A good fit.

Saul said to David, “Go, and the Lord be with you.” Then Saul dressed David in his own tunic. He put a coat of armor on him and a bronze helmet on his head. David fastened on his sword over the tunic and tried walking around, because he was not used to them.

“I cannot go in these,” he said to Saul, “because I am not used to them.” So he took them off.

Today I received a very, very special gift. And I don't think I can keep it.

I have a wonderful uncle who is a second-career pastor, now in retirement. I remember, in his "first life," he worked for a major corporation engaged in strip-mining in the Rocky Mountains. We would go visit him, and I remember seeing these huge trucks, so tall that this five-foot-six woman barely came up to the bottom of the rim on a tire!

And then God got hold of him. I really don't know exactly how long he was a pastor. But I know he "gave it his all."

And that is what makes it so special, that he chose to send me, a reluctant second-career "pastorette," his preaching robe.

It's a beauty! Soft, black velvet with a pair of United Methodist cross-and-flame decorations emblazoned in brilliant white on either side of the front. Just gorgeous-- and filled with the Spirit.

So when this robe arrived today, in a big box cushioned with bubble wrap, like a kid I took it out of its zipper bag, caught my breath at its beauty-- and tried it on, in front of a mirror.

My uncle is at least six feet tall. Did I mention I am but five-feet-six?

The shoulders hung low off mine. The length of the robe? It rested gently in folds on the floor as I stood in my bare feet. 

Oh, it's beautiful, all right. And it is huge on my frame.

Just as Saul sought to outfit David for his gig with Goliath by dressing him up in Saul's armor and helmet, the thought was a good one, but it just was not going to work.

I will never be six feet tall. My girlish shoulders will never be able to properly fill this robe. 

I bring my own style, my own Call to answer-- and that is okay. And I know my uncle will understand when I offer this beautiful, Spirit-filled robe to a dear Brother in Christ who is six feet tall and broad-shouldered.

Along with the robe, my uncle also sent an off-white stole, embroidered with a cross and flame.

I have not yet been ordained, so I am not allowed to wear it-- yet. But this piece I will hang on to, and wear with joy and humility when the time comes.

We are all outfitted with the same Spirit of Christ. But the way we "wear" that presence is different, one from another.

Gracious Holy One, thank you for family of flesh, and for Family of Spirit. Whatever our Call, may we pursue it-- and you-- outfitted with your love and grace, anointed in your Spirit in all we do. Amen.

Postscript: The first sermon I wrote for my Homiletics class was on David and Goliath, and this very theme of being who we are, not who someone else would have us be. Seems I am coming full circle.

Consider.

"Has anyone by fussing in front of the mirror ever gotten taller by so much as an inch? All this time and money wasted on fashion—do you think it makes that much difference? Instead of looking at the fashions, walk out into the fields and look at the wildflowers. They never primp or shop, but have you ever seen color and design quite like it?" 

--Matthew 6:27-29 (The Message)

As soon as I left the house this morning, I knew. 

One look at the big, grey, drippy clouds and I knew the chances of my getting in a walk and coming home dry were slim, indeed.

It didn't really matter, I needed the walk. And I am not so sweet that I melt in the rain. Just ask my kids.

I was about a mile from home when the drips became drops, when the first splats got my glasses. On the one hand, once you're wet, you can't get dry again, so you might as well keep walking. On the other hand-- it was only about 67 degrees. It was chilly.

There weren't very many of us walking today. A woman headed to work with bagels and an annoyed look on her face. A man waiting for the bus, hands shoved deep in his pockets and hood pulled up over his head. A young lady, walkin' tall and lookin' good, earbuds in her ears and perky flowered umbrella over her head. (I never cared for umbrellas. They never kept my legs dry.)

And me, hair quickly becoming plastered to my head, glasses dripping, t-shirt changing color with the damp.

Of course, as soon as I got home, the rain stopped. 

But it gave me a good chance to slow down and watch the natural world welcome the scant raindrops. 

My grass practically seemed to inch taller, right before my eyes. The pampas grass, relaxing across the driveway and gratefully claiming a few drops for itself. Butterfly bush, almost done for the season, found an extra bit of oomph to hang on to its blooms.

And those goldfinches! I have had cone flowers for decades, and never had more than a single goldfinch at a time. Now, suddenly, this year they are coming in groups. (Do you know what you call a group of goldfinches? Not a flock-- they have a much more elegant name. A group of goldfinches is called . . . a charm. Perfect. Charming, even.)

Those goldfinches, that charm of brilliant yellow and black, chatter and cheep as they help themselves to seeds from the flower heads. I was going to pull weeds from around the cone flowers. Darn, I couldn't. (Can you sense my sarcastic disappointment?)

So much beauty, waiting to be seen and celebrated. 

Every living creature receives everything it needs. But only humans worry about having enough. Only humans spend untold amounts of money on improving their appearance. We hoard food and drink, fearful there will be none tomorrow.

But if God in his goodness and generosity provides even the sparrows, that were bought and sold-two-for-a-penny in Jesus' day, with all they need to sustain life-- why would God not provide for us, his most precious creation?

Take a moment. Sit in silence and stillness. Listen to the world around you and be glad. Be grateful. 

And remember-- God likes to use his creatures to provide for one another. 

Be generous. (Be honest-- do you really need all that?)

(This just seems to belong with this post: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s8LztTF5F80 )

Gracious, generous Lord, you overwhelm us! Today, let me be thankful for the many gifts you have offered, and let me be generous with those who seem to have less. May we all come to see your world through new eyes, eyes that are truly grateful. Amen.

Leftovers-- again?

When they had all had enough to eat, Jesus said to his disciples, “Gather the pieces that are left over. Let nothing be wasted.” So they gathered them and filled twelve baskets with the pieces of the five barley loaves left over by those who had eaten. --John 6:12-13

I have had leftovers for at least one meal, every day, for the last five days. One day was potato salad, another some really tasty bean casserole. I still have some pepperoni pizza waiting for me for lunch today. And-- there was cake!

It's not even 11:00 and my tummy is telling me lunch time better be pretty darned soon. Somehow, my breakfast oatmeal has up and left already.

Every day, as I have paused before digging in to those leftovers, I have been struck by the abundance of life.

I know it's cliche-- but it is also painfully true. There are people, especially children, in many parts of the world who go to bed hungry, wake up hungry-- spend their lives in a state of perpetual hunger.

In Haiti, following the devastating earthquake, stories came back about the "mud cookies" the children would bake in the sun. They were, quite literally, mostly dirt, mixed with a little sugar and some liquid, dried in the sun, and eaten by the children to stave off their hunger-- because they had nothing else to eat.

Can you imagine?

As children we made mudpies. But they were pretend, and our mothers would have had a fit if we had actually eaten them. In this country, children who eat dirt receive attention, because after all, eating anything that is not food is called a pica, and must mean there is a deficiency not being met. Not enough iron, perhaps.

Or, in Haiti? Not enough food.

And I have-- leftovers. More food than our whole family could eat on a Sunday afternoon, so we divvied up the rest and took it home in plastic containers.

Such abundance! And yet we often sound off as though we are living in a time of scarcity and lack.

We cannot afford a new car-- even as the old one runs just fine. We want a bigger house-- a smaller house in a better neighborhood. 

But look around you. What are you really hungering for? What would truly fill your tired, empty soul? 

The crowds, thousands upon thousands of hungry people, followed Jesus because they had seen what he was doing, for the blind man, for the cripple-- and they wondered. What might Jesus be able to do-- for me? 

And when Jesus fed them, they were satisfied. Filled to the brim. They wanted for nothing. And there were leftovers. Twelve baskets of 'em. Good golly, Miss Molly, that is a lot of crusty barley bread!

Abundance. More than we can even ask for, given before a syllable leaves our lips. 

As a people richly blessed, as people who profess to know this God of abundance, should we not, like the disciples, be passing the Bread of Life to those who are hungry? 

So take a break. Feed yourself. Heat up those leftovers, or make a sandwich, or maybe today is your day to let someone else do the cooking. 

And as you prepare to eat, even if you are not a typical grace-sayer, stop for a moment.

Look at that plate. Close your eyes and breathe deeply. (Can you smell the peanut butter? Or the jelly?) 

Blessed are you. For the Lord God loves you so much, he provides. Period.

Gracious, loving God of abundance, slow us down. Grind us to a halt in our daily busy-ness and open our eyes to see how blessed we are. Help us remember that blessing takes many forms. Help us understand what matters. Amen.

Is it live? Or . . . ?

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. 

You believe in God; believe also in me."

--John 14:1

You just never know where this silly mind is going to go when I set off on my walk in the morning. I wasn't even asking God to show me a sign-- but he did. 

I preached on the Feeding of the 5000 recently, from John 6:1-15. Throughout Scripture, and in this passage, as well, the images of fishing are everywhere. Right from the beginning, when Jesus began calling his disciples, he called them to do what?

Yep. To be fishers of men (and women). 

And this is still what we are called to do today. But I am not sure we really take the time to think what that means.

There are a couple of ways to fish, and I believe we need to employ them both. 

There is the "cast your net wide and haul 'em in" approach. This is important because, for instance, at my church, University Circle UMC in Cleveland, Ohio, we say it right up front:

All are welcome. All the time.

So if we cast our nets to haul 'em in, that means we will (I hope) draw in a wide variety of "fish." One look at our congregation on Sunday morning will confirm that we have, indeed, used some good bait somehow that attracted lots of varieties of fish. Flounders and guppies, tuna and perch. All are welcome, all the time.

But there is also the Huckleberry Finn approach to fishin', and I think we practice this, as well. 

You know, this is where you sit back, seeming sometimes to be dozing off, but really just waiting for the appropriate opportunity. And when the worm on the hook wiggles just right and catches the eye of that elusive rainbow trout . . . gotcha!

In a congregation such as ours, where people come from all over to praise God, we need to be deliberate in our invitation, as well. And when the "fish" arrive-- land in our boat, so to speak-- we need to carefully tend to their needs, making sure they know they are welcome. (In our case-- you are welcome for dinner but you will not be the dinner.)

* * * * * * * * * *

So this morning I was thinking about the "bait" we use as we fish. Is it "lively"? And by that, I don't mean do we sing happy, upbeat praise music. A holy silence can be at least as lively as a service filled with Chris Tomlin. Just sayin'.

Do we really come to worship God in a spirit of living and honoring life? Or do we come because it is Sunday morning, and all our lives, we have gone to church on Sunday morning? And it really doesn't even matter what is going on, we just go to the church we have always gone to, because like Mt. Everest to Sir Edmund, it is there?

Sounds kinda un-lively to me.

Today might be a good time for a bait check.

Step back. Look at your place of worship. (Don't have one? Are you anywhere near Cleveland?)

What does your place of worship do? What do they believe and how does that look in the world, with legs on?

Tough question: Is your heart stirred by what goes on there on Sunday-- and the other six days? Or has the bait lost its allure? Does that spinner no longer have the shine it once did? (Are you impressed? This chick who has never fished a day in her life is spinning out a whole metaphor here. . . .)

The church in general has become something no longer automatically "accepted," and that is all right. But it does mean that we, as fishers of men (and women) may need to look again at our own selves and see if we are part of the problem, part of the reason our children, our youth, our young adults-- heck, our middle-aged and our seniors-- think they have fallen out of love with  God. (Truth is, it is probably just the church they are struggling with.)

What kind of bait are you using? Is the life you live, the faith you profess something that attracts people, makes them want what you've got? If you are wondering, then it just might be time to sit down and have a long, heart-to-heart with the One who called you to fish in the first place.

Gracious and loving God, thank you for reeling us in and never letting us go. Help us to fish as you fish, with a sweet, winsome loving faith that speaks louder than any words on our lips. Amen.

"My" tree

They will be like a tree planted by the water
    that sends out its roots by the stream. 
It does not fear when heat comes;
    its leaves are always green.
It has no worries in a year of drought 
    and never fails to bear fruit. --Jeremiah 17:8

This is "my" tree.

We have been friends for over five years now, since it was a wee sapling of a tree. It is a cottonwood, I do believe.

It has taken up residence at Lakewood Park, right next to the boardwalk behind and Lake Erie before, and right across the bricks from "my" bench.

When we first met, I spent a lot of time on my bench. God had begun messing with my life, and I would come up here, sometimes during my lunch break from school, trying just to find answers from God.

Yeah. Some days better than others.


The boardwalk was pretty new then. Greenery was just starting to establish itself. But here was this little twig of a tree, poking its way amongst the boulders and bricks, and it caught my eye.


Its stubborn assertiveness was undeniable. And it knew it would be stronger, more true, growing beside the waters of this Great Lake.


But as I spent more time there, as my soul began to find quiet once in awhile, I watched this little tree more closely and began to observe a very strange phenomenon.


This tree, this cottonwood planted beside the water, was different. 


Even when there was no breeze to be felt, even when I stared at other trees nearby watching-- wondering if they, too, might be moving, this little cottonwood would be the only one whose leaves would catch the breeze and tremble.


The slightest presence of air movement, and those leaves would jiggle and jump, jitterbugging and jiving in the midday (or morning, or evening) sun.

I came to think of it as the Holy Spirit tree. And I began to desire to be just like it, excited and dancing at even the gentlest touch of the Spirit.


We seek the Lord's presence, we ask for a "sign" of his light in our lives-- but so often, what we really desire is something big. A marching band response. You know-- Lord, if you want me to walk down a different path, could you just part the lake before my eyes and let me walk that new path dry and safe?


But today, I have chosen to channel my inner Steve Martin and "think small." (Goodness. I just dated myself, didn't I. . . .) 


In the smallest things, there are miracles no less astounding than in the beauty of a sunset.


In a tree that quivers when all others stand still, the presence of God's Holy Spirit is even more pronounced-- if we have eyes to see.


This morning, I set off on my walk, not sure where I was going, and wound up on my bench. It had been quite a while. And as I sat and watched-- the miracle continued. All the nearby trees, also grown bigger and stronger-- but no wiser-- barely twitched in the cool morning breeze. But my cottonwood was absolutely thrilled to see me, and was not afraid to show it. 


How I have missed that tree! (Seemed the feeling was mutual.)


And as I sat on my bench, as if to add to the scene, a young sparrow flew in and landed at my feet. It cocked its head my way, hopped a bit closer. I sat stock-still, almost afraid to breathe, as it hopped closer still, then up on my bench! It came up on the back of the bench, hopped about a foot away from my ear, and stopped. Sat cocking its head left and right, peeped-- and flew away.


I got the message. Did you? 

Oh, the Wonder of it all

Where do you go to find God? Where might God find you?


Thank you, Lord, for eyes that see, for an imagination unafraid to dream. We cannot become what we cannot imagine. Thank you for showing us bits and pieces of-- you. Amen.