Making a Fresh Start

‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death’ or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”

He who was seated on the throne said, “I am making everything new!” 

--Revelation 21: 4-5a

Time is a kind of arbitrary thing. I mean, in Genesis, God gave us evening and morning—a new day—but months and years, holidays and holy days, overall, are human choices and creations. It seems easier, somehow, to handle Life in smaller pieces. So we divide our days into hours and minutes, and our lives into years. Three hundred sixty-five days seems to be a manageable chunk, and once a year is a good time to stop and check up on how our lives are coming along. And it has been this way for a long, long time.

In the nineteenth century in this country, for slaveholders the New Year meant a time for assessing one’s debts and taking appropriate actions to collect or to pay. If a slaveholder had a debt to settle, he might choose to sell off a slave or two. And because slaves had no rights, and were considered just property, it was not unusual for families to be separated. Teenage children might go to one plantation, their parents, to another.

Each year on New Year’s Eve, slave families would gather in their churches, hold hands and pray, anxiously awaiting word of whether their family would remain intact or be divided, with no guarantee they would ever see one another again.

So you can understand why New Year’s Eve in 1862 was such a big deal. After decades of approaching the New Year in fear and dread, the Emancipation Proclamation offered hope. A fresh start. A chance to be together again with family long-departed.

It sounds a little like heaven on earth, doesn’t it? Freedom from the past, reunited with loved ones—a fresh start all around. And this is just the promise we find in this passage from Revelation. No more tears. No more pain. The old order of things has passed away. All things have been made new.

And Revelation also offers this promise. Now the dwelling of God is with all people, and God will live with them. In other words, heaven isn’t simply some place “out there,” where the saints hang out after we die. Heaven is not a noun. Heaven is an adjective, a quality, a way of living life here and now.

Over and over in Scripture, God has promised to make all things new. Every time the world seems to be nearing the end—at the tomb, for instance—every time, something new, greater and more holy emerges.

The old has passed away. The new has come.

So here we are again, on the brink of another new year. Our calendar year is arbitrary, to be sure; nevertheless, now is a great time to pause and reflect on the last twelve months. And it’s a perfect time to decide what, from 2013, we will choose to let go of and leave behind. Here are a few suggestions:

 --Give yourself permission to be happy.

 --Give yourself permission—to be you.

 --Practice forgiveness. (Start with yourself.) You can forgive another person without telling a soul, and when you do, you set your soul free.

 --Let go of feeling guilty about things you cannot change.

-- Let go of your fear of the unknown. Take one step at a time and watch the path unfold.

 --Let go of worrying about the future. It only robs you of fully enjoying today.

-- Let go of negative self-talk. Listen instead to the voice of the Almighty, deep in your soul. You are my beloved child, and that is enough.

That old beer commercial got it right, you know? We only go around once in this life. What we do with our days and our years is up to us.

 We can cast our eyes backward, live our days in regrets and “if only’s.”

 We can take the very long, eternal view and focus on Someday, when we will be reunited with our Creator and our loved ones in the sweet by-and-by.

 Or we can choose, every day, to live into the promise of the Gospel, the promise that God comes and dwells among us. And then—we can set about making that promise a reality, bringing heaven on earth as we love one another, shoulder one another’s burdens, and allow ourselves to accept the gift of God’s generous grace.

It’s a new year, 2014. What will you let go of? What will you embrace? Where will you allow the Holy Spirit to make things new in your life?

Holy, gracious Lord, help us to see ourselves through your all-loving eyes, to offer that same love to ourselves and to others, and to begin this New Year dependent on and believing in your perfect promises. Amen.

What to give, what to give. . . .

On coming to the house, [the Magi] saw the child with his mother Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped him. Then they opened their treasures and presented him with gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. 

--Matthew 2:11

This time of year, we take everything we know from Matthew and Luke and we tend to conflate it into one single story. (What that means is, we take the shepherds from Luke, the Magi from Matthew and anything else we have picked up along the way and tell it as a single story. There is nothing terribly wrong with that, as long as we are aware we are doing it. Were you aware?)

Anyway, I want to write about the Magi this time, because the gift-giving we do today really started with them. 

These Magi, foreigners from another land to the East, somehow learned that this King had been born, and they somehow, at some level, knew that they, too, were to worship this baby born of mean estate.

And so, armed with valuable gifts, they set off following a wonderful star, a star with a tail, that their "religion" had told them would lead them to where this child lay. 

Scripture tells us these Magi brought three gifts to the Child: gold, frankincense and myrrh. And they laid these gifts at the foot of the manger and worshiped the babe.

* * * * *

American writer O Henry tells a story called, "The Gift of the Magi," in which a poor young couple, with barely two nickels to rub together, love each other so deeply, they sacrifice so they can give one another a truly special gift for Christmas. He sells his watch to buy her a beautiful set of hair brushes; she cuts her beautiful hair to purchase him a stunning watch fob.

These gifts, chosen with such care, turn out to be useless to the one receiving them.

The Magi's gifts seem similar to me. After all, of what use are gold or incense to the One from whom all things come? Even these men of great wisdom and means struggle to appropriately gift the Christ Child at his birth.

It hasn't changed that much, has it? Not really.

We still give gifts at Christmas, to one another in remembrance of the Christ. Yet we frequently end up giving things that either make no sense-- or have no meaning. 

At the last minute, we zip through the local department store, cannot find anything we like, and grab a gift card. After all, everyone can use a few extra dollars, right? And that way, they can pick what they want.

Right?

Now, I am not here to try and guilt you into a giftless Christmas. There is nothing wrong with giving gifts. In fact, giving a gift is a perfect way to remind someone you love them.

Just try hard(er) to be sure the gift itself actually says as much.

Maybe your friend could use that gift card. But maybe what they would rather have is a personal letter from you, or a phone call.

That elderly neighbor you bake cookies for. Does she need those cookies-- or would she rather have you stop over and read to her for a bit? Bring a pair of warm socks. Or-- brew some tea, stick around and eat some of those cookies with her.

The greatest gift, the only thing the Christ Child desires of us at all this season-- is ourselves. No thing of this world is as pleasing to God as our selves.

And sometimes-- that gift of self is given to another, in the name of the One whom we profess to follow, Jesus.

What will you give this year, to a child, a loved one or a stranger, that comes from your heart? How will you reach out in a new way, and reach beyond with an offering of self?

What Shall I Give Him?

You are still the greatest gift you can give. You needn't have a lot, to give a lot. Thanks be to God.

Inside Out

Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. . . . Dear friends, since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another. --1 John 4:7, 11

My heart has been broken again as the United Methodist Church, choosing Discipline over Scripture in my opinion, punished Rev. Frank Schaefer for being a loving parent and presiding over a same-sex marriage ceremony for his son.

This church I grew up in, with its winsome theology of love and acceptance, has broken my heart. Again. (I am not ordained, and with this latest series of events, I don't exactly feel like pursuing ordination boldly. It would likely end poorly.)

I have many friends in other denominations who ask me why I stay. Some days, I wonder. 

But then I remember our Colombian foreign exchange student, Jorge, and the wisdom his father shared with him, and he, with us.

Jorge's father is quite wealthy in his country, a wise businessman who would do well in any country. Because he is well off, he has sometimes been fearful for his life as the FARC rebels kidnap and hold hostage those who can afford the ransom.

Jorge asked his father: Why do you stay? What keeps you in this country? Why should I stay?

His father explained that successful, world-altering change seldom comes from the outside. (There are many wars in America's history that attest to that fact. Iraq and Afghanistan come to mind most recently.)

Sure, people can take their knowledge and expertise and move to the United States or Europe, make lots of money and be successful-- but what about those left behind in Colombia? They continue to live in fear. Their lives remain unchanged, even as these successful people send money back to their families.

Jorge's father was adamant: If I love my country, if I want Colombia to be a better place for my children's children, I must stay and work for change-- from the inside. 

Unjust laws, dangerous practices must be corrected-- not by foreign countries sending aid or armies, but by Colombians who love their country enough to want it to be different. Better.

So for me, in this season, this is why I will continue to be a part of the United Methodist Church, broken heart and all. I believe strongly enough in the wonderful Wesleyan roots to stay and work towards change.

I belong to a Reconciling Ministries Network congregation. I am a Reconciling United Methodist. I choose to be a voice of love in a world that would often rather divide than unite. Pull apart than come together.

So I stay. But I do not stay silently in the shadows. You are welcome: in my church, in my life, on my journey. Please know that God loves you, just the way you are. And so do we.

Loving God, as you first loved us, guide us, lead us to love others. Amen

Pig Pen theology

Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity. --Colossians 3:12-14

Yet again, my church choir experience has become the basis for thought. Imagine that: music provoking thinking.

Sunday, we sang a lovely canticle based on these verses. As I wandered through the week leading up to the actual "performance," the words followed me around.

"Therefore, as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved. . . ." 

But the words began to change a little bit; "As God's chosen people, wholly and dearly loved. . . ." 

I think this morphing began because holy is such a difficult word to define. It shows up all over the place in Scripture, but what does it mean? Three years of seminary did little to help me in better explaining this word.

But wholly and dearly loved-- that, I understand. And it made me think of Pig Pen. 

Look at him. He is a real dirt magnet. I remember in one of the Peanuts specials, Pig Pen actually appears cleaned up-- for about a second and a half. His hair is combed smooth, shoes are tied in bows-- and the dirt has settled. Then in the blink of an eye-- poof. The old Pig Pen returns, disheveled and dirty as always. 

Now, imagine being Pig Pen's mother. This is the child she loves, flesh of her own flesh. Yet every time she gets him all cleaned up, steps back to admire what a handsome lad he is-- back in the muck he goes. And yet-- she still loves him. She might sigh deeply and shake her head, but he is still her child. Her beautiful, dirt-magnetic child.

Do you suppose God is a bit like Pig Pen's mother? Anyone care to admit how much we have in common with Pig Pen?

It seems as if every time we get all cleaned up and fresh again, maybe after a particularly rousing worship service, a stirring devotional period or a profound theological discussion at Starbucks, we slurp the last drops from the coffee cup, drop the cup in the trash, head out the door-- and wham. It's as if we never even had the conversation. We are back behind the wheel suppressing road rage; our need to be "first" or "right" returns, full force.

Or is that just me?

And yet. Just like Pig Pen's mother, our Creator who loves us sighs, maybe shakes his head a bit-- and loves us anyway. Sometimes it may seem as if he is taking that perfectly pressed hankie out and trying to wipe that smudge from our face ("You've got a little something r-i-i-i-g-h-t there-- hold still and let me get it!"), but we squirm and wiggle and try to avoid the touch. He may try to guide us in new directions, steering us clear of that really big mud puddle-- only to watch us slip and go splat on something someone else left in our path. 

The love the Almighty has for his children is endless and extravagant. And many days, we need every single ounce of God's loving grace. I am afraid, on the tolerance scale, I don't always measure up. 

And that is exactly why I need that grace. Because despite my best efforts, I am often a dirt magnet. 

Ever-loving, ever-gracious God, thank you for not losing faith in me, even when my faith in myself seems fragile or muddied. Thank you for seeing your perfect image planted in my soul, written across my heart-- and thank you for placing in me a desire to seek after your heart. Amen

A bit like Dumbo

The fruit of that righteousness will be peace;

    its effect will be quietness and confidence forever. --Isaiah 32:17

It happened again today.

I was having "one of those days." A friend who has listened to me whine more than I care to admit asked a question and prepared to listen for as long as it might take. 

And in that space of safety and mutual respect, my junque du jour began to unravel like a cheap sweater when you pull that loose thread on the bottom.

Before I knew what was happening, I found myself sitting spiritually naked in a deep pile of colorful unravelings. And I began to breathe normally again.

Few words were said by my friend. I didn't need words or platitudes. I needed someone just to listen, without call or comment. 

I needed presence. And I was blessed to find it.

There's that old saying that goes something like, "The reason we have two ears and only one mouth is so that we can listen twice as much as we talk." While I certainly know a number of people who don't seem to understand this (and I bet you do, too), it seems to be worth aspiring to.

Big old elephant ears. One on each side of our head, so whichever shoulder a friend leans up against, there is a listening space-- right there.

It's a skill, you know, that listening thing. So often, folks find themselves caught on a word or phrase in someone's conversation-- and we stop listening, because that word has triggered something in us that we are sure is just so important it has to be said, as soon as the other person stops for breath (or sooner).

News flash: It's not that important.

Sometimes, there is absolutely nothing that must be said. Sometimes-- no matter whom we are in conversation with-- we just need to keep silent. 

The greatest gift any of us can give to another is the gift of self. Our full, undivided attention and focus. It can be hard. Our ego wants nothing more than to communicate to the other that we know just how they feel (even though we do not and cannot). 

I believe learning when to shush is a big part of what "dying to Christ" or "dying to self" is all about. 

We take a deep breath. We try to slip into their moccasins and feel what they feel, try to fathom their hurt (even as it may seem trivial to us). What a gift-- to a friend or to a stranger.

It works with people; it also works well with the Divine. Being quiet; listening for God's desires for and in our lives; setting aside the "Wish List" and "to-do" prayers and allowing the Lord to carry the conversation now and then. 

My friend was gracious in their gift of presence. Thank you so much. May I learn such graciousness, as well. Amen.

True generosity

The eyes of all wait upon thee; 

and thou givest them their meat in due season.

Thou openest thine hand, 

and satisfiest the desire of every living thing.

--Psalm 145:15-16 (King James version)

(It's all Nathan's fault. That's right. I am blaming my church choir director for this post. Take it up with him.)

Last week during choir rehearsal, we were working on a piece for worship in a couple weeks. It's a beautiful piece, and you can hear it here. 

And darn it all, it made me think. It started rolling around in my brain when Nathan pointed out that he had learned that this is the one place in Scripture where David writes about Yahweh's grand gesture of provision, giving his people meat. Solid sustenance. 

Well, sort of. 

First of all, only the King James version actually calls it "meat." Everywhere else, it's just "food." The king must have really had a thing for meat, so the translators obliged him. 

Nevertheless, whatever one calls it, the imagery here is of an amazingly generous God who provides for his children in ways they cannot imagine. And as I sat with these verses, my mind wandered back to another place in Scripture that offers similar imagery, Exodus 16. 

The Israelites have departed Egypt with Moses in the lead. They are at once nervous and excited, eager to be out from under Pharaoh's cruel command. And as they travel, they are led by the Lord and lift their eyes to watch for him, seeking him in a pillar of smoke by day and a pillar of fire by night (Exodus 13). They seek his light, his guiding presence-- and it's kind of hard to miss those. 

But as the journey grows longer and more tedious, as the reality of the wilderness sets in, they cry out to God for provision. 

And God provides. Manna and quail. Mystery and meat. 

And how do they respond? They whine and complain. 

"Meat? We are so tired of meat. In Egypt we had veggies! Veggies and slavery would be better than wilderness with nothing but meat and manna!" 

Good grief. They sound-- just like me. 

How often have I whined and complained because God's most generous provision isn't what I want? How often have I chosen to step aside from the goodness God offers, and return, instead, to those enticing, alluring things that enslave me? (Be honest. I am not alone here, am I? I didn't think so.)

We have this habit of thinking we have The Very Best Plans, and we sure would like it if God would just sanction our ideas. We can get so caught up in believing we need more that we fail to see how much we already have, how generously the Almighty has provided for us-- in ways we didn't even have to ask for!

* * * * *

For many churches, November marks the time of year when we undertake a stewardship campaign and talk about the mundane, business side of running a church. Sometimes, in thinking and talking about the financial side of church, we forget that stewardship is about so much more than money. Because we have so much more to offer in service to the Kingdom than what's in our wallets.

I believe the whole point is this: everything I have and everything I am is a generous gift from God. And everything we have and everything we are is given us, so that we, as the Body of Christ, might use who we are to bless others.

What if the Lord is now choosing to use us to provide meat/ food to those who hunger? What if we are called to shine like a pillar of light in the darkness, pointing towards the goodness and mercy of the One True God?

Stranger things have happened.

Most Generous Lord, help us to be generous, to offer with open hand all that we have and all that we are, in loving obedience and service to you. Amen

Really welcome.

Abraham said, “If I have found favor in your eyes, my lord, do not pass your servant by. Let a little water be brought, and then you may all wash your feet and rest under this tree. Let me get you something to eat, so you can be refreshed and then go on your way—now that you have come to your servant.” --Genesis 18:3-5a

This Sunday, October 20, marks the anniversary of the date our congregation joined the Reconciling Ministries Network (RMN). RMN is committed to welcoming, loving and accepting all people into our churches. No ifs, ands or buts. All are welcomed, as we believe all are welcomed into the Kingdom of God.

This made me remember a time when I was young and my family moved to a new neighborhood. And the Welcome Wagon came to-- well, to welcome us. (I wasn't even sure Welcome Wagon still exists any more, but a quick Google confirms: They are still out there.)

Not long after we moved in, a Welcome Wagon hostess showed up at our door, smiling and bearing gifts. There was a goodie basket filled with things from local merchants in our new town: a toothbrush, perhaps, emblazoned with the name and phone number of the local dentist; a doggie squeak toy from the vet down the street.

And there were coupons, of course, for discounts (or even freebies) at local merchants. All designed to help make our new house feel more like a home. And it was all gift. All we had to do was say, "Thank you!" (That was easy.)

Welcome has changed over the years, as society has changed and grown more diverse and geographically widespread. We no longer invite our guests to wash their feet, as Abraham did. We are more likely to offer a glass of ice cold lemonade on a hot summer day, than to head out to kill the fatted calf. 

Life has changed. But the principle of hospitality has not. Someone shows up for a visit, we smile and seek to make them feel at home.

One of the reasons I am so pleased to be a part of University Circle United Methodist Church is because we still understand this. 

You show up on Sunday morning, we will shake your hand and help you find your way. If there is a potluck after worship, we will make sure you don't go away hungry, even if you've brought nothing to share. 

You are invited to share in Holy Communion if you desire, no questions asked. After all, it's not our Table; it is the Table of Jesus the Christ. Who are we to turn anyone away from the Lord's Supper?

Got questions-- about our church, our family, our beliefs? We may not have answers, but we are willing to listen, to share without judging-- and we are not afraid to tell you, "I just don't know the answer."

At the heart of our Christian walk, we believe that God truly loves each and every one of us. God does not pick and choose, or suggest that some are more worthy than others. We are all God's children, made in the image of the Divine.

And because we believe we are here to be a part of ushering in the Reign of God here, on earth, in this place-- as part of that task, we are here to make you feel welcomed.

We no longer kill fatted calves for feasts. We have brought our worship indoors, but after worship, if you desire to sit under one of our beautiful trees and simply rest for a bit-- that is just fine with us. And if you choose to return along the path that brought you, to keep going on your journey, we send you with God's blessing and the knowledge that you may return to us any time and you will be welcomed afresh.

We believe this is the way of the Christ. 

So while the Welcome Wagon may be a distant memory from my childhood, each Sunday (every day, really) I have the chance yet again to offer the same grace and smiling acceptance to whomever crosses my path. And if you need a listening ear or a shoulder to lean against, you will find one in this place.

You are welcome here. (Yes, you.) May the blessings of our generous God surround you, wash over you and comfort you, today and each day.

And if you are ever near University Circle in Cleveland on a Sunday morning-- worship is at 11:00. All are welcome. No jacket required.

Friends I never met

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” --Matthew 11:28-30

This past Sunday, I had the privilege of being part of Walk Into The Light, an event held at the Cleveland Metroparks Zoo to promote suicide awareness and education. Depression in our young (and not-so-young) adults is a widespread problem; yet we as a society largely behave as though we believe if we just ignore it, it will go away, all on its own. Nothing could be further from the truth. The two-ton gorilla needs to be named-- and shown the door.

There were a number of speakers, all of whom either had lost a loved one to suicide, and a child psychiatrist who shared a very interesting story of a teen who went through the harrowing treatment for a rare cancer, survived and then drifted into depression. When the disease was brought under control, the teen said that he would rather have to deal with cancer again than face the darkness and hopelessness experienced during the depression. 

The keynote speaker for the evening was John Trautwein, former Boston Red Sox player whose son took his own life at age fifteen. If you would like to read more, go here. But the evening wasn't about celebrities or sports stars. It was about families and friends and co-workers coming together and realizing: you are not alone.

I have this crazy desire-- a need, really-- to hear other people's stories. So as we were hanging around before the talks, I decided I wanted to learn more. I wanted to hear about some of these young friends I would never meet in this world, these life songs left half-sung.

There were two large teams of walker I noticed right away: Team Terry in orange shirts, and Team Jenna, in purple. 

* * * * * 
Terry was 26 when he could no longer stand the pain. It was just this past August when his best friend died (not by his own hand). It was simply more than Terry could bear.  

Five days later, even as he was making plans to be married later this month, Terry hurt so badly, and had no one who could listen and actually hear the pain in his words. His mother called it post-traumatic stress. I would call it tragic.

In an ironic moment of "coincidence," out of the hundreds of people attending the Walk, I chose to listen to the story of a young man whose birthday was the same day as mine.

His family and friends drove from over an hour away to be part of this event, in the hope that other families might be spared the pain and anguish and unanswerable questions they are now facing.

And next year, Terry's mother says she will plan and host a Walk in their own-- in Terry's community.

If such good can come from such tragedy, perhaps the life was not lost in vain.

* * * * *
Team Jenna had over seventy members: family, friends from school, children Jenna had babysat. Their purple t-shirts bore a pair of angel wings and the words, "Let's talk, Jenna." 

According to her aunt, Jenna was a "baby magnet." Children just loved to be around her. And Jenna was so good with kids! They would play board games and read stories and play at the park-- moms loved to have Jenna come help out.

Jenna was bright and attractive, with an easy smile and gentle laugh. She made good grades, was about to get her driver's license.

Jenna was sixteen last July when she could bear it no more. 

And only Jenna truly knows what put her over the edge.

But as her aunt said, they cannot live that question, worrying and wondering about the "why." But they can try to ensure that not one more parent or sibling or friend or classmate has to experience the pain and loss they have experienced.

* * * * *
So much pain, going unnoticed. Such deep wounds, seen only by the wounded one. The God who has numbered the very hairs on our heads loves us-- so much-- but sometimes the busy-ness of the world and the many demands we perceive on our time and our lives become too much to bear.

We cannot bear one another's burdens if we do not stop long enough to even notice the heaving sigh, the shackled heart, the shoulders weighed down by anxiety and fear.

We sang last night, too. And so now, I offer the song to you. And yes, I mean it. You've got a friend. 

You are never alone. Never. 

Victory!

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. --Hebrews 12:1-2a

(Oh, dear. It's been nearly a month since I posted anything. I am wondering if I even remember how to write. It's been that kind of season.)

I grew up in Denver, during the years when the Broncos were definitely not the team they are today. The team rallying cry? "Wait till next year!" And we waited and waited and waited. It took a while, but the patience and perseverance paid off.

Now, I live near Cleveland, Ohio. It takes a strong stomach and Teflon spirit, sometimes, to be a sports fan in this town. Browns, Indians and Cavaliers. All really fun to watch-- and all of them, expert heart-breakers.

Ours are the teams jokes and movies are made of.  Major League? Yep. That "Wild Thing" character was a Cleveland Indians closer. For ten years, I worked for the Indians. I saw a lot of baseball, and some of it was really good. And then there was the rest. 

Through it all, hope springs eternal. We seek out other diehard fans, we listen for the heart that believes, the one that whispers, "They look pretty good this year . . ." as the words trail off in hope-filled silence and a sigh. We so want to believe. We so want to press on, cheer valiantly for the whole season-- but sometimes it's really hard. Sometimes-- well, you know. 

This last weekend was a sweet one for Cleveland sports fans. 

The Cleveland Browns managed a solid victory over the Cincinnati Bengals, in the Battle for Ohio. Not just a victory-- a Cincy victory! Football fans were really dancin' the happy dance.

But my heart was with the Indians. One hundred sixty-two games. A long, long season. And they finished by winning ten in a row to get their first shot at post-season play since 2007. 

That's perseverance. That is what it looks like and feels like to press on. It's a marathon, and there have been potholes and stumbling blocks-- but through it all, the Tribe pressed on, through injuries, near-misses and more. 

At any time, the team could have given up. Instead, they leaned on one another. One pitcher might have a rough start, but the first baseman would swing a hot bat and carry the team to victory. Strong carried weak, because all were seeking the same prize. And even as we don't yet know whether we can make it all the way to the World Series, we can rest in the knowledge that we have run the race, played well and played strong.

And that is all that the Almighty expects of any of us.

I am not a sports star. I cannot run with any speed or much grace, and have joked that if you see me running, whatever is chasing me must be pretty big, hairy and drooling. I am just not a runner. That's not who I am.

But I can write. And I can encourage you as you run your race. Together, we can accomplish much, just being who we were created to be. 

The apostle Paul writes about the Body of Christ being made of many parts (1 Corinthians 12). He reminds us that an eye cannot be an ear; nor can a hand be a stomach. Each part does what the Designer created it to do, and in that way, God is glorified.

Look, it can be tempting to think, "Oh, no one really cares if I ___________ or not." But the thing is, if your "piece of the puzzle" is missing, the picture is incomplete. The landscape just isn't the same. 

The race of life, however long, is run one step at a time. If you're struggling today, allow others to come alongside and carry you for a time. If you are running strong and sense another is stumbling, offer a hand.

We are all in this together. Thank God.

Gracious God, even you longed for companionship in the Garden. Help us to remember, always, that we are never alone. Guide us to the spaces and places you would have us be-- together. Amen

P. S. Go Tribe!!!!

Being yourself

[The Lord] took [Abram] outside and said, “Look up at the sky and count the stars—if indeed you can count them.” 

Then he said to him, “So shall your offspring be.”

Abram believed the Lord, and he credited it to him as righteousness. --Genesis 15:5-6

Sometimes we, as Christ-followers, can have a tendency to slough off the Old Testament as somehow less important than the New Testament. But that act denies the very heritage of Jesus, who was himself born into the Jewish culture. 

So be very careful about doing that. Instead, try taking a closer look and seeing what's there.

In this short pair of verses, I see two things:

First, Abram believed God. It does not say he believed in God (although he did; in those times, God truly dwelt among his people). It does not say Abram followed a certain doctrine or belief system.

No. It says that in this instance, when God lovingly invited Abram to lift his eyes and try-- just try to count the stars and imagine having even greater numbers of offspring than these, Abram remembered times in the past when God had been faithful and kept his promises, and he believed that the Lord would again be faithful. Based on his past experience, Abram knew.

That was his part of the bargain: believing the Lord.

* * * * *

Then comes that church word: righteousness. Ugh. Church-speak can be challenging to pin down and define, even for those of us raised in the church.

Believe me, I try. But there are two church words that I somehow know what they mean, but please don't ask me to explain them. Holy is one; righteous is the other.

So I looked up the one we are talking about here, righteousness. And the Urban Dictionary (www.urbandictionary.com) gave me a definition that suddenly made sense.

Righteous. Anything that is amazing, awesome or cool.

In other words, in this encounter with God, Abram believed God-- and the Lord saw this as an awesome development.

Abram, created as a Child of the Most High, trusts fully in the One who created him. Believes his promises are true, because in the past the Most High has been true and faithful.

Awesome. Amazing. Exceptionally cool.

Go forth, today and every day, and believe God's promise for your life. 

And God will smile and declare you righteous. And awesome.

Awesome Creator, help us to see ourselves through your eyes, to remember your faithfulness in the past and know you will be faithful again. Amen

Finishing strong

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.

--Hebrews 12:1

Lately I've been getting schooled in life, especially in living. 

In my vocation, I spend a lot of time with people who are ill, who have lost someone or who are, themselves, dying. (We are all dying. It's simply more pertinent for some than others.) This means I spend a lot of time with hospice participants, volunteers and employees. And some conversations have left me thinking. (Uh-oh. Stand back. . . .)

Last week, I was walking across the parking lot of an absolutely gorgeous local hospice facility. The sun was out, there was a lovely breeze-- and I was enjoying the day. A woman coming out saw me, said hello, noticed my PASTORAL VISITOR identification tag and said, "How can you stand coming out here all the time to visit people? Doesn't it get depressing?"

In another conversation with a pastoral colleague, I made mention of someone who has declined treatment for an incurable form of cancer. My colleague's response: "It sounds like they're just giving up."

These two are related, because in my opinion, it speaks to who we are as professing believers in Christ.

Visiting hospice participants can be one of the most invigorating, life-giving parts of my job. I am invited into so many sacred spaces, listening to stories from long ago or last week. We laugh together, we weep together. We share the very amazing gift of being human with one another.

We talk about yesterday, we talk about today-- and we talk about tomorrow. Or more specifically, about eternity.

As Christians, we profess to there being more. More than just the thirty or sixty or even a hundred years we are given to wander this big blue marble together.

But as the hallway begins to narrow, as we are confronted by the mortality of self or other-- do we live like people of the promise?

For the record: hospice is not about dying. Hospice is about finishing well, running full-on in the race, as St. Paul might say, straining for the tape, knowing we have given it our best shot. Every single day, with every single breath, until we can draw no more.

Does that sound depressing to you?

As for "giving up"? We humans have not yet figured everything out. There are still things deemed incurable, conditions considered, as yet, insurmountable. Some people may choose to try everything in their efforts to have more time with family and loved ones. And that's fine. It is each person's choice.

But another person, perhaps one further along in years, may look at the prospect of chemotherapy, surgery, drugs, radiation, side effects . . . need I go on? They may look at this and reflect. Life has been great. Maybe-- maybe in this situation, finishing strong means accepting the disease-- and living full-out in spite of it all. 

Where now, O Death, is thy victory? Where, O Death, thy sting?

Whatever decision a person makes, in light of our faithful profession as Christ-followers, our choice should always, always be to affirm life. To decide for ourselves what it will mean for us to finish our race with flair and not fizzle. Red hats, purple shoes-- dancing all the way home.

And to remember that our faith tradition as Christians views the end of this earthly run not as the end, but as a bridge leading to eternity.

Giving up? Hardly. My friend is lacing up the Reeboks and preparing for a sprint. 

These decisions, these choices are tough-- and they are personal. If (when) you are faced with this choice, for yourself or a loved one, listen to your heart. 

Affirm life. Always. But only you can know what that means in the stretch run.

Almighty Lord, we are so grateful for this time you give us to wander and ponder together, and we thank you, as well, for what lies ahead. Help us listen for the voices of those who cheer us on, and help us each to live our lives as a victory lap run to the cheering of the saints. Amen.

A 97% Solution

He who walks with the wise grows wise. --Proverbs 13:20a

This morning, one of my devotionals talked about the need for discipline in our spiritual lives. The author, named Muriel (my mother's name), focused on walking. She observed that for her, walking becomes her time of contemplative prayer, a time when she and God "find each other" in the midst of everything else. Muriel is a "nature walker."

I live fairly close-- about a mile and a half-- to the tremendous Cleveland Metroparks System.  By the time I would walk to the park entrance, even to turn around and go home right away, that's already three miles and almost an hour of my morning. But I cannot mentally justify driving-- to go take a walk. So I have become a city walker.

Muriel points out that Jesus was a walker. (Of course, he had little choice, but I digress.) Jesus spends a great deal of time walking: to Jerusalem, to Galilee-- and back again. It is easy to conclude, as Muriel suggests, that Jesus spent much of this walking time in prayer, conversing with the Almighty.

So I believe I am in good company.

It's not always easy getting up and getting going. Some mornings, the bedclothes seem to draw themselves tighter around me and beg me to stay. Maizie will join the entreaty, snuggling up closer beside and softly (or loudly) purring. Nothing, she says, is more important than that itchy spot right behind my ear. R-i-i-i-i-g-h-t there.

But most days, it's worth it to shake off the sleep, get dressed and head out the door just as the sun is beginning to rise over Cleveland. This morning-- definitely.

It's humid these days, typical late August in Ohio. There wasn't much breeze. Clouds hung low and heavy, as though debating whether or not it was worth the effort to gather together and rain.

The clouds in the east seemed even less organized, stretching themselves thin until they parted, like so much cotton candy on the sticky fingers of a four-year-old. And through those thin clouds, playing hide-and-seek between and among the treetops and the rooftops, peeked the sun. Not the brilliant, shining sun of summer, but an uncertain sun.

The seasons are changing, it seemed to say, and it's time. Time for the next thing, familiar yet new. Time-- for a change.

I remember another season of change, a time when the sun looked different, yet familiar. My life was headed in a new direction. I was on my own now. So three years ago, I made a trip Down Under.

Each morning I would spend some quiet time sitting in the window seat at the beautiful home of my gracious hosts, watching the sun begin its daily course.

It was almost fall when I left Ohio, but when I arrived in Oz, it was nearly springtime. Amazing. The sun that had been losing strength in Ohio-- was gaining strength here.

And then there were these trees along the horizon behind their house. I don't remember what kind they were, if I ever knew-- but this one tree-- well, look for yourself and tell me what you see.

Or this one, over the Abbey of the Genesee early on an August morning a year later:

(I know, I know-- some people see Jesus on a piece of toast; I see elephants-- everywhere.)

The thing is, we can find "evidence" everywhere, if we choose to open our eyes. (For me-- the evidence is pachyderms.)

Some people need to get away from the city grind; others find the face of the Creator on every busy corner in the middle of a busy urban life. Or in a bank of trees, half a world away from home.

St. Augustine put it this way: Solvitur Ambulando. It is solved-- by walking.

An African proverb suggests, "When you pray, move your feet." But have you tried it the other way around?

When you move your feet, pray.

If sitting quietly is challenging, if you want to try something new or extra in your walk with God, actually make it a walk. God is already there, waiting to show you something.

Approach life in expectation of the holy. You will not be disappointed.

Thank you, ever-present God, for eyes that see, for ears that hear-- and for feet that move in step with you. Amen

Master Gardener

That person is like a tree planted by streams of water,
    which yields its fruit in season
and whose leaf does not wither—
    whatever they do prospers. -Psalm 1:3

If you have read many of my ramblings here, you know how I feel about gardening. You know that in the three-plus years since my husband died and left me to care for his beautiful plants, the gardens and I have struck a truce. And part of that truce, on occasion, has included my redefining what is "weed" and what is not.

I am not a gardener. I think it's genetic for me, way, way back to the original Garden. 

You know. Eve said, "Adam, you go ahead and name 'em and tend 'em, and when they bear fruit, I will prepare a delicious dish from these plants. I am sure you will find it tempting and yummy." 

That was how Rich and I did it, too (minus the serpent). He grew 'em, I would put 'em up. And applaud. When the flowers were in bloom, I would oooh and aaah with the best of them. But the gardening itself was not my thing.

There was one gardening task, however, that I have always enjoyed. 

Dead-heading.

I have two beautiful butterfly bushes, one by my step and the other, a volunteer, around on the side of the house. During the season, they grow to a solid six or seven feet in height, loaded with beautiful purple clusters that droop and hang like grapes from each branch.

A week ago, I was going down the steps and stopped for a moment, just to listen. The bush was alive with the hum of bumbles and honey bees, working at extracting the pollen and nectar from each bloomlet. Giant tiger swallowtails silently doing their part, as well. 

And each day, as summer moves toward fall, some of those clusters die. They become brown and dry and no longer appealing or filled with nectar. They reach the end of their usefulness. 

But if I am fairly diligent about removing those brown clusters (dead-heading), the bush continues to offer more purple bliss to those bees and butterflies, at least for a season.

So I do. I go out there with my scissors and I snip and snip and pitch the dead heads under the bush, and pretty soon the plants are looking better again, more alive without all that junk they no longer needed.

And over the course of a few days, sure enough-- fresh blooms appear. Until finally, fall arrives and it's finished. 

I was out dead-heading this morning. It took a long time. But like many tasks, it became a time for me to think, to enjoy the quiet and focus on the task. Listen to the snip-snip-snip of the scissors, smell the heavy perfume that attracts the bees. 

Step back when one of those bees reminds me whose bush it really is. 

And then I started thinking about my own life and the need for dead-heading when "stuff" has outlived its usefulness.

Sometimes I recognize it-- and sometimes I don't. And sometimes-- the last thing I want is for that dried up, out-of-date thing, or idea, to go away.

But it has to. If those parts of me that are growing and lively are to continue to grow-- guess what. Snip, snip.

That's where the Master Gardener comes in, the One who holds the Divine blueprint that shows what's good and what's shriveled and sapping extra energy that could go in a more life-giving direction.

Believe me, dead-heading the butterfly bushes is so much easier than allowing God to chisel me. Letting go of old ways of thinking and acting? Ugh. Do I have to? 

Well-- no. I suppose not. If I don't mind becoming stagnant and filled with useless "stuff" that saps my energy and takes away from the good "stuff"? 

Nah. No modifications needed.

I know how my butterfly bushes look when I let them go untended. Do I really want my life to continue as is, with no attention paid to what the Gardener knows is best-- for me?

It's always our choice. 

God's Chisel

(Aside: There is a hymn about coming to the Garden alone, and the joys shared when it's just-me-and-Jesus time. But I have to tell you. Sometimes those me-and-Jesus moments can be a little painful. Necessary and good-- but painful.)

Lord God, show us your love, and help us to accept it, freely and willingly. One step at a time. Amen