One Thing

Remember ye olde story from Luke’s Gospel (10: 38-42) about Martha and Mary?

If you don’t, this is part of it…

But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to him and asked, “Lord, do you not care that my sister [Mary] has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.” But the Lord answered her, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing.

Ah, Mary and Martha. It is clear, the between Martha’s bustling about and Mary’s attentive listening, which attitude and action Jesus prefers. But take a secret ballot on Sunday morning and see who wins the popularity contest. I’ll wager that Martha may lose, but it’ll be close!

Don’t we need the Marthas of the world? It is said that Thoreau, in his sojourn at Walden Pond, kept using the same dishes and utensils, meal after meal, day after day. And why make a bed if you’ll just hop back in it a few hours later? Simplicity!

But multi-tasking Martha gets things done, from a three-course meal to a well-dusted living room. And don’t forget, the Lukan passage has Martha welcoming Jesus. Where was Mary? Putting on some make-up? I have to admit, I sometimes imagine that Jesus’ reply to Martha—“you are worried and distracted by many things”—came only after the meal was set before him. Please, give me a roomful of Marthas.

Or maybe not.

How prescient this passage is. We humans are multi-taskers, list-makers and goal-setters. Whether in first century Palestine or 21^st Century America, too many of us are Martha-ing along to the loud drummer that demands we do more and better and we live in fear that we’ll never catch up. But, please, help me remember I am a human being, and not a human doing. And, you know what? We will never catch up. But the drum of demands is loud and persistent.

It’s impossible for us to hear the other sound, the quiet drumbeat of rest. Of listening and learning.

Have you seen Billy Crystal’s wonderful City Slickers from 1991? From first viewing to tenth viewing, I always love the moment when Curly, played to curmudgeon perfection by the late Jack Palance, tells Crystal’s Mitch that there is one thing to “the secret of life.” Curly, at this point, holds up one finger.

“What is the one thing?” Mitch will ask.

“That’s what you have to find out.”

Well.

What did Jesus mean about “one thing?” What did Martha need? What do you need? Regardless of your faith (Christian or Muslim and more) or lack of faith (doubter or scoffer) what do you need? Jesus’ statement becomes a cross-cultural, inter-faith demand for every person to honestly examine his or her heart, hopes and relationships.

And your “one thing” may change over the years, but I pray (for you and for me) that your search for it helps you to grow and for your neighbor to be blessed.

Acts 2:1-21 – Pentecost Sunday – for May 27, 2012

“All were amazed and perplexed, saying to one another, ‘What does this mean?’”

You can re-jigger my list or make your own. But for several formative years, my associate pastor list bumped Pentecost up to the top.

I know Pentecost.

I’ve heard many a layperson stumble on the names of places where “outsiders” heard their language spoken. Oh, for the pleasure of pronouncing Cappadocia or Pamphylia to a congregation of your peers. As the congregants repressed giggles, how grateful they are not to be you while you weave through Pentecost’s scriptural landmines.

I’ve seen many smiles from pew-dwellers when the disciple Peter declared, in the oh-so-serious Pentecost verses, that those filled with God’s Spirit shouldn’t be called drunkards. After all, “it is only nine o’clock in the morning.” Bingo! Which is to say, Jesus’ followers might get bamboozled with new wine in old wineskins at noon or by nightfall, but they’d never hit the sauce this early!

Then there’s the prophet Joel’s prediction of “blood, and fire, and smoky mist.” Those words don’t predict what’ll happen at the picnic later on Sunday afternoon when you grill burgers . . . they were gloom and doom warnings. Nothing like the apocalypse to get minds wandering out in the pews. Instead of hearing how some will be saved and others punished, it’s better to muse if today’s a good day to wash the car or fix that broken sprinkler in the back yard.

I’ve preached on Pentecost. Often. In every church I’ve served, I’ve witnessed grimaces, guffaws and gritted teeth. Truthfully, it’s also hard for me to resist a yawn. How can I find anything new from this scripture I’ve read and interpreted since the (roll eyes, clear throat) halcyon days of my ordained youth?

Punctuation saves me. Yes, God’s love saves me in a traditional religious sense, but there’s also the modest personal salvation found where the writer of Acts juxtaposed a question with a sneer.

At Pentecost, stunning events unfolded. Wind and fire, whether symbolic or literal, filled and thrilled a room of disciples. The spirit inspired those ne’er-do-well Galileans with the ability to speak a host of “foreign tongues.”

The crowd responded. Some sneered, accusing Jesus’ followers of being drunk. Oh how we humans love to sneer, point fingers, enjoy someone else’s slip on a banana, one-up the other, act superior, have the last word and so forth.

But there’s also, in the verse above the sneer, one of the best questions of faith: “What does this mean?” There’s that question mark, that open-ended moment where some, or at least one, in a crowd of finger-pointers and belittlers, wonder about the unexpected movement of the spirit. What does this mean?

Honest questions keep my faith alive; they battle 24/7 non-news, bloggers twisting facts and selective Googling to prove one side is right.

I crave questions. What does this mean? How can I know there is a God? Was Jesus human or divine or both? How can I forgive another who has hurt me? Why can I appear strong in my faith when I write a sentence on the page, but weak when I meet a stranger on the street who’d I rather dismiss or ignore? Why am I afraid of death? Why am I afraid of life?

God’s spirit moves, sometimes so quietly perhaps I merely dreamed a breeze; sometimes so forceful, it’s like a tornado swept my soul. And all of it, the stillness and the storm, gifts me with questions.

For the hundredth or thousandth time I read about Pentecost. I laugh. I cry. I grimace. I yawn. I even sneer. But I can’t avoid the punctuation shouting from the end of a sentence.

At this stage of life and faith, the high and holy days don’t matter like they once did. Keeping score or making lists seems silly. Pentecost is less a leftover day describing how God’s spirit worked long ago and more a Holy here-and-now nudge posing questions that keep my faith alive.

*Really, this is a joke! Darrell Thomas, the first senior pastor I worked with, became a gifted mentor for me. He would’ve never called attention to himself or his birthday! Though other senior pastors I’ve heard second-hand comments about . . . well, I’m sure they were only groundless rumors.

Luke 24:44-53 & Acts 1:1-11 – Ascension Sunday – for May 20, 2012

“…They said, Men of Galilee, why do you stand look up toward heaven?”

Am I a bad boy for not believing?

Here, take the chalk, hustle over to the old blackboard and start writing.

Jesus ascended to heaven on a cloud. Jesus ascended to heaven on a cloud. Jesus ascended to heaven on a cloud. Jesus ascended to heaven on a cloud. Jesus ascended to heaven on a cloud. Jesus ascended to heaven on a cloud. Jesus ascended to heaven on a cloud. Jesus ascended to heaven on a cloud. Jesus ascended to heaven on a cloud. Jesus ascended to heaven on a cloud.

Ten times. It could be a hundred. For me, it doesn’t matter how often the chalk screeches across the board.

And yet shouldn’t I feel bad, maybe don a dunce cap and mope in the digital corner of a virtual classroom, for not believing that less than two months after his resurrection, Jesus was “lifted up, and a cloud took him out of their sight?” According to the Acts of the Apostles, that’s what happened! Or, maybe, since a cloud (nor two men in white robes) wasn’t mentioned in the other version—Luke’s Gospel—Jesus simply “withdrew from them and was lifted into heaven?”

Hold your horses and scriptural references! Acts had Jesus on a cloud…but Luke didn’t? Two men were present in Acts…but absent in Luke? Why couldn’t the guy who wrote both Luke and Acts get his facts straight? Uh-oh, with a question like that I may have to retreat to the blackboard for more screechy punishment . . .

I believe everything the Bible says. I believe everything the Bible says. I believe everything the Bible says. I believe everything the Bible says. I believe everything the Bible says. I believe everything the Bible says. I believe everything the Bible says. I believe everything the Bible says. I believe everything the Bible says. I believe everything the Bible says.

I’m a bad, bad boy.

I also don’t believe the world was created in six days (though I lean toward believing And on the seventh day, God napped…), crossing the Red Sea without a need for a dry change of clothes, Elijah swooshing upward on a flaming chariot, Daniel in the den of lions, three wise guys from the east or nearly any prediction in the Revelation of John.

Quite a few objects reach into the atmosphere...don't think reaching heaven on a cloud is one of them.**

Sorry, I don’t believe Jesus ascended through the troposphere, stratosphere, and mesosphere and beyond.

What don’t you believe?

But with God, all things are possible. Right? Haven’t even I, Mr. Don’t Take The Bible Literally, claimed that statement before? If I believe in the divine power of forgiveness shared between two people or the transcendent gift of a sacrament found in a bit of bread and a dollop of wine, why can’t I wrap my faith around Jesus’ flight beyond the pull of gravity and through the earth’s atmosphere? I. Just. Don’t.

But this I do believe:  however anyone reads the accounts of Jesus’ birth-life-message-ministry-betrayal-death-and-life-again, every book in the Christian testaments (the 27 books of the traditional canon or the thousands of tales never included) arm-wrestled with the truth of . . . his absence.

Jesus’ ascension tipped a theological hat to Elijah’s departure (II Kings 2:11). Jesus’ ascension also highlighted what they did then and what we moderns still do:  when we refer to God or Heaven or the Inexplicable, we gaze upwards. It doesn’t matter if, like first-century disciples, we view the sky as a dome with heaven’s pearly gates just beyond our sight. It doesn’t matter if, today or tomorrow, we track the faint glimmer of a satellite hurling through the exosphere. We all crane our necks and raise our hands over our heads to gesture toward the Holy. Or to the beyond, where the known blurs into the not yet known.

But for whatever reason we search the “heavens,” and for whatever reason we raise our hands on high, we will eventually lower our eyes and drop our arms. And that’s when the fantastical account of Jesus’ ascension becomes serious for me. Its central question was . . . after bidding Jesus farewell, what will you do?

Last week I listened to an NPR report about Teresa McBain, a fellow United Methodist pastor from Florida. McBain had briefly become part of national news when she attended the American Atheist convention in Bethesda*, Maryland. There she “came out” as an atheist. You could say, to use traditional church language, she bid farewell to the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

Questions about faith caused her to question God’s existence . . .

“In reality,” she says, “as I worked through them, I found that religion had so many holes in it, that I just progressed through stages where I couldn’t believe it.”

The questions haunted her: Is Jesus the only way to God? Would a loving God torment people for eternity? Is there any evidence of God at all? And one day, she crossed a line.

“I just kind of realized — I mean just a eureka moment, not an epiphany, a eureka moment — I’m an atheist,” she says. “I don’t believe. And in the moment that I uttered that word, I stumbled and choked on that word — atheist.”

I wonder why similar questions causing McBain to abandon faith have strengthened (or have become inconsequential) for my faith. Of course, I can’t answer that. Each person deals differently with the perceived presence, absence or non-existence of God. Based on what I’ve read, I’m saddened about the angry, judgmental attacks directed at McBain by fellow “believers.”

Faith—and not only Christian faith—is riddled with holes. For me, Jesus’ ascension was holy fiction than more faithful fact. If you take it literally and it provides a foundation for your faith—good for you! If it becomes a severe stumbling block for faith (and maybe McBain would include Jesus’ ascension on her haunted questions list)—well, I think I understand. But there’s a third way for me . . .

In the holy fiction of the Bible, I’m grateful for the Acts-only arrival of “two men in white robes.” Their question was relevant 2,000 years ago and today:  “Why do you stand looking toward heaven?” Which is to say, get going, get to work. Don’t waste your time judging others, but embrace each day as a time to create heaven on earth.

This week, along with Teresa McBain’s story, I discovered an old (and always new) Anne Frank quote . . . “How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.”

Thanks Anne. Go in peace, Teresa.

My eyes lower to the earth. To today. Get going. Get to work.

*Doesn’t an atheist convention in Bethesda veer toward the ironic? According to John 5:2-3, Jesus healed a man at Bethesda, a famous pool in Jerusalem. The Maryland town was named after that miracle. The word means house of grace, of loving-kindness.

**Thanks to Michael Woessner of www.kowoma.de. He permitted use for the illustration of earth’s atmosphere. He seemed a bit perplexed that a someone pondering/obscuring scripture would want to place the image on a web page. It’s not the first time I’ve confused another person! I wanted a visual reminder that, unlike what folks thought in the first century, the sky’s not a round, fixed dome covering the earth. Oh, you knew that?

Acts 10:44-48 (and also earlier in Acts 10) – The 6^th Sunday of Easter – for May 13, 2012

“…the gift of the Holy Spirit had been poured out even on the Gentiles.” (Acts 10:45)

In order to fully appreciate what prompted the very Jewish Peter, a.k.a. the future first Pope, to declare that Gentiles—non-Jews!—were acceptable for baptism (Acts 10:44-48), I backtracked a few pages and verses.

Earlier in his ministry, Jesus bequeathed a new name on Simon the fisherman. Simon became Peter the disciple. In Greek, Peter means “rock.” Jesus famously called the erstwhile angler a “rock upon which I will build my church.” Aha! Pontiff #1 was a “rock star.”

What! Pigs can't fly!? (photo from PA Photos)

Peter-nicknamed-Rock also seemed to have stones for brains. After all, the traditional first Pope of the Roman Catholic Church—eventually known as Papa, Summus Pontifex, Pontifex Maximus and Servus servorum Dei—was the same guy who lied about Jesus. The future Pontiff #1, warming his hands around a fire while religious bigwigs grilled Jesus, denied knowing the preacher from Galilee (Luke 22:54-62). Old Rocky didn’t lie once, but three times . . . and it makes me weep every time I read it. Indeed, Luke reported that Simon Granite-for-Brains Peter also wept after lying, lying, lying.

And yet I’m grateful for Peter’s deceit and tears. As a sometimes less-than-honest and occasionally weepy modern day follower of Jesus, I’m glad to share some dubious character traits with Pontiff #1.

There’s more to Peter’s rocky start. Before Saint Metamorphic changed his mind and announced baptism could be a full-service sacrament in Acts 10:44-48, he grappled with a dietary dilemma. Near the beginnings of that chapter he did what proper Jews then and now do: he prayed. At noon, according to the Bible, he’d trudged up to the roof of a building and went about his ritual of prayer.

And lo, his prayers were answered . . . or weren’t answered?

Praying can be a dangerous endeavor. Whether through traditional words, in humble silence or even when we spontaneously blather on, confessing or justifying mistakes, prayer means we’re conversing with God. However The Lord God Almighty can be notoriously cranky with the Divine side of the chat. Or perhaps, to be a tad more reverent, the Holy One is oft mysterious and unfathomable.

But I’ll stick with cranky because sometimes . . . I pray, but God seems silent, indifferent. It gets worse. I pray, fervently or routinely, and God answers. But it’s not the answer I wanted!

As Peter bowed his head on that long-ago roof, it was the same for St. Sedimentary. Instead of sharing a few quick and humble prayers, he experienced a vision. A “large sheet being lowered to the ground” contained “all kinds of four-footed creatures and reptiles and birds of the air.” I suppose you could say . . . pigs flew*! The vision implied that pigs, and other creatures, could be served on your plate. For a Jew, this was scary stuff. There were certain foods they couldn’t eat. It was ritual. Tradition. Sacred. Eating the “wrong” food wasn’t a cultural or religious faux pas, but a life and death issue.

New, unsettling insights weren’t over. That rooftop vision also helped Peter The Igneous (and sometimes Ignorant) understand that baptism wasn’t for a secret-handshake, special-inner-circle, old-boys-club activity, but a wide-open wild and wet invitation to everyone.

Eliminating food restrictions and encouraging baptism for all seemed as likely as, well, seeing pigs fly . . .

And yet, for Peter, those future hams and bacons had taken flight!

In Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carol became one of the first to coin the pigs phrase. It’s an expression of speech known as an adynaton, or something that is a “declaration of impossibility.”

“Thinking again?” the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp little chin.
“I’ve a right to think,” said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to feel a little worried.
“Just about as much right,” said the Duchess, “as pigs have to fly….”

How dare, in Wonderland, Alice imagines she could think!

How dare ancient restrictions like what food to eat or new restrictions like who should be baptized might be ignored. Peter, because of or in spite of all of his faith and faults and fickleness, witnessed the impossible. The God revealed by Jesus can be unruly with the rules. The God who Jesus reveled in, who often seems too silent, can also be quite boisterous.

I’m indebted to the Bible’s unvarnished depiction of Pontiff #1, whose faith was as solid as a rock and as dense as a rock! It would be easy for me, without examples like Peter, to choose the safest way or safest words while worshipping at the altar of adynaton.

For Peter then, and us now, God (a.k.a. the One Who Unsettles) often declares that the impossible is possible.

*The “flying pigs” photo images comes from here.

“Christmas Joe” is a coming-of-age novel. Twenty-one year old James March hopes to obtain unexpected money his recently deceased mother left for him and ends up searching for the person who might be his father.

His friend Trixie accompanies him. She also has plans: become rich and famous on the “Finder’s Keepers” reality TV show. She’ll eventually leave James to participate.

The scene I may add will reveal if she becomes a contestant. She, and other “Finder’s Keepers” hopefuls, must find an object. What the contestants don’t know is that during their search, they will be confronted with a “test.” Will they stop their race and help someone? All of this is being filmed and viewers will vote on winners . . . not just based on who finds the object quickest, but also what the contestants did when they had an opportunity to aid a person. Think of it as a “Good Samaritan” moment.

I want Trixie to encounter a person-in-need that most viewers would think she should/could help. Her help MUST include giving money to, or using money for, the needy person.

Trixie’s on foot, running through the streets of Los Angeles, in a clearly safe area. Then the “test,” a needy person, appears. It can’t be perceived as a scary situation for Trixie . . . so, what might a needy person want or ask that would be compelling? It could a child, an adult, a family, a person with a pet, etc.

One way of imagining this could be: what would make you stop and help?

So, your ideas . . . I’d love to hear ‘em!!!

Acts 8:26-40 – 5^th Sunday of Easter – for Sunday, May 6, 2012

“…then Phillip began to speak, and starting with this scripture, he proclaimed to him the good news about Jesus…” (Acts 8:35)

Who will you meet today on the way to . . .?

Abraham and Sarah journeyed toward the land of milk and honey. Exodus is the name of a book of the Torah and a description of what the Israelites did for forty years as they fled slavery. Jesus told the tale of the man on the “road to Jericho,” beaten nearly to death and cared for by the unexpected Samaritan. Paul had his road to Damascus experience.

Once, according to Acts 8:26-40, Phillip was on the way from Jerusalem to Gaza where he met an Ethiopian eunuch. The NRSV translation includes a wondrous foreshadowing of events through parenthesis in verse 26:

. . . the road that goes down from Jerusalem to Gaza. (This was a wilderness road.)

Ah, a wild road: dangerous or adventurous or both?

One on that wild road is a follower of Jesus, the other an influential member of a royal court. We can gaze through the lens of history and appreciate the vast difference between these two, remaining calm and scholarly as their spirit-led encounter unfolds.

We can also, here in the twenty-first century, view this meeting as an enduring and transformational moment. The “court official,” enthralled by reading Isaiah, ignorant of Jesus’ ministry, has an opportunity to learn from Phillip. The one seeking enlightenment, the one who is treated by Acts’ writer as a positive “role model,” would seem to be a black man (Ethiopian), wealthy (the treasurer of a court) and a person of a particular sexual orientation (a eunuch). Our modern wide-open eyes can witness this event and celebrate its inclusiveness, its unabashed challenge to our ongoing contemporary tensions.

Here and today, racism roils our society. Right now I could write about Trayvon Williams. Almost twenty years ago, I could mention OJ Simpson as a cultural lightning rod for racism. Do you think there’ll be incidents tomorrow or in the next decade to provide new examples about the clash of culture, faith and racism? I fear so.

Here and today, there are haves and have-nots. The royal treasurer comfortably rides his chariot—how different is he than Donald Trump or Warren Buffet in a Cadillac? As someone who’s not rich, I love Jesus’ statement about how tough it will be for the rich to get into heaven—like a camel through the eye of a needle—and yet there’s that damn rich Ethiopian being helped by poor Phillip. Why let the rich get richer—though in this case, it’s the “wealth” of faith.

Here and today, we live in a post-don’t ask, don’t tell era. Everything’s just fine and fair with issues about sexual orientation. Right? Not! And yet, is it appropriate for the eunuch to be a mirror for our modern quandary about queers? I think so. Someday, same-gender marriage will be accepted from left to right coast, and all United Methodist churches (my tribe) will welcome gays with open hearts, open minds and open doors. Some. Day. For everyone–everyone–who’s not “normal,” some day still hasn’t appeared as one of the days of week.

I am enthralled with this passage in Acts because, as Phillip shares about scripture, Jesus and baptism, one marvelous “bonus” stands out. Yes this passage can challenge the faithful 2,000 years ago and today. But it’s also a simple reminder about two people—strangers, if you will—converging for one brief moment where profound changes occur.

I’m sometimes asked why I support gay rights. And I’ll sometimes say I don’t. I prefer to say I’m a supporter of human rights, of equality for all. I’ve married same-gender couples, though my own denomination continues to, er, frown on that aspect of ministry. There are many reasons why I’m “pro-gay,” but one is rooted in a brief relationship with a young man. Ayton lived across the street from a church I served in the ancient 1980s. If you want, you could find his name on the directory for those who have a quilt with the Names Project*. Ayton died of HIV/AIDS. Ayton was homosexual. Ayton’s mother kicked him out because she didn’t want a deviant under her roof.

I moved to another church before the worst of Ayton’s life and death happened. But while a pastor there, Ayton entered my life after I started a project where I desperately needed warm bodies. I, ever so foolishly, decided to direct a play. A fund-raiser! Kids busy! Adults helping! Community building! A play with a stirring message about the weak confronting the strong! But we needed lots of people on stage and we were missing several key roles. “Let’s ask Ayton,” several suggested. A high school student, he lived across the street and loved theater. He said yes. Whew.

One night (like so many) I worked late in my church office—a thousand things to do and never enough time. It wasn’t just the silly play, but a memorial service or sermon or counseling or prepping for a meeting or . . .

In walked Ayton. He’d noticed my light in the dark church. He arrived with a steaming mug of coffee and leftovers from his family’s dinner. He placed the meal on my desk and said, “Eat.” I don’t remember what we talked about. I don’t think he was there for long. And before or after the play, I rarely saw him.

A cup of coffee, a blessing . . .

But on one night he served me. I still have the mug he brought over, once filled with delicious hot coffee. Ayton didn’t have to walk across the street, but he did. He didn’t have to pay attention to my needs, but he did. Do I now recall his act of simple kindness because of all the cruel things that eventually happened to him? Maybe. But, perhaps like the Ethiopian eunuch, I had someone unexpectedly arrive in my life that helped me know I was noticed and needed and appreciated.

Why do I support gay rights, full equality for all humans? Because Ayton did walk across the street, balancing a steaming mug of coffee. And because of so many other sometimes brief, sometimes lengthy relationships with people who cared for me, let me care for them, and who shared their broken, blessed, hurt-filled and hopeful lives.

Where has a brief encounter transformed your life? Please, I’d love to hear about it. In the eighth chapter of Acts, we read about the work of God’s spirit; it deepens our understanding of baptism; it challenges us to witness the good news of Jesus the Christ. And it’s also about two strangers on a wilderness road where both lives—thanks be to God—are forever transformed.

Who will you meet today on the way to . . .?

*If you want to learn about the AIDS quilt project, and/or see Ayton’s quilt…try here. His quilt is Block #01078. And don’t see the quilts as a history lesson. Humanity is always one calamity away from pointing fingers, creating an us and a them and using hate for a weapon.

Psalm 23 – the 4^th Sunday of Easter – for April 29, 2012

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…” (Psalm 23:1)

Four decades ago this coming Memorial Day, my friend Michael dragged me away from college classes for a weekend sojourn into the mountains.

My first backpack.

While we often embellish or compress a first event in the re-telling, they are like a tree’s taproot: deep, essential and nourishing. I wore steel-toed work boots with slick soles (great for not gripping the trail), couldn’t make a fire after going through a mess of matches (Michael got a blaze underway with a single strike) and generally had a rousing time. I’d never hiked, never slept in the woods, never witnessed the Milky Way sprawl across a midnight sky, never had blisters between my tootsies nor splashed water onto my face from a snow-fed stream.

We were men. We were children. We were adventurers. We were college kids.

Early in the evening, we (okay, Michael) built a campfire. As the sun faded, and the surrounding trees seemed to tuck the day’s light behind wide branches, we positioned sticks as long as our arms into the fire. Their tips glowed. Spontaneously, we raised the sticks, probably fallen branches, and began a sword fight. Swoosh. Whoosh. Feint and thrust. Laughter and banter. Two man/boys, pretend Knights of the Round Table, battling at the edge of the forest. As the imagined weapons cut through the darkness, the tips—aglow from the fire—etched spectacular orange-tinged slices and circles against the dark background. Simple and dazzling. Instant fireworks. Special effects in a movie only made in our minds and memories.

A slender piece of wood became an imaginary weapon.

Jesus wore a "hoodie" and had a staff*...

“Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff—they comfort me.”

I read this verse from Psalm 23, arguably the Bible’s most familiar passage. Can I discern anything new? Do these ancient words still possess the ability to keep my eyes open to the world around me?

Not likely . . . until I considered the rod and staff. Even more, when I considered that the word “comfort” was linked to these two slender pieces of wood. Why did the psalmist add comfort as a description?

A man/child in the woods, I repeated actions I’d done since first wandering away from my parents. As a little tyke exploring the backyard, I’d grasp a stick and transform it into a weapon. How easy to turn a gnarled branch into a sword, jousting pole, Winchester 73 (“the gun that won the west”) or an RPG launcher. Though I’ve seen girls do it, the stick-to-weapon transformation seems more a part of the male DNA. Is it genetic? Is it primal? Is it cultural? Is gender really a factor?

Psalm 23’s rod and staff were the shepherd’s tools of the trade, equally used for aggression or compassion. One was likely straight; the other had a crooked neck. Either could be swung or jabbed, weapon-like, to ward off an attack on the sheep. And yet the curved end of a shepherd’s staff was perfect for reaching an animal after a tumble into a ravine or creek . . . the slender stick became an extension of the arm, a literal lamb-saver.

I think of the rods and staffs that are part of my daily life.

Crutches once propped me up after a broken leg.

My aging father, who died last February, often refused to use a cane (though he owned several). Was he too proud? Too stubborn? Both? He rejected his staff.

Earlier this week I spotted a blind man, white cane firmly in hand, maneuvering along a sidewalk. Tap, tap, tap. On he strolled, unseeing but appearing confident.

Now with arthritic knees, I typically bring a fancy, telescoping hiking pole when backpacking. I just finished Cheryl Strayed’s memoir “Wild”—based on her 1995 hike along the Pacific Crest Trail—where she found a discarded ski pole. She gratefully used it to help her stride, and sometimes stagger, across granite-bound passes and wide, furious rivers.

Variations of rods and staffs are legion. A neighbor strolls by with a golf club: to fend off aggressive dogs or practice his swing? A young woman twirls a baton before a marching band. A kid down the street, a baseball bat on his shoulder, hurries to a playground.

Who have you seen grasping a “rod” or “staff?”

Every time I’ve turned the page to Psalm 23—at countless formal funerals and brief graveside services—I’m aware how helpful it can be. And, of course, ignored because of familiarity. It could’ve been read a century ago at your great-great-grandpa’s funeral and will just as likely be read at the end of this century for today’s newborn child. It is familiar and comforting. “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff—they comfort me.” We all approach dark valleys, literal or symbolic; places as challenging as a forest path and spaces as frightening as hospital corridors.

Canes and crutches provide support. The odd truth is all of them, a literal rod or symbolic staff, can become a weapon. What will we choose?

I believe Psalm 23 is subversive. Though difficult, I pray for it be read and lived out like a first event every time. It is a taproot for our faith. A kid who might’ve scampered a stone’s throw from the Bible’s King David probably found a stick and pretended it was a sword. A kid today, plugged into his (or her) iPod, does the same. Psalm 23 challenges our upbringing, our genetics and our cultural expectations. As boys become men, as girls become women, instead of wielding weapons against others, we are called to bring comfort in the name of The Comforter, in the way of following the Good Shepherd.

*I first borrowed this drawing through my friend Dan Paul’s Facebook page. Okay, it’s a silly old Sunday School in the 1950s style drawing. But I liked it as a statement about wearing a “hoodie” because of the terrible death of Trayvon Martin…even Jesus wore a hoodie. And he also has that shepherd’s crook…

Luke 24:36b-48 – The 3^th Sunday of Easter – for April 22, 2012

“You are witnesses of these things…” (Luke 24:48)

I swerved, just missed a butterfly smacking me.

Whew!

(Image by clement.cc via Flickr)

However—since I’m a 200-pound guy, and I rode my bicycle at 20mph, and a goofy-looking helmet protected my noggin—should it be: I avoided hitting a butterfly?

After all, who would’ve suffered more from actual impact? Chunky Larry or Madame Butterfly?

I’d been dashing along the bike trail, admiring the scenery, alert to other bicyclists and the occasional walker, mostly minding my own business. Then, whoosh! On the extreme left side of my peripheral vision, a winged creature spiraled into view. Duck…swerve…whoa! All creatures great and small survived the near miss.

It was my second butterfly encounter within the week. A few days before I lounged in a lawn chair after finishing yard work. Just passing the time. Just enjoying a spring afternoon. And then, floating by the orange tree, I spotted a monarch butterfly. For a leisurely moment, the Danaus plexippus did what butterflies do so wondrously well: it flitted about, a splash of brash gold and black against the tree’s green backdrop. Unlike an anxious, frenetic hummingbird or the proverbial buzzing (and so business-like) bee, the butterfly bided its time.

I watched, amazed at how my mind wandered until the insect disappeared into the neighbor’s yard.

Didn’t I see more springtime butterflies when I was a kid? Was that because I was a curious kid rather than a busy adult? Or, with the continuing onslaught of asphalt and concrete, with pesticides and global warming, have humans made the world more perilous for monarchs and their fellow winged Lepidopteras? I fear it’s more the latter than the former.

I then thought of Dan, a friend and pastor in the California town of Pacific Grove, the self-proclaimed “butterfly capital of the world.” There, monarchs arrive from a two thousand mile journey, creating an annual explosion of fragile glory. Viewing my temporary backyard companion prompted a brief prayer for Dan. I enjoyed the winged reminder of my buddy.

I remembered the Lenten activity done during children’s time in worship several years back. One of the pastors on the church’s staff acquired butterfly cocoons. Every Sunday, each a week closer to Easter, we designed lessons for the kids based on Lent’s preparation and Jesus’ impending emergence from a tomb. From cocoon into butterfly; from Ash Wednesday and on toward Resurrection Sunday.

The winged beauty departed my yard. Here, for a gift of seconds, a fluttering of wings, encouraging an abundance of thoughts and memories. Gone, but I remembered.

One butterfly was a split-second gasp and duck, barely there in my peripheral vision. Another became a luxurious moment of reflection.

Both gone.

After Easter we no longer read scripture about the Bethlehem babe or the teller of tales or the Nazarene who wowed the crowds and threatened the authorities. Here and there, though, according to Gospel snippets, he appeared. Words were spoken. A bit of fish shared and consumed. The disciples didn’t trust their eyes. Joy and disbelief held hands like nervous teens on a first date. Luke gave us Emmaus with its burning hearts. John sketched Thomas’ doubts. The resurrected Jesus appeared . . . and then gone.

Gone. Luke said one of the Nazarene’s last statement was, “You are witnesses of these things.

The cocoon breaks apart. A butterfly emerges. Beauty takes flight.

In our day-to-day faith, in April or December, it’s always after Easter. Now, what of Jesus? Now, what of my witness?

For me, because I fervently believe Jesus called us more to a present relationship with our fellow humans and with the Holy, rather than debate his divinity vs. humanity, I’m always humbled by the glimpses of glory I experience. A butterfly blazes into my view. I duck. The length of the encounter was less than a singular, splendid tick of the clock. But it reminded me of the immense world around me, the world—and God’s ways—which are beyond full knowledge and selfish control.

And yet I remember. You are witnesses, Jesus declared. What will I do today to care for the earth? Here, because of human actions, beauty takes flight or may disappear forever. Here and today, I have friends and strangers to keep in prayer and to share a life with. Here and today, as I gather with children to observe a cocoon—for weeks a still and somber shell—I tell them stories about forgiveness that long to open hearts and heal wounds. And I learn from those same children, for I know almost nothing.

Zhuangzi, the 4^th Century BCE Chinese philosopher, legendarily dreamed of a butterfly. Awake, he posed the fanciful conundrum: was I a human dreaming the butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming about being human? Whether a serious or playful puzzle, his question prompts other responses to Jesus’ statement. As a faith-filled witness, help me remember my view or opinion isn’t the only way to see or experience or dream God’s gift of creation.

It’s always after Easter. Awake, and today, I will be called to witness.

*This reflection was first written in 2009. I revised it and used it “again” because I took a vacation and thought a rerun would be just fine. What a chump, huh?

It’s a darn good Easter question.

Two answers usually come easily from the students: baptism and communion. (Or dunking and dining, to be flippant.)

While I won’t share lengthy insights about the profound theology and tradition of those rituals, few Christians doubt their importance. Whether a believer is liberal or conservative, traditional or radical, nearly all agree on communion’s reminder of holy nourishment and baptism’s call to a lifetime of discipleship. And so much more . . .

What about the third request?

Most don’t remember Jesus requested his followers to wash another’s feet. Maybe you’ve seen the Pope kneel to symbolically wash a few soles during Holy Week. Perhaps in your church you’ve done it on Maundy Thursday. Regardless of how it’s explained or remembered, ritually washed feet have lost out in “popularity” compared to dunking and dining.

I understand. We’re not a 24/7 sandal-wearing culture anymore. We’re well-heeled and high-heeled, Mary-Janed and wing-tipped, a people of many soles. A whole lot of folks, especially in contemporary American society, squirm over exposed tootsies. (Ohh, I’m ticklish. Arrgh, my toes are gnarly.) However, all flippancy aside, I’m grateful Jesus asked us to remember the humble act of serving another. Down and dirty, sandal to sandal, face to face, sole to sole . . . and of course, soul to soul.

We say on Easter, rightly so, Happy Easter! However, on this wondrous day, on this life and death and life again celebration, I pray to honor the three things Jesus asked us—me—to go forth and do. Yes, those Biblical requests have become formal, fancy liturgies. But all of us will break bread with another who hopes to be welcomed; all of us, wet or dry, seek community; and all of us are weary from the journey and need rest and care.

On one day, let us joyfully shout, Happy Easter! In every day, let us become a living response to Jesus’ simple, soulful requests . . .

Yesterday, Mary was born. Yesterday, Harry died.

Replace the last word in each of those sentences with a word or phase, as Merriam-Webster’s 10^th Edition says, “that have the same or nearly the same meaning in some or all senses.”

Or, more simply, replace the word “born” or “died” with a synonym.

Hey, let’s make this a contest. I’ll take “died” and you take “born.” Whoever, in sixty seconds, gets the most synonyms takes the other out to lunch.

1-2-3 . . . Go!

Died.
Expired.
Met his maker. Kicked the bucket. Went home with God. Was taken by God (or the angels, or up to heaven). Crossed the Jordan. Passed. Passed on. Passed over. Left us. Left the room like Elvis. Sleeps with the fishes. Was lost.

How are you doing with “born?”

Now I’ll cheat and continue with suggestions from my handy Roget’s International Thesaurus . . .

Perished, had his last curtain call, dreamless sleep, departed, had a fatal encounter, gave up the ghost, surrendered, returned to dust, succumbed . . . and I could go on and on!

Whew. How are you doing? And where do you want to take me out to lunch?

At the last church I served, I offered a Lenten class using a resource entitled Living Fully, Dying Well. Appropriate .  . . since Lent prepares us for Easter, our momentous, mysterious and central celebration of life. Of resurrection! On Easter, we’ll joyously sing, “He is Risen!”

But, before Easter, death comes, unavoidably and uncomfortably stalking the story of faith. Or maybe not so unavoidable, since many skip Lent’s narrower side streets and dark alleys. People rarely “crowd” the church on Good Friday, when our faith tradition takes the final steps to the cross and tomb.

Thank you very much, but we prefer to ignore death. The plentiful synonyms to choose from (instead of saying “Yesterday, Harry died.”) confirm our efforts.

Humans are superstitious. Some of us think that merely mentioning the word (whisper it . . . “death”) might invoke it. If you talk to your loving life partner about writing a will then maybe he or she will soon “kick the bucket.” (A saying, according to the Morris Dictionary of Word and Phrase Origins, deriving from the sad act of suicide . . . “the bucket referred to is the pail traditionally used by the suicide to stand on while tying a noose around his neck. Then, with a kick of the bucket . . . “). Gulp.

It’s obvious why Advent is more popular than Lent. Birth vs. Death. And yet even that simplistic contrast ignores the Bible’s honesty. Death is part of the mythic birth stories of the Baby Jesus. Just read Matthew 2:13-19 for a reminder that there was more than a cozy manger or a few happy-go-lucky magi in the Christmas tale.

I recall asking the class members, “What was harder, talking to your children about sex or death?”

Everyone had had a conversation with children about sex. But not everyone had yet, even with his or her adult children, conversed about dying and death.

As a pastor, I am grateful for Lent’s rough, no-holds-barred journey toward Jerusalem and the end . . . and the beginning. I prepare for “celebrating” Good Friday with equal amounts of personal study, prayer and reflection as for the dawn of Easter. Death. Life.

One of the frequent scriptural reflections I use in this time of the year is the Bible’s so-called shortest verse: John 11:35. Upon hearing of his friend Lazarus’ death, “Jesus wept.” The Gospels, written by those who knew how they were going to end the story, whether it would be Lazarus’ rising or Jesus’ resurrection, don’t avoid the full truth of living and dying. Jesus wept. Death hurts. Death changes everyone.

And so does choosing life.

I typically avoid the wealth of synonyms that are readily available when I talk about life and death issues. I usually won’t say someone “passed” or is “lost.”

We are a Good Friday people along with being an Easter people. And the more we’re honest with our hopes and fears, with our longings and our losses, the more likely our faith will deepen. Good Friday silences our clever words while it bluntly, brashly invites us into some of our deepest places.