John 6:24-35 – The 10th Sunday after Pentecost â€“ for Sunday, August 2, 2015
â€œDonâ€™t work for the food that doesnâ€™t last but for the food that endures for eternal life . . .â€ (John 6:35)
I canâ€™t remember the tenth or hundredth time I served communion, but I recall the first.
Picture an immense cathedral. Add a gathering of sojourners, eagerly listening to the quiet words of preparation for the â€œliving breadâ€ of the Lordâ€™s Supper. Imagine the expectation, the longing. Some awaiting the cup and bread know each other; some, until recently, were strangers. The bread, as usual, was simple. The cup, as usual, held enough for everyone.
But donâ€™t imagine fresh bread. And please, donâ€™t figuratively sample my memory and start tasting sweet grape juice or a spirited sip of wine. Before my first official communion as a United Methodist minister, which occurred mere days following ordination, I had to ask a critical question: Continue reading →
Isnâ€™t it said that a river is never the same? Each time you dangle your foot in a river, the river has changed. Yes, itâ€™s in the same location, with the same name on the map, and even from the same source. But the water flows on and each splash in the river is really new. Water keeps flowing; life keeps on going.
Where I had been before was not a river, but a lake. Ireland Lake. I hardly recognized it.
A few years ago, in the week that summer turned to fall, a friend and I backpacked into the alpine world above Yosemiteâ€™s Tuolumne Meadows area. Most of the time we were above 10,000 feet, where autumnâ€™s subtle colors of gold and red had overtaken summerâ€™s lush array of green meadows and audacious rainbow-inspired wildflowers.
In the days on the trail, we had rain, hail, sleet and snow. In the Sierra, summer can be long. But the time of autumn is short. Winter is impatient.
At the mid-point of the trip we climbed to 10,700 feet, at a place on a map that said Ireland Lake.
It was also a place of memory for me.
A lot more than a few years before (closer to three decades before!) Iâ€™d led a group of youth from a church to this place. Weâ€™d hiked there, teenagers and adults, weary from the trail. We stayed at Ireland Lake for two days.
Psalm 23 â€“ the 4th Sunday of Easter â€“ for April 29, 2012
â€œThe Lord is my shepherd, I shall not wantâ€¦â€ (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 treeâ€™s taproot: deep, essential and nourishing. I wore steel-toed work boots with slick soles (great for not gripping the trail), couldnâ€™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. Iâ€™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 dayâ€™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 tipsâ€”aglow from the fireâ€”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.
â€œEven though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staffâ€”they comfort me.â€
I read this verse from Psalm 23, arguably the Bibleâ€™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 â€œcomfortâ€ 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 Iâ€™d done since first wandering away from my parents. As a little tyke exploring the backyard, Iâ€™d grasp a stick and transform it into a weapon. How easy to turn a gnarled branch into a sword, jousting pole, Winchester 73 (â€œthe gun that won the westâ€) or an RPG launcher. Though Iâ€™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? Continue reading →