Praytell

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Minneapolis, Minnesota

The saying has stayed with me.

“I hear and I forget; I see and I remember; I do and I understand.”

It is not a saying that preachers necessarily like.  We people of the Word are full of words.  When we hit a verbal home run, we are likely to run around the bases not once but a dozen or so times.  Words, words, words.  Searching for the right one, and the right moment in which to speak it, is one of life’s continuing quests.  I love to write, but more than that I love to edit, to find a better phrase, a clearer and cleaner expression, and a cadence that gets both the rhythm and the meaning right.

And yet most of this work is forgotten, as well it should be.  After all, we all hear and forget, see and remember, do and understand.  The thought inspired a question.  How many sermons do I remember?  And do I remember the sermon, or just a phrase or two?  What sermon notes wrote themselves on my heart deeply enough to have stayed with me?  For the next five days it is my intention to share an insight from five sermons I’ve heard over the years.  At this point I don’t know if they will have a pattern or not.  Perhaps they will.  And perhaps what I will remember is an image rather than a phrase, a piece of music rather than words.

In each case I heard something, saw something, felt something about life that happened in worship.  For each I am grateful.

I invite you to join me in the search for five sermons.

Grace, mercy and peace to you.

Until tomorrow’s post, I am,

Larry

Friday, June 26, 2009

Minneapolis, Minnesota

When people ask me about the Leading Causes of Life, I answer by first praising connection.  “When we connect,” I say, “Good things happen.  Finding a job.  Connecting with an idea.  Creating a congregation.  Caring about family.  It’s all about connection.  And, when we disconnect, time get really tough.  We lose a job; there’s a split in the church; families become estranged–that’s all tough stuff.  When we look for connections, we’re looking for life.”

Then I move to coherence.  “Of course, once we connect, we invariably want to define what it is that connects us.  Are we working for a company?  Profit may be the answer.  Do we belong to a mosque?  The Koran answers the question.  The cross over or behind the altar in churches, the questions we ask new members, our take on faith–be it liberal or be it conservative–all these are searches for meaning.   By nature we prefer coherence to chaos.  By nature, so does God who separated night from day and brought order to an emerging world.

There are times that these two causes of life rather like each other.  It is pleasing to say “We believe.”  In those two words we have both connection and coherence.  But there are other times that the two begin to vie with each other.

Today is one of those days.

We’re moving.

The new apartment is five floors above us.  Its floor is already half filled with various boxes, and there is yet one more room to move.  It should be easy.  Once upon a time we actually had a house and a garage, but those days are no more.  We’ve unloaded so much stuff.  The move should be easy, but it isn’t.

Thirty-eight years ago, we did our first move.  There we were in a small apartment in Baltimore, Maryland.  The kitchen was so small one could not open the oven door all the way.  My “office” was the bathroom.  But no matter.  We were newly weds.  All would be well.  Our two lives had fused.  We didn’t have much, but what we had we shared.  Isn’t that what marriage is about?  Yes it is.

Until you move.

Suddenly, as we load the VW that would carry all of “our” stuff, something unexpected appeared.  I wondered what she had done with “my” books.  I’ll pack this box with “my things.”  Would there be room enough for her things?  Maybe.  But maybe not.  “I don’t want “my things” there, she’d say.  “Why not?”  “Those are mine.”  Back and forth we went.  It would be an overstatement to say we were seething with anger.  We loved, and love, each other.  Yes we do.  “Where did you put my box?”

There is nothing quite as raw as a move.  It forces decisions.  Save?  Throw?  Your stuff?  My things? Our things?

Moving.

Moving from Egypt to the promised land.

Moving back home after exile.

Moving away from home.

Moving upstairs.

Keeping what’s essential and wondering what it is.

Checking the emotions that would say “this is mine.”

It’s hard stuff.

We’ll have some arguments today.

I’ll be right.  And so will she.

In a few days, we’ll be home in apartment 2205.  1710 has been great.  But it’s time to move and reclaim the blessings of a shared home.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

Minneapolis, Minnesota

The line is Jacob’s.

But his words have become my words, as perhaps only words found in scripture can.  It was not long ago that God utterly disappeared from my life.  The disappearance of several billion neurons can do that.  When they fade away in a stroke, or in dementia, or in Alzheimer’s, that which we once recognized we no longer know.  Parents can look at children and not quite remember just who they are.  Pastors can turn to prayer and find it empty.

But although the gift of perception is helpful when it comes to belief, it is not always necessary.  There are other perceptions:  memory, place, surprise, and imaginations that also have power.  Just because I did not perceive God did not mean that God ceased to exist.  For all of its flaws, logic told me that.  Someday new experience would fill in the empty places, and new perceptions of the holy would find their way into my heart, my mind, and perhaps even my soul.

Jacob.

He was alone when he fell asleep on the earth’s floor at Haran.  And as he slept he dreamed.  He saw a ladder linking heaven and earth.  Angels were moving up and down the ladder.  Back and forth they went.  A thousand or so years later, Jesus would pray, “Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”  It takes connection to do that.  It requires the sending and receiving of messages.  He sees God standing beside them.  God speaks a word of blessing.  “Know that I will not leave you until I have done what I promised to you.”

Jacob awakes from his sleep.  “Surely the Lord is in this place and I did not know it,” he said, perhaps rubbing his eyes and surely trying to hold on to that voice and vision with all his strength, just as we all do when we wake from a dream we hope we’ll never forget.

There was a year or two when I could not access the precincts of prayer.  But in a deeper sense, I knew that absence did not mean exclusion.  Grace does not require an admission ticket.  It does not depend on a brain that has never been damaged.  It does not require more than one can pay.  Unlike the healings of post-modern medicine, its healings are not billable.

Grace does, however, have its implications.

Gratitude is the first.

Yesterday, a room of nurses listening to stories with such presence, such care, and such understanding.  It was a beautiful room and one could sense their call.

This morning, the five o’clock sky is purple.  The day has a beautiful beginning that only the God of life could give.

I am reminded of the beautiful poem of Hafiz.  (Never forget that in Iran the poetry of Hafiz sells more copies than the Koran.)

Even after all this time

The sun never says to the earth,

“You owe me.”

Look what happens

with love like that.

It lights the whole sky.

What is true of the sky is true of grace that waits for us and shows us the way.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Not long ago, an image came to mind.

There is nothing unusual about that.  It happens all the time.  Most of the time they appear, linger but for a moment, and then fade away.  But this one stayed and continues to work.

I imagined that we are on a long trek.  There are mountains to span, rivers to ford, plains to cross.  We have been walking for a long time.  There is nothing wrong with that.  It could be said that the only way to truly see the world is on foot.  For whatever reason, I have yet to commute to any job using a vehicle.  Instead I have almost always walked to church or to my “office.”  I am grateful for that settling and centering experience.

I digress.

It is easy to get lost for a moment when exploring the Geography of Healing.

And so I return to trail.

Ahead of us a herd of horses comes into view.  There are hundreds of them, all moving together.  We know that riding would be better than walking.  After all, we have a long way to go.

I look again at the herd.  “Which one?” I ask.

“That one,” you say.

“Why not that one?”

“Okay, all of them,” you say.

“All of them?  No way.   You can only ride one at a time, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then find one and ride it well.”

It is a seemingly silly conversation.  Everyone knows we cannot ride an entire herd of horses.  We can ride only one.  And we know that “which one” is less important that simply choosing one.  It would be best, perhaps, if it wasn’t injured, or too young, or too old  But basically any single horse will do.

We were talking about faith when the image of these horses came to mind.  There is something onerous, or even arrogant about choosing one faith.  “There are many faiths,” we say.  The fact that there are many sometimes keeps us from choosing one.  If we looked at the herd of horses, and felt bad about making a choice we might walk the entire way.  Just because we chose one horse doesn’t mean we judge the others, or consider them less able. We can be grateful for the entire herd even knowing we can only ride one.

In my life, I have tried to harness the horse of Christian thought and imagination.  I am deeply appreciative of the insights of Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu, and Creationist thought.  I suspect that if I had tried to harness one of them, I’d be appreciative of Christian thought.

Sometimes we want to ride all the horses at once.  This thought, while compelling, will not carry us far.

Let us, then, not be afraid to say, “I think I’ll choose that one.”

And who knows.  Maybe one will approach us from the herd, touch our outstretched hand, and give itself for the harness

There are so many horses.

Choose one and ride it well while loving the herd.

Safe travels to you . . .

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Four days of silence.

Four days without a post.

And four days of eloquence shaped by the rhythms of family.  My father turns 90 two days from now, but we celebrated where he grew up on the south shore of Lake Superior.  All night long we could hear the waves, except when we couldn’t because the lake was utterly calm on Saturday night.  We decided it would be a good and safe time to head over to the caves.  And so we pulled out the boat, checked its motor, and gingerly, carefully, helped dad, and my mother, who turns 90 in October, climb into the boat.  Put on your life jackets.  And then we headed out.

The sandstones that jut out into the lake are deep red.  The late afternoon light was a light amber wanting to turn crimson with traces of light blue, streaks of orange, and raw sienna–the color that one artist calls “liquid light.”  Near the caves, which have been cut into the sandstone by the nearly ceaseless waves over the last twenty or so thousand years, the water somehow turns green.  It always does that over there.  There are streaks of bright green moss that follow some of the fissures in the red rock that was formed millions of years ago by layer, after layer of sand.  Here and there the bands are straight.  But then, just a foot or so away, the sands were caught in some kind of tectonic swirl.

But mostly . . .

It is an evening of light.  The caves became luminous, utterly glowing as later afternoon turned into early evening and a horizon of cobalt violet and light manganese blue gave itself over to orange.

For a long time we knew not what to say, and so we said nothing.  We snapped digital pictures, but knew they could not capture the moment.  Mom and dad, side by side, just this side of 90, moving in and out of the caves and along the beaches of Lake Superior.

A few times the signs of dementia also gave themselves.

“How did people live in here?” my mother asked.

“They didn’t, honey,” said my dad the geologist.

“But why do they call them caves?”

“There are a lot of caves  people don’t live in,” said my dad the scientist.

“Oh.  But they might have.  Maybe they needed to get away.”

“Maybe,” I say.

“Look at that!” my brother says.  He has suddenly seen something large and white on the top edge of one of the caves.  No light gets in there.  “What is that?”

“Must be somebodies raft,” I say.

“No,” he said.  “It’s ice.”

“No way,” I say.  “It is June 20th.  If it was ice there’d be ice on the inside of all north-facing walls.”  I am proud of my scientific logic.  Just because I believe in the resurrection doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned all logic.  My brother quietly moves the boat into the slot, so as not to frighten my mother.

“It’s ice.”

“Is not.”

“Is so.”  Suddenly a stream of drops comes into view.  The iceburg is melting.  It is ice.  I should surrender and perhaps say a word or two about the life of faith and how wonderful this word “resurrection” actually is.

But it’s time to head back.

Half way across the bay the sun slips away.  The night is still luminous.

We land.  I’ll help you with this leg.  Now, Ken, you get that one.  Okay, mom, here we go.  Gently.  Good.  Now the other.  Good.  Well done!  Okay, dad.  I’ll take your arm.  Look at that sunset.  Chris, you get the other arm.  Great.  Good.

We head up the hill towards the cottage.

That, of course, is what life is all about.  Visit the caves.  Watch the sun slip away.  And head up the hill for the cottage.

My blessings to all who read these words.

May we all savor these days.

Thanks be to the God of life who gives each one of them.

(posted by Andy as Larry is driving to these very shores)

Friday, June 19, 2009

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Both my mind and my heart are filled with compassionate crowds.  The sea of green in Tehran, the crowd and its applause at this morning’s Hispanic prayer breakfast where president Obama affirmed the need for immigration reform.  Change seems to come from crowds.  If the sea of green disappears, or no one shows up for the breakfast, what then?

In the midst of turbulent thought, a memory surfaces.

At nine o’clock, in Big Timber, Montana, three or four of us met to examine the scriptures that would be preached an hour later.  As gatherings go, our meeting was polite, perhaps even a bit timid.  I had already put on the coffee, and greeted each one by name.  “Good morning Dee,” I said to Dee, whose husband had recently died.  I knew Dee’s story but, of course, didn’t know her exact age.  Was she 85?  Eighty-three?  It didn’t matter.  She was a regular and figuring out what God had to say in a circle of friends mattered.

Dee was also far more gathered than I was.  I was seething with anger.  I do not like that sentence any more than you do.  But is true.  I had worked to bring a group of Paraguayan students to Montana.  No fewer than five other churches would help host them during their two weeks in the Big Sky.  It was thrilling.  But two weeks with 14 teenagers is a long time!  Fortunately the senior high camp in the mountains occurred at exactly that same time!  Wonderful!  What about tuition?  Don’t worry about it, I had been told.  We’ll find a way!  Wonderful!

But then . . . bureaucracy.

“They’ll have to pay!”

“But.”

“Sorry.  That’s the policy.”

“But.”

“I’m sorry, everyone.  I’ve got to confess here a bit before we get into the word.  I am in a battle that I never saw coming.  I’m just about apoplectic.  Oh my.”  I took a deep breath, and then a chuckle.  It is amusing when we take ourselves too seriously.  Hafiz, the Persian poet, writes that religious are like great ships from which, in order to keep one’s sanity, everyone has to throw themselves overboard from time to time.  How true!

We settled into the scripture.  At 9:50, give or take a few minutes, the group went into the sanctuary.  I gathered my notes and settled into the rhythms of worship.  I was not aware there was anyone behind me as I sat at my desk.  I felt a tap on my shoulder.  It was Dee.  With exquisite gentleness, she handed me a check.

“This is for the kids,” she said.

It was for $500.

I pause for a moment.  The crowds that bring about change give way to the power of a single witness.

The kids went to camp.  The authorities were not happy, as authorities almost never are.  Several years later Dee died.  In her will she left $10,000 to the church.  The congregation needed those funds, as congregations always do.  But in Paraguay, there was a camp that needed a new water system.  Ten thousand would do it.  The church voted to send Dee’s gift to Camp Jack Norment in Caacupe, Paraguay.

We need seas of green to show a better way.

But we also need the dignity and power of Dee’s quiet faith and churches that receive its many blessings.

Thursday and Friday, June 18 and 19, 2009

Minneapolis, Minnesota

I keep working on grace.  Which is to say, grace is working on me.  It has, after all, nothing to do with what I achieve, or attempt to achieve.  Grace by works is hot ice, warm snow or dry rain.  Grace is God’s to give and mine to receive not once or twice, but over and over again.  Grace is at the heart of spiritual formation.  Along the way we get lost, and then we hear a story, or see something,  and for a moment we almost grasp its depth.

I thank Terry Anderson for his writing the story of his imprisonment in Beiruit during the long civil war.  He was locked up, chained, for seven years.  Maybe eight?  His jailers were revolutionaries who had a point to prove, and held him hostage to do just that.  They seemed to have no pity.  If one was kind, the one who came in the next morning, or the next month, or the next year was cruel.  Although his captivity seemed pointless it kept going on.  On and on it went.

I have not read his entire book about his captivity.  But some years ago a Catholic book of devotions, printed by the Liturgical Press that was later somewhat purged, shared a paragraph or two that stopped me in my tracks.

As I remember, he wrote:  “There was little in my captors I could not see in myself.”  The sentence was stunningly clear.  So was its challenge.  It is easy to divide the world into good and bad.  We do it automatically.  Such divisions are in our very genes. Judgement is our primary way to make sense of the world.  But it is wrong.  The truth is we condemn in others what we have not either recognized or confronted in ourselves.  Beneath our anger, is there a streak of kindness?  There is.  Beneath our smile, is there a streak of hostility?  There is.  Could we, despite our best intentions, find ourselves driven by ideology to prove a point regardless of its human cost?  We might.  “There was little in my captors I could not see in myself.”

And then he wrote these five words:

“As usual, Jesus was right.”

The words were so calm, so simple.  Judge not.  The more we judge the less we live in grace.  The more we live in grace, the more we know that we too need forgiveness.  There is little in the world we cannot find somewhere in ourselves. Such an awareness forms a pathway that leads us to grace in which we are all received, forgiven and renewed.

As usual, difficult though it may be, we must start with ourselves.

And, as usual, “Jesus was right.”

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Every so often, much less often than I might have once assumed, there is an insight that strikes home and proves itself true over the passage of time.

Here’s one.

I was in a class at Union Theological Seminary.  As usual with truthful teaching, the professor told a story.  “I was in Florida, not long ago,” he said.  “I drove by a motel that had a sign reading, Winter Rates In Effect.  “I knew that meant the cost of a room might be $80 or so, whereas in the summer I could have had that same room for $50.  In Florida, ‘Winter Rates’ means the rooms are more expensive.”

So, I wondered . . . what’s the message?

“Then, one winter, I was in Maine.  I drove by a motel.  The sign outside the motel read, Winter Rates In Effect. I knew what that meant.  The room that would be $80 in the tourist season I could have for $50.  And that’s the point.  The exact same words out side motels in Florida and Maine meant two different things.  If you didn’t know where I was, the sign out have no meaning.  That’s the way it is with the bible.  To just quote a verse of scripture, without knowing where it came from, what the surrounding culture had to say, who wrote it, and why they wrote it, can be exceedingly misleading.”

For me it was one of those “A-ha” moments.  It allowed me to say, upon hearing a verse of scripture, “Yes, that’s what it says.  But what does it mean?”  “Isn’t it obvious?” I often hear.  “Actually, it isn’t,” I would say.  Insight is too precious, too rare, too important to bury under knee-jerk assumptions.  Sometimes liberals love a certain verse of scripture, without unpacking its context, its form, its wording, its insight that lies just outside our easy understandings.  Sometimes conservatives do the exact same thing.

The teaching came home to me once again this week.

I Tehran, hundreds of thousands of people are going to their rooftops and shouting in Farsi, Allah Akbar, which means “God is Great.”  They do so to ask about their votes, to decry the violence, to declare their highest hopes for lyrical change (Isn’t it amazing, that in Iran, more copies of the poetry of Hafiz are sold than the Koran?).  It is a voice of hope.

When the 9/11 hijackers flew their planes into the twin towers, the Pentagon, and the fields of Pennsylvania, it is reported that the shouted, just before contact, “Allah Akbar.”  Here too, it means, God is Great.  The very same words in two different settings revealed two utterly different realities.

Over here . . . life.

Over here, martyrdom and murder.

These writings are entitled Grace Notes.  Does that apply to this evening’s entry?  It does.  When we are assured we know exactly what the text says, or what our lives amount to, we are invariably wrong.  And so we must search, discover, search once again, and know that truth flows from the grace that only God can give.

So . . . today.

Are you in Florida?

Or are you in Maine?

Is it winter?

Or is it summer?

And what does the Word mean?

May your search be a blessing.

It is said that one should always put a bit of sky in the land or water; and a bit of land or water in the sky.  It is such a fusion that keeps wonder alive.  These are the waters of Lake Superior, and the skies that spread across northern Wisconsin and Minnesota.