Genesis 17:1-7, 15-17 – The 2^nd Sunday of Lent – for March 4, 2012

“I will bless her, and she shall give rise to nations; kings of people will come from her.” (Genesis 17:16)

And thus the Lord appeared to Abram and gave him a different name: the man from Ur of the Chaldees became Abraham.

This same Lord instructed the newly named Abraham to rename his wife Sarai: the woman married to the man from Ur of the Chaldees became Sarah.

Important stuff, eh?

Abram means “the father is high” (and, all Biblical literalism considered, I doubt that carries any modern connotations about recreational drug use). Sarai, as you likely know, means “princess” (or “noble woman”) which is probably easier to brag about than “the father is high.” But that’s just me. I’m a bit vain about my name—Lawrence—because it’s derived from laurel. In ancient times, a laurel wreath was often placed on the head of a king or queen. Royalty. The Big Cheese. So, when you think of me, even if you use my friendly nickname Larry, please crown me with at least one metaphoric crown.

According to the writers of Genesis, the Lord made the Abram-to-Abraham and Sarai-to-Sarah name switch and, ta-da, for all the generations following these revered “parents” of the Jewish, Christian and Muslim faiths will be known as (wait, wait) . . . “the father is high” and “princess.”

Hmmm? Is this Biblical sleight-of-hand?

In Shakespeare’s “Macbeth” the old king of the title bemoans:

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Are Abraham and Sarah’s swell new names mostly a “sound and fury” that “signify nothing?” merely a ruse to amuse?

Perhaps. If I were entering a classroom today, or preaching on Sunday, I’d consider skipping the Lord’s name-game in Genesis and focus on the more serious content. Along with adding a third syllable to Abram/Abraham and switching vowels in Sarai/Sarah (in the English versions), the Lord creates a covenant with the sojourner from Ur. This. Is. A. Big. Deal. The covenant is teachable, preachable, and absolutely essential in the formation of faith long ago and right now. So if I faced eager students or a pew-full of bright-eyed congregants, I’d want to wow ‘em with God’s vow. Mr. Father-Is-High will become the “ancestor of a multitude of nations!” And what does Mr. F-I-H have to do in return for global dominance? Nothing. Well, almost nothing. The Lord God Almighty orders Abraham to become the desert version of Edward Scissorhands—since the Holy/human promise will be fulfilled with a snip of the male foreskin. Ouch! Whether or not Abraham is the sharpest knife in the drawer, it’s best if he wields one to get the covenant underway.

And yet I do wonder about those names that remain the same.

There’s something endearing about God dubbing “the ancestor of a multitude of nations” with a nickname. It seems intimate and affectionate. Names do matter.

What does your name mean? Where does it come from? What about your nicknames? What do you like about your name history? If you can’t stand your name, why is that? What do you call your lover or best friend when it’s only the two of you together? If you hear your name called in a crowd of people, your head turns. Who wants or needs or seeks . . . me?

A couple I’d married contacted me to share the name they planned for their second child. They knew, early in the pregnancy, that another

Cradling a namesake...Patten Grace

girl was on the way. Her name would be: Patten Grace. Whoa. A child named after, amazingly, my last name. I understand a smidgen of why they chose to name their daughter after me. Patten’s parents are a same-gender couple and there have been times when I’ve provided them with support and encouragement. We’ve prayed, talked and struggled together about how others perceive their relationship. I’ve been in awe of their love . . . but not everyone in our divisive, divided culture agrees with my view. I’ve been humbled to be a tiny part of their support system, their “extended family.” I believe Patten will be raised by parents who understand the covenant of love as a joyous blessing.

I told them about my name. One part of my story is a true fact.  Like Patten, I’m named after the pastor who married my parents. During World War II, a Methodist chaplain at an Army Air Corp base in Merced, California invited my parents to vow, “I do.” They promised to name their first son after him: Lawrence. Therefore, when you call my name, an intimate and affectionate vow from generations ago is honored.

One part of my story is a fabricated fact. I believe—and I may be the only one to believe this—my last name is derived from the word, “Paten.” One “T,” not two “Ts.” Paten is a name for the plate holding bread for communion. When Eucharist is served, a chalice contains the blood of Christ and the body broken for you rests on a paten. Am I correct? Does “Patten” and “paten” mean the same? I don’t know. I like that they might be synonyms, though I could be completely wrong about the overlapping origin of the word(s). However, this is my name story, it’s my way to help you understand me. And so, I believe when you call my name, an intimate and affectionate promise about a meal symbolizing Jesus the Christ’s call to be a forgiving/forgiven community is honored. (And frankly, I’d rather be described as a plate cradling nourishment than a royal dude with a leafy crown.)

A syllable is added. One vowel is traded out for another.

After the holy hoopla, the names still meant the same. And yet not. Abraham and Sarah were born again and named anew by a God who desired for them to tell a story about blessings that would be told and retold, lived out and lived within.

On the final morning of a church backpack I led, by a Sierra Nevada lake four pleasant downhill miles from the trailhead and trip’s end, I became lost.

A clear Sierra sky above, Larry's muddled brain below...

Since then I’ve reviewed the actions that inexplicably transformed a routine morning jaunt to standing anxiously at the edge of an unfamiliar lake. No. Not anxiety. What gripped me was primal, relentless fear. A fear that kept shoving logic, inch by inch, beyond reach. A fear that made any sound threatening and every silence even worse. A fear that caused the friendly lodgepole pines and stately Douglas firs to blur together into a foreboding green and brown wall.

The morning began with a stroll for my “constitutional.” With toilet paper and trowel in hand, I made a series of mistakes. One blunder (ignoring landmarks around me) added to the next blunder (meandering further from camp than necessary into an area I hadn’t explored). Worst of all, when I finished my “business,” I didn’t pay attention to my first return steps, instead reminiscing about yesterday’s thunderstorm and the next day’s obligations. Dreamily pondering, I could’ve been sitting in my office or walking around the block.

But I was in wilderness. Middle Blue Lake*, where we camped, went from right there to where the heck is it?

I love California’s Sierra Nevada. I’ve hiked the Cascades and Olympics in the northwest, the rolling Porcupine Mountains of Michigan, the rugged New England stretches of the Appalachian Trail, and the “inverted mountain” of the Grand Canyon, but the Sierra remains home. The joyous interplay of sky, granite, light, and water beckon me for rambling hikes and demanding backpacks.

But there I was, probably no more than a quarter-mile from Middle Blue Lake and the companions I journeyed with, adrift in the woods. I yelled and whistled. No response. I stood still, attuned to any familiar sound. Nothing.

Then I ignored the advice of the experts: stay where you are when disoriented. After all, being lost and acting stupid are always eager to make plans together. So I started tramping through the woods, my heart pounding louder than a woodpecker searching for dinner. After slogging through dense trees and thick underbrush, I proved the experts wrong. I found a lake. Well, half wrong. The lake I stumbled onto, about the size of a baseball infield, was definitely not Middle Blue Lake.

However, I believed this was either Upper or Lower Blue Lake. I remembered the three lakes mentioned in the guidebook I didn’t have. But surrounded by trees, and with no nearby high ground to acquire a better view, I wasn’t sure which one. Fear reigned. Fear roared. More bushwhacking could mean I’d even lose this wrong lake’s glimmer of hope. I might be four miles from the trailhead, but choosing a new wrong direction could make that six or eight miles. What if my companions searched the other 230,257 acres of the Ansel Adams Wilderness we were officially in, but neglected the solitary acre where I wandered around a lake that was barely a speck on the map? What if this pond-more-than-lake wasn’t even on some maps? What if I sprained my ankle or broke my leg? I’ve done both on hikes and it’s frightening to go from upright confidence to groveling in the dirt. Fear reigned. Fear roared.

I tried to slow rapid breathing that had nothing to do with the mountain’s thinner air. Carefully, I searched the dry inlet and outlet streambeds to find a link between what I guessed—okay, fervently, desperately prayed—were interconnected lakes. After encircling the lake twice I identified three dry streams that seemed my best chances. The first petered out into a grove of lodgepole a few hundred yards uphill. The second snaked into a meadow and disappeared. Both were probably only wet during spring runoff. The third path was the sigh-of-relief charm. Wider and more established, perhaps a lively creek in the big snow years, I followed the boulder-strewn inlet to Middle Blue. Cue the angelic choir. After two hours, still clutching the plastic trowel, my fellow hikers welcomed me back. They’d started searching an hour before, but in the opposite direction from my original wandering ways.

I did not become a headline: “Local Pastor Found; Last Will and Testament Written in Blood on Two-ply Toilet Paper.”

I did not become a statistic: “Twenty hikers were officially lost in the Sierra Nevada last year, with 5% grasping cheap plastic trowels.”

Instead, I was welcomed into camp with hugs and laughter. All things considered I’d rather be found than lost. I’d rather be the younger son returning home to a father’s embrace. I’d rather be the Israelites when the freeway signs announce “the land of milk and honey” at the next exit. Yes, I’m the spiritual descendant of the lost becoming found.

But I won’t forget the fear.

Throughout the Bible, especially in earlier English translations, there are many phrases about “the fear of the Lord.” And even if we don’t agree with the theology, we continue using phrases like, “That’ll put the fear of God in you!” For some, a compliment can still be, “He’s a God-fearing man.”

I don’t try to follow the path of Jesus to draw closer to a God I fear. In my heart of hearts, in the ways of believing where I try to shape sermons that are honest or take intimate moments in prayer, I serve a God of abundant love and generosity.

And yet, I refuse to forget the fear I felt in those moments around the lake that I eventually discovered was Lower Blue Lake, connected to Middle Blue by a third inlet stream. I hope I never use fear to manipulate a person or a congregation to believe in God (though the institutional church has done that from Christendom’s beginnings), but I will never again take fear completely out of the equation of faith.

Two hours lost? Not much time off the clock, right? But it was enough. I felt fear’s sharp elbow in my side. The barren inlets and outlets I tracked seemed little different than the emptiness souring my gut. Fear is a raw, truth-filled feeling demanding I remember I’m not the Creator. I am the one created. I am a mortal, mistake-prone human. Like all of us, in my next stride—whether it’s a foolish blunder or a sure step—I am as vulnerable and fragile and temporary as a blade of grass.

When I finally reached Middle Blue, not yet seen by my friends, I studied the rocky streambed I’d just traveled. How was it so easy to get lost?

And then I turned back to face the shining waters of the lake where I camped and took a deep breath.

*Middle Blue is not the lake’s real name. No need for you to identify where I made my mistakes. Find—or lose—your own!

Mark 1:9-15 – 1^st Sunday of Lent – for February 26, 2012

“…Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan.” (Mark 1:9)

I was baptized once.

No, hundreds of times.

Raised in the American Baptist Church, my parents had me “dedicated” as a baby, but it would be my decision for a formal, full-immersion baptism. As a United Methodist clergy, most of the baptisms I’ve celebrated have been squirming infants while I dribbled H₂O on their heads. Thus, based on my childhood church’s traditions, and the denomination I serve as a so-called responsible adult, I’m uniquely qualified to argue with myself about when (and how) a believer should be baptized.

Let’s see what you believe . . .

Those who think infants should be baptized, please line-up against the digital wall on the right side of the virtual room. And you adults-only supporters . . . over to the left wall. Both sides, please behave!

I’ll remain in the middle of the room and give a quiz:

The proper way to use the baptismal water is:

A. Minister sprinkles water on head once
B. Minister sprinkles water on head three times (symbolizing Father, Son and Holy Ghost or Creator, Christ and Spirit or . . .)
C. For a once-only ceremony, minister pinches believer’s nose closed and immerses her/him in water.
D. For as many times as it takes (for sinners keep sinning and need to be saved again…and again…and again), the minister pinches believer’s nose closed and immerses her/him in water.
E. The water better be a river, and not just a Jolly Green Giant-sized bathtub behind the sanctuary’s altar.
F. Who needs a minister? Like Robert Duvall’s Sonny in “The Apostle,” you can baptize yourself.

Is it okay to baptize yourself? Duvall's character Sonny did it in "The Apostle."

At “F” I grew weary (wary?), so that’s where the quiz ends. (For example, I began research on Anabaptists and their baptismal beliefs and practices, but my head started hurting. So “F” is where I’ll stop, though I hope it’s not the grade I’ll get as I reflect about this wondrous sacrament.)

It’s complicated: who we baptize and when; how we baptize and why.

And yet, maybe not. For Christians, before baptism evolved into a sacrament, a special set-aside ritual to acknowledge and celebrate a believer’s trust in the God revealed by Jesus Christ, it was the simple act of a man* wading into the Jordan River.

Therefore, let me tell you about Jane. That’s not her real name, but I do want to protect her identity. I grew up in the 1950/60s and recall those insipid, vaguely helpful, Dick and Jane (See Jane run!) books that taught kids how to read. Dear, sweet Jane. A simple name: easy to pronounce and neutral. So I’ll use it to keep my Jane anonymous.

This is a story about Jane heading for H₂O. In her case, it was not the Jordan River, but on a backpack at the snow-fed Lake of the Lone Indian in the Sierra Nevada’s high country. Truth be told, this is really not Jane’s baptism, but mine. Oh, did I tell you I’d been baptized only once? A lie, indeed a faithful, lovely lie! Not only, as an ordained clergy, have I baptized hundreds of believers; I myself have had many baptisms because of others. Let’s call those second-hand baptism.

Jane was adventurous and stubborn. She’d directed several non-profit agencies. You should also know she was around 60 (shouldn’t reveal a woman’s age) when she arrived at Lake of the Lone Indian. Further, she was a cancer survivor. And . . . she’d been my boss because she’d chaired the church’s Staff-Parish (or personnel) Committee. Every year, that group evaluated the lay and clergy staff. No one, in my entire ministry, had been as critical of me as Jane. She bluntly, and fairly, shared with me how I could improve and strengthen my ministry. In other words, Jane was a tough, loving, smart lady.

Ah, the strange, ubiquitous Dick and Jane books...

But she stumbled along the trail on the hike. She wasn’t a spring chicken. She was a cancer survivor. She hadn’t backpacked in years.

Mid-way through the journey, we arrived at the lake. It would be our campsite for two nights, allowing aching legs and sore shoulders to heal. Some of the younger folks decided to swim. I watched Jane watch them. She slowly stripped off her sweaty hiking clothes until only in “skivvies.” Jane, the professional woman, the person who’d staggered up and down the trail, ran toward the water. Ran toward joy. Ran toward the sheer pleasure of a plunge into an alpine lake.

Her water splashed me. Second-hand glory.

A few years later, Jane died. Is this why I vividly recall her dash toward the water? Yes. No. More it’s because she embraced life. How much every single dry or watery, blessed moment mattered.

Jesus waded into the Jordan. You and I are second-hand recipients of that sacramental moment of trust in God.

But I also think of Jesus’ actions, in its simplest form, as a plunge into life. Sure, we can all argue about the “best” way to baptize. But I see Jane run, feel her water splash on my arms and within my heart, and imagine baptism as a thousand different moments where I am reminded of life’s gifts.

*Here I will get in trouble with everyone in a virtual or real room. There are those who believe Jesus the divine was Christ before/at the moment of birth. There are those who believe Jesus the man became Christ after baptism and/or transfiguration and/or resurrection and/or…? All statements of belief create tension, whether polite debate between friends or nations battling each other. If I say anything is simple, it’s also something we humans have muddled up.

Literal or Literary (and a smidgen about Transfiguration for that upcoming Sunday)

I confess…I hesitate about taking miracles literally. Jesus lived in a “pre-scientific” world. If something couldn’t be explained, it was labeled a miracle. Additionally, others beside Jesus were considered “miracle workers.”

And, literarily speaking, many of Jesus’ miracles were parallels with the Jewish/Hebrew literature. Manna from heaven fed Moses and the Israelites in the wilderness. Of course the Gospel writers wanted Jesus to have a “miraculous” feeding, also in the wilderness, also with a group of people.

Or this . . . Jesus was transfigured on the mountaintop. Moses (yes, him again) and Elijah make a token appearance. As Jesus’ face glows, isn’t this really a literary reference to Moses the lawgiver after he’s been in the Holy presence? Once, after being “exposed” to Holy, Moses’ skin glowed. It was enough to cause the Israelites to request that the old lawgiver veil his face. Jesus and Moses demonstrated that even sunscreen with a high SPF won’t matter if you hang around God.

I’m cynical, wary and a skeptic. Yup, that’s me.

Still, in literal or literary way, I’m thankful for the presence of the miracles. I am more “comfortable” imagining the feeding of the five thousand was about people sharing food or that Jesus’ bright face was another variation of the faithful storyteller’s belief that light overcomes darkness or . . .

But just a bit of me, skeptic that I am, ignores rational explanations and remembers: not everything can be explained. That unsettles me. Miracles unsettle me . . . they are a Holy rug yanked from under my self-assured, logical legs. And that feeling is sometimes where and how my faith is best nurtured.

Mark 9:2-9 – the 7^th Sunday of Epiphany/Transfiguration Sunday – for February 19, 2012

“…This is my Son, the Beloved; listen to him!” (Mark 9:7)

(Written after visits with my father on January 31 & February 1. He died a few days later on Monday, February 6, 2012*. This is a longer than usual “And Yet” reflection…please forgive my lack of brevity.)

Dementia has transfigured my father.

Unlike Jesus’ transfiguration, there is no mountaintop or disciples or mysterious appearances of Moses and Elijah.

Perhaps it’s self-serving to suggest there’s anything similar about the changes to my 95-year old father (and to my family because of his illness) with Jesus’ transformative moment in the Gospel stories.

I’m fine with self-serving. Let me manipulate the Gospel for the sake of my own sanity. Let me rationalize the dull thrum of my father’s anguished decline by claiming parallels in the good news of Jesus Christ. As my father nears death, I’ll embrace any insights or interpretations that may add clarity to this unsettling last chapter of his life.

If there’s no mountaintop, I can at least gaze through the second-story window of his memory care facility. It frames a stately evergreen tree. The branches spread across a lawn and patio like a dowager grown happily fat with excess. The tree sways in the breeze, providing a bright contrast to the gray winter days. When I glance through my father’s sliding glass door (bolted shut so he won’t bolt), I imagine the natural coolness the tree creates, even on the hottest summer days, when it shades the basketball court-sized area beneath my father’s window.

My father's hand...holding it on January 31, 2012

I hold my father’s hand, listen to his breathing, watch the branches waltz in the wind.

During my elementary and middle school years, we lived on a street named La Sierra, or the mountains. On summer evenings, home from work, Dad would often smack grounders or short fly balls to me. Our yard was shaped like two squares—one small, one large—pressed together. Dad stood in the small square, the house’s L-shape his backdrop, and swung the bat. Ball after ball dribbled or rocketed toward me, the kid with the glove and the smile in the middle of the big square. How many times did those sessions take place during childhood summers? A hundred. A thousand? Enough to become a treasured memory. I see him now, strong hands gripping the smooth wood of the bat, launching a ball. Did I know then how precious the time was? Of course not . . .

Though a literal or metaphoric Moses and Elijah never appear (as they did in Jesus’ transfiguration), there are helpful aides for my father. Like the revered lawgiver and prophet, the aides come and go. Paid by the hour, and likely paid poorly, the blue-shirted employees brush my father’s teeth, clean his shit and reposition him to avoid bedsores. Their care for him is an endless contest between failure and success. Like a pendulum, he swings from vague compliance to active resistance. Mostly incoherent, there’s no doubt about his intentions when he growls and attempts to shove or grab someone. It’s easier for the aides when my mother visits. Does he really, especially at this stage, know who she is? I can’t say. While we aren’t sure if he has Alzheimer’s, Lewy body dementia or vascular dementia (my amateur guess is vascular), I’m confident he knows mother is special. But does he know her as his bride of 70 years? If his eyes are open, his gaze follows her like a child sizing up dessert. She matters, and her presence allows for the lawgivers and prophets—those blue-shirted aides—to do their work.

I hold my father’s hand, listen to his breathing, watch the branches waltz in the wind.

When the 1929 stock market crashed and burned, Dad was thirteen. Between that devastating event and when he voluntarily joined the Army Air Corps a year before Pearl Harbor, his work ethics were shaped. Nothing was a given; everything a struggle. Like many of his contemporaries, Dad attended the school of hard-knocks. After World War II, and after securing a boring job with the phone company, Dad struck out on his own to sell life insurance. By all accounts he was a success. Unlike many of my friends’ fathers, Dad came home nearly every night. He made sure to hit those fly balls my way. But he also invited me to ride the Sacramento countryside as he checked his far-flung clients. Some were farmers, their verdant land sprawling across acres of California’s Central Valley. I now know he’d spend years developing relationships with those farmers—and his other clients—long before selling them a dollar of insurance. He’d chat and listen and recall details about their farm or family. At whatever point he made his sales pitch, his words were based on well-earned knowledge instead of market-driven clichés. I see him now, hands firmly wrapped around the steering wheel, guiding his car over narrow roads bisecting lush farmland. Dad would tell me who owned what property, or how, in his last visit, a farmer had become a parent or grandparent.

Jesus’ transfiguration—glorious and dazzling, mythic and momentous—turned his clothes white. Did his face glow? Did his skin shimmer, as if diamonds sparkling in a jewelry case? While the Gospel accounts don’t overwhelm with detail, the disciples were stunned. What they saw and heard (for Mark, Matthew and Luke all had a divine voice proclaim Jesus as “beloved”) not only transfigured the Nazarene, but all who’d follow would be forever transformed. When Peter, James and John hurried down the mountain, warned to keep quiet, the Gospel writers loudly claimed an undeniable belief: yesterday’s disciples and today’s believers, follow one who is beloved of God. There was a “before” and “after.” Is the transfiguration story a literary device, a storyteller’s trick to recycle Moses’ fearfully bright face after encountering God or to foreshadow Jesus’ resurrection? Perhaps. Do I wish to argue the transfiguration’s veracity? Nope. Why not?

Because transfigurations do occur. Faces glow or dim in joy, anger, hope and failure. We blush red. We’re as pale as a ghost. Whether or not we hear divine voices—and the craziest and sanest have—we can never fully describe the transformative events of our lives. We can never explain how it felt to say, or be told, “I love you.” Sure, we’ve shared I love you multiple times, but wasn’t there one person, one moment, where I love you couldn’t be contained by any simple sentence or brilliant metaphor? Or if tragedy rules, where lives are damaged (yes, transfigured) we’ll still, whether a high school dropout or Pulitzer Prize-winner, sound more foolish than articulate. From the greatest victory to the meanest defeat, no transfiguration can be adequately expressed by words.

My father’s transfiguration—far, far from the Gospels’ bedazzled accounts—is as real as it is unsettling.

Dementia robs memories, smiles, conversations and even a routine “thank you.” It is a thief stealing the valuable jewels and household junk, never caring about the differences. Now that swallowing is difficult for him, and soon (weeks, months) will be impossible, it’s “official” my father is dying. A big man—solid, never fat—he sheds weight. His skin is pale, easily bruised. His breathing is more problematic . . . the “oxygenation levels” have decreased according to the hospice nurse. My father is trapped in a hospital bed, a human glacier grinding down his caregiver wife and underpaid aides. Where has his face or body or personality gone? Transfigured? Should I use that word? It seems accurate in the worst sense. But I also think of him as ruined or wrecked.

And yet not . . .

I hold my father’s hand, listen to his breathing, watch the branches waltz in the wind.

My father's hands, ready to support my younger sister...

Almost eleven when my younger sister was born, I recall Dad’s hands cradling her before she could walk or speak. She had wide eyes for joy, was prune-faced when she cried. Her displeasure and discomfort came by interpretation; excitement and contentment were more obvious, though still interpretations. Dad’s hands reached out to help her risk a first step or clapped to support her first words. I remember.

Now, weak and dying, my father is not unlike the child he once supported with his hands, his hard work and shared parenting. Close to death, he is a 95-year old infant. Dementia has made him as helpless as a newborn.

I’ll be brutally, shamefully honest. When I journey to visit, about once a month, I sit beside him and have awful thoughts that sprout like weeds. As the evergreen gently sways outside his window, I wonder: if Dad and I had ever talked about ending his life if an illness as dismal as dementia afflicted him . . . would I follow through? I study his transfigured, ruined face, and gaze at the pillow he awkwardly rests on. What if I placed the soft cushion over his mouth and nose? What if I leaned into him, holding on for dear life and dear death? Once he was a giant, a man who chose to swing a bat that lofted an in-the-yard fly ball . . . but he could’ve slugged it far beyond the fence. Now, though, he’s a feeble old man. I could do it. I could end his lifeless life.

No. We never talked. (But those thoughts creep in, cockroaches in the dark, hungry wolves circling the soul’s campfire.)

I let the thoughts go. On my best days—or maybe my least worst days—I hear a divine voice. Beloved. I follow Jesus. I follow the Beloved. I claim to see others—the stranger, the enemy, the faithless and foolish—as my neighbor.

And therefore, beside this bed, beside my father, I remember.

Not the remembrance of a youth in a backyard game. Not the remembrance of a kid sitting proudly in the passenger seat. Not the remembrance of trusting Dad’s strong hands as he supported my sister. But the remembrance of my faith. My weak faith. My questioning faith. My futile faith. But faith nonetheless that holds onto my God and holds onto my Dad’s hand and believes with all of my broken heart that this man is beloved.

Aren’t we all, in the moments that matter, transfigured? In our days and decades, we confront evolution, revolution and redemption. Or we resist every change . . . and yet we are still changed. Welcome or not, noticed now or later, transformative experiences continuously define and redefine us.

After a blue-shirted aide has left, and while my mother fusses over her husband, cleaning his eyes with a moist washcloth, I ask Dad, “Could you squeeze my hand?”

Branches sway. Voices fade. Somewhere disciples stumble down a mountain.

My father doesn’t respond. He cannot. This cruel illness snatches away his past, present and future. He can no longer grip a bat or steering wheel or my sister. And so, for he is beloved, I cradle Dad’s hand and squeeze. It is not much, but it is what I can do.

*Thanks be to God for the life of George Patten, my Mom’s beloved husband for 69 years; the father of Valerie, Larry and Tammy; grandfather of Brian and Rachel.

2 Kings 5:1-14 – 6^th Sunday after Epiphany – for February 12, 2012

“So he went down and immersed himself seven times in the Jordan…” (2 Kings 5:14)

In Luke’s Gospel (4:27) Jesus mentioned Naaman once.

Jesus used the old warrior from Syria as an example of how God and God’s prophets go about their business. Jesus so thrilled his listeners (a.k.a., his friends and neighbors), they attempted to toss him off a nearby cliff. Irked the sermon’s message, they wanted to see how far the messenger could spiral down before smacking the ground.

However Jesus “passed through the midst of them, and went on his way.” In other words, Jesus escaped a lynch mob.

Preachers and writers beware when Naaman is mentioned…

…So let’s talk about Naaman! (You prepare your easy escape from angry crowds while I work on mine.)

Though the name Naaman surfaces several times in the Bible, I’m interested in the fellow that starred in the fifth chapter of Second Kings. Outside of Kings and Luke, this particular Naaman is no more than a footnote. As with many Biblical characters, he appears and then vanishes. But while “on stage,” he makes an impact (and I don’t mean like a body falling off a cliff.) Naaman, a “commander of the army of the King of Aram” (Syria for modern Googlers), is by all accounts a warrior, feared and fearsome.

In other words, one tough dude.

With one issue: skin tissue. He’s got leprosy; can’t hide his bad hide. In the wondrous ways of the Bible, where happenstance and Holy desires hold hands, Naaman learns of a cure: Go see Elisha, a prophet of the God of Israel. I’ll trust that you, dear reader, have already read the full account in II Kings. However, let’s make it interesting . . .

Naaman heads for Israel by:

1. Riding on a fast chariot
2. Astride a sturdy camel
3. Pedaling a Solis Nitro road bike

Naaman carries:

1. A sword sharpened to kill
2. A spear easily hurled a hundred yards
3. An iPhone with a low battery

Naaman wears:

1. A scowl and billowing robes
2. Leather sandals fashioned by the finest craftsman
3. Eddie Bauer Jeans with holes in the knees

What’d you choose on your quiz? I picked #3 every time because, regardless of Naaman’s lack or abundance of Biblical detail, when I read about him . . . I see me. Yes, I have a bicycle. Darn that iPhone, I should charge it. And my lovely wife cringes when I wear those tattered denims in public.

Naaman, like me, and like you, needs a cure. Whether the disease of skin, soul or mind, we all journey to seek healing. We aren’t who we want to be; we aren’t, God knows, who we can be.

Heal me. Help me. Make me whole. For Naaman, through Elisha’s words, God makes the cure darn easy. This is where the warrior gets peeved. He doubts easy. He questions easy. He’s instructed to bathe seven times in the Jordan and, perhaps equally petulant and incredulous, scoffs at the suggestion.

A servant asks dis-eased Naaman, “…if the prophet commanded you to do something difficult, would you not have done it?”

Why is hard sometimes more compelling than easy?

Where's that simple, "magical" answer?

The hardest professional decision I ever made came when my bishop asked me to leave my position as a hospice chaplain to become the senior pastor of a church in turmoil. I made the hard decision harder. I delayed answering. I spent time with Hem and Haw. I prayed. I talked with friends. Once, anguished over saying “yes” or “no,” I did what is always a foolish, childish thing: I randomly opened my Bible and plunged my finger onto a passage. Any passage! And what would this magic verse reveal as God’s will for me? Finally, unsure (and with my finger slightly bruised), I agreed to serve the church. What was right? What was wrong? This I know, looking back . . . I made a hard decision harder. How much did I trust God, and distrust myself?

But decisions can be easy. Months before the Bishop’s request, I’d offended a fellow chaplain. In my eagerness to please—and, truth be told, also selfishly trying to appear like the guy-who-could-do-it-all—I handled a phone message for another chaplain. The call came from one of her (the other chaplain’s) patients. Instead of merely taking a message, I “ministered” to the patient, made promises of what I (and the hospice) would do. I overstepped my boundaries. I upset another person’s pastoral care. While my skin might’ve been unblemished, like Naaman, I was dis-eased.

How could I find healing, wholeness? Simple. I needed to face my colleague and say three words: I. Am. Sorry. No hemming or hawing or finger-plunging necessary. Simple, and yet so very, very, very, very, very, very, very hard.

Seven times in the Jordan, Elisha told Naaman. Easy-schmeasy. It is. It isn’t. Sometimes the simplest thing confronts our worst fears. Do we have the courage to wade into water? What if it works? What if it doesn’t work? Do we have the courage to speak three words?

Naaman departs the Bible faster than riding a chariot (or bike) through a town with one stoplight. But, for me, he lingers, a reminder that the path to wholeness is easy. Often, the only stumbling block is me.

I love gray. Hate grey. Or visa-versa.

No, really, it'll be clear soon. The gray, er grey, fog will lift...

While “hate” may be too strong of a word, I’ve been into gray-bashing for a number of days. Here it is: I weary of fog . . . low clouds . . . Valley gunk. Morning after morning: grey. Afternoon after afternoon: gray. Maybe the sun burns through in the late afternoon, or maybe there’s a brief sliver of light in the west as the earth spins out the end of another winter day, but for the most part . . . yup, gray or grey, it’s all the same.

The weather page of today’s newspaper is another demonstration of language frustration:

• Sunny, patchy fog…
• Partly cloudy…
• Low clouds and fog…
• Clouds will give way to some…blah, blah, blah.

Each day could just read: gray. Grey!

And the thing is, I’m a gray kind of guy. Being grey is one of the joys of my life.

There’s little finer than the color of granite—which is quite gray—as the sun works its magic at sunrise or sunset on alpine ridges. Granite explodes with pink and orange; a veritable light show of wordless wonder against a grey backdrop! And what of Ansel Adams, the grand master of the world of gray!

Many of my most precious values are tinted in tones of gray. Take a controversial issue like abortion. I could talk a blue streak about how terrible abortion is, how it should never have to happen, and how it is almost always a reflection of a more complex tragedy. And yet that does not lead me to be “against” abortion. With strident grey-ness, I am a loud and proud advocate of “choice” for a woman’s right to have an abortion. While every abortion is tinged with tragedy, no abortion can be so neatly defined and categorized that we humans can uniformly say that one is right and another is wrong.

And some of you, reading this, will vehemently disagree with me. And we would have a grey-based argument. Indeed, much of the tension in this country right now, whether with people or faith or in the political arena, is often with gray-based vs. black & white-based points of view.

I like gray and the many colors it has for companions: silver, smoky, or stone. Or how about grizzly, mousy or dove-colored? From ashes to zinc gray, grey is great! Pearls can be gray. There is a color of grey in crystal.

But in these gray days, it’s hard for me to truly celebrate grey. How much I like to live with the challenge of my gray-based ways of thinking and believing. How uncomfortable I am with people who are so “black & white.”

Still, as the days of grey grow in number, one on another, I long for the end of gray. As the local weather wags continue forecasting their dull-witted verbiage of cloudy-foggy-blah-blah-blah, I desire grey’s demise.

In my Christian tradition—as with other great religions—the metaphor of light is essential and abundant. From Christmas Eve candles to Easter’s sunrise through Pentecost’s flames, light defines the best of our faith. Grey is cast aside.

So, clinging to my faith, I await the earth’s rotation, the flow of the seasons, and trust in the light to come. The grey will end. The days will lengthen. Alleluia. Be gone dull clouds and dreary fog!

But, is it grey or gray? In my Webster’s all the fancy gray definitions are found under “gray” and at the word “grey,” Webster’s merely says “grey” is a variation of “gray.”

Harrumph. Grey or gray, it’s a problem-child word. Red isn’t “red” or “redde.” Blue isn’t “blue” or “bleu.” Green isn’t “green” or “grean.”

Poor grey. But it’s no surprise to me that gray can’t make up its linguistic mind.

Regardless, have a grey, er, great day!

Psalm 147:1-11, 20c – 5^th Sunday after Epiphany – for February 5, 2012

“The Lord God builds up Jerusalem; he gathers the outcasts of Israel.” (Psalm 147:2)

When or where, and from whom, did I first hear . . . I don’t read the Bible literally, but I take it seriously?

A mentor? Perhaps. Was it a gem discovered in a now-recycled magazine article? Could’ve been. Did a renowned theologian first tease me with these words? Possible. This I’m confident about: I’ve quoted it since Jimmy Carter sat in the Oval Office, wondering why no one liked him anymore. Therefore, before the easily plucked quotations from the digital realms of Google and Wikipedia, I offered this simple, and oh so true, sentence to readers and listeners.

At least it’s oh so true for me.

While studying a few verses of Psalm 147 the other day, I kept hearing I-don’t-read-the-Bible-literally… nudge my consciousness. Nudge? Actually it felt more like tennis great John McEnroe infamously shouting, “You cannot be serious!”

He heals the brokenhearted… (Ps. 147:3). If that’s true, then why do so many of the people I call for hospice weep, sound anguished, speak with voices as if worn out by shouting in a storm?

He determines the number of stars… (Ps. 147:4). Please. In Biblical times they thought the sky was a fixed dome, and the sun moved just above the clouds each day. It’s the Bible that claims Joshua made the sun stand still (Joshua 10). So pardon me if I don’t equate ancient theological metaphors with modern astronomy.

The Lord lifts up the downtrodden… (Ps. 147:6). Can the good Lord please talk some sense into those forlorn homeless men at the corner of Fresno’s Blackstone and Herndon who brandish signs like: I’m a vetran and hongry, pleas help me? They appear permanently downtrodden.

There are other upbeat promises and platitudinous pablum in Psalm 147, so I’ll let you choose your own to be incredulous about. Or, because my views may not be oh so true for you, you can debate or debunk my feeble (un)beliefs.

Psalms 147 is not the only “problem.” The Bible’s chock-full of stumbling blocks and John McEnroe situations.

Such as, can any modern reader study the Bible and not be unsettled with its treatment of women? When scripture was written, women—all women—were property. Find me a verse empowering women and I’ll find you 10 or 100 belittling them.

Such as, we just survived another Christmas season—or what I sometimes call The Curse of Matthew’s Magi. How many places are the wise men from the east mentioned in the Gospels? One: Matthew.

What if, instead of Matthew 2:11 reading, and they knelt down and paid him homage. Then, opening their treasure chests, they offered him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh . . .

It instead proclaimed, they knelt down and paid him homage. Then, opening their hearts, they offered him gifts of trust, joy, and love.

Be gone Black Friday! No presents under the tree! No staggering credit card debts at year’s end!

As a young pastor I preached on the magi’s gifts, trying to wow my congregation with the Bible’s real meaning. Those items, I proclaimed, were not pricey things to offer the child of Bethlehem, but priceless symbols for understanding Jesus who became Christ. Gold was a royal gift—Jesus would be a “king.” Priests used frankincense—Jesus would become “priest-like.” The dead were prepared for burial with myrrh—Jesus the royal priest would experience death before life again!

Yes, I preached the real meanings. Often, you can’t take the Bible seriously at its surface level. You must understand the complex metaphors and symbols if you are an honest believer. You have to learn to ignore the platitudinous pablum of some verses if you’re serious about your faith.

And yet what I didn’t realize as a young preacher, oh so long ago, was that my congregation (how blessed, gulp, they were to have well-educated, insightful me) had already heard all the what-ifs from a score or more of past pastors. I was not the first, nor would I be the last, to admonish them to perceive the truth of the magi’s gifts or to question the veracity of the Psalms’ abundant promises.

Now I know I don’t know much. Still, I don’t take the Bible literally. Some of the Psalms—certainly 147 is one—sound like snappy, upbeat slogans for Yahweh. Not all, though. In the Psalms, and throughout sacred scripture, bad astronomy mixes with breathtaking hope. A day after reading Psalm 147, I read Isaiah 40’s they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not be faint. Isn’t that also “cheerleading” for God? Yes, but—for me—it’s also language inspiring my day-to-day faith.

I take the Bible seriously. If you’ve read this blog before, you know a small slice my time includes making hospice phone calls to “the brokenhearted.” Does God immediately heal those feeling the sword-piercing-the-heart pain of a loved one’s death? No. Not immediately. And more than a few may never know solace after devastating loss.

Still, I call.

Why? Because, in spite of sometimes not being able to keep a smile off my face when I read the Psalms—the upbeat or the downbeat ones—they are serious invitations for me to be God’s voice, hands and ears. Some of them cause me to roll my eyes. All of them demand I keep my eyes open to the opportunities God gifts to me.

Today, before or after you read this, you will have an opportunity to feed, clothe, shelter, embrace, challenge, listen and cheerlead another person. You will. Do it because of, or even in spite of, the Psalmist’s laugh-out-loud optimism.

What is your “Sunday best?”

As I kid, my "Sunday best" wasn't quite like my Dad's suit!

OK, I did wear nice clothes: creased pants, shined shoes, and I was color-coordinated. What a guy.

I’d rather not go “fancy” to worship, though it’s more than an LDS website that challenges me. I can easily hear the echo of my parents’ voices . . . make sure to dress for the occasion!

I think of the passing mention about what Jesus wore in John 19:23. When the soldiers at the cross divided Jesus’ garment, the Gospel said it was, “seamless, woven in one piece from the top.”

In my long-ago Sunday school days (of course always wearing my parents-required Sunday best) I assumed the garment must have been “special.” Nope. Common clothes. Jesus wore what everyone else wore. Simple. Plain. Far from “special.”

What is “Sunday best?” I say, come as you are. Simple. Plain.

And back to the LDS. In a Newsweek article (Feb. 11, 2008), the then recently deceased LDS President Gordon B. Hinckley was remembered and appreciated. A quote about him said, “He implored people to be better—to be kinder, more forgiving, more inclusive. And he led by tireless example.”

That, I think, is the best “Sunday best” to wear. Not clothes, but wearing and living out a humble attitude and honest faith.

GLOWS

Early evening, Royal Arch Lake - southern Yosemite

Alpenglow is the dance of sunlight on stone in a mountain amphitheater.

Faces glow too; inward light. Moses, after his encounters with God, covered his face. The Israelites, already witnesses to great miracles according to scripture, couldn’t handle Moses’ blazing cheeks. In Jesus’ transfiguration, he shimmers, incandescent with glory. Were those fiery moments sacred history or sacred myth? I don’t care, for I’ve seen the hints of God at work within and around, where the light that is present—in a child’s smile, an adult’s words of forgiveness, a couple’s announcement of love—cannot be described or quantified. It simply is.

In the mountains, I witness rock afire. In scripture I read of transfiguration. But the light of glory happens here and about. And we, so adept at guarding our heart and hiding our fears, should and can struggle to keep our eyes open. Light abounds. A divine glow illuminates the soul…in ongoing creation, within each beloved creature.