My Boys

We have three cats at our house. We didn’t intend to have three cats, it just worked out that way. I'd long since given up on having pets, because of too many losses on our busy street in New Jersey. In fact, as a young adult, I developed a pretty intense allergic reaction to cats . But on Halloween 2001, a parishioner put an adorable kitten in Sarah’s Halloween bucket when we went to their house. Sneaky, eh? At first, we politely gave him back. But after going home and thinking about it we decided Sarah needed a pet. We had fish, but she couldn't snuggle up with them very well, or play with them. We named our new caramel-colored kitty, Carmel. I took a lot of Benadryl for awhile, until suddenly, strangely, I wasn’t allergic to Carmel anymore.
Carmel has always been a little neurotic. When we first got him, he scratched me up pretty good whenever I tried to hold him. He'd climb over my shoulder and down my back, digging his nails into my skin like a rockclimber with spikes on his feet. He’s the one cat who runs as soon as the doorbell rings, and doesn’t come out until the company is gone. When we have people stay overnight, he lives under our bed and sneaks out during the night for the essentials. He doesn’t like to be picked up, but if you sit still awhile, he will come and settle on your lap. If you’re having a bad day, he’ll even come and snuggle up next to you and purr. He’s a great Comforter. He knows when you need a warm, fuzzy body on your chest. But the relationship is always on his terms.
A year later, we decided Carmel needed some company, especially when we were at work all day. So sure enough, his mother had had another litter, and we got Dobby (named after the house elf in Harry Potter). Carmel took to Dobby immediately, as if he knew they were half-brothers. (Their mother got around a lot) Dobby was so small at 6 weeks old, that we were afraid Carmel might eat him-- but he didn't.
Around the same time, Sarah was taking piano lessons from a woman in Tunkhannock, PA, who suddenly passed away. Jean had four cats. As an attempt to help Sarah with her first real loss of someone she loved, we asked to adopt one of Jean’s cats. Thus we got Scooter, a beautiful, long-haired black 6 year-old Persian cat with yellow-green eyes. Scooter wouldn’t have anything to do with us or the other cats at first. He hid behind the piano for months-- again, sneaking out at night for the essentials. We couldn’t coax him out for anything. We figured he’d just live behind the piano. Until the next spring of 2003, he got out of the house through an open window where the screen wasn’t in tightly. We were all heartbroken, because we couldn’t get him back in. Well, I secretly was relieved. His indifference to our kindness was annoying to me. But I acted like I was heartbroken, for Sarah's sake.
He was outside for three weeks, after which we had pretty much given up on getting him back. But one day, our babysitter managed to grab him while coaxing him to the door with tuna juice (his weakness). Ever since he was back in the house, he was suddenly much more affectionate. He allowed us to pet him. He climbed up on the arm of the chair and stuck out his head for some strokes, and even began to PURR. He’s rather pushy and demanding about affection, actually, and will approach us and push his head against our hand, and if we don’t pay attention, he’ll give us a little nip to get our attention. “Pet me! Now!”
But it wasn’t until this past winter, after we’d had him for over 4 years –during which we forced him to move halfway across the country-- that he started to put one paw on Larry’s lap. Then two. Then the upper half of his body, until finally, Scooter tentatively put his whole body on Larry’s lap. And started to purr. He won't sit on MY lap, mind you, but we still felt this was a major breakthrough. I guess he's still sore that I didn't try harder to get him back in the house.
I didn’t used to like Scooter. We’ve had to get used to each other. But I understand him now. Many people that I love have been through some tough times, including myself—loss of someone we love, or some kind of emotionally trying circumstances—that leave us raw or weakened somehow. Maybe a little less trusting. It takes time for us to get back on our feet again; to reach out again, to trust and feel safe again. God understands that, and gives us time to heal, to grow, to take another step closer, to open our hands a little bit more, until we’re ready to put our whole selves and souls into God’s hands and feel ok again. It may even be awhile before we relax enough to start purring.
Scooter reminds me to be patient with myself and with other people. We’re all doing the best that we can, and sometimes just need a little loving patience and gentleness to find our way again in a very tough world. Then we can curl up and sleep peacefully again, trusting that God’s lap is safe and sure around us, providing us a safe place to live and grow and love. And take a good, long nap.

Baking Bread

I am a pastor. I've been a pastor for approximately 17 years, and I'm still trying to figure out what it is I do.
Some people think I'm a Professional Prayer (no pressure there!) or a Professional Christian (hello!) and there are some days I feel like a litterbox for multiple cats. But that's on bad days.
People call me "Pastor Peggy," which used to make me cringe, but I've learned to smile, grind my teeth a little, and take a deep breath. You don't understand? Shall I call you Farmer Bob or Nurse Betty? Then there's Wal-Mart Cashier Sue or Subway Sandwich Maker Kelly. Besides, the thing about being "Pastor Peggy," is that uncomfortable gap that suddenly widens between me and other people when I'm introduced that way. Suddenly the other person doesn't assume that I wake up with bad breath or bedhead just like they do, or that I don't weep when the casualties of war increases or that I don't get afraid when someone else shoots up a school campus.
I'm just saying, my job is a little weird.
Which is why you don't choose to do it (if you are in your right mind) unless you are absolutely convinced that GOD wants you to do it, and therefore you can't really get out of it anyway, even if you tried.
I mean, at the end of the day, it's a little hard to evalate how I did that day. I visit the nursing home. Or the hospital. Did the person I visit seem sufficiently comforted by my visit? How do I know this? The person who came into my office to talk about their pain-- did they feel sufficiently helped when they left? How can we know this? I don't have an "in" and "out" box on my desk to measure my progress. How inspiring was that prayer I prayed to open the Administrative Meeting? Did it shake the earth? Bring tears to eyes and drive people to their knees? That report I had to fill out-- did it make my District Superintendent weep with awe?

I have a weird job. (Did I already say this?) But TV and movies would have you believe that all pastors are always dressed in a suit or collar all the time, always thinking and saying holy things, or in many cases, just looking like bumbling idiots. Oh, and they're usually bald-- or very gray and wrinkly. Unless you're Rev. Camden from "Seventh Heaven" who is too busy managing the lives of his soap-opera-candidate kids and friends to have time to show up at the church or write a decent sermon. And I have never seen a parsonage that huge or luxurious. But maybe in California...
People ask me Bible Trivia questions all the time, as if I have the whole Book memorized. Or they ask me to come up with a "really good verse" to attach to a letter, or newsletter or article-- you know, just off the top of my head.
But don't get me wrong. I love my job. Well, now I do. I didn't always. Because sometimes I have been the litter box for multiple cats or the punching bag for anal-retentive people who have never gotten over the trauma of their childhoods and figured there's no better place to let out your frustration than on "the preacher." Because, hey, preachers HAVE to be nice, no matter what. Unless you're one of those crazy child molesters or the charismatic dynamo who runs off with the secretary or has a serious drinking problem and is in denial.
But sometimes, like in the last two years, I love my job. Because I get to do what I signed up to do 18 years ago-- well, most of the time, anyway. I love preaching. I especially love saying words in the pulpit that nobody expects a preacher to say (not the four-letter ones, c'mon...) or act like a regular human being who's just as confused as the person in the pew, but has a few more books read (and a lot of school debt!) and just happens to know where to go for Bread when you're starving.
I love to baptize babies-- especially when they're bawling in their mother's arms and then I get them, and in my arms, they just shut up and stare at me like "who are YOU and what did you do with my mother?" And then I splash water on their heads and pray God's blessing upon them and wait for the dove from heaven to descend and the voice of God to shake us up. I walk the baby out into the congregation and everyone gets a goofy look on their faces, staring at this fresh new child of God, and for a moment we forget the Iraqi War and terrible prognoses and the chronic pain or our money stresses, because we're looking at a miracle of God. And maybe we remember that we are all miracles too, though a bit roughed up by life. But we come because we believe SOMETHING, even if it's just that there's something in that sanctuary for us-- a chunk of bread dipped in Welch's, or a hug during the Passing of the Peace or our favorite song, or just the safety of the sanctuary and the smell of burning candles. And we believe that if we show up, maybe Jesus will too, and who knows what'll happen? Maybe we'll breathe a little easier or feel less alone. If that's all that happens, that is enough for today.
I guess I am the fire-stoker. I keep the fire going. Sometimes when life is good, people don't show up, or they don't have the need for church, but I'm here. If the floor falls out underneath them or they get kicked in the stomach and show up in the pew, I'll try to have a word of hope for them, a morsel of bread. I try to help people find bread, I guess. Or water. Sometimes this world makes you feel that way, that if you could just have a good warm slice of bread with butter on it, you'd feel better. Jesus understands that. When he'd risen from the dead and he showed up to find his disciples fishing like nothing special had happened or JESUS hadn't happened-- he just cooked them breakfast and invited them in. No hard feelings.
I'm still trying to figure out exactly what my job is, but in the meantime, I'll keep baking bread and gathering cold water.

Color Me Beautiful

Last week my daughter Sarah and I went to the concert at the Recital Hall at UNK, as part of the Concert on the Platte series. Yang Liu, an extraordinary and world-renowned violinist, was the featured artist, and I’d taken Sarah to his open lesson that afternoon. I was very tired, and it would have been much easier to stay home, but I promised Sarah that we’d go.
Wow.
He played with a colleague of his, who accompanied him on piano, and they were both magnificent. My emotions ran the gamut throughout the performance. Some music was sadly stirring, other pieces were lively and upbeat. Liu played with such intensity that he was dripping with sweat, he was moving his whole body, and he even had to get a new bow at one point, because he’d played some of the horsehairs loose on his bow. It was beautiful. Sometimes I felt lulled into a sense of peace, other moments I felt pinned to my seat, drawn into the overwhelming intensity of the music. I looked around the recital hall and there was a wide variety of people. A woman in front of us had a yin-yang tattoo on her neck and was wearing a tank stop, sitting with her young daughter who was knitting. Her bald (purposely) husband kept time with the music by bobbing his head and tapping the seat in front of him. The daughter spontaneously hugged her mother’s bare arms during especially intense musical moments, and leaned her head on her shoulder. There were college students in sweat pants and T-shirts, a row of older women dressed in their Sunday best, and yet another row of serious-looking, professionally dressed, perhaps music majors. There were young couples with funky hairstyles and girls with stiletto heels. We were all there to hear this accomplished violinist who had been performing very difficult classical pieces in recital halls such as this since he was 10 years old.
It was a nice break from the rest of the world. For two hours, Sarah and I got away from radio and TV coverage of how the Virginia Tech students are coping, or how the gunmen’s family has to have police protection as they grieve this horror. We got away from all the things that challenge our hope and joy. And we participated in Beauty. We shared this wonderful moment of beauty with a room full of total strangers. We were all different, some of us from different ethnic backgrounds, different taste in clothes, and different positions in life. But we were drawn together by our love of beauty, of music, of the unique capacity of music to heal and bless our souls.
We need beauty so desperately. As I write this, it is very dark and dreary outside, with the severe thunderstorms raging and flooding outside. We’ve had some significant losses in my own community already in 2007, and there are many among us struggle with various crises in their individual lives. Rarely a Sunday goes by in church when we are not praying over more than one prayer blanket to give away.
Let’s not forget the power of beautiful things to bless our souls and the souls of others, to nourish and renew. Let’s pursue beauty and share it. When we were little, we would draw a picture for someone we loved and present it to them as a gift. We’re not too old to think of something beautiful to give or to do for someone to light up their world, to add music to their silences, and color to their black and white days. Take time for beauty. Indulge in beauty. Soak it up, eat it up with your eyes, your senses. It is not easy to be bearers of beauty—it makes us vulnerable, and sometimes just plain weird! But don’t be fooled, we all need it, we all hunger for it. Jesus was weary and sad as he faced his impending death when a nameless woman came to him and poured expensive perfume over his head, soothing, blessing him, and filling the room with a precious aroma. When his friends were shocked at her questionable behavior, he said, “Leave her alone, she has done a beautiful thing for me, and what she has done will be told wherever the gospel is proclaimed…. (Mark 9) Jesus himself is an image of beauty—his presence, his words, his depth of love, his power to love and heal—in a world that had grown hard and cynical.
Let’s be beautiful. Let’s add color to our corner of the world, and shine light in the dark corners! Imagine the light we can radiate when we get together in the spirit of the Resurrected One!

Persecuting Jesus

“PERSECUTING JESUS”
Acts 9
Faith United
April 22, 2007


God is very funny
when you think about it
God never does things the way anyone would expect
He’s like the best kind of screenplay writer
I mean, you never expect the ending to be what it is
when God writes the story
I love good stories
and I especially love stories that surprise me
Like those rare TV shows or movies
where the story line takes a whole different turn
and it ends up in a way that is completely unexpected
unpredictable
God’s like that
God doesn’t seem to like predictability
and that is very evident in Jesus’ life
But this story--
no one would have ever seen it coming
NO ONE would have predicted this outcome
Saul was… well, we can’t use those words in church--
but he was a bad guy
He was an ancient terrorist
That’s not an exaageration
He was evil
He was very focused, very, very smart
and very intense
He was of the tribe of Benjamin
His family line was pure and good and holy
He was the most religious person you’d ever want to meet
But his fervor and commitment were misguided
though he truly believed he was doing what was right
in the sight of God
by making sure those Christians were wiped out
He held the coats of the people
who threw stones at Stephen until he was dead
Saul held their coats and witnessed the whole thing
He sought out Christians, those believers in this Jesus dude --
and he hauled them for arrest and execution
He was a scary guy
I bet you could see it in his eyes
the intensity, the fire, the unwavering passion of his mission
Christians hated him and they feared him
because when you use the name of God
to back up your cause, well, you’ve got some power there
you can make people follow,
no matter how absurd and destructive the mission
I would have hated Saul if I lived back then
I think if we were all honest, we all would
Why would God even bother with the likes of him?
There was no hope for that guy
he knew everything he needed to know
he could quote scripture, verse and text
to justify the killing and persecutions
to justify his evil
He was a powerful man and very arrogant
believing so strongly that he was right
and all those people who believed in Jesus were not only
dead wrong,
but he believed they were going against
the very truth of God
Saul was really, really intense
And I suppose God realized that if God was going to get Saul’s attention
and get him to listen,
God would have to do something really dramatic
A mere burning bush wouldn’t be enough
even a voice from heaven coming out of the clouds
wouldn’t be quite enough to convince Saul
not even a really good sermon
Saul needed something really intense
Saul… needed to be blown away, knocked over,
shaken up a bit
And so he was

He was pumped that day
Man, he was so angry and he fed on that anger
You know how that is?
When you’re so focused on being angry
and you feed it, maybe someone did you wrong
and you brood on it, you become obsessed with it
and the anger gets bigger and bigger
Well, he was out to get more Christians
He was going blow THEM away
He was going to get ém
They made him really mad
and he wanted them to pay
So he went to the high priest for permission
to pick up anyone along the way to Damascus
that followed the way of Jesus
so he could drag them in
bind them up and give them their due
As he walked quickly along the road
breathing, murmuring murderous threats under his breath
BAM!
Next thing he knew he was on the ground
He didn’t feel any pain, save for the bump on the back of his head
where he hit the dirt
He tried to open his eyes
and the light was blinding him, making his eyes water
he tried to squint and see what was going on
He couldn’t see his fellow travelers nearby
He couldn’t see anything for the blinding light
He shook his head, trying to clear it
and he heard a voice that seemed to come from every direction
“Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?” the voice sounded pained
“Who are you?” he yelled out into the blindness
The voice was strangely gentle
“I’m Jesus, the one you’re persecuting…”
Jesus! The one they claimed had risen from the dead?
What, is this another one of those tricks by those Jesus People?
Before he could open his mouth,
the gentle voice said, “I am the one you are persecuting
with all your actions, your murderous schemes….
but get up now, go into the city, and you will be told what to do.”
Well, Saul must have been shaken up alright,
because NO ONE tells Saul what to do
but the poor violent man
was visibly trembling, almost weeping,
brought to his knees by this blinding light
The men who stood with Saul were struck speechless
their own knees trembling
trying to shield their eyes from the light
They heard the voice, but they didn’t see where it was coming from
Saul got up,
and he kept blinking, but his eyes couldn’t see
he was suddenly blinded
which terrified him – what was happening?
His comrades took his arms and led him forth
as he mumbled something about having to go into the city
they could feel his trembling arms
and they wondered….
They took care of him, this powerful man suddenly brought down
blind and helpless
and they were confused
He refused to eat or drink for three days
he seemed to be waiting for something or someone
he wouldn’t tell them

Meanwhile, God needed to get someone else’s attention
his name was Ananias
God told Ananias what to do,
he was to go to the street called Straight
to the house of Judas—different Judas—
and ask for the man named Saul
Saul is praying, and ''Ananias,'' God said, ''he’s having a vision, a dream
and you’re in it…
He will see you coming in to lay your hands on him
to heal him and bring back his sight….”
''Whoa, God…'' said Ananias
(apparently Ananias was pretty familiar with God)
''No way, God, no way… do you know who this guy is?
He is responsible for so many deaths of your people
He has terrorized us, persecuted us
kept us living in fear for our lives
You’re telling me, you want me to help HIM?
Give me a break… he is evil, God, downright evil...''
and God says, ''Ananias, shh! Stop talking!
Shut up and listen!"
(Well, maybe not exactly…)
But God says “Surprise! I’ve chosen him
to bring my good news to the non-Jews,
to the people of Israel and to kings…
don’t worry, he knows it ain’t going to be easy…
But go, Ananias…”
I can just see Ananias shaking his head,
maybe grumbling under his breath,
but knowing that he has to do what God wants,
no matter how absurd it seems
So he goes to the house on the street called Straight
he asks for Saul
and he sees him
He’s not the overpowering, frightening, threatening person
he’d once seen
but now, he was a trembling, vulnerable man
his eyes wide open, searching the room
but seeing nothing
he looked … kind of pitiful
So Ananias had pity on him
and reached out a trembling hand to his enemy
the persecutor of his people
and he called him….. “Brother.”
You could have heard a pin drop
Ananias reached out his hand and laid it on Saul’s head
“Brother Saul,” he said in a trembling voice,
“the Lord Jesus, the one who appeared to you on your way here
he has sent me to you so that you may regain your sight
and be filled with the Holy Spirit.”
And in that moment,
it was like scales literally fell off of Saul’s eyes
he once was blind, but now he saw
and he saw things a whole lot differently
Dear God, everything was different
He looked at Ananias, the man still wary of him
still unsure of whether to trust him or not
and he grasped his hand in humble gratitude
and Ananias was ....astounded
When Saul got up,
he was taken to a body of water to be baptized
in the name of Jesus Christ
and he was led back to the house
to get something to eat in order to regain his strength
He was so hungry by now…
his hands still shook as he lifted the food to his mouth
and gulped the water and the wine
Ananias just stared at him, speechless
He remembered Stephen, a dear friend who loved Jesus
and who died under the watchful eye of this Saul
just because he believed in Jesus
and he tried to hate this man
but something inside of him softened
even… forgave
there was something different about him
he trusted God to know what he was doing

It’s quite a story
and for centuries a lot of people have felt pressure
to come up with just as good a story
as to how they came to love Jesus
But a lot of us don’t get knocked down by a blinding light
we can’t remember a date or time that Jesus came into our hearts
and set them on fire
I relate more to Ananias
who grew up in the faith
who got to know God over time, throughout his life
being raised by religious parents
being taught the stories of his people’s faith
and coming to claim it as his own
Ananias, just a quiet, regular guy who loved God
who was willing to trust God enough
to do what God called him to do
to reach out to his enemy and have mercy
despite all the good reasons not to…
Ananias’ call was no less dramatic than Saul’s
he was literally called to love his enemy
to be an agent of reconciliation and peace
to even HEAL his enemy
when something inside of him wanted to throw
a rock at him for all he’d done
But Ananias had a heart full of Jesus
and he couldn’t return evil for evil
Saul was so bullheaded, so arrogant, so focused and driven
that he NEEDED to be knocked down, shaken up
He needed to fast for three days, so that he was emptied out
making room for God to fill him up
and change him from the inside out
before he could do what God called him to do
And Saul became Paul… the one who got out there
and got this church thing going
because he knew more than anyone, that we never come to Christ alone
Saul was knocked down, blinded by the light
but then God called in the church to finish the job
God used Ananias and others
to minister to Saul, to care for him
and fill him up again
Saul’s conversion was not a solitary experience
God used several people to help bring it about
And the same is true with us
how we come to believe is different for all of us
some of us need to be knocked down and shaken up
to really get our attention
some of us just kind of grow into it
always learning the stories, being raised in the faith
and then at some point coming to claim it as our own
God comes to us in the ways that we can best receive him
the ways that best get our attention
And we need each other
I hear people say, ''oh, I believe in God, I just don’t come to church''
well, that’s not what God ever intended
God always does God’s work in community
it’s not something meant for just us alone
We need each other to help each other find our way
to keep us accountable
to bind our wounds and celebrate our joys
the Church is God’s way of shaping us
into the people God wants us to be
and we, too, can be transformed
We’re never too old to be surprised
And the horrifying news of this past week in Virginia
is just another stark reminder of just how important our call is
Our call to follow Jesus in his ways of peace
to grieve the evil that goes on
to grieve with Jesus himself when people choose death and violence
instead of resurrection life that transforms and renews
We see in times like this how destructive it is to hold onto our anger
to nurse it, coddle it, feed it, until it becomes a burning rage
that can kill both bodies and spirits
But we are people of the Resurrection
we believe in a different kind of power
and the world is aching to be renewed by that same power
people are hungry, they are empty and starving to be loved
we all need to belong
we all need to have that emptiness filled
we all need mercy so badly
So, today, receive that mercy,
receive that resurrection power that we know in Christ
receive it every day
and always be willing to be surprised
This story reminds us that the life of faith is not an easy ride
without jolts and sudden jerks
and stomach-lurching drops,
sharp, sudden turns in our path
that leave us breathless and blown away
Let God blow you away
and follow where God leads you and me
because every day can be Easter
every day the light can shine so bright that it amazes us
and all the colors around us begin to look differently
We see living proofs of Easter power every day
let’s BE living proof of the power of resurrection
in a world that is so full of senseless death
let’s BE living proof of the transforming, life-changing love of God
in a world so bent on hate
let’s be followers of the way
and follow the path where Jesus walks….
we may just be surprised....

Wanna Try It?

In church I once told the story of standing in line at a department store, on a break from college and wearing my “Messiah College” T-shirt. The woman behind the counter pointed at my shirt and started laughing. “Are you…” she gasped out, “are you one of them born again Christians?”
I was really embarrassed. ‘Uh, yeah, I guess,’ I said. She wiped her eyes, still giggling. “I thought so.”
I left the store, without purchasing anything—my face very hot.
I think about that incident a lot. Especially lately, as I go around the community in Kearney or wherever, and someone introduces me as “Pastor Peggy.” Or I get my hair cut and the hairdresser asks me what I do for a living. I hate that. When someone finds out I’m a pastor, they start acting weird.
“How interesting,” they say, and then don’t say anything after that. Or they tell me what I call their “pastor horror stories”—about a pastor that “done them wrong.” Offended them directly, neglected to do something, or was just plain whacko. I guess they’re just making conversation. I keep thinking I need to think up some “hairstylist horror stories,” just so I’m ready.
My point is, the people out there often don’t think too much of us in here, in the Church. Sometimes I really can’t blame them. I’ve heard stories that would make Mother Teresa embarrassed to be a Christian.
I try to teach my daughter not to hate anybody, and that is difficult, because as you know, she’s in middle school, and middle school can be a vicious place. But I’m finding, really, that adulthood is not too much different than middle school. We still talk about people behind their backs, we still believe and spread vicious rumors about people, we still judge people for what they do or what their children do, we still exclude people if they aren’t like us, we dismiss people because of their political views or religious views, or when someone is in trouble, we stand back and say “what a shame” and leave them alone—all alone. I tell Sarah that middle school is preparing her for life, strangely enough. The only difference is that adults should know better.
There’s been a lot of talk for decades now of what is called “dysfunctional families.” After all this time, I think we’re learning that we all are, in some way, dysfunctional. We don’t always behave in healthy ways. We don’t live up to our potential. We hurt the people we love. Or as St. Paul would say it, “We all fall short of the glory of God.” The Church is made up of “glory-deficient people.” I believe as humans, we are all “glory-deficient.” G.K. Chesteron, an early 20th century writer, once wrote that Christianity has not failed; it has been found difficult and therefore untried.
Love your neighbor? Pray for your enemies? Jesus was surely exaagerating! Don’t take an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth? Didn’t Moses say we could? Yeah, but Jesus said no. Not anymore. Bottom line: love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind and soul and strength, and your neighbor as yourself. “Do that,” Jesus said, “and you will live.”
It’s never been tried. We keep falling short. That’s what Lent reminds us of. That we need to keep trying. It’s a new day. Today we start again. We dare to be different than the rest of the world in all its meanness, hostility and self-preservation. We look at the Cross. We peek into the Empty Tomb. And we remember that Love Always Wins. Love is the cliff notes to the Gospel. Love God, love your neighbor, love yourself. Let’s try it just for one day. Then another, then another. Because while we may be “glory-deficient” by nature, God has a way of lighting us up with amazing glory when we get out of the way. Easter is coming. I'm thinking we ought to try Jesus’ way, and make it our own.

Little Church on the Prairie

Yesterday I had lunch with a young woman who's been coming to our church pretty regularly. Her name is Jennifer, and she's opened her first chiropractic office here in town and is struggling to make a go of it. I thought it'd be fun to have lunch and get to know her a bit better.

We met at the Sportsmen's Bar and Grill, which is the kind of place that would delight my father, who is always looking for "native places" to eat and partake of the culture of a particular town. We try to keep him from gawking, or asking stupid questions! The Sportsmen's is a popular local bar, with the bar up front, and the big room in the back for people who just want to eat and not imbibe. In fact, if you don't want to walk through the bar, there is a separate door around the side of the building where you can walk in, seat yourself, and forget you're eating at a bar-- if that sort of thing bothers you.

Anway, I met Jennifer there for lunch. The Burger Basket special there is under $5, and you can get a chef salad for just over $5, that will fill you up the rest of the day and not even make you feel like you sacrificed much in avoiding trans-fat. In other words, it's a good place for a preacher and a just-starting-out chiropractor to have lunch. It doesn't dent the budget too badly.
As Jennifer and I got to talking over Diet Cokes, she mentioned that her grandmother died. I offered my polite condolences. She was 93, she said, and was in a nursing home. It was a shame, she mentioned, that her grandmother couldn't be buried out of her church, as it had closed many years ago. The cemetary, though, was still there, and if the present temperatures rose as forecasted, getting out to the cemetary on dirt roads could prove to be more than interesting. She had lived out in the middle of nowhere. Casually I asked, "where is nowhere?"

"A little area called New Virginia," she said, shrugging.

I nearly choked on my julienne ham.

When I recovered, I said, "I was the pastor who was there when the church closed! Who's your grandmother?"
She laughed as she told me Charlotte Peterson.

Dear God.
The year I graduated from seminary in Kansas City, Missouri, I was appointed to a three-point charge in South Central Nebraska. Guide Rock, Cowles, and New Virginia. The New Virginia Church was a little white church literally out in the middle of nowhere. Seven miles out a dirt road. There were only ten members left there, but they all came once a month sometime after noon. When I was finished with worship at the Guide Rock UMC, I headed out into the wilderness to New Virginia for a potluck dinner that was set out on a board across the back seats of the little church. The women brought in jugs of water, as there was no plumbing in the church-- something I assumed quickly when I saw the two outhouses out back, one for men, one for women. The day Larry and I drove out there to check out the church before I started there, it was a typical windy Nebraska summer day. There was nothing out there to stop the wind, the church was on a slight hill of wide-open prairie. I remember you could hardly open the car door without it blowing back closed.

The first day I preached at New Virginia, it had rained two inches the night before. I was driving my F150 rear-wheel drive pick up truck at the time, and for 7 miles I clutched the steering wheel, trying to keep the truck on the muddy, soupy dirt road. My stepson Michael, who was then 13, was with me, enjoying my intense effort not to say any cuss words out loud. When I finally pulled up to the church, the 5 men of the church stood on the front porch of the little white clapboard church. Wayne, the youngest of them at 69, chuckled.
"Normally," he said, "when it rains 2 inches we cancel church because of the mud. But we all wanted to see this New Jersey preacher drive her pick up truck out our road!" They all laughed. I smiled a tense smile.
Michael spoke up. "Oh, she's willing to drive in any kind of conditions!" he volunteered.

The covered dishes were all laid out on the back row of chairs. Some of the women complained that it had started to all get cold while they were waiting for me. I was still too shaken to feel bad. We all got something to eat and balanced our paper plates on our knees, and tried to hold a plastic cup of water with one hand and eat with the other, while trying not to spill the abundant contents of our plates. After lunch, they all packed up the dirty dishes to take home to wash, and separated into their usual spots. Five men on one side of the church and five women on the other. As was predicted, about three of them were snoring loudly before the service was over.

They'd been talking for several months about closing the church, as they were down to ten members, and their strongest financial supporter, Charlotte Petersen, would be moving to town to be closer to her children. She hated to tear herself away from her beloved farm and little church, but it was the practical thing to do. I preached at New Virginia and ate their food just 6 times before we closed the church. The day we held the last service, we invited everyone who ever cared about the little church to come. We filled it to overflowing. We told stories, we wrote down the history, we sang hymns and honored the life of that little church who boasted being the church of the writer Willa Cather. We even had a baptism of one of the grandchildren of one of the members. We took a group picture of the last 10 members, along with me and the District Superintendent, Sam Rathod. It was a party that day, and there was more food than could be held on just 8 chairs in the back.

4 years later, I went to be the associate pastor in Aurora, Nebraska, and when I went to the senior citizen's lunch, there was Charlotte Petersen. I reminded her who I was, and her face lit up just remembering her precious little church where she left her heart, and she was glad for the connection. She had come to Aurora to live near some of her family. I hadn't known where she had moved to when she left New Virginia. And here she was.

It's been 8 years since I left Aurora and Nebraska. I went to the nursing home at Aurora a year ago after we moved back to Nebraska, when Larry told me that he met Charlotte there. She no longer remembered me, because she was starting to fail. She didn't remember a lot of things anymore, but when I mentioned New Virginia, her face brightened up as if she'd seen Jesus himself. She remembered her home church and her farm. That's one thing that even old age wouldn't let her forget. The little white church on the windy prairie, where you better hold on tight to your hat, and where you just stay home if it rained more than 2 inches if you were smart and not some dumb preacher from New Jersey.

"I knew Charlotte," I told her granddaughter Jennifer. We shared stories of the little place in the middle of nowhere called New Virgina, where there is now only a cemetary, and last I saw, the little white church was boarded up and padlocked and surrounded by tall grasses. For a moment I could smell the aroma of church potluck dishes mixed with the sweet musty smell of old wood. I could feel the wind on my face, trying to knock me over, and... people. People who loved their land, their church, their home, and who hated to say goodbye. Dear Charlotte gets to go back to the prairie, the place she loved the most, and a part of her will always be where the wind whips across the prairie, and the church bell can be heard for miles down the old dirt road.

See you later, Charlotte.

Country Music, Pick-Up Trucks and Jesus

When I moved to Nebraska the first time, in 1991, I bought a 1988 Ford Black F150 pick-truck (5 speed, stick on the floor!), a pair of cowboy boots, and I started listening to country music. My New Jersey friends were appalled. I loved that truck, to my own surprise, and it was with great heartbreak that I got rid of it after 10 good years together, in 2001, because the rear-wheel drive was incompatible with the narrow, steep, winding mountain roads of Northeast Pennsylvania where we lived then. The cowboy boots didn't last as long; one full day at the Nebraska State Fair for a Garth Brooks concert did my feet in. (Or was it wearing them for line-dance lessons when I was 6 months pregnant?-- ouch)
Though I am currently truck-less and bootless, I still listen to country music. I also listen to Public Radio (I love that Billy Joel song, "I don't know why I go to extremes!") When I was in seminary at St. Paul School of Theology in KC, my professor Tex Sample taught a January class called "White Soul." Tex also wrote a book by the same name. It was, believe it or not, a class on the history of country music, and how it is essentially the "soul music"of mostly white people, and not just rural white people. In other words, country music is often about real life, real struggles and real people. I don't like ALL country music, mind you. I'm not crazy about the heavy bear-drinking, woman-hating, flag-worshipping, sometimes violent, sometimes nasty songs. But there are many songs that speak about the real pains and joys of life. I commuted to seminary in my pick-up truck for two years from Nebraska, listening to Alan Jackson, Brooks and Dunn, Martina McBride, Garth Brooks ("I've Got Friends in Low Places" will preach!), Trisha Yearwood, Wynonna, Confederate Railroad, etc. During the 1992 presidential election, there was a lot of songs about the working man or woman just trying to be by, trying to get a job, the homeless, the regular guy on the street. There are songs about spousal abuse, child abuse, impossible bosses, trying to get by on minimum wage, raising a daughter in a world where women's bodies are used to sell everything from pop to cars to shampoo. Then there's the just plain fun ones like "Bubba Shot the Jukebox," or "Prop Me Up Against the Jukebox When I Die" and the controversial Dixie Chicks' "Goodbye Earl." Jukeboxes are big in country music, along with trucks, trains, bars, dogs and mama. Country music also pokes fun at the absurdities of life, like in Tracy Byrd's "Celebrity"about the whacked-out life of big stars who can literally get away with crimes. The music also celebrates the simple, good things of life; like fried chicken (never mind the trans fat), long conversations on the front porch, biscuits and home-cooking, and country life.
My moving to Nebraska wasn't my first exposure to country music, it was more like a return to it. My mother, Mississippi-raised, had country music playing all the time on the kitchen radio. I grew up listening to Dolly Parton, Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, Little Jimmy Dickens, and company. Then upstairs on the second floor, my older brothers were playing 60s and 70s rock, so I had a diverse exposure. I learned to especially love Johnny Cash in elementary school. It was a Johnny Cash movie on the life of Jesus that simultaneously made me love Johnny AND Jesus at the same time when I was 9 years old. The day Johnny Cash die I felt an eerie grief, as íf I'd grown up with the man. In a way, I did.
Country music also has great story-songs that'll make you cry and songs about God and Jesus. No other song, I believe, captured and comforted the national heart after September 11th more than Alan Jackson's "Where Were You When the World Stopped Turning?"
I guess I try to do in my preaching what I find in a lot of country music. I try to get a sense of what the regular person in the everyday world is experiencing and feeling and wondering about, and try to talk to them. I want to find out their story, their lived experience. So much TV represents so much false life, people with way more money than any of us'll ever have, doing things that none of us have the time to do even if we wanted to, and they do it all without having to reap any consequences. I like to talk about real people and bring the Good News of Jesus Christ to them. Otherwise, what is the point of any of it? I like the song by Confederate Railroad; "Jesus and Mama always loved me." Now, it doesn't get much more basic than that. Then there's Brooks and Dunn's "Believe"; "I'm finding more and more truth in the words written in red..." Country music, more often than not, is about real life, real heartbreaks, real struggles, real people, and often about the very real struggle to have faith in a world that makes faith so difficult. Sounds like gospel to me.
Music is often like praying for me. Sometimes a song can say what I don't know how to put into words myself. It can lift my heart when nothing else can. It can help me grieve, too, while also reminding me of heaven. It's good stuff. I don't know, it'd be just like Jesus to hang out in the honky-tonks if he came back today. Call me crazy. Jesus always seemed to prefer the down-to-earth, tell-it-like-it-is people over the uppity ones who thought they had it all together. Jesus came that we may have life-- REAL life-- as real people. Who knows? He might even wear jeans to church if he were here.
pmr