An Interactive Sermon

[EXPLANATORY NOTE: I was the guest preacher at Central Christian Church in Fairmont on the Sunday before Thanksgiving (11/21/10), and in thinking about what to do, I decided to try an approach I had once seen about ten years ago. It was during a worship workshop in Pittsburgh, which was opened by Dr. Douglas Adams, professor at Pacific School of Religion in Berkeley, CA (if memory serves), who delivered a lecture on St. Matthew's genealogy using cue cards prompting audience responses similar to the ones I employ in this sermon. Ever since witnessing Dr. Adams' creative presentation, I have wanted to "borrow" his idea. And I did, and except for my lack of coordination in handling the cue cards, the sermon seemed to make a point--maybe not the intended point, but it was fun doing something different.]

The Sermon

You know the difference between parents' stories and grandparents' stories, don't you? Perhaps an illustration will help. Say as a parent you just learned that your son or daughter got a "D" on an exam. Chances are, you not only will let your child know how upset you are at his or her performance, but you may find yourself saying something about how hard you had to work to get through school and how you not only had big assignments in ten different classes every night, but you also had at least two hours of chores to do at home as well, to say nothing about having to slog two miles through a foot of snow to get to school everyday. Now, that's a parent's story. Sometimes as parents we make it seem as if life was so much tougher in our day, and inadvertently leave our children with the impression that they will never be able to measure up to all we did when we were their age. Our parent stories tend to make it seem as if we were perfect growing up.

But suppose later on our child who made the "D" happens to be talking with grandmother, and informs her how upset we parents are about the poor grade? Ah, then our son or daughter might learn some very interesting things, like the time grandma was upset and worried because the so-called perfect dad flunked math in the fifth grade and had to take it over again in summer school, or the time perfect mom and some of her friends played hooky from school for a whole week in order to hang out in Palatine Park during the Three Rivers' Festival.

The difference between parents' stories and grandparents' stories is that grandparents tend to tell the whole story whereas parents are apt to let children see only the good parts of their stories. And if the only stories children get to hear are the perfect parent stories, then they will feel inferior and as if they will never measure up. Parents' stories leave daughters and sons feeling as if no one has made such mistakes as they have. But grandparents' stories help youngsters to understand that everyone messes up.

I want to let you in on a secret. The Bible is not a collection of parents' stories. Rather, it is a huge library of grandparents' stories. Humans are forever messing up in the stories of the Bible, but they are still valued and appreciated and considered worthy of God's love and acceptance. Look, for example at the genealogy in St. Matthew's gospel that no one ever reads because the names are too hard to pronounce (like Shadrach, Meshac, Abednego, and Nebuchadnezzar, huh Susan?). Besides that, it is all so boring. But Matthew's genealogy tells the whole story of the history of God's people all the way up to the time Jesus was born. I'm going to need your help reading this genealogy. I have some cue cards (applaud, cheer, boo, hiss, huh?) and as I go through the genealogy, I'll hold them up and you respond as requested.

"An account of the genealogy of Jesus the Messiah (applaud & cheer), the son of David (applaud & cheer), the son of Abraham." (applaud) Abraham who left his father's home and kindred for a land God would show him, and through whom God would bless the nations of the earth (applaud). Yes, Abraham who told his wife to pretend she was his sister when they were in Egypt so that Pharaoh, upon seeing her beauty, would think that she was an eligible receiver of his affection and wouldn't kill Abraham in order to have Abraham's beautiful wife to himself. (Boo)

"Abraham was the father of Isaac (applaud), and Isaac the father of Jacob." (applaud) Yes, Jacob who tricked his brother Esau out of his birthright and stole the father's blessing that rightfully belonged to Esau. (Boo) Jacob whose favored treatment of his younger son, Joseph, led the other brothers to jealous rage. (Boo/Hiss)

"Jacob the father of Judah and his brothers (Huh?) and Judah the father of Perez (Huh?) by Tamar, and Perez the father of Hezron (Huh?), and Hezron the father of Aram, and Aram the father of Aminadab (Huh?), and Aminadab the father of Hahshon" (Huh?) the leader of the tribe of Judah. (Applaud) "And Nahshon the father of Salmon (Applaud) and Salmon the father of Boaz (Applaud) by Rahab" who according to scripture was one of the four most beautiful women in the world (Applaud & Cheer). But Rahab was a prostitute (Hiss) who on one occasion provided shelter to two spies from Israel and helped them escape the Canaanite secret police (Applaud & Cheer).

Now Boaz, son of Salmon & Rahab, was the wealthy and virtuous man from Bethlehem who, when he realized that a foreign woman whose name was Ruth was gleaning in his fields, moved very quickly to protect her from the men who were sure to have their way with her. An unmarried, beautiful foreign woman living in Israel would be considered fair game for any and all. But Boaz showed deep appreciation for her noble character and saw to it that no harm came to her and he even married her (Applaud & Cheer).

"And Boaz the father of Obed by Ruth, and Obed the father of Jesse, and Jesse the father of King David." (Applaud & Cheer) Yes, David who defeated Goliath and the Philistines. (Applaud & Cheer) David, the king who established Jerusalem as the Capitol of Israel. (Applaud and Cheer) David, who seduced Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah the Hittite while Uriah was away fighting in David's army. And when Bathsheba became pregnant with David's baby, David, in order to avoid a public scandal, commanded his general to place Uriah in the front lines and then pull back the rest of the troops so that Uriah would be killed. And he was. Then David was free to marry Bathsheba. (Boo & Hiss)

"And David was the father of Solomon by the wife of Uriah." Solomon, the wise king of Israel (Applaud) who promised his half-brother Adonijah, who was the rightful heir to the throne, that no harm would come to him if he did not contest Solomon's kingship. (Applaud) Adonijah agreed, but Solomon executed him anyway. (Boo)

"And Solomon the father of Reheboam, a bad king (Boo), and Rehoboam the father of Abijah, (Huh?) and Abijah the father of Asaph, (Huh?) and Asaph the father of Jehoshaphat" a good king who brought an end to the civil war between Israel and Judah. (Applaud)

"And Jehoshaphat the father of Joram," the king, who put his eight brothers to death when he became the king (Boo), and "Joram the father of Uzziah (Huh?), and Uzziah the father of Jotham, and Jotham the father of Ahaz," an evil king who is remembered for his idolatry, a man who even sacrificed his own sons by burning them to death in his pagan religious practices. (Boo & Hiss)

"And Ahaz the father of Hezekiah," who was an able and vigorous ruler and a pious king (Applaud), and Hezekiah the father of Manasseh," another evil king who restored Baal worship and the practice of sacrificing humans. (Boo & Hiss) "And Manasseh the father of Amos (Huh?), and Amos the father of Josiah." Now Josiah was the king who rid the land of Baal worship and the practice of human sacrifice once and for all, and restored the religious practices of Judaism. He is known as one of Israel's greatest kings. (Applaud & Cheer) "And Josiah the father of Jechoniah and his brothers (Huh?) at the time of the deportation to Babylon. After the deportation to Babylon: Jechoniah was the father of Salathiel (Huh?) and Salathiel the father of Zerubbabel." Zerubbabel was the king who resumed the building of the Temple in Jerusalem after the Exiles returned from Babylon. (Applaud)

"And Zerubbabel the father of Abiud and Abiud the father of Eliakim and Eliakim the father of Azor and Azor the father of Zadok and Zadok the father of Achim and Achim the father of Eliud and Eliud the father of Eleazar and Eleazar the father of Matthan and Matthan the father of Jacob (Huh?) and Jacob the father of Joseph (Applaud) the husband of Mary (Applaud) of whom Jesus was born, who is called the Messiah." (Applaud & Cheer)

That's the whole story as grandparents would tell it. Both positive and negative details are included. If these persons, despite their foibles and flaws found favor in the eyes of God, then maybe there's hope for the rest of us.

And perhaps that is a word that can add meaning to our annual Thanksgiving observance this coming Thursday. Is Thanksgiving possible if there are places in our lives where we feel that we have failed others or they have failed us, if we harbor feelings of hurt, ill-will, resentment, disapproval, disappointment or negativity toward others or ourselves? How can we be truly thankful if we do not see how all of life is a gift to be received and appreciated?

Mary Corita Kent, in her book Footnotes and Headlines says something very interesting in this regard. In her words,

"It seems that perhaps there is nothing unholy, nothing unrelated. And that, as we fit things together, synthesize rather than analyze, we might be coming closer to God's view, from which all must somehow fit together. And we must be more careful about stamping out evil, or hating anything, because we know that in the past and in the present, many people and things have become tragically destroyed in the name of good....Evil maybe not seeing well enough....so perhaps to become less evil, we need only to see more, see what we didn't see before. And here everybody is in the game. Things look different to different people, depending on where they stand. And if we can share views, we would get a larger vision. No single group can do it alone--the job is too big, and we can only make it if we work it out together."

How distressing it has been in our recent political climate to watch our leaders accusing opponents of horrendous evil, shouting boo and hissing a lot, and stubbornly refusing to "work it out together." How sad it is in any arena, including the church, when differences lead to misunderstandings causing us to see one side as all good and the other side as all evil. "Evil may be not seeing well enough!"

Thanksgiving includes an awareness of how all of life's experiences, even those that seem to deny life's goodness, are a part of a larger, all-inclusive panorama, a much broader vista. Thanksgiving is the recognition that grandparents' stories are truly the ones we need to hear. They are the stories that help us understand that even though we all mess up, we are still a part of God's never-failing love that covers it all. Jesus, according to St. Matthew's genealogy, is the culmination of generations of human fumbling and fault. This is the same Jesus who offers us still as his disciples the gift and power of a love that accepts us all, left, right, in the middle, Jew Christian, Muslim, atheist, African-American, Latino, Asian, Gay, Straight, rich, poor, young or old.

Remember, the first disciples, like typical teenagers--no, forgive me, teenagers: like typical human beings--quickly found ways to abuse Jesus' love that covers it all. Judas betrayed Jesus into the hands of the authorities--but Jesus never spoke a word against Judas or ever declared null and void his love for Judas. Peter denied Jesus, repeating three times, "I don't even know him!" That must have hurt Jesus deeply--yet Jesus ignored this attempt to throw off his love and loved Peter still. The remaining disciples ran and hid during and after the crucifixion. They didn't want to be seen with Jesus or vaguely associated with him--yet Jesus' amazing love sought them out and covered them with the reassurance of resurrection. Thank God for the grandparents' method of telling the whole story.

A Church Worthy

Last Thursday's minor surgical procedure did meet with one irksome complication, which to describe might cause contorted facial expressions among those who read this, especially if I were to include an account of the remedy. So suffice it to say that "everything came out" okay and all is well.

Despite the extended period of discomfort, there was a delightful upside to the time spent in and around Shadyside UPMC hospital in Pittsburgh. Polly and I stayed in the hospital's Family House across Centre Avenue from the medical center, a six-floor apartment building that provides beautiful, spacious and comfortable accommodations for patients and/or their families. As helpful as having living quarters close by was, the truly enjoyable aspect of our six-day sojourn into Steeler territory came on Sunday.

Just two doors down from the Family House is a church, First United Methodist Church to be precise, an imposing gigantic structure that probably ranks as one of our country's finest examples of Romanesque church architecture dating from the late 1800s. Because of limited mobility, the decision to attend church two doors down was a "no-brainer." Though some misgivings did surface when I noticed a huge banner on the lawn advertising Wednesday evening "Worship Jams." "Ugh!" I thought, "Are we in for another one of those hip-hop jiving to Jesus jamborees?" Quickly, I decided that before entering the sanctuary I would skim the worship bulletin and, if my suspicions were confirmed, inconspicuously slip back out of the church.

What greeted me, however, when entering the building, was harmonious choral music emanating from the sanctuary. The choir was warming up and practicing the anthem for the day. "All right!" I thought, "This sounds promising," as, indeed, it was.

Being early, there were only a few others scattered throughout the nave, an African-American couple nearby, he dressed in a beige suit, she in a stylish dress.. A few others had taken seats too far away to see clearly. As with most "respectable" Methodists, I chose a seat nearer the rear of the sanctuary and allowed the practicing choir to assist my quieting of mind and spirit in preparation for worship. The choir soon finished rehearsing, and rather than rushing off to don robes, there in the sanctuary stillness the choristers, one by one, offered individual prayers; the words were inaudible to one seated in the rear; nonetheless, a gentle hum formed by the many voices seemed more than the sum of the individual parts.

The choir then exited the sanctuary and a flurry of activity began: the pastor checking his notes in the pulpit (which is elevated about four feet above human contradiction); acolytes not yet garbed in their acolyte apparel, fetching their candle-lighters in jeans and Nikes; the music director placing a pair of conga drums in the chancel; and, worshippers filtering into the pews.

What an array of humanity gathered in that sanctuary! African-Americans, Latinos, Asians, Caucasians, Gays, Straights, children, parents, students, professors, senior citizens, some fashionably outfitted, others casually or plainly attired--a microcosm of the globe! A man appearing to be in his fifties was seated in the front row, his disability somewhat more obvious than ours are, and yet, congregant after congregant went out of his or her way to carry on friendly conversations with this lone occupant of the front row. A young woman rose from her seat, walked up the center aisle toward the rear doors, her tight slacks sporting worn places, holes even, that would have raised disapproving glares from the typical churchgoers I have known over the years. Three rows directly ahead of me was a couple probably in their mid-twenties who held each other in warm embraces throughout the service, both women taking turns resting each other's arm around the other and their heads on each other's shoulders.

A beautiful Latino family consisting of mom, dad, and two sons, one about three years old, the other an infant asleep in his carrier, sat in the pew in front of me. Occasionally, dad would reach across his two children and place his arm affectionately on his wife's shoulder, or rub his older son's head. When we stood to sing the first hymn ("Let All Things Now Living"), something about my voice (hopefully not too earsplitting) caught the little boy's attention. He turned around and looked up at me; I in return smiled back at him. He quickly turned away. That began a ritual of his looking at me and my smiling back and then his turning away, a sort of variation of "peek-a-boo." Shortly before the end of the hymn, I smiled and waved, and this time the little boy smiled and waved back. Our game ended when the hymn did. What a sign of health and wholeness it is when children in the midst of an overwhelming space, yet in their parents' presence, feel trusting enough to venture out into the surrounding environment.

When it was "Family Time" (the spot in the service for the children to gather on the steps of the chancel, some accompanied by parents), the Latino dad and son walked hand-in-hand to join the more than thirty other children and a few other parents for the children's message. Afterwards, dad took his son to another part of the building where supervised activities are held for young children, and then rejoined his wife and infant son in the sanctuary. Intermittently, this beautiful young couple held hands or extended arms around shoulders during the rest of the service.

The worship service included Holy Communion. (Unlike some traditions that observe the sacrament every week, United Methodists have struggled to follow their founder's [John Wesley] insistence on "frequent communion," but the common practice today in many Methodist congregations of holding communion on the first Sunday of each month is actually closer to Wesley's instruction than at any other time in American Methodism.) Since "communion Sundays" mean that the service will take longer, most UM pastors plan shorter sermons/meditations to help keep the service from being too long. That was so at this service. Pastor Bob Wilson's message was brief, but very masterful in unpacking the day's scripture lesson, helping us to understand that the early church's emphasis on koinonia, which is most often translated "fellowship," is a far richer concept than mere friendliness. He argued convincingly and correctly that koinonia encompasses the kind of compassionate family connection that accepts and strives together in the midst of both suffering and joy, conflicts and consensus, in times of chaos and times of contentment. "Pastor Bob" went on to describe the history of how in Shadyside First Church that deepened sense of family has manifested itself through the years, and how the same quality continues to be lived-out, not only within the walls of the church building, but in the surrounding community as well. Witnessing the wide acceptance of people from all walks of life actually happening in what was turning out to be a truly enriching time of worship coupled with Pastor Bob's words pointing to the same reality, I found myself in one of those rare instances when word and actions coalesce to drive home the point. What an awesome time of worship visiting at Shadyside First was turning out to be.

Of course, given my musical propensities, the icing on the cake came with the great choral and congregational singing, including singing contemporary versions of the traditional communion responses (Sanctus, Memorial Acclamation, and Great Amen). The song that concluded the service, which I had never heard before, was a kind of calypso rendering with only the Conga drums accompanying:

I believe that peace will come.

I believe that hope will rise.

I believe that love will thrive.

Shadyside's Mission Statement is succinct:

• First United Methodist Church of Pittsburgh affirms that God's grace is available to all.
• We prayerfully seek to openly welcome all of God's children regardless of Christian perspective, education, economic condition, race, gender, national origin, physical and mental abilities, sexual orientation, age, or marital status.
• We commit ourselves to be in ministry for and with all persons, independent of society's regard.
• God blesses us all so that together we can be God's instruments of blessing to the world.

I can't say, because no one really knows what the church to come will be, but I so fervently want to believe that the Christian communities that survive will look and act like this amazing congregation.

Paradise Today

(Explanation: A practice begun by our current pastor, Josh Patty, at Central Christian Church involves mostly laypersons presenting meditations on each of the Seven Words From the Cross on Good Friday evening. The service this year was particularly moving and the meditations were genuinely reflective of each presenter's current faith understanding. Five laypersons prepared and delivered meditations, and Josh and I did the remaining two. Mine was based on the Second Word: "Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise." [St. Luke 23:39-43] It appears below.)

Jesus isn't the only person executed this day. According to the gospels, he is crucified among common criminals. Jesus, having spent his entire ministry associating with the wrong kind of people, outcasts and the like, now dies keeping the same questionable company. Luke's gospel specifies that there were only two criminals crucified with Jesus, one on his right, the other on his left. One of the malefactors, no doubt in anguish with no hope left, does what probably he has always done: he unleashes all the self-loathing of his years on someone else, this time joining the spectators and soldiers at the cross in hurling taunts and poking fun at Jesus. But the other criminal interrupts his partner in crime, rebukes him and points out the stark contrast between the two of them and Jesus. They deserve what is happening to them; Jesus is innocent. This second man then, looking to Jesus, pleads for mercy, and Jesus replies: "Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise."

There are several directions we could take in applying this story to our lives. We could focus on the first criminal's pervasive bitterness and hostility, exploring ways to keep our lives from ending up like that. Certainly, we wouldn't lack for information and advice, what with the self-help books in print or the gurus on TV and the Internet that are as innumerable as the stars. Or, we could look more closely at the second criminal, the one who was penitent and who came to Jesus' defense. Many speakers have taken that tack, usually concluding with a kind of morality lesson that insists one has to ask for forgiveness before he or she can be admitted into heaven. Or we might zoom our lens more tightly on the crowd, seeing in them how easily public assemblies can turn into vicious mobs bent on violence. Such a focus would certainly resonate with much that is happening today. Or, there's still another course, that of looking at the main character himself: Jesus. Surely there would be much room for speculation on how, in the midst of unimaginably severe and sadistic suffering, anyone could still reach out to others with such deep compassion. But that kind of wondrous love really is beyond our ability to comprehend, and only silence and awe can approach the mystery of such amazing grace.

None of those possible directions for reflection, however, has seized my imagination tonight. Instead, my attention is being captivated not by any of the characters involved in the plot, but by a place, the one that is named: "Paradise." That word appears only three times in the Hebrew Scriptures and three times in the Christian Scriptures. Even so, it's where the spotlight will be directed in these thoughts.

But first we need a clearer understanding of how people in Jesus' day viewed the world in which they lived, their perception of the cosmos, their cosmology, if you will. We know that to them the world was flat, and it was a rather limited area surrounded by waters that none dared to venture out into very far. Sometimes we call their world view the "triple-decker universe." There was the deck on which they lived, and another underneath, which at the time of Jesus was beginning to be regarded as the space where those who lived less than righteous lives would go when they died. And then, above them was the third deck where God and the heavenly hosts resided. It was from that lofty height that God could observe all the goings-on below and be ready to respond with either retaliation or restoration. God also attended to the administration of the daily operations of the heavenly realm: making sure that celestial beings responsible for pushing the greater light by day, and the lesser light by night across the sky, and those in charge of lowering the lighted lanterns, which were especially helpful to travelers in finding their way in the dark, that all of these heavenly beings were carrying out their respective responsibilities.

While the divine dwelling was just beyond human reach, it was really rather close. Indeed, one biblical story tells of an attempt to build a tower tall enough to reach it.

I don't need to point out how woefully inadequate that view of the cosmos is today, do I? Space exploration, the Hubble Telescope, unmanned satellites launched into deep interstellar regions have drastically altered our world view. We can no longer entertain fairytale fantasies of being able to reach the upper deck if, like Jack, we have the magic beans that will yield a plant tall enough to get us there. So how do we conceive of Paradise, or heaven, or the Kingdom of God, or whatever we wish to call it in our kind of world today?

Curiously, glimmerings of answers to that question are coming not from scriptural or theological speculation, but from scientific inquiry, particularly Quantum Physics. Thanks to the influence of a colleague who is, more importantly, a friend, my reading of late has found me slogging through the enormously complicated "field" (those of you familiar with Quantum Theory will catch the double entendre of the word "field")...this field of which I understand very little, but at least enough to get some inkling of how life may continue.

Now this is where this reflection is going to take a weird turn, and if as a result of my having issued that warning, there is a mass exodus out of here (or on second thought, given the size of this Good Friday gathering, it couldn't be anything more than a dwindling departure--but if that happens), I'll certainly be sorry for alerting you ahead of time.

We've often been told that light travels at a speed of 186,282.4 miles per second. Actually that's not always the case, but for now it's close enough. The basic particles that combine to make up light waves are called photons. Physicists with the use of lasers have been able to conduct experiments showing how photons seem to behave strangely. Indeed, sometimes it seems as if the photons know they are being observed, and that, in turn, appears to influence different outcomes, contrary to scientific expectations. Not only so, but pairs of twin or "entangled" photons, even though they are seemingly separated and sent to opposite ends of space, behave as if they are still connected, as if there is no space between them, and if one of the twins is manipulated by scientists, the other seems to know and duplicates the action. This is a phenomenon that Einstein relegated to the realm of mystery, calling it "Spooky action at a distance."

Okay, this is getting too heady. What's the point?

Our bodies will die. We know that. But what if there are parts of who we are, particles of our lives that never die? What if the energy that is who each of us really is, what if the energy fields that comprise each of our loved ones who have died, what if the penitent thief on the cross, and what if Jesus himself still surrounded us and flowed through us and we through them? What if they are not far away but as close to us as photons are to each other even though they appear to us to be eons apart? How often I have heard people comment that in particularly trying times they have felt the abiding nearness of their loved ones upholding them and giving them strength. Might it be that Jesus really is present right now and at all times urging us on toward the same compassionate purposes he exemplified, even on the cross? We are still tied down to the earth and, therefore, our perceptions of what is possible are confined. But it may be that who each of us really is will continue.

Emerson, soon after the death of his son, wrote, "Our life is not so much threatened as our perceptions. I grieve that grief that can teach me nothing, nor carry me one step into real nature." Perhaps we are more closely related to all of creation in all times than we can possibly imagine. Maybe heaven is closer than when people saw the cosmos as a triple-decker structure, and maybe we are already in Paradise today. St. Paul affirmed as much when he said that there is nothing in life or death that will ever be able to separate us from the realm of God's love.

so-SO

[NOTE: This blog entry was begun right after Thanksgiving, 2009, but aborted until this morning when I decided to revisit it.]

It happens every Thanksgiving: the airways fill-up with reruns of sappy Christmas movies, especially on the Hallmark channel. Oh sure, there are always the network offerings whose appeal leans more toward horrific tales of life so disgustingly repugnant that they leave us viewers fearing that the only viable option is one of curling up into a fetal position in the corner of the closet, hoping the macabre doesn’t find us—you know. FOX, CNN, CNBC, MSNBC.

Talk about opposite ends of the spectrum! One end presents a picture of life in which, despite sometimes seemingly overwhelming obstacles, truth, justice and the (never mind) always come out on top and the indomitable spirit is always triumphant. The other dumps us into a morass of powerlessness and oppression. Some choice!

So, why am I such a sap for those pleasant Christmas phantasms depicting life as a never-ending rose garden with only an occasional thorn in the flesh? Yeah, I know, it’s probably not considered manly to admit to being hooked by such romantic drivel, particularly when it appears on the 12-inch set in the kitchen while baking cookies for a church reception. But that’s what happened the other night when the TV surfing settled upon a movie about a father and son and a semi-trailer sized Christmas tree, all three caught in relationships on the brink of destruction, dangling over the edge. Predictably and happily, the tree was rescued from fire and chainsaw, and at the same time, father and son and even the President of the U. S., all, ended up in relationships of peace, harmony and love.

Good grief! Everyone knows that’s not the way life is! Christmas approaches, and inevitably with it come tragic memories of Christmases past where life was anything but peaceful and harmonious: memories such as officiating at an afternoon funeral of a three-year-old who was to have been our “littlest angel” in the Christmas Eve pageant that same evening, or the way-too-many accidental deaths of teenagers, or the young woman who was murdered by her policeman husband. Jesus! If such recollections invade my Advent year after year, what must those who have really unbearable burdens to bear suffer at a time when the public façade is one of festivity? Is this, in some small measure, what its like to suffer from PTSD?

So, maybe the allure of oodles of sweet smelling stories this time of year has something to do with a desperate need to offset the “so-SO” experiences of life. Individuals, families, societies and nations know all to well the reality of being “so Shut Out.” Disease, disaster, divorce, disability, destruction due to disagreements between persons and whole societies are ever prevalent, bringing with them the gruesome “SO” phenomenon.

BLOG ABORTED

It was here that I stopped cooking this “so-SO” blog entry last November, and now it is some three months later and I am returning it to the stove. Why? No doubt, many ingredients are bubbling in the pot, some of which were added so long ago that they are lost to memory, even though their pungent aroma and acerbic flavor still infuse the air. What they are might be recalled in future posts.

But quite unexpectedly when I wasn’t paying attention, someone threw another substance into the boiling caldron. The remnant of this new ingredient is on my desk in front of me and it looks as if it could make for a very delightful dish. But you know what they say about appearances.

Actually, this new ingredient is an invitation. A former congregation has sent Polly and me a notice bidding us to attend their second three-day church homecoming reunion, an event held every decade. You’d think I would get all fuzzy inside at the prospect of a three-day festival that will include “food, fun, music, and the opportunity to experience the changes to our church.” Sounds like quite a recipe.

But this is one “dish” that will prove far too foul for me to even consider trying. It’s sort of like my wife’s aversion to greasy spoon restaurants; if she’s along, no matter how starving we may be, we keep on trucking until we find a familiar, franchised establishment.

So what do I find so tasteless about this particular fare? Oh, how shall I count the ways? Hmmmm, let’s see.

1. This was the “diner” that when I first arrived deluged me with the recipes of my predecessor, reminding me in one way or another that if I was to be of any use as the new “chef,” I would have to be as zealous for the ways they convinced him to serve up faith as he was after their inducements. As one of the dear saints there told my wife, “We’re going to turn your husband into an evangelist the way we did (predecessor’s name), to which my wife aptly responded, “Lots of luck with that.” This fervor on their part was aided by my predecessor who had moved to the next county, but who didn’t have enough to keep him busy in his new “kitchen,” because he kept coming back to the patrons of my employ and, on one occasion dropped in on me after having made his rounds in my neighborhood, to let me know how I should be doing my job. When one is god-like, one is entitled to tell other people what to do, even if that leads to “so-SO” experiences.

2. This was the “eatery” where the volunteer assistant chef (retired) continued to dine, but was not permitted to perform professional duties as he had before. I knew that because the personnel committee strictly forbade me from allowing him any access to doing things he did prior to my arrival. It didn’t help that the committee hadn’t informed the former assistant, and so, feeling “so-SO,” he blamed me for blocking his continued professional functioning. His anger at having been locked-out of the kitchen erupted in the form of anonymous letters to leaders of the diners’ association and sowing seeds of dissension in other ways. The Chairman of the Diners’ Association felt particularly aggrieved by this perceived assault on the poor old, dear assistant. So, again, both of us ended up “so-SO.”

3. This was the “dinner club” that encountered numerous problems with vandalism and drug-related trafficking in and around the property after hours. As head chef, I had been instructed by the property managers (Trustees) to solicit the aid of the police, making sure they knew we were serious about signing warrants to arrest violators who were caught. This became a rather unpleasant job responsibility in that the perpetrators were all from the very wealthy and influential families of the neighborhood. One night when I had been called out by the police around one a.m. to swear out warrants on four young adults, ages 17-21, I and the police were regaled with, “You can’t arrest us; don’t you know who our parents are!” (They were arrested.) And always after such actions were taken, I would receive calls from parents faulting our establishment, which was supposed to be “forgiving,” and in other ways blaming us for being so heartless. It was difficult to understand how these parents could be “so-SO” castigating, especially since they were able in every instance to get their precious children off without so much as a slap on the wrist. One wonders if these were the same exemplars of virtue that slashed my tires in the parking lot when I was working late one night, or called my home around one in the morning on Sunday with a string of epithets about my character and a very graphic threat on my life, a threat that was followed-up on Monday evening when a hearse arrived at my house to pick up my remains. Talk about being “so-SO.”

4. Yeah, I’m stretching the allegory of dining beyond the breaking point, and while many other illustrations abound about a “so-SO” time of life, I’ll conclude with one more. The dear saints, who didn’t succeed in convincing me that their recipes were the only ones that tasted the only way cuisine is supposed to taste, circulated a petition to have me terminated. In the chain of restaurants for which I worked at the time, that was an illegal procedure. (The UMC rules are very strict about that.) But pressure was brought to bear on the personnel committee, and in October the committee informed me that they would recommend to the chain headquarters that I be replaced when it was time for such changes in June. The remaining eight months were spent in protecting the patrons from the behind-the-scenes maneuverings so that those who were pleased with my fare would not decide to patronize other establishments. Then at the appropriate time, I would announce my decision to seek a position elsewhere, and that would be followed by a fine farewell party, and the restaurant could go on unhindered by confusion among the clientele. It was the only time I knew the “so-SO” experience of being fired.

Obviously, this is a one-sided reporting of events that were as complicated as it gets. And, in spite of the aforementioned details, many deep and lasting friendships originated in this “so-SO” period. Those friendships, however, are too significant to be based on whether or not I attend some supercilious silliness. Indeed, those friendships are of the quality that would protect me from face-to-face encounters with people and places of pain. Even Jesus knew the wisdom of pounding the dust from off your feet and moving on. And, as it turned out, the place to which I was sent became a delightful departure from the preceding four years, one in which being wounded was replaced more and more by being whole. You might say it was like being kicked upstairs.

Actually, the next place to which I went helped to restore my belief that “so-SO” experiences are not what life is meant to be. Perhaps those seemingly inane Christmas specials have a point. We are right to resist those forces that would have us reduce life to “so-SO” specters that stalk our days and nights. Our instincts are right that tell us that the ways of harmony, peace and love are what life is meant to be. So be it!

Prayer for City Council

Prayer for City Council
Fairmont, WV
2/23/10

Eternal Giver of Life, Spirit that pervades all that is,
You care for all life, and Your care extends to each of us for good.
By Your grace we create communities in which
we may cooperate for the mutual benefit of everyone.

Grant in this gathering of government this evening,
That we may be aware of your ongoing presence and guidance.

We love our city set on a mount called “Fair.”
We recall the ways life is more “Fair” because we live here:

We are grateful for first responders—the police, firefighters,
EMS personnel, those who operate snow-removal
equipment or who rush to repair broken waterlines
and severed power cables.

We are grateful for the many behind-the-scenes supervisors,
clerical workers, and other individuals who field the
innumerable telephone calls and manage limited
resources so that help can get to where it is most needed.

We are grateful for all in our “Fair” city whose service is
marked by genuine care for quality of life in this place.

May those who lead in our city’s council and committees,
those who sound the sirens when there is trouble,
those who ensure legitimate and wise use of financial resources,
those who do business here or provide needed services,
and, indeed, all without whom our city would not be as “Fair,”
be guided by a vision that is “Fair,”
a vision calling forth the kind of courage
that thinks not of selfish benefit
but of those attributes that make life whole and healthy.

And help us all, as citizens of this fair city,
to do our best to support those who lead us and work for us
as they do their best to serve our common good.