When Power Permits Perversion

Well, this morning’s news tells of the NCAA’s penalties on Penn State for its role in the Jerry Sandusky debacle.  Penn State, wisely, seems appropriately repentant, and rightly compliant, to the NCAA’s rulings.  Joe Paterno’s formerly stellar record has been irreparably tarnished, and his statue, now a symbol of how winning as “the only thing” will go so far as to torture innocent children, is no longer visible in front of Beaver Stadium.  (Perhaps the bronze could be melted down and remolded into a depiction of the “Massacre of the Innocents” and then returned to the entrance of the stadium.)

How is it that competent, reasonable professionals can fall into such ignominy?  That question, which is probably on the minds of most of us following this reign of rape, has triggered a memory out of my own past.  One of the blessings of retirement is that matters, which formerly were submerged during the busy years of day-to-day career activity, make their way to conscious awareness again.  The developmental psychologist, Erik Erikson, argues that this is a normal process in the final stage of life, as if the individual psyche/soul is doing a review of all that has happened, asking which of one’s life experiences have been worth it and which have not.

The memory involves the son of a wealthy financier/industrialist who, unlike his father, became wealthy as well, the old-fashioned way: he inherited the largess his father had earned.  The father, Wheeler H. Bachman, of Wheeling, WV, fame, landed his wealth by investing in the dry goods market, later expanding his capital in the stock market as well as other industrial exploits, including the Carr China Company of Grafton, WV, not too far from where our family now resides.  (When in 1952 “WH” learned that the employees at Carr China were considering the possibility of unionizing, he promptly closed down the plant, and today there is no remnant left of its ever having existed.  Yes, “WH” was a staunch Republican.)

His son, Wheeler Carr Bachman, the recipient of the Bachman estate, was in his forties/fifties during my teenage years.  “WC” never worked a day in his life, and I doubt that he even served on boards of banks or charitable organizations, as had his father before him, but I’m not sure of that.  But he did find time to engage in other activities that shall become clear in a moment.

As a high school senior I was hired as a “Desk Clerk” at the Wheeling YMCA, a position that included checking-in “Y” members to the various athletic “clubs” housed in the facility, operating the switchboard, cashier responsibilities such as receiving rental income from the men who lived on the residential floors or collecting sales receipts from purchasers of “Y” t-shirts, shorts, jock-straps, candy, etc., and other clerical chores.  Also, when the night clerk was off or on vacation, I filled-in for him, and that included some additional chores, mostly custodial in the areas adjacent to the front desk.

“WC” had a reputation around the “Y” of spending inordinate amounts of time with high school boys, and as a member of the Business Men’s Club, the most exclusive area in the “Y,” which included such amenities as a sauna, tanning lamp and even a full-time masseur, I often checked him, along with his young “guests,” into the BMC.  It was just another part of the job that one performed automatically without giving it any thought.  Sure there were rumors, and some of his “regular” companions let it be known that “WC” was very generous toward them (Were they subtly soliciting other companions per his request?), but still, being naïve, any thought of something more than what appeared as a charitable interest in young lads quickly dispersed, and the routine carried on.

But, one time while on night duty, reality slapped me is if right in the face.  Evidently “WC” and his entourage entered the BMC while the clerk before I came on duty was working.  As it was way past closing time for the athletic side of the building, I assumed that those facilities were closed for the day.  All was quiet as I proceeded to mop and buff the lobby floor when, off to the right I noticed a bright light emanating from underneath the door to the BMC.  Hmmmm, someone forgot to turn out the lights.  I took out my master key and let myself in to the area just in time to see six or seven naked boys scattering in all directions.  The one young man who seemed to be “WC’s” regular bud, a rather cocky fellow, approached me in a threatening guise, his cocky manner not the only thing obviously standing out.  But before anything was spoken, WC followed right behind him, speaking words I can’t remember in uneasy tones I do remember.  “WC’s” face was covered with (how can I say this delicately) male reproductive fluids.  I walked out of the BMC, allowing the door to slam behind me.

The next day I made an appointment to talk with the “Y” General Secretary, the equivalent of the Executive Director or CEO of this purportedly “Christian” organization.  After all, its stated purpose was to put Christian principles into practice by developing a healthy “body, mind and spirit.”  The “Y” logo, a red triangle, is meant to symbolize these three sides of essential human development.

The General Secretary’s response to what I had witnessed and reported was as casual as his rosy-cheeked appearance as he leaned back in his overstuffed chair behind his desk smoking his pipe.  He mentioned ancient Greek culture in particular, and explained in words I do not remember that what I had witnessed has always gone on and there was no need pursue the matter.  To do so would be to bring disfavor on the “Y,” and we certainly would not want that to happen.  The twin facts that the high school boys were probably younger than the age of consent at the time (21 in those days) and that sexual favors were being elicited in exchange for money (legally a crime even today, I believe) hadn’t occurred to me when I spoke with the General Secretary, and he certainly seemed to be unaware of such considerations, or at least, he didn’t mention them.  So, that’s where the matter ended, and until this blog, it has so far as I know never been mentioned again.

This erection of an episode out of the deep niches of memory helps me understand something of what went on at Penn State, and chances are that if what happened there in the last (what? 20, 30 maybe even 40) years had come out back in the late fifties or early sixties, it still would have been brushed under the carpet, but the difference being that it would have stayed a secret.  And the Penn State football legends would have remained permanently imbedded in bronze for all time.

Please understand, this is not a condemnation of homosexuality.  Quite the contrary, I am absolutely in favor of consenting same-gendered adults who are in love being able to find fulfillment and the depth of wonder resident in their relationship.  Unfortunately, my denomination (The United Methodist Church) forbids its clergy from participating in marriage ceremonies of same-gendered individuals.  If that were not the case, I would delight in the opportunity to bless love wherever I could find it.

But that’s another issue.  What went on at Penn State involved corruption, and consequent violence against children, of inconceivable proportions.  It was rape and rape is not about love ever; rather, it’s raw hatred in all of its hideousness.  The actions condoned by top-level administrative officials were committed against mostly disadvantaged minors, reinforcing once again the notion that those less obviously favored among us are to be thought of as slaves.  It’s okay to “use” defenseless lower-class youth, even to ridicule and humiliate them, because their purpose in life is to gratify the needs of those whom God must love more—those with extraordinary power and wealth must be more deserving.  Even Joel Olsteen and his Gospel of Prosperity agrees.  Not!

The one hopeful prospect in this sad episode of human degradation is that, whereas in the fifties and sixties Penn State probably would have gotten away with it, as did Wheeler Carr Bachman, a new day of openness and the technological miracle of instant communication has made it less and less likely that such things will ever be swept under the rug again

Beware the One Meeting the Bus

Some church people may not realize that there is a secret code among pastors.  It is comprised of aphorisms whose meanings are readily understood by clerics, but not so much by parishioners.  One such saying is “Beware the person who meets the bus!”   This advice has been a big help in most of my transitions to new congregations.  As a pastor I have served nine congregations including two as a student pastor during college years and one as an interim post-retirement.  All but three of these pastoral charges have verified the truth of the maxim.

The person who meets the bus is the one who writes or phones you before your arrival in your new church, or meets you at the airport, or travels many miles to spend time with you in your former parish even before your new pastoral responsibilities have begun.  Usually such contacts are outside the usual protocol for a new pastoral start-up, or the result of over-zealous machinations in order to be first in line at the bus stop.

Most of the time these contacts are attempts to ingratiate oneself, to cunningly work oneself into a favorable position with the new pastor.  Most of the time such individuals prove to be power mongers who want an edge up on being sure that things in the congregation go their way.  So this initial meeting with the prospective new pastor is an attempt to work around the stated procedure for introducing the pastor to the church, and at the same time check him/her out to see how malleable the supposedly unsuspecting parson will be to the usurper’s own controlling agenda.

One such episode early in my pastoral career involved a gentleman who showed up at the parsonage right after we had moved in and before my first Sunday in the new church.  Often people show up unannounced bearing gifts of food and other expressions of welcome.  That is a very good thing and deeply appreciated!  But this particular individual bore no gifts, made some inquiry about my being the new pastor, and from there babbled on in a bumbling attempt to curry favor.  His illusions of having succeeded must have ended quickly when at the first Board Meeting after my arrival a scheme he devised that would have served his self-interest found no support from me and was handily voted down by the Board.  His interest in the church dwindled after that.  His effort lacked the cleverness of others I have encountered along the way.

Another person learned that my practice for many years was to take a long walk on Sundays prior to time for me to be at church for Sunday School and Worship.  These lone excursions were meant to provide an opportunity to prepare my mind and spirit for worship as well as review the intended sermon and liturgy for the day.  Also, they were timed so that I usually showed up at church ready to attend to unfinished details and enjoy the day’s interaction.

Learning quickly after the beginning of my pastorate in this church the route I usually followed on my pre-church walk, this gentleman waited for me near my starting point and joined me on the jaunt—not once, not twice, but many times.  He wasn’t as bumbling as the fellow mentioned above, but clearly his agenda was the same—to win over my support of his agenda for the church.  I should have explained to him how important these walks were for my preparation for church, but intuitively suspecting that his sensitivities might not be able to handle it, I simply endured his intrusions until he figured out that his “cozying up” didn’t make a difference in how I saw my administrative role.

Perhaps the occurrence that stands out the most in 46 years of ministerial memory involved a retired pastor (who ought to have known better) who as a retiree took on a number of leadership roles in the church where I was to be appointed, and who, unbeknownst to him, was being edged out of some of these roles by the Staff-Parish Relations Committee (the advisory committee to church staff).  The method of the SPRC was rather circuitous: I was not to give this person any responsibilities that would involve him in worship leadership (their estimation was that he had lost most of his fluency in such duties), but neither was I to let him know that his being “fired” from worship leadership was their doing.

So when a letter arrived from him a month before I moved to this new church, I had already heard of him.  The letter was a summons actually.  I was to meet him at 9 a.m. in front of Wesley Chapel on Wednesday of the week of Annual Conference (the state-wide legislative gathering of our denomination held at West Virginia Wesleyan College prior to pastors being moved to their new congregations).  The letter even included the fact that he would be wearing a green leisure suit at this “bus stop” meeting, so that I could easily spot him amid the crowd that usually gathered around the Chapel entrances.  I went as ordered on the appointed day, but because of the Conference schedule, there was no time for an extended conversation.  He may have envisioned that we would sit together at the Conference business session, giving him time to be sure I understood how important his role in the church was. (Possibly he sensed that some things were about to change.)  Outside of a few gratuitous remarks and an indication that we would talk more when I arrived at the church, we parted and went separate ways.

He did stop by the office several times during those early weeks of my tenure at this congregation.  Our conversations were casual, but he never broached the topic of worship leadership.  Since I was mandated to bar him from such participation, I took the easier step of not bringing it up either.  Today, I would handle the situation much more directly, putting the responsibility on the SPRC where it belonged.  But, alas, too often we grow smart too late.

The rejected retired pastor retaliated.  He began writing anonymous letters to me that catalogued all of my many faults as he perceived them, and he also sent letters to key leaders in the congregation complaining about my inadequacies as a pastor.  And he did manage to win over a few persons to sympathize with him and help keep the dissension going.  (I know he was the author of the letters sent to me because he used the same manual typewriter on which the letter I received from him months before had been typed.)  His interference along with other very complex problems at this church made for a very tumultuous pastorate, one I was relieved to leave.  After all, there is a fine line between loyalty and stupidity.

No doubt, other vocations experience the “bus stop” syndrome.  Children butter up their parents in order to get their way; parents suck up to teachers in an effort to get their children into the gifted program; fawning and flattering fops overwhelm politicians to obtain special favors; brownnosers go so far up their supervisors’ anatomies that hoped-for promotions reek of fertilizer.

But what these sycophants fail to understand is that, whereas other leaders (parents, teachers, politicians, supervisors, etc.) may wield power and the ability to control outcomes, pastors do not.  It’s true that some pastors haven’t learned this lesson and often behave as if their donning clerical garb makes what they say and do about twenty inches above human contradiction.  And, it may be true that pastors in an earlier time had power and authority conferred upon them simply because of their office, but that day is long gone.  And good riddance!  Any authority bestowed on pastors these days is mostly because they have earned it through mutual respect, listening skills, reasoned promptings, disciplined preparation, genuine commitment and other similar qualities.  In other words, pastors may have the ability to influence and persuade congregations to move in particular directions, but that largely depends on the confidence that has developed between pastor and parish.  That is not power and control.

As stated earlier, most people who reach out to the pastor’s family in the earliest days of the pastoral start-up are genuinely interested in extending a warm welcome.  That is gratifying and goes a long way toward bonding the pastor-parish connection.  But some meet the bus for their own cloaked reasons.  Any pastor with savvy will see right through them.  And other pastors will catch on soon enough.

Another Sermon

Divinity Is Diverse (Deal With It!)

St. Mark 3:1-6, 20-35

A Guest Sermon Prepared & Delivered by James E. Norton

First Presbyterian Church, Fairmont, WV 26554

June 10, 2012

            Some of you may recall that a similar passage to this morning’s Gospel lesson was read a month ago.  The scripture then was selected because of its fitting in with the theme of our Mother’s Day observance.  Today another version of the same passage appears in the Common Lectionary, that collection of prescribed scriptures designated to be read on each Sunday of the year.  The practice by Presbyterians, United Methodists, Lutherans, Episcopalians, Roman Catholics and other churches of reading the same scriptures on most Sundays is intended as a witness to our oneness in Christ.

            But coincidentally, reading and hearing essentially the same passage within the space of a month, brings us once again to a reconsideration of family.  Usually we think of family as a biological unit, the nuclear family, the germinal family, the family that consists of a mom and dad and their genetic offspring.

            But that description of family hardly seems the norm any more.  Roughly half of marriages end up in divorce, meaning among other things that families are more apt to be single parent families, or those where children are being raised by extended family members, adoptive or foster parents, or families comprised of adults and children who are blended into second and third marriages.  Consequently, more and more families live in situations where there is a mixture of different traditions and values, and sometimes that can lead to more complicated circumstances.

            Actually the situation today may be more similar to the earliest ideas of family, or at least as far as we know them from our Judaic-Christian heritage.  Our spiritual ancestors, the Hebrews, had a much more expansive view of family.  Family included not only immediate family members who were related by blood or marriages (there were many wives in such families, each having borne children to the head of the household), but that’s not all who were included in the family: there were also the slaves, concubines, strangers, aliens and poor people who came to the family seeking help.  All were adopted into the family, and for the males that meant circumcision as a sign of their covenant as a family member.  Covenant, coming from a Hebrew word meaning “to cut,” was a sign of one’s adoption into the family who was not family by birth.  Now that’s “blended” with a vengeance.

            Jesus, however, in this morning’s passage extends the idea of family even further.  Family is everyone who “does the will of my Father.”  Now, sometimes this saying of Jesus is interpreted in a disturbing way, disturbing because it can be taken to mean that family members are only those who are, say, Christian, those who share a common faith, a common world view, a common value orientation, common lifestyles, common traditions and beliefs.  Perhaps we can even take it to mean that the Family of God includes those who can “get along comfortably.”  That is, they always agree about what the will of God is, they are all either conservative or liberal, but never both.  They’d rather not entertain other perspectives, other ways of looking at the same thing.  They always follow the same ideas about everything, they love the safe womb of sameness, and in their congregation there never is heard a discouraging word, and the sky is not cloudy all day.  Jesus’ saying could be interpreted that way, if we are deaf, dumb and blind, and if we fail to pay attention to the context in which the passage occurs.  But when we look carefully at the whole story we come to a very different conclusion.

 

            A man with a withered hand requests healing.  The Pharisees object.  After all, it is the Sabbath.  Jesus asks whether it is better to heal or to kill.  Jesus heals the man with the withered hand.  Jesus certainly isn’t behaving like a conservative on this occasion.  The Pharisees who see Jesus’ action as an unforgivable infraction go off to plot how to kill him because he is being so radical.

 

            Jesus goes home.  He has created quite a stir.  His family hears about the controversy and tries to plead insanity on Jesus’ part.  “Please overlook his action because he’s out of his mind,” they explain.  “Ah, really,” reply the Pharisees, “If he’s out of his mind, then he must be healing by the power of Satan.”  Jesus learns what they are saying about him and he responds rather rationally, “A house divided against itself cannot stand.”  One cannot use the power of Satan to cast out Satan.

            And then comes Jesus’ astounding declaration: “All sins will be forgiven except blasphemy against the Holy Spirit.”  The Pharisees, who understand and know how to manipulate the law to suit their own self-interest, suddenly become hoisted with their own petard; now they are the victims of their machinations against Jesus.  Jesus moves the argument to that which is beyond the Law: the Holy Spirit, which they cannot know, understand or manipulate.  This is the context, coming out of conflict and controversy, in which Jesus claims as his family those who do the will of God, which is to say, who do God’s will as that is communicated to them through the Holy Spirit.  Jesus, in his response, takes power away from the very powerful, law-abiding Pharisees, revealing their ineptitude and causing yet again their public humiliation.  One does not do that to the powerful without grave consequences.

 

            But following the will of God through the guidance of the Holy Spirit seems rather nebulous, doesn’t it.  How do we do that?  Might that mean that responding to God’s will is to live out the sense of God’s purpose for one’s life?  Does it then also follow that one’s purpose or passion in life will be very different from another’s sense of calling, thereby bringing potential conflict?  Could the Divine come to and live through humans in diverse and manifold ways.  If so, differences might very well lead to misunderstanding and confusion, especially if we cannot learn to live in a world where there are “different strokes for different folks.”

            A movie, October Sky, based on a true story that took place in the Fifties in Coalwood, WV, tells the story of Homer Hickam, a high school student who was so fascinated with the launching of Sputnik 1 that he developed skill in building and launching rockets.  The problem was that his father, John Hickam, a coal miner, wanted his son to become a coal miner, like every other kid in town.  (The law in this family and town says, “Thou shalt become a coal miner.”)  Near the end of the movie, after having saved the mine and the lives of many miners, the father says to Homer, his son, “I was born for this”—for helping people in the coal mine.  In sharp contrast, Homer finally musters up the courage to tell his Dad that he was born to build rockets.

            It seems clear that Jesus is saying that blaspheming the Holy Spirit is denying or denigrating the essence of who and what a person is or is meant to be.  Jesus knew he was born to heal and to sacrifice for the well-being of others.  How important it is that we know what we were born for.  The diversity of Divinity means that two people can follow the will of God for their lives and move in opposite directions and still be members of the same family.  One can mow the lawn on Sunday, the other would never mow the lawn on Sunday.  One can go left, the other can go right.  One can endeavor to reduce the national deficit, the other can strive toward expanding human services. One can be disabled, the other can be temporarily able-bodied.  One can be a Buddhist or a Muslim, and the other can be Christian.  One can be straight, the other gay. 

 

            If we learn anything at all from this morning’s Gospel lesson, it is that to be mother, brother, sister to Jesus means being true to the essential calling, the divine spark, the passion within each of us whereby we know what we are meant to be.  Denying that is blasphemy. Jesus’ sharp warning about the unforgivable sin is about condemning others, discarding them as if they were of the devil, insisting that others have to agree with us and our ways, actually, denying the very creativity and handiwork of God.  All are God’s children, and our concern must be to find out how we embrace everybody.  We are all equal, of equal worth in the sight of our Father.  Divinity is diverse (deal with it)!

PRAYERS

 That the ancient differences that have led to enmity may be bridged by mutual respect and understanding, God hear our prayer: AND IN YOUR LOVE ANSWER.

            That we may be freed from narrow affections and partisan considerations, that our hopes will be inclusive rather than exclusive, and that your Holy Spirit will lead us away from hatred, prejudice, and contempt for those who are not our own race or color, class or creed, to the end that we may be brought by You into unity of the Holy Spirit in the bond of peace, God hear our prayer: AND IN YOUR LOVE ANSWER.

            That those listed in this morning’s bulletin in need of special prayer as well as others we name silently in our hearts, those who suffer from diseases that destroy the body, or disrupt the mind, or assault the soul, will receive the help and support they need and restoration to health and wholeness, God hear our prayer: AND IN YOUR LOVE ANSWER.

            That as your purposes were achieved through such persons as buck-passing Adam and Eve, conniving Jacob, egotistical Joseph, stammering Moses, boisterous David, diligent Ruth, charming Esther, courageous Deborah, promiscuous Rahab, weeping Jeremiah, and hosts of other diverse persons, we, as well, may see how your purposes are being worked out in our lives and work, God hear our prayer: AND IN YOUR LOVE ANSWER.

             We offer these our prayers this day, O God, in the name of the One who came to give us life, Jesus, your Son, our brother who taught us the prayer we now say together:

An Experience in Funeral Preparation

Rationale for this funeral meditation:  As is often the case, this celebration of a grand family matriarch required swift preparation.  My colleague in ministry for many years at Valley Chapel (Elizabeth Shaver Smith (now) Wycoff) is also the deceased’s sister-in-law.  Elizabeth and I were asked to plan and conduct this service.  Meeting the evening before, we worked out an order for the service and divided the various portions.  Elizabeth would lead the part where she and other family members shared stories about Peg (eulogize), and I was asked to conclude that segment with a meditation.

When the service was over, I was impressed at how beautifully it flowed together.  That was mostly because of a truly cohesive spirit among all the family members, which were numerous.   There were many touching moments during the service; one that “got to me” occurred when a grandson, perhaps 11 or 12 years old, tried to read a statement he had written about his grandmother, but broke down.  His mother came to his side and held on to him as she finished reading the statement.

Three considerations were uppermost in my thinking as, later that night after Elizabeth and I had met to plan, the task of framing a meditation began.  The first was easy: since various family members gladly accepted responsibility for recalling stories about Peg, there would be little need for me in the meditation to echo what they were far more able to say.  The second was equally easy: since several family members would be taking part, thereby extending the time the service would take, I probably needed to be as brief as possible in my meditation.  The third, however, was more difficult: since this is a family of wide divergence, especially in their various careers, some in medicine, others in business, etc., it might be well to veer away from traditional heaven-talk.  No doubt, they would have been okay with the expression of traditional “heavenly” language, but I couldn’t ignore my own inward nagging intuitions about doing so.  As preachers, we often rely on what “preachers are supposed to say at funerals,” rather than work toward what might be more authentic expressions of what we believe.  Probably most people could care less.  But I just couldn’t bring myself to head in the traditional direction.  So the meditation below is the result of my internal struggle.  It would be nice to receive your feedback.  

Peg Shaver

               We are brought together this afternoon by those elemental forces that touch human life.  Though we come from many walks of life and some of us from far-away places, we assemble here willingly out of love, because of one who has touched our lives, and because she died and left us.  We come to commemorate, to pay profound respect, and to celebrate this woman, Peg Shaver, for she was a good wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, sister-in-law, aunt, neighbor and friend.

               We have heard and our hearts have been stirred by the kinds of recollections communicated by Elizabeth, Mark and other family members, as well as many other stories about Peg we have shared with one another in the last few days.  We are unanimous in our appreciation of Peg’s deep devotion to her family, the delight she experienced with you, her family, and how, no matter what, she knew unparalleled joy in the moments she spent with each of you.   We are also well aware of her loyalty to her friends and the camaraderie she derived from companionship with others.  She was a kind-hearted, good person, and what better epitaph can be inscribed about anyone than that?

               Her more recent years, sadly, were filled with suffering.  If memory serves, it began with a surgical procedure that was followed by an extended period of unrelenting pain, and despite the finest medical help available, things seemed to continue on a downward spiral.  With advancing age comes increasing inability of our bodies to heal.  And that can lead to emotions ranging from discouragement to outright exasperation and despair.  Life can be very hard, indeed.

               But even in the midst of such harsh realities, Peg was never without continual signs of care and love.  Her husband, Otis, was her constant companion and helper through it all; family members and friends regularly checked on her and did what they could to help.  She was surrounded by many signs of gracious presence, and many are the moments her spirit was lifted by the touch of others.

               So there is ample reason to celebrate: the compassion and joy we have known in Peg and the happiness she experienced with her family members and friends.  Our lives are so much richer for having known her.  We can even rejoice because finally her suffering is over and Peg’s spirit is set free to move on in whatever wonders of life await her.

               The author of the reading from Revelation speaks of a realm where there will be no more tears, no more mourning and crying and pain and death.  Sometimes, in a world where science and traditional Christian understandings seem to come into conflict, it’s difficult to have faith in anything beyond what we can see, hear, touch, smell, or taste.  But some very fascinating scientific discoveries in recent years tend to affirm what Christians have always believed, namely, that life does not end, but merely continues on into other dimensions.  Not only the evidence gathered from the medical community reporting on persons who have had near death experiences, all of which have similar features, but other fields of science having to do with sub-atomic particles, suggest that we are comprised of elements that never die.

               Science is discovering ways in which who we are may simply move on to other levels of existence.  It may be that who each of us really is—the very essence of who we are, the kernel of our lives after the chaff has been blown away—continues, and that those already dead continue to be as close to us as we are to one another, maybe even closer.  How often have we heard people comment that in trying times they have felt the abiding nearness of their loved ones upholding them and giving them strength?  Might it be that Peg is present right now and always will be, no longer living in pain, but urging us to move on toward the same spirit of kindness and compassion she herself lived?

               Several times while our family lived in Pleasant Valley, we were invited to Otis and Peg’s house for a swimming party and picnic.  When we’d arrive and make our way to the back yard, Peg would already be in the pool waving us on, saying something like “Come on in, the water’s fine.”  Peg loved that pool in the back yard, and no doubt, she had some of the best times of her life playing with many of you in the water.  The scriptures speak of being led beside the still waters and springs of the water of life.  Could it be that even now, Peg is calling to us and saying, “Come on in, the water’s fine?”

PRAYER

               Gracious God of love, we offer thanks for the goodness we have witnessed in the life of Peggy Ann Shaver.  The years slip through our minds like minutes when we think of her, and remembering the days we have had with her, we thank you for the many blessings we received because of knowing her as wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, sister-in-law, aunt, neighbor and friend.  For her love of her family, her faithfulness in relationships and her care for others; for the delight she derived from simple pleasures; for the times when her family and friends could share her burdens and ease her pain in times of troubled waters—these thoughts and memories are precious to us, O God, and we speak our gratitude for all that we have shared with Peg.

               Help us, O God, to know that Peg is safe now in your eternal care, that the waters no longer rage but are forever calm and still in your loving embrace, and that her spirit is freed for moving on swimmingly.  Amen.

Who Is My Mother?

NOTE: I preached today and the sermon is printed here.  Also included at the end of the manuscript a few other portions of the service liturgy.  These are intended to illustrate the importance creating a worship service where all the parts merge into a central theme. Individual worship services flow best when everything fits into one frame.    

Who Is My Mother?

I Samuel 16:1-7; St. Matthew 12:46-50

A Guest Sermon Prepared & Delivered by James E. Norton

First Presbyterian Church, Fairmont, WV 26554

Mother’s Day, May13, 2012

            This morning’s first lesson recalls the time when Samuel, the prophet, was sent by God to search for a new leader for Israel from among the sons of Jesse.  Samuel’s instructions included this word of caution: “Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature…for the Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.”

            That is sound advice, especially in a time when the process of electing our nation’s leaders has gone into overdrive.  But that advice is equally relevant for a day when we celebrate motherhood and family life.  We are not to be concerned with exterior wrappings, but with the product, with what goes on inside an individual or a family, whether that family is the traditional nuclear family, a single parent family, a blended family, a childless family, an adoptive family, a family of same gendered parents, a family comprised of unrelated adults sharing a home in the way that a rabbi and twelve disciples did, a congregational family, a national family, an international family.

            Growing up, the images of family life projected at my generation included such television programs as “Father Knows Best” and “Leave It to Beaver.”  Typically, father was the man of the house who upon returning after a day’s work at the office would be greeted by his dutiful wife, attractively arrayed with her hair perfectly styled, ready to hand him his newspaper and cup of coffee as he settled down in his comfortable chair.  The family dog was also waiting beside the chair holding the father’s slippers in his mouth.  Scenes of chaos and severe dysfunction in the family were never portrayed in the 50s, and I can still remember wondering why my family wasn’t like that or wishing I lived in a family that was like that.  It was a long time before I realized that those 50s images bombarded at us by the television producers were all exterior wrappings with very little truth in them.  More recent programs such as “Everybody Loves Raymond,” or BBC’s “Outnumbered,” although intended as comic portrayals, are probably more accurate depictions of family life.

            Unfortunately many of today’s realities of family life are not very funny.  Sadly, we could go on for hours cataloging ways in which institutions and individuals undermine and inflict harm on others, especially women and children.  Indeed, if we had a show of hands, I bet at least 75% of us here would indicate that we personally knew someone who has been the victim of domestic violence, bullying, or other forms of degrading humans.

            One woman known to me, whose story I have permission to share, lived twenty years with an abusive husband.  The abuse began, as it usually does, early in the marriage with seemingly innocent, unreasonable expectations, escalating in time to verbal lashing out.  Then came the final straw when the abuse turned physical, and very brutally so.  That attack by Larry, the husband, was followed later by his wife, Bridget, secretly packing up her three boys (ages 12, 10 & 8) and leaving for temporary safe shelter.

            To outsiders, Bridget and Larry appeared to be the epitome of a very typical, well-rounded couple.  They were faithful members of their community’s United Methodist Church; the three boys were involved in little league football and church league basketball; the family gathered with the other families in this tight-knit community’s many activities

But when Bridget in desperation finally mustered up the courage to get out, her husband employed his exceptional charm and self-pitying demeanor to win over the support and sympathy of the congregation, including the pastor.  His manipulative powers went so far as to spread rumors about how Bridget had been unfaithful, and some of the women in the congregation quickly rushed to Larry’s side to console him, telling him how hard it was to understand how Bridget could leave such a caring, wonderful husband.  (Make no mistake about it: there are some very winsome, clever operators out there!)  Besides the intense stress and concern about the future welfare of her children and herself, Bridget was shunned by the congregation, and on one occasion after she found living arrangements in another part of town, she was accosted in the grocery store by one of the church women whose outburst there in front of the three boys and everyone else in the store accused Bridget of being a (well, we’re in church, so I’ll not repeat the word).

            Fortunately there were others who weren’t as easily conned by Larry’s machinations, and their support and practical compassion coupled with Bridget’s deep commitment to change over the next year and a half to two years, finally extricated her from that dark prison.  In time, Bridget followed through on a dream she had as a college student of becoming an environmental biologist, applying to various graduate schools.  She was accepted at one of our fine universities in the South and even awarded a fellowship.  She completed her Master’s Degree with honors and was accepted into another southern school where she is doing exceptional work as a Ph.D. candidate.

            Bridget’s successful liberation from an abusive marriage was anything but easy.  She is on the healing side of the road today, largely because of her own persistence, and also because of persons around her whose constructive care and compassion helped point the way to recovery.

Throughout my active years as a pastor, I have personally witnessed many occurrences of life’s odiousness.  And each time I thought I had seen it all, something else erupted reminding me how pervasive violence is in our culture.  There was the father who “knew” (in the biblical sense) his eleven-year-old son over and over, sleeping with the boy rather than his wife; there was the beloved grandfather, who was so respected that his name is inscribed on one of the memorial plaques decorating the sanctuary of the church he attended, who would offer little girls in his neighborhood candy if they would expose themselves to him; there is an epidemic of inappropriate acting-out against minors and other vulnerable persons by clergy who abuse their office, not just Roman Catholics, but clergy of all Christian churches (my own denomination, The United Methodist Church, is besieged by such cases winding up in the courts); there is the battle raging between Congress and President of the United States over budget negotiations that would do away with programs that provide protection to women and children; there are the millions who die daily, mostly children and the elderly, from malnutrition and related diseases; there are the religious fundamentalists who, with incredible hatred, achieve their political purposes by atrocious acts of revenge on thousands of the world’s sons and daughters.  The evidences of violence are astronomical.

            So, what word is there to speak to our predicament?   How can we combat seemingly out-of-control violence in our culture?  Well, this is Mother’s Day, and perhaps exploring once again the original spirit of Mother’s day will offer a clue.  After all, those who gave us this special day also gave us a document clearly stating its purpose.  It is the 1870 proclamation written by Julia Ward Howe, and later embraced by Ann Jarvis and her daughters.  As you are well aware, Ann Jarvis, living in West Virginia before we had achieved statehood, organized women on both sides of the Civil War into “Mothers’ Day Work Clubs” to treat wounds, feed and care for both Union and Confederate soldiers.  These “Clubs” also worked in a number of cities to improve sanitary and health conditions.  Ann Jarvis and her daughters, Anna and Ellsinore, fervently affirmed that women had every right and responsibility “to promote the general welfare” through assertive political and social activism.  Activism, striving against violence, providing care for all persons, agitating for the good—that was the original spirit of Mother’s Day, as these lines from Julia Ward Howe’s proclamation declare:

“Arise, all women who have hearts!  …Whether your baptism be of water or tears!  Say firmly ‘our sons (and daughters) will not be taken from us to unlearn all we have been able to teach of charity, mercy, and patience.  We will be too tender of those of another country to allow our (children) to be trained to injure theirs.  …The sword of murder is not the balance of justice.”[i]

            That Proclamation is a clarion call, stating that there is something so foundational in the experience of bearing children that it transcends boundaries, creeds, political philosophies and time; that it is not only basic to what makes people human, but points to the essence of what makes God divine.  There is something so divinely inherent, resonating within us from the moment we are born, wherein we know that life is holy and is meant for mutual respect, love, compassion, peace and joy.  The Proclamation is directed not only to those who have had the God-like experience of bringing life to fruition in the womb, but to those of us who will never know firsthand the wonder of that miracle.  We must not undo what we have been taught from birth of “charity, mercy and patience,” as the Proclamation puts it.

            This morning’s gospel lesson tells of the time when, speaking to a crowd, Jesus is interrupted by someone telling him that his mother and brothers were standing outside waiting to see him.  Surprisingly, Jesus replies by saying, “Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?”  “Whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother.”  Hilary Clinton’s book, It Takes a Village to Raise a Child, makes the same point.

            One simple way we can see the implication of this principle is to look at an all too common occurrence in churches.  Maybe not this congregation, but many churches experience difficulty finding volunteers to work with children and youth.  The times this difficulty is discussed in congregational education committee meetings or board meetings, someone will invariably say something like, “Shouldn’t the parents of the kids do that?  After all, I did it when my children were in Sunday School and youth groups, and so should they!”  Such an attitude has always seemed to me to be short-sighted, if not self-centered (I’ll do it for my own but not for anyone else’s).

            Thank goodness, I did not grow up in that kind of church.  Were it not for many other mothers and fathers, in addition to my biological parents, who were there for me in Sunday School and youth fellowship meetings, and especially at critical times, who knows where I would have ended up.  It takes a village of surrogate moms, dads and grandparents to raise a child.

            The purpose of Mother’s Day is not to romanticize mothers, but it is a time to remember and show appreciation for all those activist women who have helped to build our faith and lives, who, when we were up against it, were there for us, helping us to get through it all.  They are the ones who listened, cared, were straight with us, and who gave of themselves for our sakes.  They also stood up to the forces that would dehumanize and make us less than we are meant to be.  In other words, they actually did what Jesus taught.

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[i] “Mother’s Day Proclamation,” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mother%27s_Day_Proclamation

PRAYER OF CONFESSION (in unison)

Loving God, we realize that we have not made our homes the dwelling places for your love that we would like.  Too often, we act like individuals who happen to share the same building, rather than family members who care for one another.  Help us to renew our commitments to the growth and development of those who share our homes with us.  Help us to communicate openly with one another and to show our love in the homes where we live.  Amen.

WORDS OF FORGIVENESS (by the pastor)

When the prophet Isaiah searched all human experience to find the most powerful example of human care that could possibly be conceived, it was motherhood that came to mind.  "Can a woman forget the infant at her breast," he wrote, "or a loving mother the child of her womb?"  No where in all creation is there such caring as that of a mother for her child.  Yet says the prophet, it is conceivable that one could find a mother who ceased to care.  "Even she may forget" is the word the prophet hears, "yet I will not forget you."  The holiest, highest, most enduring love that human nature can know is still flawed compared with the endless and overwhelming mother love of God.  We are forgiven, loved and accepted by God.  Thanks be to God.

STATEMENT BEFORE THE OFFERING

Shortly after Anna Jarvis succeeded in making Mother's Day a nationally recognized holiday in 1914, she became disillusioned at how this day had become so commercialized.  She and her sister, Ellsinore, spent their entire family inheritance campaigning against the commercialization, Anna herself was arrested over this issue for disturbing the peace, and the two sisters died in poverty.  According to Anna's obituary in the NY Times, she became embittered because too many people sent their mothers a printed greeting card.  In her words:

"A printed card means nothing except that you are too lazy to write to the woman who has done more for you than anyone in the world.  And candy!  You take a box to Mother--and then eat most of it yourself.  A pretty sentiment!"

May the offering we receive this day be more than a pretty, perfunctory sentiment.  May it reflect the same kind of self-sacrifice and courage demonstrated by such women as those we remember today.  Let us symbolize the giving of ourselves by the giving of our gifts.

 

Christmas Letter 2011

Every year, inserted in some of the Christmas greetings our family receives from friends and relatives are letters enumerating the senders’ activities, accomplishments, illnesses, and other significant vicissitudes of the preceding year. While I enjoy the chance to catch-up with what’s happening in the lives of these companions, I have never felt the need to reciprocate with such letters myself. Until now. (Microsoft Word is trying to tell me that the preceding sentence is not a sentence—yes, you confounded machine I know it’s a fragment, but I’m not going to change it, so there!) Where was I? Oh, yeah. Somehow there is an urge this year to let others know “how goes it,” and at the same time send Christmas greetings.

The most recent change for our family and many others in our region is the departure of one of the most exceptional pastors we have known. Josh Patty was for the last four years pastor of the church Polly and I attended, and his intellect, passion and faithfulness to the Gospel are rare commodities among clergy these days. I can make that claim because for most of my 46 years in pastoral ministry, a major chunk of my time was spent working with candidates for Ordained Ministry. Suffice it to say that (in my view) the trend toward dumbing-down is epidemic in Christian ministry and, unfortunately, it seems that most congregations prefer “nice” pastors who settle-in with the preferences and prejudices of the congregants (or as psychologists might say, pastors who are co-dependent), rather than pastors who are competent and capable to provide fruitful leadership.

Now, how is such a stinging observation appropriate for a “Christmas Letter”? Most of these letters simply report the preceding year’s happenings and conclude with Christmas blessings for the readers. Why include opinions about events, coloring them not in seasonal reds and greens, but in more of a wintry grey?

A colleague and friend who is a professor at a very prestigious university school of theology hints at a clue. Often, she has spoken of how the odious facts of life can be “altared” (misspelling deliberate) into realities more akin to divine purposes. A peasant baby is born in a filthy barn, which could be a metaphor for the smelly stench and barn-like character of life in the world. But this peasant baby becomes the One who restores creation and humanity to God’s graceful acceptance and attributes. That is “altaring,” or lifting life’s circumstances to God’s altar of transformation for good.

Pastor Josh has accepted a call to a congregation in the Midwest that already seems to realize the unique gifts and strengths he brings to ministry. Surely as time progresses, the congregants will grow in their appreciation of his leadership. While we feel the pain of his separation from Fairmont, we can rejoice that he is where others will benefit from his keen analytical abilities and commitment, as he, no doubt, will benefit from his new congregation’s capabilities to foster his own continued growth. “Altaring” is how the light continues to shine through the wintry darkness.

The past year included two separate struggles with kidney stones requiring five trips to the ER and three surgeries for yours truly. These were extremely painful and unpleasant times. But even here there were glimpses of light in the darkness: a loving wife’s never-failing care, concern expressed by other friends and family, and a primary care physician who, along with his staff, pulled out all the stops to make prompt medical expertise available. One time, when the misery was too intense for words, I went to see the dear, good Dr. Ang, and while examining me, he placed his hand on my shoulder and said softly, “You are really having a rough time, aren’t you!” Having such recognition of one’s struggle is “altaring.” It lifts the darkness and lets healing light shine through.

Polly continues as the HR Director of a social service agency with nearly 300 employees. It is a sometimes chaotic position, and often she can be heard to say that she walks a fine line between loyalty and stupidity (she is past retirement age). She will return home from the office today having had to deal with a serious personnel issue on top of other unending details, and she’ll be showing the tell-tale signs of the stress that accompanies her profession. My hope is that something about our life together and our home is “altaring” for her, and that amid the soft glow of Christmas tree and window lights there is peace.

Polly’s mom is staying with us now due to advancing forgetfulness and other lapses related to advancing aging. “Grandma” or “Gwam” as Trevor and I most often refer to her, has made the transplantation fairly well. (Her dog, “Sadie,” came along, and while she is willing to get along with our cat “Molly,” the cat has decided to go into attack mode, growling, hissing and chasing the dog whenever it dares to get too close.) Sometimes Grandma realizes she needs to be in a setting where she is helped to remember to eat, take her medicine, etc., and other times she’s just visiting and will be returning to her home soon. It’s sad when a woman who has always been a highly responsible, take-charge individual reaches such a time of dependency. She who has taken care of so many others, both as a nurse and a good neighbor, is now having to be cared-for, and that’s disconcerting, to say the least. Perhaps that there are those around who can do for her as she has done for others is helping to “altar” the situation into something that more nearly incarnates God’s care. If so, then it would be the same kind of “altaring” care I received from Gwam and Pop during teenage years when dating and marrying their daughter—care that in significant ways made them more my parents than my biological parents. That Gwam continues to delight in beauty, recall significant events from the distant past, play with Sadie, and even laugh at herself may be indicators of “altaring” grace.

Good friend—actually more brother than friend, Dr. William L. Roberts—is waging a mighty battle with what has been diagnosed as terminal cancer. Amazingly, the breaks in between the chemo treatments still find Bill and lawyer, Tom Patrick, designing what promises to be a breakthrough approach in adapting coin of the realm mediation principles and practice for churches, work that unfortunately is sorely needed these days. Not only so, but Bill continues to work with selected individuals as they struggle toward more wholeness and less woundedness (yes, Microsoft Word, I know that’s not a word—get over it). Once again, the darkness continues to be “altared” through the following of one’s sense of call, one’s commitment to do good, one’s faithful passion.

Son Trevor is still living with us out of economic necessity. As some of you are aware, he developed seizure disorder as a freshman in college and that along with other complications sent him into a tailspin that took years to straighten out. His seizure disorder is controlled with medication, and this past year he completed with distinction an educational program in the medical technology field. He currently works with mentally challenged individuals assisting them in learning ways to live up to reasonable expectations in daily life. We have learned from people outside our home of Trevor’s helpfulness to others in critical situations. Here too, perhaps, are signs of life being “altared,” being made holy through God’s working in another’s helpful influence.

Well, those seem to be the more significant things roused up by reflection over the past year since Christmas last. Obviously, there are many of life’s daily little happenings that “altar” what otherwise would be dismal, drab, dull days: telephone calls with friends, breakfast with clergy at McAteer’s or lunch and outings with other friends, reading new books (and sometimes rereading good old books), serious conversations with persons about personal or global issues that matter, occasional sessions at the piano or reed organ demonstrating just how rusty I have become, and adapting to my role as house husband since my retirement, to mention a few.

Tomorrow, Friday, Dec. 23, Polly’s brother, Fred, and his wife, Sue, along with their two daughters and their husbands and grandchild, Gavin, will be visiting for our Christmas get-together, and we are excited they are coming. Could it be that once again the day will bring an awareness of how life can be “altared”? It seems to happen most for me in times of being with the significant persons in my life. I wonder if that is true for others. Whether or not that is so, we hope that whatever your circumstances in this holy season, there may come glimpses of life “altared” with the joy, hope, love and peace that is of God.