Archive for November, 2011

The Old Pacific Highway

Thursday, November 17th, 2011

I drove along the Pacific Highway yesterday, from Monterrey, CA, to Ventura, CA.

I have done it before—at least twice. 15 years ago my whole family drove up or down this road, depending upon your direction. I chose to go down to San Diego. My 1992 Suburban was full of 4 kids, Karen, and enough product to sell in three conventions.

The road is fine, unchanged really. A few old curves have washed out. No, the road is the same. I am different though.

The road is fine. Full of turn outs and passing lanes. 15 years ago I laughed at fate and drove my Chevrolet with resolution and compulsion. I need passing lanes this year. Resolution and compulsion are fine, but I would prefer the marked and measured path.

This year I marked my stops by distances between bathrooms rather than photo stops. Do you know there is no bathroom between Big Sur and Cambria? I am not joking. Ouch!

15 years ago I laughed at driving with a quarter of a tank—what if I ran out of fuel?—there was no way I was going to pay $1.60 a gallon for inflated under octane gasoline on the Pacific Highway. Yesterday I paid $5.05 for gasoline mostly made from corn and I was glad to get it. Couldn’t take a chance that I would run out of gasoline. Never let her drop below a half.

So I drove the old road again. No kids. Only Karen. We rented a clunker from Fox rentals—a really foxy deal—won’t do that again. Just yesterday figured out how to lock the darn thing. Still haven’t figured out how to open the trunk. They never taught me to do those things at Harvard.

I look for what is coming around the bend, now. I like turning lanes. And bathrooms. Lots of bathrooms. God doesn’t change, but I do.

I don’t have to do what I want?

Wednesday, November 16th, 2011

One of her patients in psychotherapy, a woman in her mid-twenties, “complained that she had become nervous and fretful because her life had grown so hectic–too many big weekends, too many discos, too many late hours, too much talk, too much . . . too much . . .”

The therapist asked her gently, “Why don’t you just stop?”

The patient stared blankly for a moment, and then her face brightened. “You mean I really don’t have to do what I want to do?”

Grieving for Losses

Tuesday, November 15th, 2011

Grieving for Lost Opportunities
A Love Letter to My Friends and My Church . . .
“Your glory lies slain on your heights . . .”–2 Sam.1:17
2 Samuel 1:17-27

I. GRIEVING FOR CURLEY

I can still remember sitting in Advanced Math class, McGehee High School, 1970, when I heard the news. My friend, Curley Mays, was dead. Killed a few miles from the DMZ, Curley’s position had survived the first onslaught of the NVA, but not the second one. And Curley, Lance Corporal, USMC, was dead.

We were on the same baseball team–Western Auto. He had–yes, curley blond hair. Every Fourth of July we stayed up all night smoking pork ribs, chicken legs, raccoon, and rattle snake.

His dad was the town barber. Not a very good one I might add. But my dad took me there. Once a month every on a Saturday morning. By this time other boys were going to a hair stylist. But not my dad. He was a loyal person. Once a month we went to Mr. May’s barber shop and heard all the scores and all the fishing stories.

In the middle of Mr. Powell’s Math class I heard Curley was killed in the DMZ. Right in Math class.

Today we hear another cry of pain. David’s cry of pain. And we grieve with David. The lesson from 2 Samuel is a scream of pain, and David will not be quieted, he will not be comforted, and he will not be ignored.

II. BAD NEWS
A messenger has come to David with the news that King Saul and Jonathan, who is Saul’s son and David’s best friend have been killed fighting the Philistines on Mount Gilboa. The messenger clearly believes that he is bringing good news to David. For years Saul has been a threat to David. Now, with the deaths of Saul the King and Jonathan, the heir to the throne, the obstacles that prevented David from becoming king have been cleared. David is now free to be who he is meant to be. It is time for rejoicing. . . but David does not rejoice. From someone deep within him, something boils up inside him. David aches with loss.

Your glory, O Israel, lies
slain upon your high places!
How the mighty have fallen!
Tell it not in Gath, proclaim it not
in the streets of
Ashkelon; or the daughters of the
Philistines will rejoice.

Don’t let your enemies see you cry. Don’t tell it in Gath a great Philistine city. They would not understand. They would see it as weakness. There god is not big enough to handle their pain. In Gath they have a theology that deflects pain. In Ashkelon they worship a great, great god–a god who dwells high above every defeat, a god who knows not at all of death.

Among yourselves, and in our community, weep as you remember all that has been and that will be no more. Remember the glory that was Saul’s kingdom and the prosperity and happiness it brought you. Grieve also for broken hopes and lost dreams.

Tell it not in Gath, proclaim
it not in the streets of
Ashkelon;
or the daughters of the
Philistines will rejoice . . .
[But] O daughters of Israel,
weep over Saul,
who clothed you with crimson
in luxury .. . .

Among yourselves, and in the community of the faithful, weep as your remember all that has been and that will be no more. Remember the glory that was Saul’s kingdom and the prosperity and happiness it brought you: the clothes of expensive crimson, the golden ornaments, all the beauty of it. Grieve also for the broken hopes and lost dreams you cherished.

Cry for Jonathan. Innocent Jonathan. Who stood by his father even when he was evil and disobedient. David’s good friend.

David has become King David. Undisputed. His first act as king, his first command, is that they should learn to grieve properly. Write this down and teach it to the people, so that they will know how to speak of their pain.

Pain can silence us. We can lose so much that no words can be found to speak of it. it is important for us to find the sons and symbols by which we can articulate our hurt. That is the reason we have Memorial Day. To remember their sacrifice. To say little; to feel much.

David commands that all the people learn to sing the song of lament. Many would object, saying that the past is best forgotten and put behind us. We cannot live in the past, after all. Certainly David will not make his home in the past. David is the future for Israel, but David wisely recognizes the way to the future does not go around Mount Gilboa. He goes right up to the top alone.

III. ON MOUNT GILBOA
“You mountains of Gilboa,” David says, “let there be no dew or rain upon you, nor bounteous fields.” Let the land be scourged.

For there the shield of the
might was defiled,
the shield of Saul,
anointed with oil no more.

The shield that was also our own defense and our security. After each battle it was washed with oil to keep it in readiness for the next battle, but now it lies on Gilboa, abandoned, defeated, “defiled . . . anointed with oil no more.” We face the future without the shield we knew and trusted for so long.

Look! See! The bodies of Saul and Jonathan. David summons us to see it all, not to turn our faces aside. Remember their beauty and their strength, now gone, and grieve for all which is lost to us. The king commands us to learn to tell of the pain and the loss. “How the mighty have fallen in the midst of the battle!”

David howls his anguish aloud on the heights of Gilboa. He screams out his loss and pain to whoever will hear. Everyone must hear and everyone must learn of this pain. David’s song is a lament, however, primarily directed to God.

As the theologian Walter Brueggemann writes:

The laments are addressed to someone! And precisely in the presence of God . . . is where the hurtful issues must be dealt with. Nowhere but with [God] does Israel vent her greatest doubt, her bitterest resentments, her deepest anger. Israel knows that one need not fake it alone. In the dialogue [with God], Israel expects to understand what is happening and even to have it changed.

Articulating our pain, we muster hope that the bitter present may be transformed by God’s future. By speaking our wounds, we hope for healing. Write down this lament, orders King David, and teach it to the people so they man know how to speak their hurt. There are not many places where we can speak of painful things and lost things. Too much in our society would comfort us with the false comfort of the world’s answers. But David commands us to go to Mt. Gilboa and to speak with God. Cry to God. To give up the false comfort of the world.

David reminds us that there is a place where our pains and losses are respected and treasured, even also as our joys and triumphs are valued. That is the place of the Lord. The shield of Saul lies defiled on Mt. Gilboa and will not loner protect us, but in crying out our anguish we address ourselves to the One who will be our shield and security for the future.

So cry loudly today. And remember all that we have lost . . . and what God will do in the future. Those who dwell in the Philistine cities of Gath and Ashkelon will misunderstand and will think we are weak. The Philistines will mock, “Where is your God?” But we know that Christ’s words on the cross–“My God, my God, why have Thou forsaken me?”–are sublime and forsage an age of honesty and of victory. I say to you today, we among the tattered dreams on Mt. Gilboa, I call you to serve the only God who really matters. The God who is with us in sadness and in happiness. Grieve with David. Remember. And then conquer your world!

Jesus at the Door

Monday, November 14th, 2011

During World War II Zvi Michalowski, a Lithuanian Jew, was captured by the Nazi invaders and condemned to die, along with all the Jews from his village. Typically, the Nazi executioners lined up all the Jews in front of a ditch outside Zvi’s small town and then they were shot.

Zvi, though, had fallen into the pit a fraction of a second before the volley of shots which killed those standing with him, including his father. Later, Zvi crawled from the pit and escaped.

Nearby were several Christian homes–homes that Zvi knew were religious homes that might help him. Naked and covered with blood he knocked on the first door. The door opened. A peasant stood in front of him. “Please help me,” Zvi pleaded. The woman lifted the lamp closer to his face and responded, “Go back to the grave where you belong, Jew!”

And she slammed the door.

Zvi knocked on several doors and received a similar response.

Finally, Zvi, desperate for shelter and help, came to one final door and knocked. When the door opened, Zvi, lifting his arms to his side, cried, “I am your Lord, Jesus Christ. I came down from the cross. Look at me–the blood, the pain, the suffering of the innocent. Let me in.”

I am the Lord Jesus Christ who came down from the cross!
The poor woman did and Zvi survived the War.

The theologian writer Fred Buehner writes in his book Now and Then, “When you find something in a human face that calls out to you, not just for help but in some sense for yourself, how far do you go in answering that call, how far can you go, seeing that you have your own life to get on with . . .” You go as far as necessary. You go as far as you can. You go as far as Christ went. . .

Perhaps we are called to this place for such a time as this . . .

God loves us, stands up for us daily against death, transforms our lives from emptiness and despair to hope and life. And he always opens the door when we knock.

Love’s Choices

Friday, November 11th, 2011

Choices to make

Thursday, November 10th, 2011

Thomas Merton wrote this prayer shortly before his death: “If I have any choices to make, it is to lie here and perhaps to die here. But, in any case, it is not the living or the dying that matter, but speaking your name with confidence in this light, in this unvisited place. To speak your name . . . and the light you have given.” Amen.

The Blessing

Tuesday, November 8th, 2011

Gary Smalley and John Trent, Christian counselors, argue that Christians need to receive a “blessing” from other Christians. They detail five elements of the blessing: 1) meaningful touch, 2) the spoken word, 3) the expression of high value, 4) the description of a special future, and 5) the application of genuine commitment. All of us need a blessing. We long to be accepted by others. While we say we don’t. . . “I don’t care what others think”. . . In fact on the inside we all yearn for intimacy. without a blessing, especially from our parents, Smalley and Trent argue, we are emotionally handicapped all our lives.

Government Schools (From my AP Student)

Monday, November 7th, 2011

Living in Limited Possibilities

Friday, November 4th, 2011

I live on a farm nestled in the foothills of the Laurel Highlands. The Laurel Highlands go North up to Lake Erie, South to Frank Lloyd Wright’s Falling Water. My farm lies halfway between both.
I am one of the few farms in the area that still uses spring water. Seven springs feed a generous cauldron of water above my rambling 1880 Pennsylvania farm house, built by practical Mennonites who had no use for inefficient fireplaces and ornate porches.
Next to my spring house is a hill. I started to climb that hill yesterday. I turned back.
On this hill twenty years ago my children danced up this hill pulling their scratched, plastic sleds behind them. I would join them on top. On that hill we would welcome the moon, say good bye to the sun. We dodged barbed wire and the angry stares of Karen (mom) as we flew down the hill on plastic chariots. We defied fate, relying on gravity and our unmowed neighbor’s pasture to stop us before we crashed into a diminutive pond.
I did not that hill yesterday. My children are gone and the spring house is secure in concrete. Why should I climb that hill?
From that hill I can almost see West Virginia. From that hill, farmers allegedly saw the Flight 93 Crash. It is a place of discovery, wonder, and to me memory. But I have lost nothing in West Virginia, 9-11 is ten years the past. I will not climb that hill. I will find no children, no laughter, no unsecured flight into chaos.
I did not climb that hill yesterday.
My children thought it was a ticket to everywhere. Our hill promised unlimited possibility. It was the abode of trophy bucks, soaring bald eagles, and my children’s dreams. It was Mount Olympus, the home of the gods.
My children don’t live on the farm anymore. The hill is quiet and serene. And lonely. As I am. It provides a look at what was, what is no more. What was lost. What will not be again. I will not climb that hill again. Not as long as I live.
This Christmas I will urge my grandchildren to climb that hill. It is time. They are old enough to pull the same sleds as their parents, to the top of that hill, to believe that all is possible, to defy fate and zoom down the hill, into the brush piles that nurture and protect the intrepid from the barbed wire.
But I will not join them. Not this year. Never. I no longer believe in unlimited possibilities. But I am glad that there are those who do. I want them to climb the hill, for me, this year.