ll focus on Jesus’ popularity with the people. It’s like the feel-good movie of the year.
But not so fast.
There is a problem here and it has to do with what’s coming down the track for Jesus. Those palm branches are going to turn brown quick and the shouts of “Hosanna” are going to change by Friday to shouts of “Crucify him!” The crowd that adores throng will become angry mob. And yet, he moves on. Determination defines his moves. Jesus, now confident in who he is, presses on, casting a whole new meaning on “purpose driven life.” The real story is that crucifixion awaits him, even as the throngs adore him. What appears to be triumph in the fleeting moments of the parade is only a paper-thin veil over the real story. Yes, triumph belongs to Jesus, but not in the way the crowd expects. Not in the way the disciples expect. Perhaps not even in the way that Jesus expects.
The triumph comes later in the gritty shame of dying naked on a cross. The triumph comes later as blood pours from his head, “sorrow and love flow mingled down” says the hymn. The triumph comes later as the soldiers gamble over his garments and pierce his side. The triumph comes, not with a bang, but a whimper. No standing ovations, no walk-off home run, no flag unfurled. Not even an “amen.”
“It is finished” he says.
I must admit, my personal theology prefers Jesus’ triumphal entry to Jesus’ un-glorious exit. American Christianity prefers a paparazzi Jesus over the suffering God. Our religion is largely about the “show,” the “what’s in it for me” factor, the bigger numbers. We want the glory of the parade, not the shame of the cross. We want the feel-good breeze of the waving palms, but would like to pass on the bitter cup. Jesus calls us disciples to triumphal Christianity, but the way to triumph is going to be different that most of us expect.
Christ will call us to triumph with him, but be warned. We are called to act without guarantees, to sit down when we’d rather stand up and fight, to embrace paradox and mystery with little hope to understand. In our own ways, we must each pick up a cross and bear it in triumph.
This Sunday I’m preaching a sermon about all this entitled Triumphal Christianity, and it’s based on Matthew 21.1-11. We’ll gather for worship at 9am and 11:10am at Willow Meadows Baptist Church, if you’re in Houston this weekend, please join us!
No foolin’
Pastor Gary
Not a Sermon – Just a Thought is a weekly email column written by me, Gary Long. I’m pastor at Willow Meadows Baptist Church in Houston, Texas. You can learn more about WMBC at www.wmbc.org. You can subscribe to the weekly email by contacting me at glong@wmbc.org.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
A Grief Observed - the Carolina Blues
I've moved through the denial stage of my grief.
With the added strength of my friends, I am able to admit that Carolina lost to Georgetown. I know the rest of the world has been able to talk about this since Sunday night, but I've been under a shroud of grief and wailing since the UNC loss in the Regional Finals this past weekend.
I'll even admit that it was a poetic win for the Hoyas, given the Ewings and the Thompsons in the second generation and all. I realize I sound like Friday night Prime Time TV - Who shot J.R.? Not Tyler Hansbrough!
And come on CBS radio, did you really have to have John Thompson Sr. call the game? Not only was it lopsided coverage, his speech is so slurred he sounds like a guy on a three day drunk, medicated, and on a ventilator.
And while I'm on CBS's choice of commentators, I just have to add my two cents worth. Billy Packer, please do us all a favor. Get on the circut to call Professional Bowling, badminton, or even the Olympics. Just get out of the March Madness business. I hate to break it to you, but nobody likes the way you call games. And Jim Nantz, if you have any dignity, put some Visine in Billy's drink on Saturday afternoon so we can all watch the game in peace! Not even switching to the radio works because of stupid satellite delays.
So about my dream. For three nights in a row I've had a haunting dream that Ellington made the last shot to win in regulation, Roy runs on the court to hug him, and the film fades to UNC Blue (2004/05 uniform colors, not 05/06 and beyond...sorry Ralph Lauren, you design great shirts but you suck at picking men's basketball uniform colors...end of rant). I'm up late tonight hoping if I get tired enough the dream won't come again.
It's a bad dream - not because UNC wins - but because I wake up each morning and UNC is still at home watching the Final Four, wondering exactly when Billy Donvan is going to annouce he's heading to Kentucky. Not even the Houston Rockets can pick me up out of this funk.
I know, maybe a day of sailing. Gee, I'll have to check into that. I know I won't be watching basketball this weekend. I know what's happening - the Kentucky coach is going to win it all.
With the added strength of my friends, I am able to admit that Carolina lost to Georgetown. I know the rest of the world has been able to talk about this since Sunday night, but I've been under a shroud of grief and wailing since the UNC loss in the Regional Finals this past weekend.
I'll even admit that it was a poetic win for the Hoyas, given the Ewings and the Thompsons in the second generation and all. I realize I sound like Friday night Prime Time TV - Who shot J.R.? Not Tyler Hansbrough!
And come on CBS radio, did you really have to have John Thompson Sr. call the game? Not only was it lopsided coverage, his speech is so slurred he sounds like a guy on a three day drunk, medicated, and on a ventilator.
And while I'm on CBS's choice of commentators, I just have to add my two cents worth. Billy Packer, please do us all a favor. Get on the circut to call Professional Bowling, badminton, or even the Olympics. Just get out of the March Madness business. I hate to break it to you, but nobody likes the way you call games. And Jim Nantz, if you have any dignity, put some Visine in Billy's drink on Saturday afternoon so we can all watch the game in peace! Not even switching to the radio works because of stupid satellite delays.
So about my dream. For three nights in a row I've had a haunting dream that Ellington made the last shot to win in regulation, Roy runs on the court to hug him, and the film fades to UNC Blue (2004/05 uniform colors, not 05/06 and beyond...sorry Ralph Lauren, you design great shirts but you suck at picking men's basketball uniform colors...end of rant). I'm up late tonight hoping if I get tired enough the dream won't come again.
It's a bad dream - not because UNC wins - but because I wake up each morning and UNC is still at home watching the Final Four, wondering exactly when Billy Donvan is going to annouce he's heading to Kentucky. Not even the Houston Rockets can pick me up out of this funk.
I know, maybe a day of sailing. Gee, I'll have to check into that. I know I won't be watching basketball this weekend. I know what's happening - the Kentucky coach is going to win it all.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
The Heels Had Me Sweatin'
I had a bet with my photographer friend on the UNC/USC game last night. If USC won I was going to wear an obnoxious USC shirt to preach in tomorrow. If UNC won, she would wear a UNC shirt of my choosing to sing her solo with our worship band.
My boys had me sweatin' last night, but they pulled it out. Looks like she'll be donning the Carolina Blue tomorrow in church!
My boys had me sweatin' last night, but they pulled it out. Looks like she'll be donning the Carolina Blue tomorrow in church!
Friday, March 23, 2007
Tough Call - Underoos or Cleats?
So Monday night I was out at the Westbury Little League field serving as a volunteer dad. The deal is this: I go over and umpire a baseball game for other teams when the Brother isn't playing. The dads from the other teams take a turn umping when the Brother's team is playing.
It's a pretty good system, but I have come to appreciate how hard it is to make a close call in any sport as an official. It's hard because occasionally you have to make a tough call.
I'm impressed by these little leaguers. They really do look like big-time ball players. They wear their cleats, their bright socks at the bottom of those short legged white baseball pants, and their jerseys tucked in just so. Pay attention to the part about the pants being "white," ok?
So there I am, standing on that infield/outfield margin about halfway between first and second base. The coach is yelling at a kid in right field about something, "Pay attention! Get your head in the game."
I turned around to see what the coach was yelling about and the kid was bent over picking clover and throwing it in the air. Dangerously, he was also facing away from the action. He bent over again, oblivious to the crowd now chuckling at him.
That's when I saw it.
Through his white pants it was easy to see that he is a fan of Spiderman. We know this because we could all see Spiderman Underoos shining through those white pants.
Underoo's and cleats.
Little boy trying to be a big man.
Tugged by time in two directions.
"Get your head in the game," the grown up is yelling, telling him to pay attention, be responsible, get on the ball, grow up, be mature.
"Let's play just a little longer," his Underoo's beckon, read comics, toss some clover, roll some matchbox cars on the floor, have a tickle fight, tease your sister.
Now that's a tough call says the man who wants to play just a little longer.
It's a pretty good system, but I have come to appreciate how hard it is to make a close call in any sport as an official. It's hard because occasionally you have to make a tough call.
I'm impressed by these little leaguers. They really do look like big-time ball players. They wear their cleats, their bright socks at the bottom of those short legged white baseball pants, and their jerseys tucked in just so. Pay attention to the part about the pants being "white," ok?
So there I am, standing on that infield/outfield margin about halfway between first and second base. The coach is yelling at a kid in right field about something, "Pay attention! Get your head in the game."
I turned around to see what the coach was yelling about and the kid was bent over picking clover and throwing it in the air. Dangerously, he was also facing away from the action. He bent over again, oblivious to the crowd now chuckling at him.
That's when I saw it.
Through his white pants it was easy to see that he is a fan of Spiderman. We know this because we could all see Spiderman Underoos shining through those white pants.
Underoo's and cleats.
Little boy trying to be a big man.
Tugged by time in two directions.
"Get your head in the game," the grown up is yelling, telling him to pay attention, be responsible, get on the ball, grow up, be mature.
"Let's play just a little longer," his Underoo's beckon, read comics, toss some clover, roll some matchbox cars on the floor, have a tickle fight, tease your sister.
Now that's a tough call says the man who wants to play just a little longer.
Don’t Waste Your Suffering
Not a Sermon - Just a Thought
The Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C. is a mind-numbing depiction of the vast suffering of the Jewish people during Hitler's reign. A tour begins with a ride in an elevator of cold steel to the top floor. You slowly wind from top to bottom through the exhibit, spiraling downward as if you were tumbling into the collective Jewish conscious, sinking deeper and deeper into the darkness and evil of the holocaust. The walls are covered with images and artifacts of the terrible reign of power, as well as evidence of suffering and death for the Jewish people.
But on the very bottom floor you will find the powerful juxtaposition of evil and hope. Children's artwork captured on ceramic tiles forms a mosaic testament to the power of the human spirit to overcome even the darkest of evil and of suffering. Modern children have chosen to look at all the pain and suffering of the Holocaust and turn it into a beautiful work of art. It is not some unbridled optimism when I say this, but what we choose to do with evil and suffering matters. And we do have choices!
You may be stuck with a situation, condition, or illness that you cannot reverse, but what you choose to do in that situation can change the outcome of the story. You can choose to blame God, to blame others, to blame evil forces, to blame the government, to blame your parents, to blame yourself. You can choose to wallow in the mud of martyrdom, you can choose to allow your story of suffering to become your own little ad campaign for depression and constant wailing, you can choose to remain stuck and do nothing.
You can choose those things.
But you can also choose to draw closer to God in your suffering. For when you do, you are able to experience the mystery of a God who suffers with us. You can choose to draw closer to family and friends in your suffering. For when you do, you are able to experience the strength of true community that shares pain. You can choose to be the person God made you to be, writing a story that includes a chapter of suffering, but not be limited by suffering. For when you do, your life can be defined by your response to suffering.
This is not stoicism. I’m not saying to clench your jaw to “grin and bear it.” But do not let pain and suffering define you. Instead, define it. Allow God to use the pain like a tool to shape your final outcome, to shape your relief, to capture you as a portrait of perseverance. For you are a work of art, full of light and shadows, hope and struggle. Your suffering can be wasted or put to use in God’s reign, if you choose.
I’ll be talking about this in more depth this Sunday at Willow Meadows Baptist Church. We’ll gather at 9am and 11:10am for worship that will include a sermon entitled Don’t Waste Your Suffering. It’s based on that tricky Pauline passage, Romans 8.28-30. Hope to see you there.
Hopefully,
Pastor Gary
You can learn more about our church at www.wmbc.org and you can read more of my writing at www.tothelees.blogspot.com. You can subscribe to this weekly list by emailing me at glong@wmbc.org
Romans 8.28-30 – New International Version
28And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. 29For those God foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the likeness of his Son, that he might be the firstborn among many brothers. 30And those he predestined, he also called; those he called, he also justified; those he justified, he also glorified.
The Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C. is a mind-numbing depiction of the vast suffering of the Jewish people during Hitler's reign. A tour begins with a ride in an elevator of cold steel to the top floor. You slowly wind from top to bottom through the exhibit, spiraling downward as if you were tumbling into the collective Jewish conscious, sinking deeper and deeper into the darkness and evil of the holocaust. The walls are covered with images and artifacts of the terrible reign of power, as well as evidence of suffering and death for the Jewish people.
But on the very bottom floor you will find the powerful juxtaposition of evil and hope. Children's artwork captured on ceramic tiles forms a mosaic testament to the power of the human spirit to overcome even the darkest of evil and of suffering. Modern children have chosen to look at all the pain and suffering of the Holocaust and turn it into a beautiful work of art. It is not some unbridled optimism when I say this, but what we choose to do with evil and suffering matters. And we do have choices!
You may be stuck with a situation, condition, or illness that you cannot reverse, but what you choose to do in that situation can change the outcome of the story. You can choose to blame God, to blame others, to blame evil forces, to blame the government, to blame your parents, to blame yourself. You can choose to wallow in the mud of martyrdom, you can choose to allow your story of suffering to become your own little ad campaign for depression and constant wailing, you can choose to remain stuck and do nothing.
You can choose those things.
But you can also choose to draw closer to God in your suffering. For when you do, you are able to experience the mystery of a God who suffers with us. You can choose to draw closer to family and friends in your suffering. For when you do, you are able to experience the strength of true community that shares pain. You can choose to be the person God made you to be, writing a story that includes a chapter of suffering, but not be limited by suffering. For when you do, your life can be defined by your response to suffering.
This is not stoicism. I’m not saying to clench your jaw to “grin and bear it.” But do not let pain and suffering define you. Instead, define it. Allow God to use the pain like a tool to shape your final outcome, to shape your relief, to capture you as a portrait of perseverance. For you are a work of art, full of light and shadows, hope and struggle. Your suffering can be wasted or put to use in God’s reign, if you choose.
I’ll be talking about this in more depth this Sunday at Willow Meadows Baptist Church. We’ll gather at 9am and 11:10am for worship that will include a sermon entitled Don’t Waste Your Suffering. It’s based on that tricky Pauline passage, Romans 8.28-30. Hope to see you there.
Hopefully,
Pastor Gary
You can learn more about our church at www.wmbc.org and you can read more of my writing at www.tothelees.blogspot.com. You can subscribe to this weekly list by emailing me at glong@wmbc.org
Romans 8.28-30 – New International Version
28And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. 29For those God foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the likeness of his Son, that he might be the firstborn among many brothers. 30And those he predestined, he also called; those he called, he also justified; those he justified, he also glorified.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Bitter in My Stomach
This piece was written by a friend of mine named Mark Bethune. It is not particularly cheery, but it does seem to fit well with my latest phase of angst over death. It is well written and takes God to task. It also stops short of answering the question it asks, leaving that up to you, the reader, to think for yourself.
Mark is pastor of First Baptist Church, Eden, Texas. You can reach him at edenfbc1@wcc.net
March 2007
Rebekah cries.
My preteen daughter shouldn’t have to mourn the loss of a friend. Parents shouldn’t have to bury their children. And Sheol shouldn’t open her cavernous mouth and receive the Communion of a precocious spirit. But she is; they are; and she does without discrimination.
Rebekah, the second angel breathed from the Mark/Liz union, typically a child of awe inspiring wonder and boundless imagination, endowed with the spiritual gift of infectious laughter and happiness, today, is a broken soul. Last week, Brandyn walked with Rebekah to art class. Today, she walks alone, not for junior high drama that seems all-important in the sweet days of youth, but because last Sunday her companion left this mortal plane. Brandyn died. It’s real. And it should be the stuff of adults, but death is no respecter of persons or ages.
I hurt for my daughter. I did not experience the death of any of my contemporaries until I reached my late teens when Jay, fellow trombonist and 3 years my senior, decided to exit this life in a blaze of glory one Sunday morning as he sat in the office of our small-town grocery. Even then, we weren’t exactly close. Our intimacy consisted of sharing a bottle of Southern Comfort on a band trip. His death was a surreal experience; it is almost like my memories of him were Platonic shadows on the wall of my mind.
I am quickly approaching 40; death has steadily increased her pace. Sometimes, I hear her panting right behind me, and I gasp as I consider how near I am to losing my footing. She is beginning to overtake some of my friends, friends whom I intimately know, friends who are more real than my fleeting ethereal memories, friends whom I miss, friends whom I love. If God grants me another 40 trips around the sun, death will increase her stride exponentially. But if mind and body do not fail at 80, and I am granted another score, death’s sprint will fade to a crawl; not because her thirst is quenched, but because she has exhausted the corporal resources of the Class of ’85. This is how it should be. But today, death has lapped us and taunts as the runners’ cramp burns. Oh, that my daughter’s pain is a mere anomaly!
I am cursed, vocationally and paternally. In the soul-wrenching gloominess of the presence of the grave my children look to me with heads cocked and watery-eyed expressions that search for meaning and comfort. And I give them neither. I refuse to blame, question, or otherwise publicly impugn God’s character when I suffer from myopic selfishness and an abundance of ignorance, though I may be so bold or grief stricken to go a round or two in private. He is big enough to take care of himself. As for comfort – all that I can offer is my silent presence, hopefully Christ in flesh in bone, Christ with the name “daddy”. But, ultimately, Rebekah must recognize the face of Jesus on her own; he won’t shout for attention.
I refuse to enter into the debate. Well intentioned as it might be, ultimately it is a futile playing-with-words. We may defend God’s honor and coldly defer to God’s Inscrutable Will by reciting that “as Heaven is above the Earth, so are His ways higher than our ways,” or perhaps we might embrace the Potter/clay imagery and rest assured that it is his prerogative to crush vessels made by his hands. We could be carried away to the opposite pole and advocate humanity’s free will; but in doing so, God comes across as a charitable wimp who wants to help, really, he does, but just can’t overcome the force of our will. I judge both positions wanting.
It is my custom to leave you with a ray of hope. Well, the sun is not shining and a chill hangs in the air; in fact, I think it’s going to rain. But, as Little Orphan Annie sang out in that saccharine shrill, “The sun will come out, tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, there’ll be sun.” Even so, come dawn quickly.
Mark
Mark is pastor of First Baptist Church, Eden, Texas. You can reach him at edenfbc1@wcc.net
March 2007
Rebekah cries.
My preteen daughter shouldn’t have to mourn the loss of a friend. Parents shouldn’t have to bury their children. And Sheol shouldn’t open her cavernous mouth and receive the Communion of a precocious spirit. But she is; they are; and she does without discrimination.
Rebekah, the second angel breathed from the Mark/Liz union, typically a child of awe inspiring wonder and boundless imagination, endowed with the spiritual gift of infectious laughter and happiness, today, is a broken soul. Last week, Brandyn walked with Rebekah to art class. Today, she walks alone, not for junior high drama that seems all-important in the sweet days of youth, but because last Sunday her companion left this mortal plane. Brandyn died. It’s real. And it should be the stuff of adults, but death is no respecter of persons or ages.
I hurt for my daughter. I did not experience the death of any of my contemporaries until I reached my late teens when Jay, fellow trombonist and 3 years my senior, decided to exit this life in a blaze of glory one Sunday morning as he sat in the office of our small-town grocery. Even then, we weren’t exactly close. Our intimacy consisted of sharing a bottle of Southern Comfort on a band trip. His death was a surreal experience; it is almost like my memories of him were Platonic shadows on the wall of my mind.
I am quickly approaching 40; death has steadily increased her pace. Sometimes, I hear her panting right behind me, and I gasp as I consider how near I am to losing my footing. She is beginning to overtake some of my friends, friends whom I intimately know, friends who are more real than my fleeting ethereal memories, friends whom I miss, friends whom I love. If God grants me another 40 trips around the sun, death will increase her stride exponentially. But if mind and body do not fail at 80, and I am granted another score, death’s sprint will fade to a crawl; not because her thirst is quenched, but because she has exhausted the corporal resources of the Class of ’85. This is how it should be. But today, death has lapped us and taunts as the runners’ cramp burns. Oh, that my daughter’s pain is a mere anomaly!
I am cursed, vocationally and paternally. In the soul-wrenching gloominess of the presence of the grave my children look to me with heads cocked and watery-eyed expressions that search for meaning and comfort. And I give them neither. I refuse to blame, question, or otherwise publicly impugn God’s character when I suffer from myopic selfishness and an abundance of ignorance, though I may be so bold or grief stricken to go a round or two in private. He is big enough to take care of himself. As for comfort – all that I can offer is my silent presence, hopefully Christ in flesh in bone, Christ with the name “daddy”. But, ultimately, Rebekah must recognize the face of Jesus on her own; he won’t shout for attention.
I refuse to enter into the debate. Well intentioned as it might be, ultimately it is a futile playing-with-words. We may defend God’s honor and coldly defer to God’s Inscrutable Will by reciting that “as Heaven is above the Earth, so are His ways higher than our ways,” or perhaps we might embrace the Potter/clay imagery and rest assured that it is his prerogative to crush vessels made by his hands. We could be carried away to the opposite pole and advocate humanity’s free will; but in doing so, God comes across as a charitable wimp who wants to help, really, he does, but just can’t overcome the force of our will. I judge both positions wanting.
It is my custom to leave you with a ray of hope. Well, the sun is not shining and a chill hangs in the air; in fact, I think it’s going to rain. But, as Little Orphan Annie sang out in that saccharine shrill, “The sun will come out, tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, there’ll be sun.” Even so, come dawn quickly.
Mark
Friday, March 16, 2007
A Slow Dying Observed
There's a house around the corner from mine where someone is dying. I'm sure of this because I used to be a hospice chaplain and I know the signs that it's happening.
Back in late January I noticed that a car was parked in front of the house every morning and then again in the afternoons. Then about a week later I was coming in from the office and saw a woman standing in the yard talking on her cell phone. It's ironic that she was smoking a cigarette and wearing nursing scrubs.
The next day I'd gone home in the middle of the day to grab a quick sandwhich and saw the next tell-tale sign: the delivery truck bringing the in-home hospital bed.
Every few days I see the elderly gentleman who lives there. He is usually in a wheelchair being pushed by a the woman in nursing scrubs and he is always holding an oxygen tank.
Every weekend there are lots of cars at the house. Some of them have out of state license plates, and I imagine those cars have brought family and friends in to pay last respects. Several times of week I see a nice Acura there and when it's there a man in his 40's is frequently in the front yard. He's well-dressed and always on his phone. He looks tired and burdened, but he's there. Is he a son? A nephew? A kinsman in some way?
I wonder how much longer my neighbor has to live. The in-home care providers are now there all day every day. I think how terribly sad it is for me to observe this death not even knowing his name. I've thought about stopping in to be neighborly, but figure I'd look more like a stalker or an estate hawk than a caring pastor.
What would I say anyway?
Anyone here dying? It sure looks like it from the street.
Can I help you with your oxygen? How some more Ensure?
Have you said your last goodbyes?
Are you seeing the spirits yet?
What is it like to know you are dying?
I wonder. What stories are being lost to the world because of this death? What wisdom do we lose when he is gone? Which of his relationships will go untended? Which will be restored? Who will be my new neighbors? Will I know them any better?
So it is, the ebb and flow of life laps at this man's front door, ready to flood the house and drown the life within. At just the right moment his light will be gone and he will leave, exiting the house - first in spirit, and then later, feet first in a body bag. I wonder if he knows this?
I suppose the real truth of this has little to do with whether or not he knows he's dying a slow death. The real truth lies in whether or not I know that I am dying a slow death.
Morbid thoughts, I know. Enough to make me want to really live. Very, very slowly.
Back in late January I noticed that a car was parked in front of the house every morning and then again in the afternoons. Then about a week later I was coming in from the office and saw a woman standing in the yard talking on her cell phone. It's ironic that she was smoking a cigarette and wearing nursing scrubs.
The next day I'd gone home in the middle of the day to grab a quick sandwhich and saw the next tell-tale sign: the delivery truck bringing the in-home hospital bed.
Every few days I see the elderly gentleman who lives there. He is usually in a wheelchair being pushed by a the woman in nursing scrubs and he is always holding an oxygen tank.
Every weekend there are lots of cars at the house. Some of them have out of state license plates, and I imagine those cars have brought family and friends in to pay last respects. Several times of week I see a nice Acura there and when it's there a man in his 40's is frequently in the front yard. He's well-dressed and always on his phone. He looks tired and burdened, but he's there. Is he a son? A nephew? A kinsman in some way?
I wonder how much longer my neighbor has to live. The in-home care providers are now there all day every day. I think how terribly sad it is for me to observe this death not even knowing his name. I've thought about stopping in to be neighborly, but figure I'd look more like a stalker or an estate hawk than a caring pastor.
What would I say anyway?
Anyone here dying? It sure looks like it from the street.
Can I help you with your oxygen? How some more Ensure?
Have you said your last goodbyes?
Are you seeing the spirits yet?
What is it like to know you are dying?
I wonder. What stories are being lost to the world because of this death? What wisdom do we lose when he is gone? Which of his relationships will go untended? Which will be restored? Who will be my new neighbors? Will I know them any better?
So it is, the ebb and flow of life laps at this man's front door, ready to flood the house and drown the life within. At just the right moment his light will be gone and he will leave, exiting the house - first in spirit, and then later, feet first in a body bag. I wonder if he knows this?
I suppose the real truth of this has little to do with whether or not he knows he's dying a slow death. The real truth lies in whether or not I know that I am dying a slow death.
Morbid thoughts, I know. Enough to make me want to really live. Very, very slowly.
Singing the Blues with Jesus
Not a Sermon - Just a Thought for March 16, 2007
The highlight of a road trip from Houston to Nashville in 2003 was a stop in Memphis. My wife and I walked historic Beale Street gorging on blues and barbeque. The air was so thick with music spilling out of everywhere that I swooned and I could’ve sworn I saw the ghost of Elvis walking up on Union Avenue. I attribute that to the spicy dry rub on the ribs, though. At one point I went into the restroom in one house of blues and read the graffiti while there.
White men can’t sing the blues - saith the wall.
I disagree. The blues find their voice in suffering, polished and sparkling until the pain comes shining through in doleful, truthful song. The blues can be sung by anyone who has ever suffered. And that’s everyone I know, because suffering doesn’t discriminate.
That’s the Biblical witness, to be sure. David sang the blues, the children of Israel sang the blues, Job sang the blues, Paul sang the blues, and even Jesus sang the blues. Giving voice to our suffering – making a groaning lament – is sometimes good for us because it acknowledges our pain and helps us to remember that suffering is common to all of us. It’s also good to know that suffering doesn’t last forever, but while it’s here we can be honest with God about our pain.
God is right there with us, even when we sing the blues.
We’ll look at Psalm 22 this Sunday at Willow Meadows Baptist Church in a sermon that is going to be a call to honesty in worship. It is part three in our series Wounded Light – Making Sense of Suffering. If you’re around town this weekend I hope you can join us as we gather for worship at 9:00am and again at 11:10am.
I guess that’s why they call it the blues,
Pastor Gary
Not a Sermon – Just a Thought is a weekly e-column written by me, Gary Long. You can subscribe or unsubscribe from this list by contacting me at glong@wmbc.org.
The highlight of a road trip from Houston to Nashville in 2003 was a stop in Memphis. My wife and I walked historic Beale Street gorging on blues and barbeque. The air was so thick with music spilling out of everywhere that I swooned and I could’ve sworn I saw the ghost of Elvis walking up on Union Avenue. I attribute that to the spicy dry rub on the ribs, though. At one point I went into the restroom in one house of blues and read the graffiti while there.
White men can’t sing the blues - saith the wall.
I disagree. The blues find their voice in suffering, polished and sparkling until the pain comes shining through in doleful, truthful song. The blues can be sung by anyone who has ever suffered. And that’s everyone I know, because suffering doesn’t discriminate.
That’s the Biblical witness, to be sure. David sang the blues, the children of Israel sang the blues, Job sang the blues, Paul sang the blues, and even Jesus sang the blues. Giving voice to our suffering – making a groaning lament – is sometimes good for us because it acknowledges our pain and helps us to remember that suffering is common to all of us. It’s also good to know that suffering doesn’t last forever, but while it’s here we can be honest with God about our pain.
God is right there with us, even when we sing the blues.
We’ll look at Psalm 22 this Sunday at Willow Meadows Baptist Church in a sermon that is going to be a call to honesty in worship. It is part three in our series Wounded Light – Making Sense of Suffering. If you’re around town this weekend I hope you can join us as we gather for worship at 9:00am and again at 11:10am.
I guess that’s why they call it the blues,
Pastor Gary
Not a Sermon – Just a Thought is a weekly e-column written by me, Gary Long. You can subscribe or unsubscribe from this list by contacting me at glong@wmbc.org.
Nothing Could be Finer
What's the second best thing to the Tar Heels winning their opening game in the NCAA men's tourney?
DOOK losing in the first round to Virginia Commonwealth University! Clearly, all is well and God is in His heaven.
DOOK losing in the first round to Virginia Commonwealth University! Clearly, all is well and God is in His heaven.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Been Busy
Sorry to have posted so little in March. I've been concentrating on a potential real estate deal and on March Madness. But worry not, I'll be posting several pieces over the next few days. I've almost finished my brackets and the real estate deal will either bust or go through on Friday!
The Waiting Room of Life – Finding Strength in Suffering
Not a Sermon - Just a Thought, March 9, 2007
In the waiting rooms of life there is little to do but wait. And that’s frustrating, especially when the waiting is full of suffering. Like the thorns that grow on beautiful rose, the human existence includes suffering, and when the suffering won’t end things can get pretty tough.
What is God up to in your life when the suffering is unbearable and no relief is in sight? Is God even there at all? When life is at its hardest, when doubt is at its greatest, and when the situation is at its bleakest, only waiting through it will get you through it.
In the life of a Christian, our waiting can be characterized by God’s strength shining through our weakness. My friend Jeanie Miley says that when things are at their most difficult and suffering is at its peak, that’s exactly when we should “sit strong.” I recommend her book Sitting Strong: Wrestling with the Ornery God - The Book of Job for Contemporary Pilgrims, to people caught in the waiting room of life. In it she writes:
Indeed, sitting strong was, for me, about letting myself be weak and tired and scared. It was about allowing myself to feel all the feelings I’d not allowed myself to feel in my busy life. Sitting strong was holding that intention of being with God, even in my suffering and especially with my suffering, allowing the Divine Therapist to comfort and console me.
The Apostle Paul knew something of the release into weakness of which Jeanie writes. In 2 Corinthians 12.7-10, he asked God three times to remove a mysterious “thorn in the flesh.” Three times God said no and left Paul to wait in his suffering. In effect, God said to Paul, my grace is sufficient for you, my power is made perfect in weakness.” Jeanie and Paul encourage us when we endure hardship and suffering that we can actually find strength in the waiting and strength in our weakness.
In the waiting rooms of life there is little to do but wait. And that’s frustrating, especially when the waiting is full of suffering. Like the thorns that grow on beautiful rose, the human existence includes suffering, and when the suffering won’t end things can get pretty tough.
What is God up to in your life when the suffering is unbearable and no relief is in sight? Is God even there at all? When life is at its hardest, when doubt is at its greatest, and when the situation is at its bleakest, only waiting through it will get you through it.
In the life of a Christian, our waiting can be characterized by God’s strength shining through our weakness. My friend Jeanie Miley says that when things are at their most difficult and suffering is at its peak, that’s exactly when we should “sit strong.” I recommend her book Sitting Strong: Wrestling with the Ornery God - The Book of Job for Contemporary Pilgrims, to people caught in the waiting room of life. In it she writes:
Indeed, sitting strong was, for me, about letting myself be weak and tired and scared. It was about allowing myself to feel all the feelings I’d not allowed myself to feel in my busy life. Sitting strong was holding that intention of being with God, even in my suffering and especially with my suffering, allowing the Divine Therapist to comfort and console me.
The Apostle Paul knew something of the release into weakness of which Jeanie writes. In 2 Corinthians 12.7-10, he asked God three times to remove a mysterious “thorn in the flesh.” Three times God said no and left Paul to wait in his suffering. In effect, God said to Paul, my grace is sufficient for you, my power is made perfect in weakness.” Jeanie and Paul encourage us when we endure hardship and suffering that we can actually find strength in the waiting and strength in our weakness.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Loser Dads
Here's to all the loser dads out there. I am a member of this sad lot of men who, though they try hard, cannot seem to get all the aspects of fatherhood balanced out. This week I confirmed (again!) why I belong to this motley crew.
It was Tuesday morning and getting the Brother and the Younger Sister ready for school was chaos. There was no milk for cereal and there was no time for scrambled eggs. I think we forgot to brush teeth, but I did manage to get a ponytail pulled up in the Youngest Sister's hair and a vitamin down their throats. I rushed them out the door in a hurry, hoping against hope that we might still pick up the kids in our car pool on time.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I made record time to pick up the other three kids, realizing we still stood an outside shot of being to school on time. We loaded them all into Dora The Explorer, took the corners on two wheels, and slid sideways up to the Kindergarten gate. All five kids piled out and I thought how glad I was they wouldn't get a tardy for the day.
I was mentally congratulating myself until, just as the door shut, I heard the Brother say to the Younger Sister, "Hey, your shirt's inside out!"
The look on her face was a mixture of panic and embarassment. I wanted to go back and help her, but the drop off line needed to move on. I knew that if I circled back they'd already be inside and I couldn't get to her without signing in through the front office. Since I had an early appointment I rationalized it all out. I figured she's old enough to turn her shirt right side out if it bothered her. Turns out I was right.
I went at 12:15 for her weekly violin lesson and afterward we took our routine walk down the hall to her classroom. I asked, "Hey, was your shirt on inside out this morning?"
"Yes," she replied matter of factly.
"How did you fix it?" I inquired, fishing for a good story.
"I went to the girl's room and turned it 'side-out.'"
"By yourself?" I asked, remembering that she usually asked me to do it for her at home.
"Yes. I'm really getting to be a big girl, Daddy. I can do things." It is appropriate to mention her comment was concurrent with an eye roll of epic scale. I think she scanned her entire brain on that one.
Maybe it's because our male DNA is programned to screw up the little things. Maybe it's because we're building on our role as father that we inherited from our father and still have a ways to go. Or maybe, God provides us and our children these little "oops" moments to create growth in both parent in child. I can hope it's the latter, can't I?
It left me wondering just how badly our culture is screwing up our kids by over functioning for them? Are all the helicopter parents doing too much to insulate children from some of the realities of life, as well as robbing them of opportunities for good growth?
Do we really intend to raise a child under heavy protection, limited choices and risks, and devoid of any pain? Or rather, should we allow them to stumble, maybe even scrape a knee? Does a kid need to know what it's like to get/give a bloody nose or a broken heart? As in nature, children need to experience risk and loss in order to prepare for this life.
Of course, it may be that I'm just a loser Dad who needs to pay more attention to what my daughter wears when she leaves the house. At least I learned the lesson while she's in kindergarten and not when she's 17.
It was Tuesday morning and getting the Brother and the Younger Sister ready for school was chaos. There was no milk for cereal and there was no time for scrambled eggs. I think we forgot to brush teeth, but I did manage to get a ponytail pulled up in the Youngest Sister's hair and a vitamin down their throats. I rushed them out the door in a hurry, hoping against hope that we might still pick up the kids in our car pool on time.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I made record time to pick up the other three kids, realizing we still stood an outside shot of being to school on time. We loaded them all into Dora The Explorer, took the corners on two wheels, and slid sideways up to the Kindergarten gate. All five kids piled out and I thought how glad I was they wouldn't get a tardy for the day.
I was mentally congratulating myself until, just as the door shut, I heard the Brother say to the Younger Sister, "Hey, your shirt's inside out!"
The look on her face was a mixture of panic and embarassment. I wanted to go back and help her, but the drop off line needed to move on. I knew that if I circled back they'd already be inside and I couldn't get to her without signing in through the front office. Since I had an early appointment I rationalized it all out. I figured she's old enough to turn her shirt right side out if it bothered her. Turns out I was right.
I went at 12:15 for her weekly violin lesson and afterward we took our routine walk down the hall to her classroom. I asked, "Hey, was your shirt on inside out this morning?"
"Yes," she replied matter of factly.
"How did you fix it?" I inquired, fishing for a good story.
"I went to the girl's room and turned it 'side-out.'"
"By yourself?" I asked, remembering that she usually asked me to do it for her at home.
"Yes. I'm really getting to be a big girl, Daddy. I can do things." It is appropriate to mention her comment was concurrent with an eye roll of epic scale. I think she scanned her entire brain on that one.
Maybe it's because our male DNA is programned to screw up the little things. Maybe it's because we're building on our role as father that we inherited from our father and still have a ways to go. Or maybe, God provides us and our children these little "oops" moments to create growth in both parent in child. I can hope it's the latter, can't I?
It left me wondering just how badly our culture is screwing up our kids by over functioning for them? Are all the helicopter parents doing too much to insulate children from some of the realities of life, as well as robbing them of opportunities for good growth?
Do we really intend to raise a child under heavy protection, limited choices and risks, and devoid of any pain? Or rather, should we allow them to stumble, maybe even scrape a knee? Does a kid need to know what it's like to get/give a bloody nose or a broken heart? As in nature, children need to experience risk and loss in order to prepare for this life.
Of course, it may be that I'm just a loser Dad who needs to pay more attention to what my daughter wears when she leaves the house. At least I learned the lesson while she's in kindergarten and not when she's 17.
Making Sense of Suffering
Not a Sermon - Just a Thought - March 2, 2007
Tsunamis, cancer, violence, and war.
Poverty, hunger, and homelessness.
All of these are symptoms of a world limping along in desperate need of healing & wholeness. In the classic blues tune It’s Bad You Know, R.L. Burnside rants in pained monotone his agreement that suffering stinks. Simply and repeatedly, he says, “It’s gettin’ bad, you know.” Hardly any other lines in the song, he sums up the state of things.
The most pressing question in all of the Christian faith is why God allows so much suffering if God is all-powerful and all-loving. I don’t believe we’ll ever fully understand this, but I also believe that parts of the answer can be found. For example, Isaiah 52 and 53 offers a prophetic look at the role that Jesus would fulfill in his life and death. It is also a graphic portrait of his suffering and glory. Verse 5, my emphasis added, reads:
5 But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed.
It is troubling to know that our actions can cause pain and suffering to happen to anyone, but we humans are capable of that. For our iniquities, for our transgressions, the scriptures say that Jesus was wounded, and perhaps more profoundly we discover that because of his wounds, we are healed. Beautifully, the King James Version renders this idea, "by his stripes we are healed."
Isaiah 53.11 goes on to say this, again with emphasis:
After the suffering of his soul, he will see the light of life and be satisfied.
By allowing these two verses to frame the suffering of Jesus we are able to get a glimpse into one of the most troubling questions of Christianity: Why is there suffering?
For Jesus, the suffering and "wounded-ness" that he endured brought peace and forgiveness to the world. After his suffering, says the Bible, he was able to see the light of life and be satisfied. In the life of Jesus, there was purpose to his suffering, purpose on a grand and cosmic scale. I'm convinced that if we are indeed co-heirs in Christ as the Bible teaches, then the suffering which we endure on this earth must have a purpose also.
It may not be on the grand and cosmic scale of Jesus', but in discovering the reasons for suffering you and I are able to live more fully, freely, and joyfully-even when life is crushing in upon us on all sides. This Sunday we'll draw from the Isaiah 52 and 53 texts to think about the purposes of suffering. Suffering in our life, when properly observed, can sharpen our character, increase our sensitivity to God's work in our lives, and can be used to accomplish good.
Bringing a good word for hard times,
Pastor Gary
Not a Sermon – Just a Thought is a weekly e-column written by Gary Long, pastor of Willow Meadows Baptist Church, Houston, Texas. You can subscribe or unsubscribe to this column by emailing me at glong@wmbc.org.
Here are the upcoming sermon topics at WMBC during March:
Series Title – Wounded Light – Making Sense of Suffering
March 11
The Waiting Room of Life - How Do I Find Strength in Suffering?
Scripture: 2 Corinthians 12:7-10
Three times Paul asked God to relieve him of the mysterious "thorn in the flesh" and three times God said no. In effect, Paul hears God saying, "My grace is sufficient for you, my power is made perfect in weakness." Paul had to endure suffering and hardship and we can learn from his model that finding strength in suffering comes through waiting strong with God.
March 18
Singing the Blues
Scripture: Psalm 22
David sang the blues, the children of Israel sang the blues, Job sang the blues. Even Jesus, on the cross, sang the blues. Giving voice to our suffering-making a groaning lament-is sometimes good for us because it acknowledges our pain and helps us to remember that suffering is common to all humans, that it doesn't last forever, and that God is right there with us, even when we sing the blues.
March 25
Don't Waste Your Suffering
Scripture: Romans 8:28
Suffering has an end and a purpose, though they are difficult to see when you are in the midst of suffering. The benefits of suffering are wasted if you believe it to be a curse and not a gift, if you allow it to drive you to solitude rather than into deeper relationships, and if you allow it to drive you away from God rather than toward God. Suffering should invite reflection and changes in our lives as we respond to the difficulties of life by the power of our relationship to Jesus Christ.
Tsunamis, cancer, violence, and war.
Poverty, hunger, and homelessness.
All of these are symptoms of a world limping along in desperate need of healing & wholeness. In the classic blues tune It’s Bad You Know, R.L. Burnside rants in pained monotone his agreement that suffering stinks. Simply and repeatedly, he says, “It’s gettin’ bad, you know.” Hardly any other lines in the song, he sums up the state of things.
The most pressing question in all of the Christian faith is why God allows so much suffering if God is all-powerful and all-loving. I don’t believe we’ll ever fully understand this, but I also believe that parts of the answer can be found. For example, Isaiah 52 and 53 offers a prophetic look at the role that Jesus would fulfill in his life and death. It is also a graphic portrait of his suffering and glory. Verse 5, my emphasis added, reads:
5 But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed.
It is troubling to know that our actions can cause pain and suffering to happen to anyone, but we humans are capable of that. For our iniquities, for our transgressions, the scriptures say that Jesus was wounded, and perhaps more profoundly we discover that because of his wounds, we are healed. Beautifully, the King James Version renders this idea, "by his stripes we are healed."
Isaiah 53.11 goes on to say this, again with emphasis:
After the suffering of his soul, he will see the light of life and be satisfied.
By allowing these two verses to frame the suffering of Jesus we are able to get a glimpse into one of the most troubling questions of Christianity: Why is there suffering?
For Jesus, the suffering and "wounded-ness" that he endured brought peace and forgiveness to the world. After his suffering, says the Bible, he was able to see the light of life and be satisfied. In the life of Jesus, there was purpose to his suffering, purpose on a grand and cosmic scale. I'm convinced that if we are indeed co-heirs in Christ as the Bible teaches, then the suffering which we endure on this earth must have a purpose also.
It may not be on the grand and cosmic scale of Jesus', but in discovering the reasons for suffering you and I are able to live more fully, freely, and joyfully-even when life is crushing in upon us on all sides. This Sunday we'll draw from the Isaiah 52 and 53 texts to think about the purposes of suffering. Suffering in our life, when properly observed, can sharpen our character, increase our sensitivity to God's work in our lives, and can be used to accomplish good.
Bringing a good word for hard times,
Pastor Gary
Not a Sermon – Just a Thought is a weekly e-column written by Gary Long, pastor of Willow Meadows Baptist Church, Houston, Texas. You can subscribe or unsubscribe to this column by emailing me at glong@wmbc.org.
Here are the upcoming sermon topics at WMBC during March:
Series Title – Wounded Light – Making Sense of Suffering
March 11
The Waiting Room of Life - How Do I Find Strength in Suffering?
Scripture: 2 Corinthians 12:7-10
Three times Paul asked God to relieve him of the mysterious "thorn in the flesh" and three times God said no. In effect, Paul hears God saying, "My grace is sufficient for you, my power is made perfect in weakness." Paul had to endure suffering and hardship and we can learn from his model that finding strength in suffering comes through waiting strong with God.
March 18
Singing the Blues
Scripture: Psalm 22
David sang the blues, the children of Israel sang the blues, Job sang the blues. Even Jesus, on the cross, sang the blues. Giving voice to our suffering-making a groaning lament-is sometimes good for us because it acknowledges our pain and helps us to remember that suffering is common to all humans, that it doesn't last forever, and that God is right there with us, even when we sing the blues.
March 25
Don't Waste Your Suffering
Scripture: Romans 8:28
Suffering has an end and a purpose, though they are difficult to see when you are in the midst of suffering. The benefits of suffering are wasted if you believe it to be a curse and not a gift, if you allow it to drive you to solitude rather than into deeper relationships, and if you allow it to drive you away from God rather than toward God. Suffering should invite reflection and changes in our lives as we respond to the difficulties of life by the power of our relationship to Jesus Christ.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Super Studs - Off the Court and Out of the Pulpit
I called an old friend to say happy birthday Sunday afternoon. He's a basketball coach at a high school here in Houston and we chatted about his season a bit. His boys went 22-9 and had a great team experience.
I asked how a certain "superstar" played this year. I was interested because I knew that Lute Olsen, Tubby Smith, and Mike "DOOKIE" Kerzipoopski had been looking at this kid. Turns out that the "superstar" had left the school and didn't play with them this year.
"Oh no!" I said.
"Turns out it's a good thing." he said. "My boys did better as a team without him. Everyone played harder than before, they played like a team."
That, of course, got me to thinking about leadership. Especially leadership in church. I move in a universe that tends to make super stars out of pastors. Some of my church family falsely puts me on a pedestal, a place I believe happens to be reserved for the real head of the church - Jesus. Pastors walk this fine balance between leading out of strength, focus, and determination with keeping everyone focused on the fact that Jesus is the leader of the pastor and the church.
Good church people confuse pastors and Jesus. And sometimes, so does the pastor. It's easy to see how it happens, too. No matter how humble we want to be, the pastoral ego is a hungry beast that feeds on the lavish praises of church-folk like a fat kid on chocolate cake. It's only after I've binged on the sugary confection that I realize the icing is smeared on my face and stuck to the back of my knuckles.
I don't mind the leadership required of a pastor. I enjoy exercising what I believe to be a gift God has given me. But I worry that modern American Christianity has created more of a cult religion than a true church where people follow pastors, not Jesus. The ministry of the church is restricted and unfulfilled when everyone on the team stands around watching a great player do all the work and get all the glory.
This isn't to say that pastors and basketball players should diminish their talent so that others around them feel better about their mediocrity. It's just that I'd rather have a balanced team where everyone does what they do best, always ready to assist the others on the team as they go. I, for one, am ready for pastors to step down off the pedestal and utterly resist the evil temptation of being put up their by their adoring fans.
Like in basketball, churches win as teams, not because of super stud individuals.
I asked how a certain "superstar" played this year. I was interested because I knew that Lute Olsen, Tubby Smith, and Mike "DOOKIE" Kerzipoopski had been looking at this kid. Turns out that the "superstar" had left the school and didn't play with them this year.
"Oh no!" I said.
"Turns out it's a good thing." he said. "My boys did better as a team without him. Everyone played harder than before, they played like a team."
That, of course, got me to thinking about leadership. Especially leadership in church. I move in a universe that tends to make super stars out of pastors. Some of my church family falsely puts me on a pedestal, a place I believe happens to be reserved for the real head of the church - Jesus. Pastors walk this fine balance between leading out of strength, focus, and determination with keeping everyone focused on the fact that Jesus is the leader of the pastor and the church.
Good church people confuse pastors and Jesus. And sometimes, so does the pastor. It's easy to see how it happens, too. No matter how humble we want to be, the pastoral ego is a hungry beast that feeds on the lavish praises of church-folk like a fat kid on chocolate cake. It's only after I've binged on the sugary confection that I realize the icing is smeared on my face and stuck to the back of my knuckles.
I don't mind the leadership required of a pastor. I enjoy exercising what I believe to be a gift God has given me. But I worry that modern American Christianity has created more of a cult religion than a true church where people follow pastors, not Jesus. The ministry of the church is restricted and unfulfilled when everyone on the team stands around watching a great player do all the work and get all the glory.
This isn't to say that pastors and basketball players should diminish their talent so that others around them feel better about their mediocrity. It's just that I'd rather have a balanced team where everyone does what they do best, always ready to assist the others on the team as they go. I, for one, am ready for pastors to step down off the pedestal and utterly resist the evil temptation of being put up their by their adoring fans.
Like in basketball, churches win as teams, not because of super stud individuals.
A Prayer for After Ash Wednesday
My friend Sharon Gould is a cancer fighter and so-far survivor. She was made a widow younger than most, so she's endured her portion of suffering. But her suffering doesn't define her, and that's one of the reasons I admire her.
She's a poignant and pointed person with a background in counseling. She's been a confidante and counselor to me and I watched her in action during Katrina relief, thankful that she was there to help the hurting and confused. She's an amazing lady, more so because she's raised two kids to adulthood without killing them.
She attended Ash Wednesday services at Willow Meadows where I preached the homily that is a post below this one. This is the prayer she composed after she wore the ashes and is allowing me to share with you:
She's a poignant and pointed person with a background in counseling. She's been a confidante and counselor to me and I watched her in action during Katrina relief, thankful that she was there to help the hurting and confused. She's an amazing lady, more so because she's raised two kids to adulthood without killing them.
She attended Ash Wednesday services at Willow Meadows where I preached the homily that is a post below this one. This is the prayer she composed after she wore the ashes and is allowing me to share with you:
ASH WEDNESDAY
(LIVE ASHES)
Dear Lord,
Ashes across my forehead; don’t wash them off!
Forge them into my brain; tattoo them onto my skin.
After church
I wore the ashes to the supermarket, somewhat unconscious of their presence.
As I smiled and said “You first” to an exhausted mother balancing baby and groceries,
I was uncomfortably conscious of my ashes.
(LIVE ASHES)
Dear Lord,
Ashes across my forehead; don’t wash them off!
Forge them into my brain; tattoo them onto my skin.
After church
I wore the ashes to the supermarket, somewhat unconscious of their presence.
As I smiled and said “You first” to an exhausted mother balancing baby and groceries,
I was uncomfortably conscious of my ashes.
The condemning thought was the radical hurt to Christ if I had barged selfishly ahead,
ignoring her need, while wearing the ashes.
But Lord, I am always wearing the ashes; sometimes more live and conscious than others.
Thank you Jesus for the defining dust.
Perhaps I should daily dust your invisible ashes onto my forehead as reminder to show the world your cross of salvation and your light of love for everyone.
“After the suffering of His soul, He will see the light of life and be satisfied.” (Isaiah 53:11)
Humbly and gratefully,
Your child.
But Lord, I am always wearing the ashes; sometimes more live and conscious than others.
Thank you Jesus for the defining dust.
Perhaps I should daily dust your invisible ashes onto my forehead as reminder to show the world your cross of salvation and your light of love for everyone.
“After the suffering of His soul, He will see the light of life and be satisfied.” (Isaiah 53:11)
Humbly and gratefully,
Your child.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Wounded Light
Ash Wednesday, 2007
Ash Wednesday is one of my favorite worship services of the Christian year. I know that’s dark, rather like saying I like bitter wine or funerals. Ash Wednesday is a time of confession. It’s also a harsh time. We dwell on our sin, we contemplate our mortality.
It’s got all the angst of a teenager watching a Fellini film after a break up. It’s like that line between Gomez and Morticia from the Addam’s Family. He asks her about the nature of her labor pains and she replies, “Exquisite.”
So why would I say this is among my favorite worship services? There are several reasons.
One is that I am able to experience the exquisite rush of forgiveness that only a follower of Jesus can know. Because of these moments wherein we identify with the atoning death of Jesus, I am transported over time and across space and beyond geography. In my soul I am with Christ in his suffering, and I see the wondrous love in his eyes. I bear witness to the power of the cross and the pain which Jesus endured so I might be able to stand before God, forgiven and free.
Another is that I learn better each Ash Wednesday how to mark my time on this planet. “Dust you are, and to dust you shall be returned,” says the minister when the ashes are imposed. When those grave words are uttered I feel my mortality, my finitude, and my finality. Man’s days are numbered, and they are fleeting. Ash Wednesday reminds me that each trip I take around the sun is a precious gift, and the people with whom I share the journey are equally precious. Ash Wednesday reminds me that each trip I take around the sun is pregnant with possibility and that without God can be barren of meaning. Ash Wednesday reminds me that each trip I take around the sun is mine to spend as I choose, so the ponderous weight of free choice presses down on my soul.
Another reason I like Ash Wednesday is unique to the office of pastor. As I impose the ashes I watch the face of each person. They all respond to this so differently. Some wish for eye contact with the minister, signaling something that seems like an assurance of the pardon I am promising from God. “Can this forgiveness be real?” their eyes question.
Still others look into the bowl of ashes and oil, contemplating who knows what? Their mortality? Their brokenness? Their breakfast?
Some approach the ashes dignified and somber, fully “in the moment” and steeping in the ritual and reality of the truth about the chasm between us and the lives of promise that God would lead us to if we’d only follow.
But all of these people remind me that what I like about Ash Wednesday is that we walk through our darkness and brokenness in community. Ash Wednesday reminds me that loneliness has its place in the Christian journey, but so does community. When I impose ashes on you it says, “You belong to this family. You belong to me. I belong to you. At our very core we see and say, “You’re not so different from me after all.””
Most of all, the reason I like Ash Wednesday is in the way it brings us to places of healing. It marks the beginning of Lent, a season of penitence, fasting, praying, and self-denying. Like the relief that comes from a lanced boil or wound, there is a painful letting and a powerful healing. Always, Ash Wednesday marks the doorway to Lent, which is the path to Easter. The older I get, the more convinced I become that the way of suffering, loss, and pain leads to deeper joy, gladness, and contentedness.
Once, my friend Lucinda told me that no minister was worth his salt unless he’d been through some suffering and loss. She said it helped the minister understand the pain of the persons for whom he cared. Not long after that, my mother passed away. And though it was not the first time I’d experienced grief, there was much pain because of the suddenness, and because of the state of my relationship with her.
It’s a kind of wounded light like we read of in Isaiah’s prophecy about Jesus:
Isaiah 53.5
But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed.
And in 53.11 we read:
11 After the suffering of his soul, he will see the light of life and be satisfied;
Wounds that heal, suffering that brings light to life. I like that.
As I have healed over the years I’ve come to believe that Lucinda is correct. Suffering produces something in our lives that compares to nothing I know. Ash Wednesday calls us into the suffering of Christ, into the suffering of our world, and into the suffering heart of God.
And by going into these dark places we more clearly see goodness, justice, and mercy. By going into the dark places of death and despair we more clearly see the bright light of the resurrection story that will be told at the end of the journey we begin today.
Ash Wednesday is one of my favorite worship services of the Christian year. I know that’s dark, rather like saying I like bitter wine or funerals. Ash Wednesday is a time of confession. It’s also a harsh time. We dwell on our sin, we contemplate our mortality.
It’s got all the angst of a teenager watching a Fellini film after a break up. It’s like that line between Gomez and Morticia from the Addam’s Family. He asks her about the nature of her labor pains and she replies, “Exquisite.”
So why would I say this is among my favorite worship services? There are several reasons.
One is that I am able to experience the exquisite rush of forgiveness that only a follower of Jesus can know. Because of these moments wherein we identify with the atoning death of Jesus, I am transported over time and across space and beyond geography. In my soul I am with Christ in his suffering, and I see the wondrous love in his eyes. I bear witness to the power of the cross and the pain which Jesus endured so I might be able to stand before God, forgiven and free.
Another is that I learn better each Ash Wednesday how to mark my time on this planet. “Dust you are, and to dust you shall be returned,” says the minister when the ashes are imposed. When those grave words are uttered I feel my mortality, my finitude, and my finality. Man’s days are numbered, and they are fleeting. Ash Wednesday reminds me that each trip I take around the sun is a precious gift, and the people with whom I share the journey are equally precious. Ash Wednesday reminds me that each trip I take around the sun is pregnant with possibility and that without God can be barren of meaning. Ash Wednesday reminds me that each trip I take around the sun is mine to spend as I choose, so the ponderous weight of free choice presses down on my soul.
Another reason I like Ash Wednesday is unique to the office of pastor. As I impose the ashes I watch the face of each person. They all respond to this so differently. Some wish for eye contact with the minister, signaling something that seems like an assurance of the pardon I am promising from God. “Can this forgiveness be real?” their eyes question.
Still others look into the bowl of ashes and oil, contemplating who knows what? Their mortality? Their brokenness? Their breakfast?
Some approach the ashes dignified and somber, fully “in the moment” and steeping in the ritual and reality of the truth about the chasm between us and the lives of promise that God would lead us to if we’d only follow.
But all of these people remind me that what I like about Ash Wednesday is that we walk through our darkness and brokenness in community. Ash Wednesday reminds me that loneliness has its place in the Christian journey, but so does community. When I impose ashes on you it says, “You belong to this family. You belong to me. I belong to you. At our very core we see and say, “You’re not so different from me after all.””
Most of all, the reason I like Ash Wednesday is in the way it brings us to places of healing. It marks the beginning of Lent, a season of penitence, fasting, praying, and self-denying. Like the relief that comes from a lanced boil or wound, there is a painful letting and a powerful healing. Always, Ash Wednesday marks the doorway to Lent, which is the path to Easter. The older I get, the more convinced I become that the way of suffering, loss, and pain leads to deeper joy, gladness, and contentedness.
Once, my friend Lucinda told me that no minister was worth his salt unless he’d been through some suffering and loss. She said it helped the minister understand the pain of the persons for whom he cared. Not long after that, my mother passed away. And though it was not the first time I’d experienced grief, there was much pain because of the suddenness, and because of the state of my relationship with her.
It’s a kind of wounded light like we read of in Isaiah’s prophecy about Jesus:
Isaiah 53.5
But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed.
And in 53.11 we read:
11 After the suffering of his soul, he will see the light of life and be satisfied;
Wounds that heal, suffering that brings light to life. I like that.
As I have healed over the years I’ve come to believe that Lucinda is correct. Suffering produces something in our lives that compares to nothing I know. Ash Wednesday calls us into the suffering of Christ, into the suffering of our world, and into the suffering heart of God.
And by going into these dark places we more clearly see goodness, justice, and mercy. By going into the dark places of death and despair we more clearly see the bright light of the resurrection story that will be told at the end of the journey we begin today.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Spectator Christianity
I love college basketball. From the pre-season to the final four, I could watch college basketball for hours and it doesn’t really matter who’s playing. The intensity, the speed, the fact that any given team could win on any given night are all exciting to me. I love to watch the sport and I am a great spectator of college basketball. Especially if the Tar Heels are playing.
It’s a good thing I love to watch, because I wouldn’t make a good participant. For starters, I’m no longer eligible to play by NCAA rules. I’m too old. I’m too fat. I’m too slow. I can’t shoot the basketball. Tommy Simons slaughters me at horse every time we play. I can’t dribble the basketball very well. I can’t rebound the basketball. You couldn't get a slice of pizza underneath my vertical jump.
I’m a far better spectator than participant.
Some might say the same thing about the Christian faith.
Like college basketball, there are two ways to view the Christian faith. You can either do it as a spectator or a participant. Spectator Christians don't have bad theology, they're not heretical, and they're not bound for hell.
So if spectators are not bad or wrong, what’s the problem? The issue is that, as a Spectator Christian, it's easy to miss significant amounts of the good stuff in the faith. We miss the fullness of life as a follower of Jesus. But sadly, Christianity in American has become very good at producing spectators and not so good at helping people to fully clench the faith as a way of being and doing life. This is a shallow experience of a deep and mystical faith.
When Jesus was on this earth he gave his disciples a message and he gave them a way to live it out. The American church (if there is actually such a monolithic being) in our time is largely living out the gospel in a way that Jesus never intended it. It seems to me that we have become a generation of religious spectators, when the gospel of Jesus clearly demands that we be a people who “DO” our faith.
So I wonder, how do others out there "do" their Christianity?
It’s a good thing I love to watch, because I wouldn’t make a good participant. For starters, I’m no longer eligible to play by NCAA rules. I’m too old. I’m too fat. I’m too slow. I can’t shoot the basketball. Tommy Simons slaughters me at horse every time we play. I can’t dribble the basketball very well. I can’t rebound the basketball. You couldn't get a slice of pizza underneath my vertical jump.
I’m a far better spectator than participant.
Some might say the same thing about the Christian faith.
Like college basketball, there are two ways to view the Christian faith. You can either do it as a spectator or a participant. Spectator Christians don't have bad theology, they're not heretical, and they're not bound for hell.
So if spectators are not bad or wrong, what’s the problem? The issue is that, as a Spectator Christian, it's easy to miss significant amounts of the good stuff in the faith. We miss the fullness of life as a follower of Jesus. But sadly, Christianity in American has become very good at producing spectators and not so good at helping people to fully clench the faith as a way of being and doing life. This is a shallow experience of a deep and mystical faith.
When Jesus was on this earth he gave his disciples a message and he gave them a way to live it out. The American church (if there is actually such a monolithic being) in our time is largely living out the gospel in a way that Jesus never intended it. It seems to me that we have become a generation of religious spectators, when the gospel of Jesus clearly demands that we be a people who “DO” our faith.
So I wonder, how do others out there "do" their Christianity?
A Tribute to Bruce Metzger
Bruce Metzger died this past Tuesday. If you don't know who he is, don't worry. Unless you ever went to seminary or learned Biblical Greek you probably shouldn't know his name.
But I think my readers should know about him.
The reason you should know about him is that he provided leadership for one of the most academically reliable translations of the Christian scriptures into modern English. He was an intellectual giant on Biblical translation and critical study of the scriptures, as well as an expert on discerning the reliability of various Greek manuscripts that form the basis for all of our translations.
It's important for you to know who does the translating of your preferred version of the Bible. That's because all translators have a theological bent and no matter how hard they may try, their lenses affect the words as they migrate from original language to English. Metzger did the best job of any I know at keeping his theology out of his translations. The Revised Standard and New Revised Standard Versions of the scriptures offer the average English reader the best shot at a pure reading of the originals.
Thanks, Dr. Metzger, for dedicating your life to study - we are the downstream beneficiaries. I'm sure God welcomed you, "Well done, my good and faithful servant."
Here's the ABP story by Robert Marus:
By Robert Marus
PRINCETON, N.J. (ABP) -- Bruce Metzger, who was perhaps the 20th century's preeminent New Testament Greek scholar, has died at age 93.
The retired seminary professor reportedly died of natural causes in Princeton, N.J., Feb. 13.
Metzger helped translate both the Revised Standard Version and the New Revised Standard Version of the Bible. He served as general editor for the latter, which is the English Bible translation used for academic study of Scripture in all but the most conservative Protestant colleges, seminaries and divinity schools.
"Dr. Metzger was a towering presence on the campus of Princeton Theological Seminary during my days there as a student," recalled Michael Livingston, president of the National Council of Churches, according to an NCC press release. "Students used to say that Dr. Metzger 'wrote the Bible.' The comment reflected the high regard in which this gentleman scholar was held."
Both the RSV and NRSV translations were done under the NCC's aegis. The group's general secretary likewise praised Metzger's life and work.
"I don't think it is an exaggeration to say the RSV would not have happened had it not been for Bruce Metzger," said Bob Edgar. "His leadership and scholarship were the reasons there is a translation of the Bible we call the New Revised Standard Version."
Metzger, an ordained minister in the Presbyterian Church (USA), earned a bachelor's degree from Lebanon Valley College in 1935, a bachelor of theology degree from Princeton Seminary in 1938 and his doctorate in classics from Princeton University in 1942.
He taught at Princeton for 46 years, beginning in 1938.
-30-
But I think my readers should know about him.
The reason you should know about him is that he provided leadership for one of the most academically reliable translations of the Christian scriptures into modern English. He was an intellectual giant on Biblical translation and critical study of the scriptures, as well as an expert on discerning the reliability of various Greek manuscripts that form the basis for all of our translations.
It's important for you to know who does the translating of your preferred version of the Bible. That's because all translators have a theological bent and no matter how hard they may try, their lenses affect the words as they migrate from original language to English. Metzger did the best job of any I know at keeping his theology out of his translations. The Revised Standard and New Revised Standard Versions of the scriptures offer the average English reader the best shot at a pure reading of the originals.
Thanks, Dr. Metzger, for dedicating your life to study - we are the downstream beneficiaries. I'm sure God welcomed you, "Well done, my good and faithful servant."
Here's the ABP story by Robert Marus:
By Robert Marus
PRINCETON, N.J. (ABP) -- Bruce Metzger, who was perhaps the 20th century's preeminent New Testament Greek scholar, has died at age 93.
The retired seminary professor reportedly died of natural causes in Princeton, N.J., Feb. 13.
Metzger helped translate both the Revised Standard Version and the New Revised Standard Version of the Bible. He served as general editor for the latter, which is the English Bible translation used for academic study of Scripture in all but the most conservative Protestant colleges, seminaries and divinity schools.
"Dr. Metzger was a towering presence on the campus of Princeton Theological Seminary during my days there as a student," recalled Michael Livingston, president of the National Council of Churches, according to an NCC press release. "Students used to say that Dr. Metzger 'wrote the Bible.' The comment reflected the high regard in which this gentleman scholar was held."
Both the RSV and NRSV translations were done under the NCC's aegis. The group's general secretary likewise praised Metzger's life and work.
"I don't think it is an exaggeration to say the RSV would not have happened had it not been for Bruce Metzger," said Bob Edgar. "His leadership and scholarship were the reasons there is a translation of the Bible we call the New Revised Standard Version."
Metzger, an ordained minister in the Presbyterian Church (USA), earned a bachelor's degree from Lebanon Valley College in 1935, a bachelor of theology degree from Princeton Seminary in 1938 and his doctorate in classics from Princeton University in 1942.
He taught at Princeton for 46 years, beginning in 1938.
-30-
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Servant Leadership
As a pastor who views church as a learning community, I am a teacher among teachers. Practically that means I sit under the teaching of my community with regularity. Tonight I participated in a group studying the book Lead Like Jesus.
The discussion was ably led and the conversation was good. The book is pretty much in the main of current literature and falls under the Robert Greenleaf umbrella of Servant Leadership. Indeed, Greenleaf's work is seminal to this school of thought.
I asked the question of the group tonight, "Do you buy this?" I asked because I'm not sure I totally buy it myself. I agree with the Lead like Jesus concepts, but the back story of servant leadership - at least from the philosophical point of view - is not one upon which I'm totally settled.
I think Jesus' leadership capacity came from a deeply rooted sense of self-definition and a non-anxious presence. I'm heavily influenced by Ed Friedman and Bowen theory, so if you know their stuff, you know my slant on how self-definition and non-anxious presence are the keys to leadership in any arena. In serving his disciples at the famous foot-washing, Jesus seems more about modeling the contrarian, upside-down nature of God's kingdom than about establishing a way for CEO's to increase the bottom line and employee happiness factors.
There are numerous tantalizing theological rabbits to chase on this. Some of the folk tonight mentioned their belief that Jesus knew his mission and purpose so clearly as to know the time and method of his death. However, I'm not personally convinced of this and if pressed, I can make a strong Biblical case for my position.
If we follow that strand of thinking we must deal with the issue of God intentionally planning for God's own death. Some theologians refer to this concept as either "The Suffering God" or the "Sacred Suicide." Purposing one's on physical death is quite the violent act - and some theologians purport that God's act of self-death was a guilt-offering to humankind.
While I'm not sure about all those theories, I go back to my position that Jesus as servant leader had a clearly defined mission, a clearly defined self, and in living fully in the image of God brought a revolution to the world. Jesus was by all accounts a non-anxious, self-defined presence.
My read on the Jesus of the gospels is that we're dealing with a guy who led from the inside out, was playing for an audience of One, and didn't give a rip about winning friends or influencing people. I'm convinced that if we are to truly lead like Jesus it will have more to do with sitting quietly with God and brooding over whom we are as a human before we can step into any arena we aspire to lead.
The discussion was ably led and the conversation was good. The book is pretty much in the main of current literature and falls under the Robert Greenleaf umbrella of Servant Leadership. Indeed, Greenleaf's work is seminal to this school of thought.
I asked the question of the group tonight, "Do you buy this?" I asked because I'm not sure I totally buy it myself. I agree with the Lead like Jesus concepts, but the back story of servant leadership - at least from the philosophical point of view - is not one upon which I'm totally settled.
I think Jesus' leadership capacity came from a deeply rooted sense of self-definition and a non-anxious presence. I'm heavily influenced by Ed Friedman and Bowen theory, so if you know their stuff, you know my slant on how self-definition and non-anxious presence are the keys to leadership in any arena. In serving his disciples at the famous foot-washing, Jesus seems more about modeling the contrarian, upside-down nature of God's kingdom than about establishing a way for CEO's to increase the bottom line and employee happiness factors.
There are numerous tantalizing theological rabbits to chase on this. Some of the folk tonight mentioned their belief that Jesus knew his mission and purpose so clearly as to know the time and method of his death. However, I'm not personally convinced of this and if pressed, I can make a strong Biblical case for my position.
If we follow that strand of thinking we must deal with the issue of God intentionally planning for God's own death. Some theologians refer to this concept as either "The Suffering God" or the "Sacred Suicide." Purposing one's on physical death is quite the violent act - and some theologians purport that God's act of self-death was a guilt-offering to humankind.
While I'm not sure about all those theories, I go back to my position that Jesus as servant leader had a clearly defined mission, a clearly defined self, and in living fully in the image of God brought a revolution to the world. Jesus was by all accounts a non-anxious, self-defined presence.
My read on the Jesus of the gospels is that we're dealing with a guy who led from the inside out, was playing for an audience of One, and didn't give a rip about winning friends or influencing people. I'm convinced that if we are to truly lead like Jesus it will have more to do with sitting quietly with God and brooding over whom we are as a human before we can step into any arena we aspire to lead.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
The Day The Pterodactyls Went Extinct
I don't know the exact day, but I know it happened in the last few weeks. Seriously, the pterodactyls just now went extinct. Let me explain.
The pterodactyls lived in the belly of the Youngest Sister quite comfortably for the last 5+ years. They were a friendly pair who made a growling noise every time the Youngest Sister got hungry. They were fond of apples and bananas and grapes. And popsicles and "Blue Doritos" and chicken (Chicken being anything that was cooked on the grill, of course).
The pterodactyls were also very clear about what they didn't like to eat. The Youngest Sister defended them against certain food choices by saying, "The pterodactyls won't eat that, Daddy." It became a running theme around our house, even the adults were trained to listen for the digestive opinions of the two pterodactyls. At the end of a meal when she asked if she could have dessert, the parental response was, "Are the pterodactyls full? Did they eat well?"
So yesterday after school I was curled up on the pillow in her room reading Corduroy the Bear and I asked, "Are the pterodactyls hungry?" which being translated means, "Do you want an after school snack?"
She said, "The pterodactyls are gone."
I exclaimed "What!? When did that happen!?"
She shrugged with an indifference I'm not accustomed to seeing in a 5 year old.
I pressed on. "Where have they gone?"
She answered, "I don't know. They just flew away."
I bit my lip to hold back a very unmanly sob, a sob driven by the rushing realization that the baby of the family is no baby at all. A sob propelled by my worry that her imagination had been somehow stolen by that thief of childhood named "Growing Up."
The extinction of the pterodactyl is just the beginning, sounding the death knoll for Santa and the Tooth Fairy. Stuffed bears and tea parties will give way to shoe shopping and mascara, cell phones and boyfriends. "Daddy" will become "Dad" and "Can we cuddle?" becomes "Can I go out?"
My soul is struggling with this because I do want her to grow up. I do. Really I do. Really really really. I'm not convincing you or me, am I?
That's because you and I fear what the extinction of the pterodactyls signals: Aging. Loss of innocence. Tempis fugit. Missed opportunity. Regrets.
This is more than a story about a daddy watching his little girl mature. It's not even quaint reluctance that squishes her on the top of the head as if to say, "Stop growing up so fast!" It's a story about grown ups "playing pretend" about the march of time, too willingly, too easily blinding ourselves to its passing.
If those dinosaurs go extinct so quickly, then how soon before I'll be the dinosaur? Did I miss the good stuff? Did I drink life to the lees with all three of my kids? With my wife? With my friends?
So I cling to those stupid pterodactyls because as long as they are around, I can be a child too. The Youngest Sister, if she could read this would say, "Oooooh, Daddy, you said the "s" word!" Maybe that's a sign that I'm not so close to being a part of the fossil record after all.
The pterodactyls lived in the belly of the Youngest Sister quite comfortably for the last 5+ years. They were a friendly pair who made a growling noise every time the Youngest Sister got hungry. They were fond of apples and bananas and grapes. And popsicles and "Blue Doritos" and chicken (Chicken being anything that was cooked on the grill, of course).
The pterodactyls were also very clear about what they didn't like to eat. The Youngest Sister defended them against certain food choices by saying, "The pterodactyls won't eat that, Daddy." It became a running theme around our house, even the adults were trained to listen for the digestive opinions of the two pterodactyls. At the end of a meal when she asked if she could have dessert, the parental response was, "Are the pterodactyls full? Did they eat well?"
So yesterday after school I was curled up on the pillow in her room reading Corduroy the Bear and I asked, "Are the pterodactyls hungry?" which being translated means, "Do you want an after school snack?"
She said, "The pterodactyls are gone."
I exclaimed "What!? When did that happen!?"
She shrugged with an indifference I'm not accustomed to seeing in a 5 year old.
I pressed on. "Where have they gone?"
She answered, "I don't know. They just flew away."
I bit my lip to hold back a very unmanly sob, a sob driven by the rushing realization that the baby of the family is no baby at all. A sob propelled by my worry that her imagination had been somehow stolen by that thief of childhood named "Growing Up."
The extinction of the pterodactyl is just the beginning, sounding the death knoll for Santa and the Tooth Fairy. Stuffed bears and tea parties will give way to shoe shopping and mascara, cell phones and boyfriends. "Daddy" will become "Dad" and "Can we cuddle?" becomes "Can I go out?"
My soul is struggling with this because I do want her to grow up. I do. Really I do. Really really really. I'm not convincing you or me, am I?
That's because you and I fear what the extinction of the pterodactyls signals: Aging. Loss of innocence. Tempis fugit. Missed opportunity. Regrets.
This is more than a story about a daddy watching his little girl mature. It's not even quaint reluctance that squishes her on the top of the head as if to say, "Stop growing up so fast!" It's a story about grown ups "playing pretend" about the march of time, too willingly, too easily blinding ourselves to its passing.
If those dinosaurs go extinct so quickly, then how soon before I'll be the dinosaur? Did I miss the good stuff? Did I drink life to the lees with all three of my kids? With my wife? With my friends?
So I cling to those stupid pterodactyls because as long as they are around, I can be a child too. The Youngest Sister, if she could read this would say, "Oooooh, Daddy, you said the "s" word!" Maybe that's a sign that I'm not so close to being a part of the fossil record after all.
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