A True Hallmark Moment

Reflections on Matthew 13:44,45 & Isaiah 11:6

Every God-fearing Christian family ought to have a family bible, but we did not have one.  The local Hallmark Store had one, but my mom was not interested and I couldn’t afford it. In the eyes of my twelve-year-old self, it was beautiful and awe inspiring, and necessary for gaining God’s benevolent attention.  A large, white, leather-bound volume with an embossed gold cross and gold-gilded pages that crinkled when you turned them, and of course a page in the front of the bible for your family tree, as if to say … our family is rooted in God.  I was certain that we needed to have one, for by having one it would be so.  We would be safely root in God’s good graces.  But alas, my mother was not interested and I could not afford it.

The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure hidden in field, which someone found and hid; then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field.

We were familiar faces at the local Hallmark Store and with every visit, I asked the store clerk how much that bible was.  Every week it seemed the price was lower, but never low enough for a six grader’s allowance no matter how long I saved.  Weeks had past and with each visit, I feared that the Bible would be gone, sold to some other God-fearing family.  

One bright sunny summer day, we had yet another occasion to return to the Hallmark Store for yet another greeting card.  While my mom shopped up and down the isles of cards, I searched the shelf next to the front counter.  A rush of relief washed over me when I found that the bible was still there.  I could not help thinking that this bible was meant for my family.  It was waiting for me, for us.  At twelve, I was not in any way outgoing or even comfortable with strangers, let alone store clerks, but I had to ask one more time;  “How much is that bible?” 

The kingdom of heaven is like a merchant in search of fine pearls; on finding on pearl of great value, he went and sold all that he had and bought it.

The clerk, who had been asked that question by me many times before, hesitated for a moment and then responded to my question with a question; “How much money do you have?”  My heart sank, because I knew I didn’t have enough, but I told her anyway.  She nodded, and with a hint of a smile, simply said, “sold.”

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I miss that twelve-year-old.  I miss the naiveté and simplicity of faith that longs to be found in God’s good graces and is willing to give all that one has to receive it.  While her theology makes me cringe just a little, there is something that still rings true.  God’s grace, while by its very nature free, is best received when we are willing to give all that we have, or better yet all that we are, to experience it. 

The kingdom of heaven, the very kingdom whose coming we were taught to pray for, is worth investing ourselves in fully.  And whether we believe that we have a lot to offer or very little, it is always enough.  What is expected of us isn’t more than we can give, but only all we have to give.  Adulthood has made that truth hard to grasp and even harder to live.  We are jaded and risk adverse and poor judges of our own value.  That makes God’s grace seem too good to be true and the kingdom of heaven too impractical, too impossible, to fully embrace.  What then are we to do?

The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and fatling together, and a little child shall lead them.

Perhaps every God-fearing adult ought to be led into the kingdom of grace by the hand of a young child.   

Bologna Sandwiches

Reflections on Luke 22:14-20 and Ephesians 2:14

When I was a kid, my bologna had a first name.  If you are in your forties or fifties, then I bet yours did too.  O … S … C … A … R, right?!  It came from the Oscar Mayer bologna commercial, because back then bologna was cool.  My mom packed it my lunch regularly.  If I close my eyes and focus just a little, I can still remember the smell of bologna and mustard on white Wonder Bread as the plastic wrap is pulled away.  Sometimes for dinner, my mom would put it in a skillet and make fried bologna sandwiches.  That was a treat.  But somewhere between the early 1970’s and today, bologna fell out of favor.  It has become the Spam of lunchmeat in these post-modern times.   

When the hour came, Jesus took his place at the table, and the apostles with him.

A few years back, I was working with several other adults and eight high school youth to repair a home for a family in the Tennessee Appalachian Mountains.  We were volunteering with the Appalachia Service Project on our church’s summer youth mission trip.  The home was a trailer that had been abandoned for several years, before the Jones family laid claim to it and set up home in it.  It was in major need of repair and we would be but one of many crews who would work on the home over the course of that summer.  Our assignment was to replace the floor and walls, run new plumbing and install a new toilet in the trailer’s only bathroom and to build a front porch from scratch, so that the front door would be accessible.  The adult leaders, myself included, were novices.  We were totally in over our heads, doing work that we believed was totally beyond us, but the Jones family believed we could get it done.  They watched us scratch our heads and conference with the youth and the ASP staff. They overheard us mumble sentences that almost always started with, “I have no idea, but maybe we should ...”  They greeted us each morning with smiles and encouragement and trusted us to do right by their home.

On Thursday the weather was really hot and humid.  We were making progress, but our tempers were getting shorter with each other and the work.  We had seen enough progress to know that we were capable, but not enough to assure us that we would be able to finish our projects by the end of the day Friday.  By noon, some of our team had already stopped working, hoping that a lunch break would soon be called, while others refused to quit.  It was then that Melinda Jones called us all to the front porch.  We had completed enough of the porch to be able to gather there.  Even those who found it hard to put down their hammers and saws stopped what they were doing to heed her call. 

Then he took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them and said, “This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.”

Lunch on Melinda's porch.

Throughout the week we had brought our own lunches, sandwiches we had made back at the center where we were staying.  Nothing special, just peanut butter and jelly.  But Melinda wanted to do something special for us.  In an act of enormous generosity, for this family was truly just getting by, she wanted to surprise us with a lunch made just for us … all twelve of us.  She didn’t have a table to call us to, so we gathered on her new porch, a porch in progress, where we sat on coolers and toolboxes while she served us bologna and tomato sandwiches with freezer pops for dessert.  It was one of the best lunches I ever had. 

This act of kindness was sacramental.  Its effects were tangible.  As we sat and ate, the tensions that were building between us began to dissolve.  Eased with laughter and vulnerability.  Stories were told.  Funny stories and poignant stories and stories of struggle and stories of survival.  They were Melinda’s stories.  She opened a window for us into her life with her husband and young son.  It was a gift given to us and we understood it to be an honor to receive it.  We were sitting in the midst of true communion.  Something special, something spiritual was happening in our midst.  In that moment, we knew that we were part of something bigger than ourselves.

For Christ is our peace, in his flesh he has made both groups into one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us. 

This Sunday, October 7^th, is World Communion Sunday.  On this Sunday, Christians of all stripes and flavors, will be called to gather around communion tables all over the world and break bread together.  Some will come in great faith and others in barely no faith at all.  Some will come in abundance and some in dire need.  All will be feed with the simplest of elements, a little bread and a sip of wine or grape juice, while the real meal is a story so big that it has the power to heal us all … the power to break down all the barriers we have built to divide us … the power to dissolve all the differences that we use as reasons to separate … the power to remind us that we are all welcomed, all loved, all children of a loving God.  Our communion celebration reminds us that we are indeed part of something much bigger than ourselves.

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Today, if I were to give bologna a first name, it would be G … R … A … C … E.

In Search of Eden

Reflections on Genesis 2:8-25, and Acts 2:44-47, 6:1

And the Lord God planted a garden in Eden, in the east; and there he put the man whom he had formed.”

Photo by k_myers@flickr.com

When I was in college and things got tough, I would take a walk … a walk off campus.  I attended a small liberal arts college in a sleepy, little, western Pennsylvania town.  One side of the campus rubbed shoulders with main street, while the other side transitioned easily into a quaint, tree-lined neighborhood.  When I missed home, when I was overwhelmed by academic pressure, when the drama of campus life seemed too much, I always chose to walk the tree-lined streets.  I was attracted to the picket fences and manicured lawns, the front porches and bicycles in the driveway.  I was attracted to what life could be, but wasn’t yet for me.  When I was at odds with my own life, when I felt lost, confused, and out of place, I went in search of home. 

Then the Lord said, “It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make for him a helper as his partner.” … And the man and his wife were both naked, and were not ashamed.

I was in my late teens and early twenties in college.  I was in my late twenties and heading for thirty when I attended seminary.  I was still single.  I had yet to establish myself.  I was still working toward a career, still discerning a call, rather than living one out.  I had returned to dormitory life and there were times then too, when I felt at odds with myself.  Not so much lost or even confused, but impatient, as if life hadn’t truly begun for me yet.  In those moments of frustration and disappointment, I would go for a walk.  And just like my college days, my feet didn’t turn toward town, but headed east, in search of tree-lined streets, with well-worn homes and toys in the front yard.  I went as one on the outside looking in.  Looking for what had continued to elude me, in search of a sense of home.  I was looking for some idealized place where I could be my bathrobe and slippers self, my true self, not the self my professors expected or I assumed the church would demand.  I was looking for connection, vulnerability, trust, partnership and a common call.  I was looking for home.  I was looking for Eden.    

All who believed were together and had all things in common; they would sell their possessions and goods and distribute the proceeds to all, as any had need.  Day by day, as they spent much time together in the temple, they broke bread at home and ate their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God …

I have long since passed through my thirties and my forties and have recently welcomed fifty.  I am well into my career and trying each day to live within my call.  Still, occasionally I feel at odds with my life.  There are still goals and dreams I have yet to reach and I am at times very impatient.  But I live on a tree-lined street, in a quaint New Jersey town, in a neighborhood with bicycles in the driveways and manicured lawns.  I share my home with a family that I love dearly, who sees me at my best, but just as often at my worst. And still on occasion, I feel lost and confused.  There are bills to be paid and decisions to be made and demands on me and my time and attention that I often fail to fulfill.  Perfect is always just two steps beyond my reach.  It is home, but it isn’t Eden.  It is reality not fantasy.   

Now during those days, when the disciples were increasing in number, the Hellenists complained against the Hebrews because their widows were being neglected …

Those first believers, who gathered together sharing everything in common; life, faith and mission, must have felt that they had rediscovered Eden, a perfect world of connection, vulnerability, trust and a common call.  A world that looked at first well manicured and protected by a picket fence of God’s design.  But soon reality came to call.  Those who had so freely shared all they had with one another began to questions whether they and their people were receiving their fair share.  There was complaining and grumbling and finger pointing.  It was still home, but it was no longer Eden.  Or was it?

We will never know how the Eden of Genesis would have faired if Adam and Eve hadn’t gotten themselves thrown out.  Would it have remained all sweetness and light forever?  An unbreakable connection, rooted in mutual vulnerability and secured in total trust, the perfect partnership sharing a divine call.  Maybe fifty years have jaded me, but I don’t think so.  I think that they would have found something to quarrel about, demands made and demands ignored.  Eventually there would be complaining and grumbling and finger pointing, because we are human and that is how we roll … even in Eden. 

Home isn’t perfect and it isn’t a place.  It doesn’t require tree-lined streets and front porches or even 2.5 kids and a dog.  Home is a community of people, family in one sense or another, who share a common faith, a common commitment to love in the face of difficulty from without and even more so from within.  Home is the place where we can grumble and complain and point fingers, trusting that at the end of the day we will still be loved, forgiven and valued. 

I had a home in college and one in seminary too, I just didn’t always recognize it for what it was.  And at fifty I have stopped looking for the fantasy, because the reality of home is by far better still. 

A Wide Welcome

Reflections on Emily Dickinson and Matthew 7:1 

A great hope fell

You heard no noise

The ruin was within.

                                 Emily Dickinson

Mae was born in Scotland to a single mother almost 100 year ago. Because of the circumstances of her birth, she was deemed beyond the God’s good graces, born from sin and without hope. She was denied the sacrament of baptism in the Church of Scotland. Her mother, in response to her perceived misfortune, left Mae to be raised by her grandparents. For many years, Mae thought her grandparents were her birth parents. Her mother eventually fell in love again and married this time. She raised a new family, one that never included Mae. Mae never met her biological father, never had a genuine, mother-daughter relationship with her birth-mother and never joined a church, even in her adult life, because she was too ashamed to admit that she had never been baptized as a child. The truth of her birth and its consequences haunted Mae her entire life. She was 86 years old before she revealed this shame to her own daughter and granddaughter.

Judge tenderly of me.

                                 Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson was baptized. The famed nineteenth century poet was raised within the framework of New England Congregationalism at a time when faith was being challenged and stretched by the likes of Darwin. With her family, she attended church regularly and participated in daily, family, devotional gatherings as a child. She was a student of the bible. She was spiritual, but she was not narrow.  She was intelligent, but not rote. At the age of 16, Emily entered the Mount Holyoke Female Seminary, a prestigious academic institution. She studied a broad range of subjects from science to Latin, algebra to philosophy. She excelled academically, but it was her moral and religious constitution that was called into question when the school’s principal, Mary Lyon, came to the conclusion that Emily was a no hoper.  Emily refused to profess her faith publically at a school revival. According to principal Lyon, there were three types of student at Mount Holyoke. There were those who professed their faith publically and narrowly, those who hoped to one day profess publically and those, like Emily, who had no hope of making a public and dogmatic profession. Whose to say for sure what the consequence of such a label was for a young Miss Dickinson, but as an adult, Emily never chose to formally join a church. 

“Judge not, that ye may not be judged.”

                                           Matthew 7:1 (KJV)

We need not look back to the time of Jesus, or nineteenth century New England or even early twentieth century Scotland to find the human finger of judgment scarring the hearts of its victims. We know all too well its destructive power, the way human judgment seeks so narrowly to define who is in and who is out. And when our judgments presume to speak on behalf of God, the damage extends both ways. Our victims are prone to losing hope in God’s unqualified love and we, as a consequence of our own bad behavior, lose all hope of seeing the image of God, the beauty of the divine, in every human heart. The finger that we point, points back to us. The good news is that God is not defined nor limited by our human judgments. Grace and welcome extend in all directions and reach us in ways untold.

Baptize before without a choice,

But this time consciously, of grace

                                                                                 from Love’s Baptism by Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson found the divine apart from the church, grace found her in the beauty of the world seen outside her window. And what of Mae? She died at the age of 92 having never felt the welcome of a Christian congregation. Still, she was by all accounts a woman of deep faith. Her family sought to give her in death what she was denied in life, an official Christian welcome. They wanted for Mae a Christian burial, officiated by a Presbyterian pastor. I was that pastor. As we gathered at her graveside for prayers and words of comfort, a gentle rain began to fall covering her casket with streaks of holy tears.  All gathered understood that this was a baptism of welcome, an extension of divine healing, a lifelong shame dissolved and grace upon grace extended.  

What the church gets wrong, what humans twist and mangle, God heals and sets to right.  No human being can restrict God's wide welcome.  Thanks be to God!