There was a man who was in desperate need – all he needed was a little cash and he could get by. So he decided to go from house to house to see if there were any odd jobs he could do. After being turned down by several home owners he came upon a house where an older woman answered the door. He gave his usual pitch and to his surprise the woman said yes should could use some help – it was perfect that he happened to stop by for the painter she hired had just then cancelled on her.
She told the man, "I need my porch painted. Walk around to the back of the house and there you’ll see the porch, the paint and all the equipment needed. When you're done, come back to the front door and I’ll pay you $500."
This was better than he expected. He walked around to the back and to his surprise and delight, everything he needed was there ready to go. He set to work taping and prepping, then fired up the paint sprayer and in no time he was done.
The woman of the house was surprised that the man was so quick, but, she thought, maybe he had a lot of experience as a painter – so she counted him out the cash. The man pocketed the cash, thanked the women and as he was leaving he hesitated and said, “By the way lady, you need to know, it's not a Porsche that you have parked back there, it’s a Mercedes Benz.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Surrounded by Witnesses
In 1845, a group of Christians gathered in a rural area of Pennsylvania and formed a Lutheran congregation. Eventually, a church building was erected outside the town of Wexford. The faithful people of Trinity Lutheran Church met in this building. They married there, they baptized their babies there, they served the Lord faithfully, and they buried their dead in the little graveyard outside the church walls. As the years passed, the number of saints that was added to the graveyard increased, until the church was surrounded by tombstones.
The little congregation grew, and an education building was erected next to the church so the people could teach their children, youth and adults the stories of Jesus. And the church continued to grow. Eventually, the little congregation outgrew their sanctuary. A building committee met to discuss their options. The decision seemed to be an easy one - the most logical thing to do would be to build a new sanctuary and attach it to the education building. There was plenty of land available for this purpose, and it would mean that people would no longer have to walk 100 yards in Pennsylvania winters to get from Sunday school to worship.
But the church was not so quick to embrace this sensible plan. And, in fact, after years of debate, the church members voted instead to undertake a limited expansion of their current sanctuary. This was not a logical choice, but the decision made sense to the church members who wanted to preserve their church’s unique identity of being completely surrounded by its cemetery.
This was not a morbid decision. It was an acknowledgment by the members that their present congregation not only rested on the witness of the saints in Scripture to the grace of God in Jesus the Christ, but also through the witness of all who had contributed their own witness to the faith in the life of their congregation.
You see, no one can enter the church building for worship without walking past the graves of those who served the congregation in the past. And on every Sunday morning, weather permitting, various people from the congregation can be seen standing before tombstones after the service, remembering those whom they have loved, and who have contributed to their own faith.
[adapted from a story told by Ronald Harbaugh in his sermon, "The Faithful are all Saints"]
The little congregation grew, and an education building was erected next to the church so the people could teach their children, youth and adults the stories of Jesus. And the church continued to grow. Eventually, the little congregation outgrew their sanctuary. A building committee met to discuss their options. The decision seemed to be an easy one - the most logical thing to do would be to build a new sanctuary and attach it to the education building. There was plenty of land available for this purpose, and it would mean that people would no longer have to walk 100 yards in Pennsylvania winters to get from Sunday school to worship.
But the church was not so quick to embrace this sensible plan. And, in fact, after years of debate, the church members voted instead to undertake a limited expansion of their current sanctuary. This was not a logical choice, but the decision made sense to the church members who wanted to preserve their church’s unique identity of being completely surrounded by its cemetery.
This was not a morbid decision. It was an acknowledgment by the members that their present congregation not only rested on the witness of the saints in Scripture to the grace of God in Jesus the Christ, but also through the witness of all who had contributed their own witness to the faith in the life of their congregation.
You see, no one can enter the church building for worship without walking past the graves of those who served the congregation in the past. And on every Sunday morning, weather permitting, various people from the congregation can be seen standing before tombstones after the service, remembering those whom they have loved, and who have contributed to their own faith.
[adapted from a story told by Ronald Harbaugh in his sermon, "The Faithful are all Saints"]
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Pay it Forward
Have you ever wanted something to go so well, so perfectly, only to find that your plans have been frustrated, your high ideals have been dashed, and you’ve come to a place where you’re not even sure you’ll be able to extricate yourself from the mess you’ve made?
This was the situation that Dana James found himself in during his honeymoon journey twenty years ago. Dana and Patricia James were young, they were in love, and they had high expectations of what life had to offer them. Patricia was a student in law school. Dana worked for Northwest Airlines. They had very little money, but Dana was determined that he and Patricia would enjoy an unforgettable honeymoon.
Because he worked for an airlines, Dana was able to get very cheap first-class airline tickets and generous discounts at hotels. Although his personal finances were extremely restricted, he planned a five-star honeymoon trip to the far East for himself and Patricia. This would be a trip of a lifetime, and they would be able to travel on a shoestring! He and Patricia even figured they could conserve their money by skipping a few meals here and there and rely on enjoying the dining on-board the airplane. With very little money in their pockets, they set out with high expectations.
On their outbound flight, Dana and Patricia settled comfortably into their first-class seats for the lengthy journey. They noticed a diminutive Japanese gentleman seated near them. During the course of the flight, the gentleman came to their seats and struck up a conversation with them. He asked where they were going and they told him their itinerary. “Oh,” he said, “you are not traveling to Japan?” “We would like to very much,” Patricia replied. “My mother is in fact Japanese and my father is African-American. But we do not have enough money to travel to Japan.” “That is too bad,” the man said. He walked back to his seat and then returned with a binder filled with business cards. Dana reports that there were over two dozen business cards for different businesses naming Mr. George Ishiyama as CEO or Founder. The businesses were diverse: salt mining, construction, paper mills, etc. Dana and Patricia did not know whether to be impressed or concerned.
Mr. Ishiyama selected a card and wrote his phone number on the back. “If you are ever in Japan,” he said, “call me.” It was an offer of hospitality. But why? Why would a man strike up a conversation with two people he had never met and offer to show them hospitality they had not requested? Dana and Patricia did not know what to think. Looking back, Patricia says that she figured it was an easy offer to make, since the couple was not likely to take him up on it. The gesture was a grand one, but really, these were just empty words.
Dana and Patricia continued on their journey. Although they had very little money, they managed to enjoy themselves for several weeks in some memorable locations. Then, they found themselves with a layover in Tokyo. And their clever plan to see the world on a shoestring failed. Northwest Airlines was changing over to a new computer system. And on the day that change occurred, as Dana and Patricia were awaiting their next flight, their carefully planned itinerary was deleted from the system. They had no outbound flight. They were told that the problem could be remedied, but that they would have to wait three days. Between them, they had $130 U.S. dollars. A bowl of noodles in the airport cost $30. There was no way they could afford shelter and food for three days, and they weren’t certain that the airport would allow them to live in the terminal over the weekend.
When the truth of their situation hit home, Patricia, weary from traveling and fearful of their fate in this foreign country, sat amongst the luggage, put her head down and cried. Dana, the groom, kicked into survival mode and tried to find some way to salvage this honeymoon he thought he had so carefully planned. He paced the airport terminal, and as he did so, he put his hand in his pocket. There he found the card that Mr. Ishiyama had given him.
“Surely he didn’t mean anything to come of this,” he thought. “But I’m just that desperate.” He placed a call to the number he had been given. When a woman answered in Japanese at the other end of the line, Dana gave her his name. “Oh, yes, Mr. James,” she said. “Mr. Ishiyama has been expecting your call. I’ll put you through.” Dana was shocked. But when Mr. Ishiyama came on the line, Dana explained his situation.
“Do you have enough money for a taxi into town?” Mr. Ishiyama asked. Dana honestly had no idea how much that would cost, but he said he did. Mr. Ishiyama gave Dana the name of a hotel and asked him to meet him there. In truth, Dana and Patricia did not even have enough money for the taxi, but they were able to find a shuttle bus that delivered them to the door of the hotel. As they stepped off the bus, two employees of the hotel came forward to escort them and their luggage to a room. Dana gave them his credit card, but they waved it away. “Mr. Ishiyama will be here shortly,” they said. “Please, freshen up.”
What a bizarre situation! Here are two young people, stranded in Tokyo. It is the mid-eighties. There are no cell phones, no Internet - none of their friends or family know where they are. They barely have enough money left to buy one meal in this expensive town. And here they are “freshening up” in a five-star hotel as the guests of a man they don’t know and barely even met! When they got the call that Mr. Ishiyama was downstairs, they left their room. Both Dana and Patricia admit that they were frankly terrified. Raised in urban Chicago, Dana feared the worst. What had he gotten himself and his bride into? What did this man want from them? Nobody would give a stranger such elaborate accommodations. Nobody would be so gracious to two people he met on a plane! Surely, there must be an ulterior motive. Perhaps a very unpleasant one. In the elevator, Dana actually told Patricia that if things went south, he would attack Mr. Ishiyama. In that event, Patricia was to run, screaming loudly, and not look back.
They met Mr. Ishiyama in the restaurant. They were highly nervous, but they made pleasantries. Then Mr. Ishiyama told them his story. When I was a child, he said, my family lived in Los Angeles. I was 20 years old when my family, and all our neighbors, were sent to an internment camp in Wyoming after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. We were taken from our homes, our businesses, our comforts, and we were forced to put our lives on hold. It was a terrible time. The people in the town near our camp were not kind to us. Except one family. There was a young African-American couple who lived near the camp. He was a postal carrier. They treated us as neighbors and allowed our children to play with their children. They treated us as human.”
“I have never forgotten their kindness. When I saw you two on the plane, I was reminded of this couple. I cannot repay them for what they did for me and my family. But I can share this story with you. Mr. Ishiyama reached in his pocket and then took Dana’s hand. He put into his hand a huge was of Japanese yen. “Enjoy your honeymoon,” he said.
Patricia started to cry. Here they were, in a scary and uncertain position, and this man, who they did not even know, was giving them a solution to their problems. They had been desperate, but they had also been suspicious and fearful. But here was only love and kindness and generosity for a fellow traveler in need.
[Heard on "The Story" from American Public Media: http://thestory.org/archive/the_story_873_Unexpected_Honeymoon.mp3/view]
This was the situation that Dana James found himself in during his honeymoon journey twenty years ago. Dana and Patricia James were young, they were in love, and they had high expectations of what life had to offer them. Patricia was a student in law school. Dana worked for Northwest Airlines. They had very little money, but Dana was determined that he and Patricia would enjoy an unforgettable honeymoon.
Because he worked for an airlines, Dana was able to get very cheap first-class airline tickets and generous discounts at hotels. Although his personal finances were extremely restricted, he planned a five-star honeymoon trip to the far East for himself and Patricia. This would be a trip of a lifetime, and they would be able to travel on a shoestring! He and Patricia even figured they could conserve their money by skipping a few meals here and there and rely on enjoying the dining on-board the airplane. With very little money in their pockets, they set out with high expectations.
On their outbound flight, Dana and Patricia settled comfortably into their first-class seats for the lengthy journey. They noticed a diminutive Japanese gentleman seated near them. During the course of the flight, the gentleman came to their seats and struck up a conversation with them. He asked where they were going and they told him their itinerary. “Oh,” he said, “you are not traveling to Japan?” “We would like to very much,” Patricia replied. “My mother is in fact Japanese and my father is African-American. But we do not have enough money to travel to Japan.” “That is too bad,” the man said. He walked back to his seat and then returned with a binder filled with business cards. Dana reports that there were over two dozen business cards for different businesses naming Mr. George Ishiyama as CEO or Founder. The businesses were diverse: salt mining, construction, paper mills, etc. Dana and Patricia did not know whether to be impressed or concerned.
Mr. Ishiyama selected a card and wrote his phone number on the back. “If you are ever in Japan,” he said, “call me.” It was an offer of hospitality. But why? Why would a man strike up a conversation with two people he had never met and offer to show them hospitality they had not requested? Dana and Patricia did not know what to think. Looking back, Patricia says that she figured it was an easy offer to make, since the couple was not likely to take him up on it. The gesture was a grand one, but really, these were just empty words.
Dana and Patricia continued on their journey. Although they had very little money, they managed to enjoy themselves for several weeks in some memorable locations. Then, they found themselves with a layover in Tokyo. And their clever plan to see the world on a shoestring failed. Northwest Airlines was changing over to a new computer system. And on the day that change occurred, as Dana and Patricia were awaiting their next flight, their carefully planned itinerary was deleted from the system. They had no outbound flight. They were told that the problem could be remedied, but that they would have to wait three days. Between them, they had $130 U.S. dollars. A bowl of noodles in the airport cost $30. There was no way they could afford shelter and food for three days, and they weren’t certain that the airport would allow them to live in the terminal over the weekend.
When the truth of their situation hit home, Patricia, weary from traveling and fearful of their fate in this foreign country, sat amongst the luggage, put her head down and cried. Dana, the groom, kicked into survival mode and tried to find some way to salvage this honeymoon he thought he had so carefully planned. He paced the airport terminal, and as he did so, he put his hand in his pocket. There he found the card that Mr. Ishiyama had given him.
“Surely he didn’t mean anything to come of this,” he thought. “But I’m just that desperate.” He placed a call to the number he had been given. When a woman answered in Japanese at the other end of the line, Dana gave her his name. “Oh, yes, Mr. James,” she said. “Mr. Ishiyama has been expecting your call. I’ll put you through.” Dana was shocked. But when Mr. Ishiyama came on the line, Dana explained his situation.
“Do you have enough money for a taxi into town?” Mr. Ishiyama asked. Dana honestly had no idea how much that would cost, but he said he did. Mr. Ishiyama gave Dana the name of a hotel and asked him to meet him there. In truth, Dana and Patricia did not even have enough money for the taxi, but they were able to find a shuttle bus that delivered them to the door of the hotel. As they stepped off the bus, two employees of the hotel came forward to escort them and their luggage to a room. Dana gave them his credit card, but they waved it away. “Mr. Ishiyama will be here shortly,” they said. “Please, freshen up.”
What a bizarre situation! Here are two young people, stranded in Tokyo. It is the mid-eighties. There are no cell phones, no Internet - none of their friends or family know where they are. They barely have enough money left to buy one meal in this expensive town. And here they are “freshening up” in a five-star hotel as the guests of a man they don’t know and barely even met! When they got the call that Mr. Ishiyama was downstairs, they left their room. Both Dana and Patricia admit that they were frankly terrified. Raised in urban Chicago, Dana feared the worst. What had he gotten himself and his bride into? What did this man want from them? Nobody would give a stranger such elaborate accommodations. Nobody would be so gracious to two people he met on a plane! Surely, there must be an ulterior motive. Perhaps a very unpleasant one. In the elevator, Dana actually told Patricia that if things went south, he would attack Mr. Ishiyama. In that event, Patricia was to run, screaming loudly, and not look back.
They met Mr. Ishiyama in the restaurant. They were highly nervous, but they made pleasantries. Then Mr. Ishiyama told them his story. When I was a child, he said, my family lived in Los Angeles. I was 20 years old when my family, and all our neighbors, were sent to an internment camp in Wyoming after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. We were taken from our homes, our businesses, our comforts, and we were forced to put our lives on hold. It was a terrible time. The people in the town near our camp were not kind to us. Except one family. There was a young African-American couple who lived near the camp. He was a postal carrier. They treated us as neighbors and allowed our children to play with their children. They treated us as human.”
“I have never forgotten their kindness. When I saw you two on the plane, I was reminded of this couple. I cannot repay them for what they did for me and my family. But I can share this story with you. Mr. Ishiyama reached in his pocket and then took Dana’s hand. He put into his hand a huge was of Japanese yen. “Enjoy your honeymoon,” he said.
Patricia started to cry. Here they were, in a scary and uncertain position, and this man, who they did not even know, was giving them a solution to their problems. They had been desperate, but they had also been suspicious and fearful. But here was only love and kindness and generosity for a fellow traveler in need.
[Heard on "The Story" from American Public Media: http://thestory.org/archive/the_story_873_Unexpected_Honeymoon.mp3/view]
Friday, September 18, 2009
A Golf Joke
There were three people in heaven who decided one day to play a round of golf at the heavenly country club. The first man stepped up to the tee, hit his drive, and watched as it headed straight for the water hazard. Just as the ball was about to land in the water, he raised his club, pointed it out over the water, and the waters parted, allowing the ball to land on dry ground. He walked out between the two columns of water, and hit a perfect second shot, right in the middle of the green. One of his partners said, “Wow, good shot, Moses!” The second man walked up to the tee, hit his drive, and watched as it took a nearly identical flight path, straight toward the water. But when the ball hit, it landed and stayed right on top of the water. He walked out across the water and hit a second shot which was also identical, landing at the center of the green. Moses told him, “Hey, that’s a pretty good shot yourself, Jesus!” Then the third man came to the tee box, teed up and hit his drive. The drive took a nasty slice and went straight into the trees, caroming off in the wrong direction, heading for the out-of-bounds marker. Right at that moment, a squirrel who happened to be nearby saw the ball and thought it might be good to eat, so it grabbed the ball and started running towards the fairway. When the squirrel was about halfway across the fairway, suddenly an eagle swooped down out of nowhere and grabbed the squirrel in its claws, flying away with both squirrel and ball. Just as the eagle’s flight took it across the green, it lost its grip on the squirrel and dropped it. The squirrel landed flat on its belly, jarring the ball loose, which then took two bounces and landed squarely in the center of the cup. Moses cast a disgusted glance at Jesus and said, “That’s why I can’t STAND to play golf with your Dad.”
Not Quite Good Enough
There was once an optimistic farmer who couldn’t wait to greet each new day with a resounding, "Good morning, God!" He lived near a woman whose morning greeting was more like, "Good God... morning?" They were each a trial to the other. Where he saw opportunity, she saw problems. Where he was satisfied, she was discontented. One bright morning he exclaimed, "Look at the beautiful sky! Did you see that glorious sunrise?" "Yeah," she countered. "It’ll probably get so hot the crops will scorch!" During an afternoon shower, he commented, "Isn’t this wonderful? Mother Nature is giving the corn a drink today!” And if it doesn’t stop before too long," came the sour reply, "we’ll wish we’d taken out flood insurance on the crops!" Convinced that he could instill some awe and wonder in her hardened attitude, he bought a remarkable dog. It could perform remarkable and impossible feats, which, the farmer thought, would surely amaze even his neighbor. So he invited her to watch his dog perform.” Fetch!" he commanded, as he tossed a stick out into a lake. The dog bounded after the stick, walked on the water, and retrieved it. "What do you think of that?" he asked, smiling. "Not much of a dog" she frowned. "Can’t even swim, can he?"
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Actions Speak Louder Than Words
[This story was told by Rev. Grace Imathiu at the Christian Educators Fellowship Conference in New Orleans in October of 2002.]
Back in 1989, I was a student at Cambridge University in England. I was doing research on the beginnings of the Methodist Church in Kenya. And I was very curious because my Grandfather on my father’s side was among the very first Christians in my home area. And my father was so grateful for the missionaries who came all the way to Kenya that my father named all his children after the missionaries. Even my grandmother, Grace, chose to let go of her African name and take the name of Grace Alvaden (sp?), the first missionary from England to die in Nehru (sp?), my hometown. My brother Fred is named after Fred Valenda (sp?), another missionary. Oh, we loved these men and women who left their culture, their homelife, to bring us the Good News of Jesus Christ! And I was reading so much about them in 1989 - I went to the library in London where the Methodist Missionary Society keeps its papers, and I read the letters - handwritten! - by these figures who had become legends and myths and ancestors to my Christian faith.
And one letter in there was a letter from one of my Grandfather’s favorite mentors - a letter from my Grandfather’s spiritual mother and father. And in that letter, there was attached another letter from the missionary’s wife, and she was describing how one day she got homesick for the kind of food they have in England. And so she decided to cook for her husband some scones, that look like muffins. And she said that she was making the scones. And she got them ready. And she called her husband indoors. She went to the kitchen to get the tea, and she heard him say, “How wonderful - scones! And they have raisins in them!” Well, she dropped the kettle right there and then! She had not put any raisins in the scones! She rushed over, stopped him from putting them in his mouth, and they did the investigation. You would not believe, they found in the flour bin a dead mother rat and a small baby rat. And the raisins were not raisins, but - you know what! My goodness!
Now the story would have been funny if it had stopped there. But she went on to write and say, “I did not waste those scones. I gave them to my African boys. And they liked them very much, because I had put plenty of jam on them.”
And when I read that letter, I could not believe these words. And my whole world crashed right there. My entire trust in God crashed right there. How could anyone pack their suitcase and their Bible and travel all the way across the sea to innocent African people, who trust them with their very lives, who gave up their culture and their names....My faith found itself in such a slippery place. It fell, and shattered. And I promised I would not be a Christian, I would not be a Methodist, if this was what Methodism was about.
Back in 1989, I was a student at Cambridge University in England. I was doing research on the beginnings of the Methodist Church in Kenya. And I was very curious because my Grandfather on my father’s side was among the very first Christians in my home area. And my father was so grateful for the missionaries who came all the way to Kenya that my father named all his children after the missionaries. Even my grandmother, Grace, chose to let go of her African name and take the name of Grace Alvaden (sp?), the first missionary from England to die in Nehru (sp?), my hometown. My brother Fred is named after Fred Valenda (sp?), another missionary. Oh, we loved these men and women who left their culture, their homelife, to bring us the Good News of Jesus Christ! And I was reading so much about them in 1989 - I went to the library in London where the Methodist Missionary Society keeps its papers, and I read the letters - handwritten! - by these figures who had become legends and myths and ancestors to my Christian faith.
And one letter in there was a letter from one of my Grandfather’s favorite mentors - a letter from my Grandfather’s spiritual mother and father. And in that letter, there was attached another letter from the missionary’s wife, and she was describing how one day she got homesick for the kind of food they have in England. And so she decided to cook for her husband some scones, that look like muffins. And she said that she was making the scones. And she got them ready. And she called her husband indoors. She went to the kitchen to get the tea, and she heard him say, “How wonderful - scones! And they have raisins in them!” Well, she dropped the kettle right there and then! She had not put any raisins in the scones! She rushed over, stopped him from putting them in his mouth, and they did the investigation. You would not believe, they found in the flour bin a dead mother rat and a small baby rat. And the raisins were not raisins, but - you know what! My goodness!
Now the story would have been funny if it had stopped there. But she went on to write and say, “I did not waste those scones. I gave them to my African boys. And they liked them very much, because I had put plenty of jam on them.”
And when I read that letter, I could not believe these words. And my whole world crashed right there. My entire trust in God crashed right there. How could anyone pack their suitcase and their Bible and travel all the way across the sea to innocent African people, who trust them with their very lives, who gave up their culture and their names....My faith found itself in such a slippery place. It fell, and shattered. And I promised I would not be a Christian, I would not be a Methodist, if this was what Methodism was about.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Too Busy?
If you are a fisherman in the days of Jesus you are busy. You have to wake early, move your boat out into the water, sail out, throw nets, bring nets in, repeat as often as you can or need. Sail back to shore to get to market in time, get fish prepared, sell the fish. collect money, wash nets and upkeep your boat. Go to sleep in order to wake and repeat. Fishermen are busy people. They do not need another thing to do, and yet, the call of Jesus comes. Jesus is invasive and intrusive. "Follow me." The call does not take into consideration what you are doing or what your schedule is. The call does not matter if you are busy or not, the call comes regardless if you have caught enough food for the day. Jesus' call in our lives it not easy, comfortable or convenient.
[from Jason Valendy's Blog: Be the Change You Wish to See in the World.]
[from Jason Valendy's Blog: Be the Change You Wish to See in the World.]
Monday, July 20, 2009
Concerning Miracles
“It’s about Fern,” [Mrs. Arable] explained. “Fern spends entirely too much time in the Zuckermans’ barn. It doesn’t seem normal. She sits on a milk stool in a corner of the barn cellar, near the pigpen, and watches animals, hour after hour. She just sits and listens.” Dr. Dorian leaned back and closed his eyes. “How enchanting!” he said. “It must be real nice and quiet down there. Homer has some sheep, hasn’t he?” “Yes,” said Mrs. Arable. “But it all started with that pig we let Fern raise on a bottle. She calls him Wilbur. Homer bought the pig, and ever since it left our place, Fern has been going to her uncle’s to be near it.”
“I’ve been hearing things about that pig,” said Dr. Dorian, opening his eyes. “They say he’s quite a pig.” “Have you heard about the words that appeared in the spider’s web?” asked Mrs. Arable nervously. “Yes,” replied the doctor. “Well, do you understand it?” asked Mrs. Arable. “Understand what?” "Do you understand how there could be any writing in a spider's web?" Oh, no," said Dr. Dorian. "I don't understand it. But for that matter I don't understand how a spider learned to spin a web in the first place. When the words appeared, everyone said they were a miracle. But nobody pointed out that the web itself is a miracle." “What’s miraculous about a spider’s web?” said Mrs. Arable. “I don’t see why you say a web is a miracle – it’s just a web.” “Ever try to spin one?” asked Dr. Dorian. Mrs. Arable shifted uneasily in her chair. “No,” she replied. “But I can crochet a doily and a can knit a sock.” “Sure,” said the doctor. “But somebody taught you, didn’t they?” “My mother taught me.” “Well, you taught a spider? A young spider knows how to spin a web without any instructions from anybody. Don’t you regard that as a miracle?” “I suppose so,” said Mrs. Arable. Still, I don’t understand how those words got into the web. I don’t understand it, and I don’t like what I can’t understand.”
“None of us do," said Dr. Dorian, sighing. "I'm a doctor. Doctors are supposed to understand everything. But I don't understand everything, and I don't intend to let it worry me.”
[an excerpt from Charlotte's Web by E.B. White]
“I’ve been hearing things about that pig,” said Dr. Dorian, opening his eyes. “They say he’s quite a pig.” “Have you heard about the words that appeared in the spider’s web?” asked Mrs. Arable nervously. “Yes,” replied the doctor. “Well, do you understand it?” asked Mrs. Arable. “Understand what?” "Do you understand how there could be any writing in a spider's web?" Oh, no," said Dr. Dorian. "I don't understand it. But for that matter I don't understand how a spider learned to spin a web in the first place. When the words appeared, everyone said they were a miracle. But nobody pointed out that the web itself is a miracle." “What’s miraculous about a spider’s web?” said Mrs. Arable. “I don’t see why you say a web is a miracle – it’s just a web.” “Ever try to spin one?” asked Dr. Dorian. Mrs. Arable shifted uneasily in her chair. “No,” she replied. “But I can crochet a doily and a can knit a sock.” “Sure,” said the doctor. “But somebody taught you, didn’t they?” “My mother taught me.” “Well, you taught a spider? A young spider knows how to spin a web without any instructions from anybody. Don’t you regard that as a miracle?” “I suppose so,” said Mrs. Arable. Still, I don’t understand how those words got into the web. I don’t understand it, and I don’t like what I can’t understand.”
“None of us do," said Dr. Dorian, sighing. "I'm a doctor. Doctors are supposed to understand everything. But I don't understand everything, and I don't intend to let it worry me.”
[an excerpt from Charlotte's Web by E.B. White]
Saturday, July 18, 2009
God At Work
In Baja, the Mexican peninsula just off the southern tip of California, strange things are happening with whales.
Ever since first known by humans, whales have occupied a vast landscape in our mythology, culture, and practical life. Researchers have discovered that whales' brains, like human brains, hold large concentrations of what are called "spindle cells." These cells in human brains are known as the cells that make us human. They play a role in higher intelligences like self-awareness, sense of compassion, and language expression. Whales, however, evolved these cells 15 million years before human beings did.
There is just something about whales; we've revered them, been in awe of them, sensed a deep mystery in their astonishing intelligence, and slaughtered them nearly to the point of extinction. Over the centuries whales learned that human beings couldn't to be trusted. They became
fiercely protective of their young in our presence; have learned to avoid places where humans are found; and fight back powerfully when threatened.
But off the coast of Baja California, grey whales are now swimming up to boats, traveling along side these boats for miles on end, inviting people to lean over and scratch them, and literally introducing their young offspring to awestruck onlookers. Hundred-ton whales dawdle beside these boats and actively seek eye contact with anyone who dares to look them directly in the
eye. The increase in this behavior relates directly to the general end of commercial whaling. People who witness these interactions - who have looked into the enormous, soul-filled eyes of a grey whale - come away from such contacts, as they report, changed forever.
I have a number of wildlife biologist friends. Folks like this who study wildlife strongly resist the human tendency to "anthropomorphize" wild animals. They say that comparing wild animal behavior and consciousness to that of human beings, is a big mistake. Yet Toni Frohoff, a wildlife biologist and an expert on whales, says after studying these astonishing interactions, "I'd put my professional career on the line and... say that these whales are... actively seeking and engaging in a form of communication." She asserts, as a trained scientist, that whales clearly
show evidence of emotions like joy, anger, frustration, and distress, as well as the ability to be self-aware, use tools, and form complex friendships and protective alliances. In her careful, scientific way of speaking, she offers the view that this new behavior on the part of these
whales is - get ready for this - an act of forgiveness.
Forgiveness: this is God at work. A scientist might not put it that way, but I have no difficulty in believing that this is so. This is how vast, and awesome, and united God's house is. We cannot build a house big enough or grand enough to contain this kind of wonder. This is God saying, "Not only are all people my children; all of my creatures are my children. And if you don't believe me, get on a boat and float out into a lagoon in Baja; look one of my grey whale children right in the eye. Experience that whale coming into a new understanding of who you are; that you are, as she is, a child with whom I am well pleased."
[from a sermon by Alan Parker, Pastor of the United Church of Craftsbury (UCC); posted on PRCL-L@LISTSERV.LOUISVILLE.EDU #2009-567]
Ever since first known by humans, whales have occupied a vast landscape in our mythology, culture, and practical life. Researchers have discovered that whales' brains, like human brains, hold large concentrations of what are called "spindle cells." These cells in human brains are known as the cells that make us human. They play a role in higher intelligences like self-awareness, sense of compassion, and language expression. Whales, however, evolved these cells 15 million years before human beings did.
There is just something about whales; we've revered them, been in awe of them, sensed a deep mystery in their astonishing intelligence, and slaughtered them nearly to the point of extinction. Over the centuries whales learned that human beings couldn't to be trusted. They became
fiercely protective of their young in our presence; have learned to avoid places where humans are found; and fight back powerfully when threatened.
But off the coast of Baja California, grey whales are now swimming up to boats, traveling along side these boats for miles on end, inviting people to lean over and scratch them, and literally introducing their young offspring to awestruck onlookers. Hundred-ton whales dawdle beside these boats and actively seek eye contact with anyone who dares to look them directly in the
eye. The increase in this behavior relates directly to the general end of commercial whaling. People who witness these interactions - who have looked into the enormous, soul-filled eyes of a grey whale - come away from such contacts, as they report, changed forever.
I have a number of wildlife biologist friends. Folks like this who study wildlife strongly resist the human tendency to "anthropomorphize" wild animals. They say that comparing wild animal behavior and consciousness to that of human beings, is a big mistake. Yet Toni Frohoff, a wildlife biologist and an expert on whales, says after studying these astonishing interactions, "I'd put my professional career on the line and... say that these whales are... actively seeking and engaging in a form of communication." She asserts, as a trained scientist, that whales clearly
show evidence of emotions like joy, anger, frustration, and distress, as well as the ability to be self-aware, use tools, and form complex friendships and protective alliances. In her careful, scientific way of speaking, she offers the view that this new behavior on the part of these
whales is - get ready for this - an act of forgiveness.
Forgiveness: this is God at work. A scientist might not put it that way, but I have no difficulty in believing that this is so. This is how vast, and awesome, and united God's house is. We cannot build a house big enough or grand enough to contain this kind of wonder. This is God saying, "Not only are all people my children; all of my creatures are my children. And if you don't believe me, get on a boat and float out into a lagoon in Baja; look one of my grey whale children right in the eye. Experience that whale coming into a new understanding of who you are; that you are, as she is, a child with whom I am well pleased."
[from a sermon by Alan Parker, Pastor of the United Church of Craftsbury (UCC); posted on PRCL-L@LISTSERV.LOUISVILLE.EDU #2009-567]
Thursday, July 16, 2009
There's More Than One Way to Skin a Cat!
In Evanston, Illinois, there were a growing number of homeless people. A Baptist church in a wealthy suburb of Chicago decided to open its doors as a shelter and some Evanston church leaders were considering doing the same.
When the Evanston city council heard about this, it moved to pass a new zoning ordinance forbidding the use of churches as shelters for the homeless. The organizer of one shelter project had no complaint. Rather than opening up a shelter for the homeless, they decided to host an all-night prayer vigil to which all were welcome. Participants in the prayer vigil received pillows and blankets along with bulletins and hymnals.
[from Aha!!! July-September 1999, vol. 8, #4 by Denise Griebler]
When the Evanston city council heard about this, it moved to pass a new zoning ordinance forbidding the use of churches as shelters for the homeless. The organizer of one shelter project had no complaint. Rather than opening up a shelter for the homeless, they decided to host an all-night prayer vigil to which all were welcome. Participants in the prayer vigil received pillows and blankets along with bulletins and hymnals.
[from Aha!!! July-September 1999, vol. 8, #4 by Denise Griebler]
The People Who Could Fly
There is a story that I am told has been passed from mouth to ear somewhere along the palmetto dunes of South Carolina, a story passed down from West Africa to the North Atlantic. It is the story, a unique story, of the people who could fly. Depending upon whom you’re talking to, it is a little bit different, depending upon who is telling the tale.
The story takes place in St. Johns Island, just off the coast of South Carolina, as Africans who had been mislabeled slaves are toiling in the hot sun. They are working so very hard to pick cotton. There is one young woman and beside her is her small boy, maybe six or seven. She’s working in the fields and she has such incredible dexterity that she is able to pick cotton with her right hand and caress the forehead of her child with the left. But eventually, exhausted by working so hard in the fields, she falls down from the weight and the pressure of being—in the words of Dubois—“problem and property.” Her boy attempts to wake her very quickly, knowing that if the slave drivers were to see her the punishment would be swift and hard.
He tries to shake his mother, and as he’s trying to shake her, an old man comes over to him. An old man that the Africans called Preacher and Prophet, but the slave drivers called Old Devil. He looks up at the old man and says, “Is it time? Is it time?”
The old man smiles and looks at the boy and says, “Yes!” And he bends down ands whispers into the ear of the woman who was now upon the ground and says these words: “Cooleebah! Cooleebah!”
At that moment the woman gets up with such incredible dignity. She stands as a queen and looks down at her son, grasps his hand and begins to look toward heaven. All of a sudden they begin to fly. The slave drivers rush over to this area where she has stopped work and they see this act of human flight and are completely confused. They do not know what to do! And during their confusion, the old man rushes around to all the other Africans and begins to tell them, “Cooleebah! Cooleebah!”
When they hear the word, they all begin to fly. Can you imagine? The dispossessed flying? Can you imagine the disempowered flying? Three fifths of a person flying? The diseased flying? The dislocated flying? They are all taking flight! And at that moment the slave drivers grab the old man and say, “Bring them back!”
They beat him, and with blood coming down his cheek, he just smiles at them. They say to him, “Please bring them back!”
And he says, “I can’t.”
They say, “Why not?”
He said, “Because the word is already in them and since the word is already in them, it cannot be taken from them.”
The old man had a word from West Africa, cooleebah, a word that means God. It had been placed into the heart of these displaced Africans and now they had dignity and they were flying.
Ah, is it not the job of the church and the preacher? No, we are not called to make people shout. No, we are not called to make people dance. No, we are not called to have our bank accounts fly. No, we are called to make sure that the people of God fly! Fly from breakdown to break through. Fly from hurt to healing. Fly from heartache to being mended to a whole person. We are called as a people to ensure that those who have been marginalized have a word in their spirit that allows them to fly. And the question is: are we a part of a church, are we a part of a ministry that causes people to fly?
[from the sermon, "The People Who Could Fly" by Otis Moss III
Dying Church - Living God
Sometime in the early 1970s, the president of AT&T called all his managers
into a large room for an emergency meeting. Attendance was mandatory.
Speculation ran high as to what announcement would be made. Perhaps a
breakthrough in technology. Perhaps a downsizing. Perhaps ...... They could
tell by the grim look on his face that something extremely serious was about
to be revealed. When all were seated, the president went to the podium and
said, "The telephone as you know it no longer exists." Muffled giggles
rippled through the room. What game was this? They all knew he was wrong.
They had used phones that morning. He continued: "Anyone who does not
believe that state-ment can leave this room right now and pick up your final
paycheck on the way out of the building." Sober silence prevailed. No one
left. They all just stared. "Your job today is to invent one."
He broke the group up into small teams and they spent the rest of the time
coming up with a new phone. Some people wanted one with no cord...... in the
car, or to carry around.... to know when another call was coming in.......to
be able to forward calls to another number, to see the person on the other
end, to send other kinds of messages on it. About 60 items that
distinguished the telephone they invented. Many are now the features that we
take for granted, from call-waiting to individual digital phones, and the
list has not yet completed.
In the same manner, at the beginning of the third mil-lennium, we come to
church one morning for the Sunday service and, much to our shocked dismay,
we find a vacant lot with a little note tacked on a piece of tattered
plaster out front. It is written in Hebrew and it is the same note left on
every vacant lot of every former church building in the world, from
cathedral to clapboard. Translated, it says, "The church you have always
known no longer exists; it is gone - walls, pews, altar, and assumptions."
The tomb is empty. "How can this be?" we ask in abject puzzlement. In the
background, we hear God's laughter saying, "Given the world the way it is,
given the devastating problems and the incredible possibilities opening up
for the first time in history, given what you now know to be true in the
world, the real question is, 'How can it NOT be?' " Then God looks us right
in the eye and says, "Make a new one."
[from: Dying Church - Living God, by Chuck Meyers pg. 37-39]
into a large room for an emergency meeting. Attendance was mandatory.
Speculation ran high as to what announcement would be made. Perhaps a
breakthrough in technology. Perhaps a downsizing. Perhaps ...... They could
tell by the grim look on his face that something extremely serious was about
to be revealed. When all were seated, the president went to the podium and
said, "The telephone as you know it no longer exists." Muffled giggles
rippled through the room. What game was this? They all knew he was wrong.
They had used phones that morning. He continued: "Anyone who does not
believe that state-ment can leave this room right now and pick up your final
paycheck on the way out of the building." Sober silence prevailed. No one
left. They all just stared. "Your job today is to invent one."
He broke the group up into small teams and they spent the rest of the time
coming up with a new phone. Some people wanted one with no cord...... in the
car, or to carry around.... to know when another call was coming in.......to
be able to forward calls to another number, to see the person on the other
end, to send other kinds of messages on it. About 60 items that
distinguished the telephone they invented. Many are now the features that we
take for granted, from call-waiting to individual digital phones, and the
list has not yet completed.
In the same manner, at the beginning of the third mil-lennium, we come to
church one morning for the Sunday service and, much to our shocked dismay,
we find a vacant lot with a little note tacked on a piece of tattered
plaster out front. It is written in Hebrew and it is the same note left on
every vacant lot of every former church building in the world, from
cathedral to clapboard. Translated, it says, "The church you have always
known no longer exists; it is gone - walls, pews, altar, and assumptions."
The tomb is empty. "How can this be?" we ask in abject puzzlement. In the
background, we hear God's laughter saying, "Given the world the way it is,
given the devastating problems and the incredible possibilities opening up
for the first time in history, given what you now know to be true in the
world, the real question is, 'How can it NOT be?' " Then God looks us right
in the eye and says, "Make a new one."
[from: Dying Church - Living God, by Chuck Meyers pg. 37-39]
The Problem of the Homeless
In New York City, there stood a beautiful apartment building. The tenants were understandably proud of their building: they all had fabulous views of the city, the lobby was always impeccable, and their doormen kept the front sidewalk in pristine condition. The tenants lived there very happily for many years. And then one day, the building next door began an extensive renovation project. The scaffolding that was installed proved to be a wonderful shelter from the elements. Soon, the tenants noticed that every night around six o’clock, a group of about twenty people gathered to build sleeping quarters under the scaffolding out of cardboard boxes. In the morning, apartment maintenance men would remove the boxes and the trash and hose down the sidewalk. the homeless people then dispersed until 6 o’clock the next evening.
Soon, co-op meetings were being held to discuss “the problem of the homeless.” “the homeless are dirty!” one tenant cried. “They get drunk and throw up on the sidewalk!” “They’re bums!” said another - “One even asked me for money the other day!” “They could be deranged,” said a young couple. The consensus was quickly reached: the homeless were dangerous.
A woman named Mary Ann stood up to speak. “I’ve watched these homeless,” she said. “I’ve seen outreach counselors from the homeless coalition speaking with them about other options, but I notice it’s the same people who return night after night. They choose to remain here. Perhaps we should realize that they are our neighbors now. They seem to be a pretty quiet group, and I haven’t seen any signs of violence among them.”
An awkward silence followed. Then the discussion began again: “I’ll speak to the building manager,” one woman said. “Perhaps if we stopped cleaning up after them, they’d leave.” “I think we should call the police,” said another man. “We could tell them that the homeless have been threatening us. Maybe they can force them to move.” “Where would they go?” said Mary Ann. “To someone else’s street!” several voices replied.
The meeting ended. But several days later, Mary Ann overheard a conversation in the lobby. “We need to talk to Mary Ann again about the homeless,” a woman said. “I think she’s feeding them.”
[from Spiritual Literacy by Frederic and Mary Ann Brussat]
Soon, co-op meetings were being held to discuss “the problem of the homeless.” “the homeless are dirty!” one tenant cried. “They get drunk and throw up on the sidewalk!” “They’re bums!” said another - “One even asked me for money the other day!” “They could be deranged,” said a young couple. The consensus was quickly reached: the homeless were dangerous.
A woman named Mary Ann stood up to speak. “I’ve watched these homeless,” she said. “I’ve seen outreach counselors from the homeless coalition speaking with them about other options, but I notice it’s the same people who return night after night. They choose to remain here. Perhaps we should realize that they are our neighbors now. They seem to be a pretty quiet group, and I haven’t seen any signs of violence among them.”
An awkward silence followed. Then the discussion began again: “I’ll speak to the building manager,” one woman said. “Perhaps if we stopped cleaning up after them, they’d leave.” “I think we should call the police,” said another man. “We could tell them that the homeless have been threatening us. Maybe they can force them to move.” “Where would they go?” said Mary Ann. “To someone else’s street!” several voices replied.
The meeting ended. But several days later, Mary Ann overheard a conversation in the lobby. “We need to talk to Mary Ann again about the homeless,” a woman said. “I think she’s feeding them.”
[from Spiritual Literacy by Frederic and Mary Ann Brussat]
Feed Your Wolf
There is a story about some people who lived in a beautiful village in Italy in the 13th century. They were understandably proud of their little village, as it was quite an idyllic place to live. But one night a shadow came out of the nearby woods. The shadow prowled the streets. In the morning, a local farmer found that many chickens from his farm had been killed or taken away. The next night, the same thing happened - the time another farmer was the victim. This happened again and again. Finally, an old woman said that she had seen a wolf on the streets at night. The terrified people decided to ask a holy man who had a reputation for being able to talk to animals for help. They sent a delegation to get St. Francis.
They had very specific ideas on what St. Francis should tell the wolf. First, he should prech to the wolf and remind him to obey the commandment about stealing and to follow Christ’s commandment about loving God and neighbors. And then, just in case, since a wolf is, after all, a wolf, he should tell the wolf to move to someone else’s village.
Francis went into the forest to meet the strange shadow, addressing it as “Brother Wolf.” Then he returned to the town square. “My good people,” he said, “the answer is very simple. You must feed our wolf.” The people were furious, especially with the suggestion that this uninvited beast in their midst was somehow to be regarded as “their wolf.” But they did feed it, and the killing stopped.
They had very specific ideas on what St. Francis should tell the wolf. First, he should prech to the wolf and remind him to obey the commandment about stealing and to follow Christ’s commandment about loving God and neighbors. And then, just in case, since a wolf is, after all, a wolf, he should tell the wolf to move to someone else’s village.
Francis went into the forest to meet the strange shadow, addressing it as “Brother Wolf.” Then he returned to the town square. “My good people,” he said, “the answer is very simple. You must feed our wolf.” The people were furious, especially with the suggestion that this uninvited beast in their midst was somehow to be regarded as “their wolf.” But they did feed it, and the killing stopped.
The Myth of Scarcity - Illustrated by Jake the Dog
I have begun to suspect that the anxiety of our age may even extend to pets.
One night Jake had been impossible in his demands for attention. He must have been feeling insecure about all the other dogs parading by our house, because he would bark at them and then insist on having our undivided attention. He would put his forelegs on my lap and stare meaningfully into my eyes, so that I could see only Jake. His unique breath filled my nostrils so that I could only think of Jake.
Almost as a form of bribery we gave him a rawhide bone to chew on. Our hope was that his attention would be fixed on the bone and he would leave us alone. For a few minutes that was the case. But after awhile Jake pacing around the room. Debbie and I were fascinated. At one point he placed the bone behind a pillow on the love seat. Moments later he picked the bone up and continued wandering around the house.
Eventually we realized that Jake was trying to find a place to safely store the bone. And he was becoming more agitated as his search continued. Nowhere in the house was suitable. He began to whine as he carried the bone from room to room. And his pacing and whining were worse than his meaningful stares.
Finally Debbie took the bone away from him and stored it in the cupboard. And that seemed to satisfy Jake, who by now was exhausted.
Jake illustrates the power of the myth of scarcity by becoming more anxious when he is given a bone. Now he has to find a place to hide and protect that bone in case a marauding dog should enter our house and look behind the pillow on the love seat and take Jake's bone. Or the myth convinces Jake that he will never again receive a bone from us and therefore this one must be protected at all costs even to the point of giving up the joy of chewing the bone.
Scholar and theologian Walter Brueggemann in an essay entitled "The Truth of Abundance" argues that because the basis of the myth of scarcity is anxiety, not economic analysis, the best way to combat it is with a different view of reality: one he calls a lyric of abundance. The lyric of abundance begins with reflecting on the nature of the God we worship.
[from a sermon by Phil Peterson - Where Your Treasure Is (The Lyric of Abundance)]
One night Jake had been impossible in his demands for attention. He must have been feeling insecure about all the other dogs parading by our house, because he would bark at them and then insist on having our undivided attention. He would put his forelegs on my lap and stare meaningfully into my eyes, so that I could see only Jake. His unique breath filled my nostrils so that I could only think of Jake.
Almost as a form of bribery we gave him a rawhide bone to chew on. Our hope was that his attention would be fixed on the bone and he would leave us alone. For a few minutes that was the case. But after awhile Jake pacing around the room. Debbie and I were fascinated. At one point he placed the bone behind a pillow on the love seat. Moments later he picked the bone up and continued wandering around the house.
Eventually we realized that Jake was trying to find a place to safely store the bone. And he was becoming more agitated as his search continued. Nowhere in the house was suitable. He began to whine as he carried the bone from room to room. And his pacing and whining were worse than his meaningful stares.
Finally Debbie took the bone away from him and stored it in the cupboard. And that seemed to satisfy Jake, who by now was exhausted.
Jake illustrates the power of the myth of scarcity by becoming more anxious when he is given a bone. Now he has to find a place to hide and protect that bone in case a marauding dog should enter our house and look behind the pillow on the love seat and take Jake's bone. Or the myth convinces Jake that he will never again receive a bone from us and therefore this one must be protected at all costs even to the point of giving up the joy of chewing the bone.
Scholar and theologian Walter Brueggemann in an essay entitled "The Truth of Abundance" argues that because the basis of the myth of scarcity is anxiety, not economic analysis, the best way to combat it is with a different view of reality: one he calls a lyric of abundance. The lyric of abundance begins with reflecting on the nature of the God we worship.
[from a sermon by Phil Peterson - Where Your Treasure Is (The Lyric of Abundance)]
Thursday, June 25, 2009
The King's Loaves
A Jewish folktale entitled "The King's Loaves" tells about two beggars who went daily to the palace to beg at the king's gate for bread.
Every day the king gave each of them a loaf of bread. One of the beggars always thanked the king for his generosity, but the other thanked God for giving the king sufficient wealth to give charitably.
The second beggar's words always hurt the king. So the king decided to teach him a lesson. The king ordered his baker to bake two identical loaves, but one concealed precious jewels. Then he instructed the baker to give the loaf with the hidden jewels to the beggar who always thanked the king for his charity.
The next day the baker went to the king's gate and handed the two loaves to the beggars. He took great care not to confuse the two, for he feared the king's wrath. When the beggar with the special loaf felt how heavy and hard it was, he concluded that it was poorly made and asked the other beggar to exchange loaves with him.
The second beggar, always eager to help a friend, agreed. Then they went their separate ways. When the second man bit into the loaf, he discovered that it was filled with jewels. He thanked God for his good fortune, grateful that he would no longer have to beg for his bread.
The next morning the king was surprised to find only the first beggar at the palace gate. He had the baker brought before him and asked him, "Did you mix up the two loaves I had you bake?"
"No, your majesty," answered the baker. "I did exactly as you asked." Then the king turned to the beggar and asked, "What did you do with the loaf you received yesterday?" The man replied, "It was hard and poorly baked, so I gave it to my friend in exchange for his."
Then the king understood that all his riches had indeed come from God, and that only the Holy One can make a poor man rich or a rich man poor.
God is the giver of all bread and all possessions.
Bread is not merely food; it is also a metaphor for all that God has given us. In the fourth petition of the Lord's Prayer, we ask that God "give us this day our daily bread." In this petition, we are not simply asking God for a loaf of bread, but we are acknowledging that it is indeed God who gives us all that we need to survive: breathe, life, food, shelter, all our possessions, health, our family and friends. Everything.
We are bread for one another when we welcome a stranger and when we walk with someone through an illness. We are bread for one another when we love those who are most difficult to love and when we defend the defenseless. We are bread for one another when we teach and when we forgive. And finally, we are bread for one another when we share the bread we have been given.
["The King's Loaves," an Afghanistani folktale from The Classic Tales: 4000 Years of Jewish Lore, Ellen Frankel, ed., New Jersey: Jason Aronson, Inc., 1989. Quoted in the sermon "We are Bread When" by Rev. Beth Warpmaeker, 2000.]
Every day the king gave each of them a loaf of bread. One of the beggars always thanked the king for his generosity, but the other thanked God for giving the king sufficient wealth to give charitably.
The second beggar's words always hurt the king. So the king decided to teach him a lesson. The king ordered his baker to bake two identical loaves, but one concealed precious jewels. Then he instructed the baker to give the loaf with the hidden jewels to the beggar who always thanked the king for his charity.
The next day the baker went to the king's gate and handed the two loaves to the beggars. He took great care not to confuse the two, for he feared the king's wrath. When the beggar with the special loaf felt how heavy and hard it was, he concluded that it was poorly made and asked the other beggar to exchange loaves with him.
The second beggar, always eager to help a friend, agreed. Then they went their separate ways. When the second man bit into the loaf, he discovered that it was filled with jewels. He thanked God for his good fortune, grateful that he would no longer have to beg for his bread.
The next morning the king was surprised to find only the first beggar at the palace gate. He had the baker brought before him and asked him, "Did you mix up the two loaves I had you bake?"
"No, your majesty," answered the baker. "I did exactly as you asked." Then the king turned to the beggar and asked, "What did you do with the loaf you received yesterday?" The man replied, "It was hard and poorly baked, so I gave it to my friend in exchange for his."
Then the king understood that all his riches had indeed come from God, and that only the Holy One can make a poor man rich or a rich man poor.
God is the giver of all bread and all possessions.
Bread is not merely food; it is also a metaphor for all that God has given us. In the fourth petition of the Lord's Prayer, we ask that God "give us this day our daily bread." In this petition, we are not simply asking God for a loaf of bread, but we are acknowledging that it is indeed God who gives us all that we need to survive: breathe, life, food, shelter, all our possessions, health, our family and friends. Everything.
We are bread for one another when we welcome a stranger and when we walk with someone through an illness. We are bread for one another when we love those who are most difficult to love and when we defend the defenseless. We are bread for one another when we teach and when we forgive. And finally, we are bread for one another when we share the bread we have been given.
["The King's Loaves," an Afghanistani folktale from The Classic Tales: 4000 Years of Jewish Lore, Ellen Frankel, ed., New Jersey: Jason Aronson, Inc., 1989. Quoted in the sermon "We are Bread When" by Rev. Beth Warpmaeker, 2000.]
Rest and Renewal
In the deep jungles of Africa, a traveler was making a long trek. Laborers were engaged from a tribe to carry the loads. The first day of the trip the tribesmen marched rapidly and went far. The traveler had high hopes of a speedy journey. But the second morning these jungle tribesmen refused to move. For some strange reason they just sat and rested. On inquiry as to the reason for this strange behavior, the traveler was informed that they had gone too fast the first day, and that they were now waiting for their souls to catch up with their bodies.
[posted by Dr. Renita J. Weems in her blog, SomethingWithin.com. "Rest is a Radical Notion," posted 6/23/09)
[posted by Dr. Renita J. Weems in her blog, SomethingWithin.com. "Rest is a Radical Notion," posted 6/23/09)
One and a Half Followers
The story, as told by Megan McKenna in her book, Parables, is from the Sufi tradition of the Muslims and it involves a Muslim caliph. It should be noted that a “caliph” is like a Jewish rabbi or teacher. It should also be noted that in Islamic law, when people are counted, men are counted as one and women are counted as a half. The name of this story is “One and a Half Followers.”
Once upon a time a man became the head of the Ottoman Empire, the sultan of the desert, rich and powerful in his vast domain. As he grew in power many of his advisers began to warn him about this caliph who had hundreds of thousands of followers. They spoke of the danger to the sultan: that if the caliph sided with his enemies he could overthrow the sultan and rule in his stead, or he could organize his own followers and revolt. But the sultan ignored them and went about the business of running his kingdom.
Years passed and there were uprisings and coup attempts and tries at assassination and the name of this one caliph kept coming up. Finally the sultan decided to act on these accusations, and he summoned the man from the desert. He met him alone, at the edge of the desert. And the caliph came on his great steed, dismounted and knelt with his head on the ground. He then arose and said the ancient oath of loyalty: “You, sir, are my master. Whatever power I have in the desert, you shared yours with me. Whatever knowledge and wisdom I have in the desert, you taught me. I will gladly give my life that my master may live.” He said this with his hand over his heart, solemnly and before Allah.
The sultan embraced him and looked at him with delight and exclaimed: “I’ve wondered how you are, my friend! Do you know that my advisers are always warning me about you, the man with the hundreds of thousands of disciples? They do not know that you were once my disciple and still are, and so all of your disciples are mine.” They talked of the good old days in the desert and the times of closeness and struggle.
Toward the end of the day the sultan asked him: “Just between you and me, how many followers do you have?” The caliph pondered the question and finally said, “One and a half.” The sultan reacted angrily and said, “Who do you think I am? Why would my advisers warn me about someone with one and a half followers? Well we’ll find out just how many you do have.”
The sultan ordered his soldiers to arrest the caliph, and threw him into a dungeon. He sent a message throughout the desert saying that their master, the caliph, had fallen from grace with the sultan, and that if they didn’t all show up on a certain day he would be beheaded. Unbeknown to anyone else, he had a tent set up on the edge of the desert and had thirty sheep put into it and a dozen of his best soldiers. And he waited for the day to come.
The caliph was dragged from his underground prison, and he and the sultan waited at the edge of the desert, the caliph in chains beside his old master. And they came by the thousands before dawn, on camel, horseback, ass and donkey and on foot until as far as the eye could see there were men, women and children. The sultan turned to the caliph and sneered: “One and a half followers. Who then are all these people?” The caliph said nothing. Then in the silence as the sun rose, the sultan stepped forward and spoke loudly. “This man, your master, has fallen from grace. If ten of you are willing to give your life so that your master might live, then step forward. Otherwise, I will behead him now.” And he drew his sword.
There was a terrible silence. People started sweating and finally one man stepped forward and put his hand on his heart and said the ancient oath: “Sultan, this man is my master. Whatever power I have in the desert, he shared his with me, and whatever knowledge and wisdom I have in the desert he taught me. I will gladly give my life so that my master might live.” The sultan snapped his fingers and the soldiers marched him up to the tent, took him inside, and dropped the flaps. They slit the throat of three sheep and the blood began to seep down through the sand.
There was a murmur in the crowd and some started slipping back into the desert. Not a lot, but enough so that you’d notice. The silence and the heat stretched. Finally the sultan spoke again. “That’s only one. I need nine more, or your caliph dies.” Again the silence deepened, and the tension became terrible. Finally, a woman stepped forward, and even the sultan groaned outwardly. She put her hand over her heart and spoke the oath: “Sir, this man is my master. Whatever power I have in the desert, this man shared his with me. Whatever knowledge and wisdom I have in the desert, this man taught me. I will gladly give my life so that my master might live.”
The sultan snapped his fingers again, the soldiers marched her up to the tent and took her inside. They slit the throats of three more sheep, and the blood started to gush down on the sands. And the crowd panicked and all bedlam broke loose. They ran back into the desert the way they had come. By sundown no one was left as far as the eye could see, only the sultan and the caliph in chains.
The sultan bent and set his friend free. He lifted him up, apologized and said: “I’m sorry. You were right. You only have one and a half disciples. How terrible you must feel! All this time and work and that’s all you have.” The caliph stood and looked at his old master and said: “Sultan, I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that the man is my one follower and the woman is the half.” “Of course,” the sultan replied. “Well, you’re wrong,” the caliph said. “The woman is my one follower and the man - he is arrogant and naive, but he has possibilities. He’s my half.”
The sultan sputtered and said: “But the law...” and he couldn’t finish. The caliph said: “Sultan, discipleship has nothing to do with the law; it has to do with love and devotion. Let me explain. When the man stepped forward he didn’t believe he was going to die. He thinks everything is a test. He has a lot to learn. But when the woman stepped forward, she knew she was going to die. She is my one follower.” And the sultan was quiet.
The story begs the question: “Which one are you? Are you the man who is arrogant and naive and thinks everything is a test but has some possibilities? Or are you the woman who knows that if you follow a master you will die? Or are you one of the hundreds of thousands who just think you are somebody’s follower?”
It was Dietrich Bonhoeffer who said: “When Jesus bids us come and follow him, he bids us come and die. The question is: what do we die for, whom do we die with, and whether or not we come after Jesus into Jerusalem.
[from Parables: the Arrows of God by Megan McKenna (Orbis Books, 1994)]
Once upon a time a man became the head of the Ottoman Empire, the sultan of the desert, rich and powerful in his vast domain. As he grew in power many of his advisers began to warn him about this caliph who had hundreds of thousands of followers. They spoke of the danger to the sultan: that if the caliph sided with his enemies he could overthrow the sultan and rule in his stead, or he could organize his own followers and revolt. But the sultan ignored them and went about the business of running his kingdom.
Years passed and there were uprisings and coup attempts and tries at assassination and the name of this one caliph kept coming up. Finally the sultan decided to act on these accusations, and he summoned the man from the desert. He met him alone, at the edge of the desert. And the caliph came on his great steed, dismounted and knelt with his head on the ground. He then arose and said the ancient oath of loyalty: “You, sir, are my master. Whatever power I have in the desert, you shared yours with me. Whatever knowledge and wisdom I have in the desert, you taught me. I will gladly give my life that my master may live.” He said this with his hand over his heart, solemnly and before Allah.
The sultan embraced him and looked at him with delight and exclaimed: “I’ve wondered how you are, my friend! Do you know that my advisers are always warning me about you, the man with the hundreds of thousands of disciples? They do not know that you were once my disciple and still are, and so all of your disciples are mine.” They talked of the good old days in the desert and the times of closeness and struggle.
Toward the end of the day the sultan asked him: “Just between you and me, how many followers do you have?” The caliph pondered the question and finally said, “One and a half.” The sultan reacted angrily and said, “Who do you think I am? Why would my advisers warn me about someone with one and a half followers? Well we’ll find out just how many you do have.”
The sultan ordered his soldiers to arrest the caliph, and threw him into a dungeon. He sent a message throughout the desert saying that their master, the caliph, had fallen from grace with the sultan, and that if they didn’t all show up on a certain day he would be beheaded. Unbeknown to anyone else, he had a tent set up on the edge of the desert and had thirty sheep put into it and a dozen of his best soldiers. And he waited for the day to come.
The caliph was dragged from his underground prison, and he and the sultan waited at the edge of the desert, the caliph in chains beside his old master. And they came by the thousands before dawn, on camel, horseback, ass and donkey and on foot until as far as the eye could see there were men, women and children. The sultan turned to the caliph and sneered: “One and a half followers. Who then are all these people?” The caliph said nothing. Then in the silence as the sun rose, the sultan stepped forward and spoke loudly. “This man, your master, has fallen from grace. If ten of you are willing to give your life so that your master might live, then step forward. Otherwise, I will behead him now.” And he drew his sword.
There was a terrible silence. People started sweating and finally one man stepped forward and put his hand on his heart and said the ancient oath: “Sultan, this man is my master. Whatever power I have in the desert, he shared his with me, and whatever knowledge and wisdom I have in the desert he taught me. I will gladly give my life so that my master might live.” The sultan snapped his fingers and the soldiers marched him up to the tent, took him inside, and dropped the flaps. They slit the throat of three sheep and the blood began to seep down through the sand.
There was a murmur in the crowd and some started slipping back into the desert. Not a lot, but enough so that you’d notice. The silence and the heat stretched. Finally the sultan spoke again. “That’s only one. I need nine more, or your caliph dies.” Again the silence deepened, and the tension became terrible. Finally, a woman stepped forward, and even the sultan groaned outwardly. She put her hand over her heart and spoke the oath: “Sir, this man is my master. Whatever power I have in the desert, this man shared his with me. Whatever knowledge and wisdom I have in the desert, this man taught me. I will gladly give my life so that my master might live.”
The sultan snapped his fingers again, the soldiers marched her up to the tent and took her inside. They slit the throats of three more sheep, and the blood started to gush down on the sands. And the crowd panicked and all bedlam broke loose. They ran back into the desert the way they had come. By sundown no one was left as far as the eye could see, only the sultan and the caliph in chains.
The sultan bent and set his friend free. He lifted him up, apologized and said: “I’m sorry. You were right. You only have one and a half disciples. How terrible you must feel! All this time and work and that’s all you have.” The caliph stood and looked at his old master and said: “Sultan, I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that the man is my one follower and the woman is the half.” “Of course,” the sultan replied. “Well, you’re wrong,” the caliph said. “The woman is my one follower and the man - he is arrogant and naive, but he has possibilities. He’s my half.”
The sultan sputtered and said: “But the law...” and he couldn’t finish. The caliph said: “Sultan, discipleship has nothing to do with the law; it has to do with love and devotion. Let me explain. When the man stepped forward he didn’t believe he was going to die. He thinks everything is a test. He has a lot to learn. But when the woman stepped forward, she knew she was going to die. She is my one follower.” And the sultan was quiet.
The story begs the question: “Which one are you? Are you the man who is arrogant and naive and thinks everything is a test but has some possibilities? Or are you the woman who knows that if you follow a master you will die? Or are you one of the hundreds of thousands who just think you are somebody’s follower?”
It was Dietrich Bonhoeffer who said: “When Jesus bids us come and follow him, he bids us come and die. The question is: what do we die for, whom do we die with, and whether or not we come after Jesus into Jerusalem.
[from Parables: the Arrows of God by Megan McKenna (Orbis Books, 1994)]
Thursday, May 7, 2009
What My Mother Taught Me
My Mother taught me LOGIC...
"If you fall off that swing and break your neck, you can’t go to the store with me," as well as, "If everyone else jumped off a cliff would you do it too?"
My Mother taught me MEDICINE...
"If you don’t stop crossing your eyes, they’re going to freeze that way."
My Mother taught me TO THINK AHEAD...
"If you don’t pass your spelling test, you’ll never get a good job!"
My Mother taught me TO MEET A CHALLENGE...
"What were you thinking? Answer me when I talk to you... Don’t talk back to me!"
My Mother taught me HUMOR...
"When that lawn mower cuts off your toes, don’t come running to me."
My Mother taught me how to BECOME AN ADULT...
"If you don’t eat your vegetables, you’ll never grow up.
My mother taught me about GENETICS...
"You are just like your father!"
My mother taught me about my ROOTS...
"Do you think you were born in a barn?"
My mother taught me about the WISDOM of AGE...
"When you get to be my age, you will understand," or, "I will explain it all when you get older."
My mother taught me about ANTICIPATION...
"Just wait until your father gets home."
My mother taught me about RECEIVING...
You are going to get it when I get you home.
And the all time favorite thing my mother taught me - JUSTICE
"One day you will have kids, and I hope they turn out just like you. Then you’ll see what it’s like! I can’t wait!"
I think this is the secret hope for every mother…that history will
repeat itself.
[Illustration from Paul Decker's sermon, "What My Mother Taught Me," posted on www.sermoncentral.com]
"If you fall off that swing and break your neck, you can’t go to the store with me," as well as, "If everyone else jumped off a cliff would you do it too?"
My Mother taught me MEDICINE...
"If you don’t stop crossing your eyes, they’re going to freeze that way."
My Mother taught me TO THINK AHEAD...
"If you don’t pass your spelling test, you’ll never get a good job!"
My Mother taught me TO MEET A CHALLENGE...
"What were you thinking? Answer me when I talk to you... Don’t talk back to me!"
My Mother taught me HUMOR...
"When that lawn mower cuts off your toes, don’t come running to me."
My Mother taught me how to BECOME AN ADULT...
"If you don’t eat your vegetables, you’ll never grow up.
My mother taught me about GENETICS...
"You are just like your father!"
My mother taught me about my ROOTS...
"Do you think you were born in a barn?"
My mother taught me about the WISDOM of AGE...
"When you get to be my age, you will understand," or, "I will explain it all when you get older."
My mother taught me about ANTICIPATION...
"Just wait until your father gets home."
My mother taught me about RECEIVING...
You are going to get it when I get you home.
And the all time favorite thing my mother taught me - JUSTICE
"One day you will have kids, and I hope they turn out just like you. Then you’ll see what it’s like! I can’t wait!"
I think this is the secret hope for every mother…that history will
repeat itself.
[Illustration from Paul Decker's sermon, "What My Mother Taught Me," posted on www.sermoncentral.com]
Saturday, April 18, 2009
What Might Have Been
U.S. Rep. Elijah Cummings (D-Md.) shared his family's story at a Teamster's organizing conference. His parents had been sharecroppers in South Carolina in the 1940s. They married at 18. His father had a second grade education; his mother a first grade education. His father worked from dawn to dusk on someone else’s farm, plowing behind a mule for 15 cents a day. His mother earned 10 cents a day digging potatoes.
At some point Cummings’ father realized: “We got to get ourselves up out of here.” They moved north as did millions of other African Americans. He got a job at a steel plant in Baltimore, made $1.10 an hour and only had to work 8 hours a day. He became a union man, had health insurance and vacation. Eventually, the couple had seven children, saved their money and bought a four-bedroom house.
Cummings said his dad used to tell the kids, “If you miss even one day of school it will be because you died the night before.” Cummings’ father had been deprived of an education, but he was determined to make sure his children had it better. He attended church every Sunday, sang in the choir, and walked the picket line when the union went out on strike.
When Elijah Cummings was sworn into office as a member of the U.S. House of Representatives, his father watched from the gallery and cried. The son had never seen the father cry before. Elijah asked why now. His father replied, “Of course I’m proud of you, but now I see what I could have been.”
[Jim Winkler, What Might Have Been in Words from Winkler, General Board of Church and Society website, April 17, 2009.]
Poking Holes in the Darkness
Robert Louis Stevenson, author of Treasure Island, had a difficult childhood, due to ill health. One night the nurse found him up, out of bed, his nose pressed against the window. “Come here, child,” she said to him. “You’ll catch your death of cold.” But he wouldn’t budge. Instead, he sat, mesmerized, watching a lamplighter slowly working his way through the black night, lighting each street light along his route. Pointing to him, Robert said, “See, look there; there’s a man poking holes in the darkness!”
- from the sermon Poking Holes in the Darkness, by Kenneth L. Carter. Circuit Rider Magazine, Jan/Feb 2003, p. 27.
- from the sermon Poking Holes in the Darkness, by Kenneth L. Carter. Circuit Rider Magazine, Jan/Feb 2003, p. 27.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
An Oldie, but a Goodie....
Each Friday night after work, Jimmy would fire up his outdoor grill and cook a venison steak. But all of Jimmy's neighbors were Catholic....and since it was Lent, they were forbidden from eating meat on Friday.
The delicious aroma from the grilled venison steaks was causing such a problem for the Catholic faithful that they finally talked to their priest. The Priest came to visit Jimmy and suggested that he become a Catholic. After several classes and much study, Jimmy attended Mass.....and as the priest sprinkled holy water over him, he said, "You were born a Baptist, and raised a Baptist, but now you are a Catholic."
Jimmy's neighbors were greatly relieved, until Friday Night arrived, and the wonderful aroma of grilled venison again filled the neighborhood. The Priest was called immediately by the neighbors and as he rushed into Jimmy's yard, clutching a rosary and preparing to scold him, he stopped and watched in amazement.
There stood Jimmy, clutching a small bottle of holy water which he carefully sprinkled over the grilling meat and chanted: "You wuz born a deer, you wuz raised a deer, but now you are a catfish."
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Persistence
From the Diary of John Wesley:
Sunday Morning, May 5. Preached in St. Ann's. Was asked not to come back anymore.
Sunday p.m., May 5. Preached at St. John's. Deacons said "Get out and stay out."
Sunday a.m., May 12. Preached at St. Jude's. Can't go back there either.
Sunday p.m., May 12. Preached at St. George's. Kicked out again.
Sunday a.m., May 19. Preached at St. somebody else's. Deacons called special meeting and said I couldn't return.
Sunday p.m., May 19. Preached on the street. Kicked off the street.
Sunday a.m., May 26. Preached in meadow, chased out of meadow as bull was turned loose during the service.
Sunday a.m., June 2. Preached out at the edge of town, kicked off the highway.
Sunday p.m., June 2, afternoon service. Preached in a pasture, 10,000 people came to hear me.
Persistence
From the Diary of John Wesley:
Sunday Morning, May 5. Preached in St. Ann's. Was asked not to come back anymore.
Sunday p.m., May 5. Preached at St. John's. Deacons said "Get out and stay out."
Sunday a.m., May 12. Preached at St. Jude's. Can't go back there either.
Sunday p.m., May 12. Preached at St. George's. Kicked out again.
Sunday a.m., May 19. Preached at St. somebody else's. Deacons called special meeting and said I couldn't return.
Sunday p.m., May 19. Preached on the street. Kicked off the street.
Sunday a.m., May 26. Preached in meadow, chased out of meadow as bull was turned loose during the service.
Sunday a.m., June 2. Preached out at the edge of town, kicked off the highway.
Sunday p.m., June 2, afternoon service. Preached in a pasture, 10,000 people came to hear me.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Stop and Hear the Music
A man sat at a metro station in Washington DC and started to play the violin; it was a cold January morning. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, since it was rush hour, it was calculated that thousands of people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.
Three minutes went by and a middle aged man noticed there was musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried up to meet his schedule.
A minute later, the violinist received his first dollar tip: a woman threw the money in the till and without stopping continued to walk.
A few minutes later, someone leaned against the wall to listen to him, but the man looked at his watch and started to walk again. Clearly he was late for work.
The one who paid the most attention was a 3 year old boy. His mother tagged him along, hurried but the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk turning his head all the time This action was repeated by several other children. All the parents, without exception, forced them to move on.
In the 45 minutes the musician played, only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace. He collected $32. When he finished playing and silence took over, no one noticed it. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.
No one knew this but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written with a violin worth 3.5 million dollars.
Two days before his playing in the subway, Joshua Bell sold out at a theater in Boston and the seats averaged $100.
Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and priorities of people. The outlines were: in a commonplace environment at an inappropriate hour: Do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize the talent in an unexpected context?
One of the possible conclusions from this experience could be: If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing the best music ever written, how many other things are we missing?
[Received from Rev. Allyson Paxton]
Three minutes went by and a middle aged man noticed there was musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried up to meet his schedule.
A minute later, the violinist received his first dollar tip: a woman threw the money in the till and without stopping continued to walk.
A few minutes later, someone leaned against the wall to listen to him, but the man looked at his watch and started to walk again. Clearly he was late for work.
The one who paid the most attention was a 3 year old boy. His mother tagged him along, hurried but the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk turning his head all the time This action was repeated by several other children. All the parents, without exception, forced them to move on.
In the 45 minutes the musician played, only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace. He collected $32. When he finished playing and silence took over, no one noticed it. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.
No one knew this but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written with a violin worth 3.5 million dollars.
Two days before his playing in the subway, Joshua Bell sold out at a theater in Boston and the seats averaged $100.
Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and priorities of people. The outlines were: in a commonplace environment at an inappropriate hour: Do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize the talent in an unexpected context?
One of the possible conclusions from this experience could be: If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing the best music ever written, how many other things are we missing?
[Received from Rev. Allyson Paxton]
A Good Gift
Bidding had been a bit disappointing at the Harvest Festival Live Auction the year after terrorists removed the World Trade Center from the New York City skyline forever. The economy was uncertain, unemployment was on the rise, and people were cautious with their spending, even if the money was going for missions. But the atmosphere in the church Fellowship Hall was lively and joyful, even though many “bargains” were handed over by the auctioneer.
But then two giggling teenagers paraded around the room with a beautiful hand-stitched wedding ring quilt. Pat Armstrong nudged her husband. “That’s the one,” she said. “Don’t you think it’ll look perfect in our guest room?” Bob, who had learned long ago that it was easier to agree with his wife’s decorating fancies than fight them, wisely nodded. “Get your number up!” Bob calmly obliged, and the bidding began. The numbers rose: $150...$250...$550...$750. A similar quilt had sold 15 minutes ago for $500. People began to pay attention. Nothing in the auction so far had created this much of a stir. “Keep going,” Pat said. “The church needs the money for missions and I need that quilt!” Bob nodded. $850.
Soon, there was only one other bidder, a small man seated quietly in the back corner of the room. Pat couldn’t see who it was. But it didn’t matter. She wanted that quilt! $1150...$1350...$1500 going once...going twice...SOLD! The crowd cheered, the auctioneer wiped his brow, Pat bounced in her seat. And if Bob was slightly startled by the amount of money he had just agreed to pay, his emotions were confined to one, long sigh.
The auction continued. A week-long catamaran voyage in the Caribbean drew $3,000. But nothing seemed as exciting as the duel for this wedding ring quilt.
After the auction, Sunday school class members congratulated Bob and Pat on their win. Pat asked, “Who was it we were bidding against? I couldn’t see them?” “It was Don Frogge,” someone said. Bob and Pat looked at each other. “Don Frogge?” Pat said. “Didn’t his wife stitch this quilt?” “She did. It was the last one she made before she died. She intended it for the Harvest Festival auction, and Don thought it was right to donate it. But it was her last quilt. He realized he wanted to buy it back and keep it.”
Don and Amy had been married for 52 years. Bob and Pat didn’t even have to discuss their intentions as they grabbed the quilt and headed out to the parking lot to catch Don. “Don!” Bob called. “Wait up!” They reached Don at his car and handed him the quilt. “We bought this for you,” Pat said. “We want you to have it.” Don was speechless, and full of emotion. “I intended to buy this quilt back. I know Amy wanted the church to have the money. But I wanted to have her quilt. I could tell you meant to have it, too, Pat. So I let it go. I tried to tell myself that she would have wanted me to do that, but...” He looked up. “Thank you.”
“We’ll see you Sunday,” said Bob and Pat. And they walked off to their car, very satisfied with their $1500 purchase. Bob put the quilt lovingly on the seat of his car, closed the door, and walked back into the church. At the Auction Check-Out table, Bob pulled out his checkbook and wrote a check for $1500. He knew he was blessed to have received the quilt from his friends. And he thought it only fitting that the church's missions budget should be twice blessed by this gift.
But then two giggling teenagers paraded around the room with a beautiful hand-stitched wedding ring quilt. Pat Armstrong nudged her husband. “That’s the one,” she said. “Don’t you think it’ll look perfect in our guest room?” Bob, who had learned long ago that it was easier to agree with his wife’s decorating fancies than fight them, wisely nodded. “Get your number up!” Bob calmly obliged, and the bidding began. The numbers rose: $150...$250...$550...$750. A similar quilt had sold 15 minutes ago for $500. People began to pay attention. Nothing in the auction so far had created this much of a stir. “Keep going,” Pat said. “The church needs the money for missions and I need that quilt!” Bob nodded. $850.
Soon, there was only one other bidder, a small man seated quietly in the back corner of the room. Pat couldn’t see who it was. But it didn’t matter. She wanted that quilt! $1150...$1350...$1500 going once...going twice...SOLD! The crowd cheered, the auctioneer wiped his brow, Pat bounced in her seat. And if Bob was slightly startled by the amount of money he had just agreed to pay, his emotions were confined to one, long sigh.
The auction continued. A week-long catamaran voyage in the Caribbean drew $3,000. But nothing seemed as exciting as the duel for this wedding ring quilt.
After the auction, Sunday school class members congratulated Bob and Pat on their win. Pat asked, “Who was it we were bidding against? I couldn’t see them?” “It was Don Frogge,” someone said. Bob and Pat looked at each other. “Don Frogge?” Pat said. “Didn’t his wife stitch this quilt?” “She did. It was the last one she made before she died. She intended it for the Harvest Festival auction, and Don thought it was right to donate it. But it was her last quilt. He realized he wanted to buy it back and keep it.”
Don and Amy had been married for 52 years. Bob and Pat didn’t even have to discuss their intentions as they grabbed the quilt and headed out to the parking lot to catch Don. “Don!” Bob called. “Wait up!” They reached Don at his car and handed him the quilt. “We bought this for you,” Pat said. “We want you to have it.” Don was speechless, and full of emotion. “I intended to buy this quilt back. I know Amy wanted the church to have the money. But I wanted to have her quilt. I could tell you meant to have it, too, Pat. So I let it go. I tried to tell myself that she would have wanted me to do that, but...” He looked up. “Thank you.”
“We’ll see you Sunday,” said Bob and Pat. And they walked off to their car, very satisfied with their $1500 purchase. Bob put the quilt lovingly on the seat of his car, closed the door, and walked back into the church. At the Auction Check-Out table, Bob pulled out his checkbook and wrote a check for $1500. He knew he was blessed to have received the quilt from his friends. And he thought it only fitting that the church's missions budget should be twice blessed by this gift.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Amazing and Uncomfortable Grace
It was in the news recently that there is a luxury apartment building in a very fancy housing district in my town and it was discovered that some of the residents of this apartment building were actually on public assistance. They were what we used to call welfare folks. Well, when that news came out, the homeowners in that very fashionable section of town were outraged. They didn’t want their property values coming down so they demanded and got a public hearing. I watched a little of it on the news and the first person to go to the microphone was a young mother with a baby on her hip. Her story was that when she got pregnant, her boyfriend took the car and left her. Left her with nothing. After the baby was born she managed to get a job as a maid in one of the local motels and if she didn’t have the apartment she couldn’t have the job, and if she didn’t have the job she couldn’t feed the baby. And she begged for the assistance to continue. The next person to the microphone was a homeowner who said that he and his wife had poured their life savings into their home and they wanted their investment protected. He turned and looked at the young mother with the baby and he said, “I understand how you feel, but I earned mine and you’re going to have to earn yours.” Well, when you have experienced grace, you can never look another human being in the face again and say, “I earned mine, you’re going to have to earn yours,” because everything we have is a gift of God. Everything is grace. Everything.
[Tom Long, http://www.30goodminutes.org/csec/sermon/long_4902.htm]
[Tom Long, http://www.30goodminutes.org/csec/sermon/long_4902.htm]
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