January 21, 2010
Fourty-seven years ago I received a book in the mail from my Aunt Kate. She was living on a farm in Ohio at the time. It was a ‘fat’ hardcover book. I believe it was the first book that was truly my own--the start of my personal library. There were many books in our house, especially in dad’s study. I loved spending time there. It was my first encounter with Bonhoeffer, Trueblood, and J.B. Phillips. I liked to read the parts that dad had underlined and the comments he scratched in the margins. Dad must have noticed me ‘reading’ The Cost of Discipleship and directed me to another shelf (I would have been 9 or 10 at the time). True stories of man-eating leopards and tigers set in India, Kon Tiki, Dry Guillotine, and The Count of Monte Cristo are what come to mind. While more accessible to my young mind, they were still a over my head. Now, on that special day I received my very own book from Aunt Kate.
Last night I received a phone call from her eldest son asking me to speak at her funeral and granting me license to work with the message in a manner that freed me from the constrictions I expressed in yesterday’s blog. I felt great relief. I went to the shelf in my library and pulled out that book Kate had given me so long ago….the first book that I remember reading from cover to cover that truly gripped me. I’m going to read it again. Nobody’s Boy by Hector Henri Malot. Inside the front cover in her own neat handwriting she wrote: To Jon---“somebody’s boy” –Auntie Kate’s. 1963. It’s that apostrophe s at the end of her name that I never noticed until last night. It brought tears to my eyes. Such a small expression of love that continues to have life even now that she is gone.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
January 20, 2010
On April 28, 2002 my aunt Kate gave my brother Chris written instructions for her funeral, part of which read: Jon: Preach 15-20 minute succinct sermon on salvation, heaven and hell choice and “Thank God for Salvation” John 3:16. Kate died yesterday afternoon.
Kate was my father’s sister, youngest in a family of seven, and the last of the siblings to pass away. I don’t know if funeral plans have changed since April 28, 2002, if she revised, updated, or simply forgot about it, but there is a chance I will be asked to preach that “15-20 minute succinct sermon”. I think I know the kinds of things that Kate would want me to say. I could look in her father’s sermon notes, from which the phrase “Thank God for Salvation” comes, and dig out material to use.
It’s a strange thing to have someone ask you to preach at their funeral and then instruct you on what to talk about. Am I to be “Kate’s voice”….what she might want to say from the other side?
Well, perhaps I won’t be asked to speak. Plans might have changed.
I will miss Kate.
On April 28, 2002 my aunt Kate gave my brother Chris written instructions for her funeral, part of which read: Jon: Preach 15-20 minute succinct sermon on salvation, heaven and hell choice and “Thank God for Salvation” John 3:16. Kate died yesterday afternoon.
Kate was my father’s sister, youngest in a family of seven, and the last of the siblings to pass away. I don’t know if funeral plans have changed since April 28, 2002, if she revised, updated, or simply forgot about it, but there is a chance I will be asked to preach that “15-20 minute succinct sermon”. I think I know the kinds of things that Kate would want me to say. I could look in her father’s sermon notes, from which the phrase “Thank God for Salvation” comes, and dig out material to use.
It’s a strange thing to have someone ask you to preach at their funeral and then instruct you on what to talk about. Am I to be “Kate’s voice”….what she might want to say from the other side?
Well, perhaps I won’t be asked to speak. Plans might have changed.
I will miss Kate.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
January 19, 2010
I remember much playing in my childhood. Fantastic worlds I imagined and lived in. Alfafa fields, the ancient apple orchard, and the old barn were stages for civil war battles, western cowboy action, detective fantasies, and outdoor monopoly. As I grew older my play became less fantastic but continued. Long exploratory walks along the banks of Rock Creek, baseball, and basketball were the arenas in which my imagination now had its way. Immigrating to Canada had a playful imaginative dimension. I was a part of the great hippie back to the land movement. When children came on the scene I played with them. While market gardening was much hard work it always had a playful element about it. I was farming! No longer tinker toy machinery plowing, sowing, and reaping the living room fields but nevertheless the pleasure of tilling, planting, and harvesting in ‘real’ soil was very imaginative and gratifying. Making money was fun. It wasn’t monopoly money anymore but the feel of cash in the hand touched the same center of playful pleasure.
My playfulness went underground when I became a pastor, but did not disappear. Without my sense of play I would not have lasted as long as I did as a pastor (12 years).
I know there are books written about the importance of play. I haven’t read them. I just know that God delights in play. It is the ground out of which creation springs.
I remember much playing in my childhood. Fantastic worlds I imagined and lived in. Alfafa fields, the ancient apple orchard, and the old barn were stages for civil war battles, western cowboy action, detective fantasies, and outdoor monopoly. As I grew older my play became less fantastic but continued. Long exploratory walks along the banks of Rock Creek, baseball, and basketball were the arenas in which my imagination now had its way. Immigrating to Canada had a playful imaginative dimension. I was a part of the great hippie back to the land movement. When children came on the scene I played with them. While market gardening was much hard work it always had a playful element about it. I was farming! No longer tinker toy machinery plowing, sowing, and reaping the living room fields but nevertheless the pleasure of tilling, planting, and harvesting in ‘real’ soil was very imaginative and gratifying. Making money was fun. It wasn’t monopoly money anymore but the feel of cash in the hand touched the same center of playful pleasure.
My playfulness went underground when I became a pastor, but did not disappear. Without my sense of play I would not have lasted as long as I did as a pastor (12 years).
I know there are books written about the importance of play. I haven’t read them. I just know that God delights in play. It is the ground out of which creation springs.
Friday, January 15, 2010
January 15, 2010
I have an older brother who lives in Saskatchewan. The Vietnam War was instrumental in planting him on Canadian soil. He is a gardener. With his son’s help he has been operating a successful market garden for many years. The garden is on the edge of town, Rosthern, within city limits. He was recently honored as Rosthern’s citizen of the year. You see, Eric is the town gardener. He sweeps sidewalks. Shovels snow in winter, rakes leaves in fall, plants, waters, and weeds during the growing season. He does all of this early in the morning…before most folks are up. He is shy and does not want to be noticed. Apparently enough people became aware of who was keeping the town groomed and florated (ha! I think I invented a word!) that they decided to bring him fully into the public eye with this recognition award.
According to John’s Gospel, Mary, turning away from the empty tomb, sees Jesus and mistakes him for the gardener. I’ve often wondered what it was about him that planted this instantaneous conclusion into Mary’s mind? Was he grooming the garden? Had he a few flowers in his hand…olive blossoms?
I have an older brother who lives in Saskatchewan. The Vietnam War was instrumental in planting him on Canadian soil. He is a gardener. With his son’s help he has been operating a successful market garden for many years. The garden is on the edge of town, Rosthern, within city limits. He was recently honored as Rosthern’s citizen of the year. You see, Eric is the town gardener. He sweeps sidewalks. Shovels snow in winter, rakes leaves in fall, plants, waters, and weeds during the growing season. He does all of this early in the morning…before most folks are up. He is shy and does not want to be noticed. Apparently enough people became aware of who was keeping the town groomed and florated (ha! I think I invented a word!) that they decided to bring him fully into the public eye with this recognition award.
According to John’s Gospel, Mary, turning away from the empty tomb, sees Jesus and mistakes him for the gardener. I’ve often wondered what it was about him that planted this instantaneous conclusion into Mary’s mind? Was he grooming the garden? Had he a few flowers in his hand…olive blossoms?
Thursday, January 14, 2010
January 14, 2010
Many years ago, perhaps 20, I attended a pastor’s conference on the campus of Eastern Mennonite University in Harrisonburg, Virginia. I found out over lunch that I was not the only representative from west of the Mississippi. His name was Paul and he was the pastor of a small church in Corvallis, Oregon. We hit it off and stayed in touch once we got back to Oregon. I remember Paul this morning as I read the news of the devastation in Haiti. At the time I first met him, he had a daughter who was living in Haiti doing volunteer work. I remember him relating how dangerous it was and how he was concerned for her safety but also how proud he was of her servant’s heart.
I cannot imagine this still morning what it must be like on that island that once held the title “Flower of the Caribbean” but I’m sure there are many volunteers like Paul’s daughter who are now caught up in the aftermath of the earthquake and probably some who were injured or killed. Their lives are of no greater value than the impoverished Haitian but they do provide for me a thin thread of connection to the events unfolding.
Memory….woven into the present.
Many years ago, perhaps 20, I attended a pastor’s conference on the campus of Eastern Mennonite University in Harrisonburg, Virginia. I found out over lunch that I was not the only representative from west of the Mississippi. His name was Paul and he was the pastor of a small church in Corvallis, Oregon. We hit it off and stayed in touch once we got back to Oregon. I remember Paul this morning as I read the news of the devastation in Haiti. At the time I first met him, he had a daughter who was living in Haiti doing volunteer work. I remember him relating how dangerous it was and how he was concerned for her safety but also how proud he was of her servant’s heart.
I cannot imagine this still morning what it must be like on that island that once held the title “Flower of the Caribbean” but I’m sure there are many volunteers like Paul’s daughter who are now caught up in the aftermath of the earthquake and probably some who were injured or killed. Their lives are of no greater value than the impoverished Haitian but they do provide for me a thin thread of connection to the events unfolding.
Memory….woven into the present.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
January 13, 2021
The Oregonian headline reminds me of the Tsunami that hit Indonesia a few years ago. Haiti, the poorest country in the western hemisphere, is largely ignored by folks until there is a tragedy. The details of death and destruction will carve out a sizeable width in the media band wave over the subsequent days until the public interest wanes or the next big thing comes along.
I am struck with how easy it is to turn our eyes away from poverty, a much deeper and more sinister tragedy than an earthquake, and yet so easily gaze upon the horrific destruction of an earthquake.
There will be stories of courage and heroism. Aid will pour in. The streets and buildings will be cleaned up. The dead buried. And the poverty remain….Lazarus begging for a crumb from the rich man’s table.
The Oregonian headline reminds me of the Tsunami that hit Indonesia a few years ago. Haiti, the poorest country in the western hemisphere, is largely ignored by folks until there is a tragedy. The details of death and destruction will carve out a sizeable width in the media band wave over the subsequent days until the public interest wanes or the next big thing comes along.
I am struck with how easy it is to turn our eyes away from poverty, a much deeper and more sinister tragedy than an earthquake, and yet so easily gaze upon the horrific destruction of an earthquake.
There will be stories of courage and heroism. Aid will pour in. The streets and buildings will be cleaned up. The dead buried. And the poverty remain….Lazarus begging for a crumb from the rich man’s table.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
January 12, 2010
Mild air has come in from off of the Pacific Ocean, warming the beginning of this day.
Yesterday the swollen buds on magnolia tree showed their first seam of white. A winter honeysuckle bush is starting to bloom. Narcissus are thrusting their green swords upward. Iris foliage has come alive.
Other parts of the world are in winter’s frigid grip and we may yet experience another spell or two of artic air but not today. Today is a day to relax a little and breathe. That is a way of expressing gratitude.
Mild air has come in from off of the Pacific Ocean, warming the beginning of this day.
Yesterday the swollen buds on magnolia tree showed their first seam of white. A winter honeysuckle bush is starting to bloom. Narcissus are thrusting their green swords upward. Iris foliage has come alive.
Other parts of the world are in winter’s frigid grip and we may yet experience another spell or two of artic air but not today. Today is a day to relax a little and breathe. That is a way of expressing gratitude.
Monday, January 11, 2010
January 11, 2010
My 88 year old mother, who is slowly losing her mental faculties, is having trouble with the year 2010. She is having trouble writing the actual number. A few days ago she came to me in frustrated confusion, checkbook in hand, and asked if I could help her write out a couple of checks. I looked at several discarded attempts and could clearly see that she was struggling to write in the date. “Just think twenty ten, mom.” I said, trying to help her.
I remember when windshield wiper fluid began to come onto the market. Before the advent of the automatic ‘spurt’ on to the windshield, one would actually have to stop and get out of the car and manually wipe down the windshield with this wonder product. It was amazing how it would take the glare off of the windshield, especially helpful in rainy wet night driving conditions. I recall the product name….20/10. I don’t know what those numbers refer to.
It seems that memory formation consists of a continual grafting and memory loss a continual pruning.
2010 the year…20/10 the wiper fluid now grafted together in my memory. What day is it? What year?...an orientation in time pruned from my mother’s memory.
For everything there is a season….
My 88 year old mother, who is slowly losing her mental faculties, is having trouble with the year 2010. She is having trouble writing the actual number. A few days ago she came to me in frustrated confusion, checkbook in hand, and asked if I could help her write out a couple of checks. I looked at several discarded attempts and could clearly see that she was struggling to write in the date. “Just think twenty ten, mom.” I said, trying to help her.
I remember when windshield wiper fluid began to come onto the market. Before the advent of the automatic ‘spurt’ on to the windshield, one would actually have to stop and get out of the car and manually wipe down the windshield with this wonder product. It was amazing how it would take the glare off of the windshield, especially helpful in rainy wet night driving conditions. I recall the product name….20/10. I don’t know what those numbers refer to.
It seems that memory formation consists of a continual grafting and memory loss a continual pruning.
2010 the year…20/10 the wiper fluid now grafted together in my memory. What day is it? What year?...an orientation in time pruned from my mother’s memory.
For everything there is a season….
Friday, January 8, 2010
January 8, 2009 Epiphany
I have a friend who lives on the edge economically. Not too long ago he found himself tipping over that precipice from the weight of unexpected expenses. He told me that he lined all his bills out on the table, turned his pant pockets inside out, and prayed to God.
The next day he received a check in the mail for $800 from Sociable Insecurity (as he is fond of calling it). This was almost exactly the amount he needed to cover his debts.
We grow up with these kinds of stories. They are wonderful….and dangerous. Their wonder lies in the affirmation of faith. “See, there really is a God! He really does care. Look what he did!” Their danger lies in making God small, reduced by the limits of our imagination. What if my friend had not received the money? What if the next day in the mail he received another bill? Would that mean that God doesn’t care? It is dangerous to predicate faith on this kind of ‘testing’.
This morning I am struck with how both wonder and danger are attributes of God that the Old Testament writers did not shy away from. To see God is to be destroyed! The presence of God is a like a consuming fire. His presence is also characterized by love. I am in awe.
I have a friend who lives on the edge economically. Not too long ago he found himself tipping over that precipice from the weight of unexpected expenses. He told me that he lined all his bills out on the table, turned his pant pockets inside out, and prayed to God.
The next day he received a check in the mail for $800 from Sociable Insecurity (as he is fond of calling it). This was almost exactly the amount he needed to cover his debts.
We grow up with these kinds of stories. They are wonderful….and dangerous. Their wonder lies in the affirmation of faith. “See, there really is a God! He really does care. Look what he did!” Their danger lies in making God small, reduced by the limits of our imagination. What if my friend had not received the money? What if the next day in the mail he received another bill? Would that mean that God doesn’t care? It is dangerous to predicate faith on this kind of ‘testing’.
This morning I am struck with how both wonder and danger are attributes of God that the Old Testament writers did not shy away from. To see God is to be destroyed! The presence of God is a like a consuming fire. His presence is also characterized by love. I am in awe.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
January 7, 2010
My mother’s maiden name is Wenger. Military records, I am told by my brother, the family archivist, show a certain Wenger enlisted in the Army of the Confederate States of America led by General Robert E. Lee. I believe he served in the Division led by Stonewall Jackson, the General who would not march on Sundays, but set that day aside to read his bible. The rest of the week he would go to war.
The Wengers are a huge family. The story is also told of a Wenger who hid in the crawlspace under the house when the Army of the Potomac came marching up the Shenandoah Valley on the way to Gettysburg.
I think of these two men this morning. Depending upon one’s perspective, one would be considered a coward and the other a servant. Or, perhaps one would be considered a mis-guided fool and the other a courageous resistor. War is a terrible thing. Human life should not be treated so inhumanely and yet it continues….
This morning, in the still gray peace of this beginning day, I feel the presence of both of my very distant Virginia ‘cousins’. How much the world has changed since their day…and how much it has remained the same.
My mother’s maiden name is Wenger. Military records, I am told by my brother, the family archivist, show a certain Wenger enlisted in the Army of the Confederate States of America led by General Robert E. Lee. I believe he served in the Division led by Stonewall Jackson, the General who would not march on Sundays, but set that day aside to read his bible. The rest of the week he would go to war.
The Wengers are a huge family. The story is also told of a Wenger who hid in the crawlspace under the house when the Army of the Potomac came marching up the Shenandoah Valley on the way to Gettysburg.
I think of these two men this morning. Depending upon one’s perspective, one would be considered a coward and the other a servant. Or, perhaps one would be considered a mis-guided fool and the other a courageous resistor. War is a terrible thing. Human life should not be treated so inhumanely and yet it continues….
This morning, in the still gray peace of this beginning day, I feel the presence of both of my very distant Virginia ‘cousins’. How much the world has changed since their day…and how much it has remained the same.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
January 6, 2010
I’ve been spending time planting garden the past few days. It is a sowing ‘in the mind’ and on paper…very pure in a certain sense. No weeding, watering, moles, or cats complicating the endeavor. Just some graphing paper, seed catalogues and a cup of tea. The seed catalogue is the authoritative text. It is different than reading the bible in many ways. Description, days to maturity, optimal growing conditions…it’s all laid out with numbers and certainties. But on one level it is very similar. It engages the imagination.
I will spend time with both ‘texts’ today…and be grateful.
I’ve been spending time planting garden the past few days. It is a sowing ‘in the mind’ and on paper…very pure in a certain sense. No weeding, watering, moles, or cats complicating the endeavor. Just some graphing paper, seed catalogues and a cup of tea. The seed catalogue is the authoritative text. It is different than reading the bible in many ways. Description, days to maturity, optimal growing conditions…it’s all laid out with numbers and certainties. But on one level it is very similar. It engages the imagination.
I will spend time with both ‘texts’ today…and be grateful.
Monday, January 4, 2010
I haven't posted anything for a while. It has given me room to think about what actually goes on with a blog. To 'post' something requires the assumption that there are folks out there in the 'electronic world' who would actually read it. But deeper than that is the assumption that I have something to say that would merit someone else taking the time to read it. It's like waking up in the morning and saying, "Hey, listen to what I have to say!" To take the time to reflect and post something presumes the acknowledgment that there are people interested. That is a sobering realisation for me.
But, damn it! I do have something to say! So, I'm going to say it through this blog. Not out of hubris or neediness but simply out of a sense that God has gifted me with certain talents, one of which is blogging! I am abandoning the response to the Oregonian headline and simply commiting to what in former times was a "Morning Prayer". I will wake up and post to the world......but especially to the 4 followers that I see I have.
But, damn it! I do have something to say! So, I'm going to say it through this blog. Not out of hubris or neediness but simply out of a sense that God has gifted me with certain talents, one of which is blogging! I am abandoning the response to the Oregonian headline and simply commiting to what in former times was a "Morning Prayer". I will wake up and post to the world......but especially to the 4 followers that I see I have.
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