It’s the most wonderful (and lonely) time of the year

I love Christmas season. In many ways, it is the most wonderful time of the year. I even find myself humming along with Andy Williams, not that I have plans for jingle bell ringing or mistltoeing this Christmas, but I do hope my “heart will be glowing/ When love ones are near.”

But, Christmas isn't like that for thousands, nor has it always been for me. Christmas can be one of the loneliest times of the year, especially for those whose loved ones aren't near or are even gone forever. The fact is, for many, Christmas is far from “the hap-happiest season of all.”

And you don’t have to be single and alone or separated from loved ones to feel the bleakness of Christmas. Being smothered by too much family can prompt heartache, too. As Ellen (Beverly D’Angelo) blurted out in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation: “I don't know what to say, except it's Christmas and we're all in misery.”

Psychiatrists, psychologists and other mental health professionals see a spike in suicides and attempted suicides during this season, and one study reports that 45% of respondents dreaded the holidays.

The reasons? Often, it’s because we over expect, over spend, and over analyze: We expect perfect moments, and are disappointed when we don’t have them, spend too much, then weep when the credit card bill arrives, and  all the while, we’re thinking too much about ourselves--- all that we aren't and all that we don’t have materially or relationally.

The season itself was never supposed to be the focus. It’s like buying an expensive gift for someone’s birthday, dressing up, thinking about what the party will mean, and then upon arriving, ignoring the birthday boy or girl.

It can cast a grand sadness on the partiers.

Especially if you are having trouble loving the ones you’re with or longing for those who are absent.

So, if “everyone telling you ‘Be of good cheer” elicits a “bah humbug” response from you, perhaps these suggestions may help.

Resist the temptation to beat yourself up for cringing when Christmas season rolls around. That will only exacerbate the situation. Most people experience loneliness from time to time. The events and pressures of the holidays only heighten the likelihood that you will encounter some form of melancholy during this time. 

Accept it.

Instead of fearing loneliness like the plague and fleeing it by rushing to replace it with superficial activities, receive aloneness as a gift. I’m certainly not suggesting you become reclusive or that you feed your gloominess by deliberately secluding yourself, but the remedy for feeling blue isn't going to be found in busyness, for when the activities cease, your sadness will return. Learn to appreciate the solitude, using it as an opportunity to reflect on where and who you are in relation to the eternal and others. Sometimes our deepest insights come when we have no one to talk with, when we are on our own and apart from others.

Walking the road less traveled doesn’t mean you walk alone. Turning your attention to others diverts your attention from yourself and your own lack. Look to see how you can help someone else.

Think of George Bailey (Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life) contemplating suicide. Suddenly, he dives into the water to save Clarence (Henry Travers), George’s guardian angel. That solitary act of valor set in motion a series of events that revealed to George who he was and what was really important to him. Remember what George said near the end of the movie when he returned to the same bridge? “Get me back to my wife and kids! Help me Clarence, please! Please! I wanna live again. I wanna live again. Please, God, let me live again.”

Even when it’s impossible to get back to your family or have it like it once was, you can still cry out with a desire to live again and embrace each present moment.

The baby born in the manger would know total aloneness, for he was not only born in what most considered a God forsaken corner of the earth called Bethlehem---but he would cry out 33 years later, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

He is the One who can feel what you’re feeling, and standing in you and by your side, give you your life and even more: He can make it last beyond the Christmas season.

And that can turn into not just the most wonderful time of year, but something far better: a most wonderful life.

Faith confronts the threat of pipeline eminent domain

On a frigid afternoon this past Tuesday, December 10, some 65 people representing different expressions of faith gathered on the Boone Farm in Nelson County, Kentucky, affirming their belief that God is not pleased with what hydraulic fracturing (“fracking”) is doing to his creation.

Why did they do this? Why now?  And, will their action shape the roles Kentucky Governor Steve Beshear and the Kentucky Legislature play in determining whether Bluegrass Pipeline’s parent companies, Williams and Boardwalk, have the right to exercise eminent domain, permitting this powerful corporation to carry what many believe to be dangerous natural gas liquids through the property of landowners, even if they refuse to grant access through their property?

The event was in answer to the call from the Dominican Sisters of Peace (St. Catharine, Ky.), the Loretto Community (Loretto, Ky.), and the Sisters of Charity (Nazareth, Ky.), who originally articulated the Energy Vision Statement and invited people of faith from all traditions to join them.

The statement, signed by 117 organizations and 965 people from Christian and non-Christian faith communities, speaks against all plans for expanded extraction of fossil fuel or infrastructures such as pipelines that require the plundering of God's creation and the endangerment of human communities. The statement calls for immediate regional and national plans for the transition to renewable sources of energy which would better uphold the ideal of the common good, both now and for future generations.

It is no mistake they met on the Boone Farm in Nelson County, Ky., for the family has refused the company the right of way through their property.

Nor is it happenstance the meeting took place on December 10, for that is the anniversary of Thomas Merton’s death, the most famous monk of the Abbey of Gethsemani, the oldest operating monastery in America, located near the Boone Farm. Ironically, according to current plans, it appears the route of the pipeline would include the Abbey’s property, land that Merton loved and often wrote about: “I love the woods…Know every tree, every animal, every bird. Sense of relatedness to my environment,” he wrote in a letter a few months before his untimely death. Several months ago, the monks refused to give permission for Bluegrass Pipeline LLC to survey their property.

And that brings us to the matter of eminent domain.

Exercising the power of eminent domain would allow the Bluegrass Pipeline LLC the right to seize land, even when landowners reject the company’s offer for easements through that property. Earlier this year, Governor Beshear refused to call for a special legislative session of the Kentucky General Assembly to address the hotly debated issue, and make no mistake, it is a contentious matter because it is unprecedented for a private corporation, such as the parent company of the Bluegrass Pipeline---a corporation not in public service to Kentuckians--- to be granted the right of exercising eminent domain.

One can argue the pros and cons of whether the pipeline would be beneficial for Kentuckians, but understand the gravity of eminent domain: It is an end run around the debate, rendering helpless those property owners who disagree with the Bluegrass Pipeline’s plans. One must ask, Does a private company have the right to impose its will on those Kentucky property owners who oppose the corporation’s agenda?

Governor Beshear has taken a bye in this debate. “We will have adequate time to take any necessary action in the regular session that begins in January 2014,” he said earlier this year. But in doing so, the governor has allowed the Bluegrass Pipeline LLC to go ahead with plans seeking survey permissions, and the company has admittedly surveyed lands without the approval of landowners.

Unlike some, I refuse to blame the governor’s laissez faire approach on the fact that his son, Andrew, works for a law firm representing the company that plans to build the controversial pipeline through Kentucky.

Whatever his reason for inaction, the governor has a responsibility and a duty to protect the rights of Kentucky’s citizens. He should follow the lead of State Senator Jimmy Higdon and State Representative David Floyd, who have pre-filed legislation to prevent the use of eminent domain for the proposed Bluegrass Pipeline. “If you’re a pipeline and you don’t have an oversight by the Public Service Commission, then you don’t qualify for eminent domain. You can’t have it both ways,” said Higdon.

As for those faithful who met in the cold, as well as others who have signed on to the agenda for an environmentally cleaner and safer Kentucky and Earth, they should stay in the fray---for they are a necessary voice, though they may appear to be crying in the wilderness—for the wilderness is the place where truth sayers often have to stand, the place where their voice can usually most clearly be heard.

No shame in tears

This particular emergency room is all too familiar to me: I know the room numbers and their location almost by memory now, having been called upon to pray here more times than I care to recall.

But every situation is a bit different; this one caught me by the throat.

I had known Colin since he was a pup, baptized him, watched him grow to young adulthood, and prayed over him when he left home on the way to fulfilling his dream of a military career.

Along the way, he filled in as our church’s assistant custodian--- a nice part time job for a high school kid. When I arrived at church early one Sunday morning and found a bat hanging outside my office door, I called (okay, maybe I screamed) for Colin. Being a good five inches taller than me, the job was his, or so I told him: “I can’t stand on your shoulders to get that bat.”  He grinned and removed the bat with such gallantry that I nicked named Colin, Bat Man.

So, that day, when I arrived at the emergency room, the news of Colin’s sudden death hit me like someone had just slugged me in the stomach, knocking the wind from me. Just the week before I had announced during Sunday’s service that Colin would be home from basic training the next Sunday, so “make sure to welcome him back,” I had said.

He died in a car wreck only a few miles from his house.

When I told his mom the sad news, she collapsed in my arms. A tiny measure of her pain was transfused from her heart to mine, and even that little drop of anguish was almost more than I could bear.

And so, taking her agony into mine, I cried too.

Sometime later, I can’t gauge how long, I attempted a prayer. The words stuck like gravel in my throat.

I tried again, hoping no one had noticed. “Keep your composure,” I said to myself, repeating words I had spoken so many years ago in a football huddle when our team was in a tight spot.

The words did come, but not before tears had splashed the pages of the Scripture from which I read.

They were words from Jesus. A priest had joined me to minister to this family--- some of whom were Baptist and some Catholic. As he graciously included me in the sacrament of Last Rites, I read from the passage where Jesus arrived too late on the death scene.  Jesus would raise Lazarus from the dead, but not before Lazarus’ grieving sisters, Martha and Mary, well-nigh blamed the whole thing on Jesus’ tardiness.

And then I read it, the shortest verse in the Bible: “Jesus wept.”

“Jesus wept,” I slowly repeated aloud the words one more time, as much for my benefit as for those standing around me. I let the simple sentence sink in: Jesus really did weep.

Now, I’d read that passage dozens of times, and even had fun quoting it, playing my own version of Bible trivia.

“Do you know the shortest verse in the Bible?” I would ask.

And I would quickly answer: “Jesus wept,” ha-ha. “You didn't know? Gotcha on that one,” ha-ha.

But this was no ha-ha moment.  Neither had it been for Jesus.

The heartache that poured through his tears some two thousand years ago in a village called Bethany, flowed over me, soothing me at my point of pain in the ER at that moment on that day.

Before the joy of the miracle, Jesus wept out loud with the grieving family. And no one was foolish enough to tell him to get a hold of himself or to pray in a different way.

Walking to my car in the dismal rain, a distant hope drew me into its embrace, shedding a light that warmed and revived my soul, reminding me that we are often healed by the wounds of those who love us, cleansed by their tears, and comforted by their sorrow.

And there in no shame in that.

The joy is in the journey

I pressed on, hiking about 50 feet in front of Mary, who was straining to keep up. Dave, not in any particular hurry, lagged behind her another 15 yards or so.

 “I just know the clearing in the woods was right about here,” I shouted back to my two grown children.

Still unable to find the clearing, I picked up my pace even more, stretching the distance between the three of us.

I didn’t want to admit it, but I was beginning to doubt that I could find the place where I had exited the woods a few weeks ago, having chanced upon a small lake that surprised me as much as  my intrusion seemed to have startled it from its mid-morning nap. I had been on one of my “prayer hikes” in the knobs surrounding Gethsemani Abbey when I found the lake. It was Eden- like in its purity. I don’t know how long I sat before it, breathing it in as a heaven sent gift of incense, but when I left, it seemed to smile back, politely thanking me for venerating its sanctuary.

But now the lake was playing coy, aggravating me, hiding from me-- unwilling to show itself.

Earlier that day, Mary, home for Thanksgiving, mentioned that she and Dave wanted to go with me to Gethsemani for “just a couple of hours.”  Whenever any of my kids ask if they can accompany me to Gethsemani, I’m like, “Are you kidding me? Of course.  Let’s go. “But then I have to control my excitement for fear I’ll overwhelm them, keeping them there longer than they want, ruining Gethsemani for them.

Driving to the Abbey that day, I thought about how when I was just a kid, my older brother Mark would practically beg me to go quail hunting with him, for “just a couple of hours.” Half a day later I would beg him to “pleeease,” take me home.

 “I’ve got just one more place for us to try. You’ll love it,” he would say. Grumbling beneath my breath, I would follow. And on we would go, searching for the next covey of quail.

“I was afraid this would happen,” I would repeat to myself. The birds certainly didn’t fear me; Mark would often giggle at my errant shots, and to this day, he loves to tell of it.

“I didn’t want to kill those birds,” I would defend myself.

 “You didn’t have to worry about that; you never came close,” Mark would laugh.

 “Dad, I think we’ve gone far enough,” Mary says, in between gasps.  I stop and let her catch me. Next Dave saunters into the clearing, joining us in our huddle. 

“The lake has to be over there, just beyond those trees,” I say, trying to convince myself.

But to get to the trees, we would first have to cross a dip in the terrain, which is mainly muddy. Mary’s running shoes are no match for the likes of it.

“Just a couple of hours,” I hear Mary’s words from earlier in our day, and they are also my words to Mark, earlier in my life.

Lowering my head in defeat, I start the descent down the knob, guiding us back to the monastery.

Hours later, back home, I offer my apology: “Sorry I didn’t lead us to the lake.”

“Dad, the joy is in the journey,” Dave says, reminding me of words I taught them long ago. 

And then over a cup of hot coffee, we relive our hike back to the monastery, recounting the return when I wasn’t in a hurry to show them the ideal scene, when we took our time, stopping here and there, listening for what the woods wanted to say to us while the birds welcomed us as guests in their home.

The ideal place was there all along; I only needed to grasp it.

“Yeah, and besides,” Mary concludes, “now I have something to look forward to when I come back: We’ll find that lake.”

Maybe that’s what my older brother wanted for me: to enjoy something he loved, to join him on the journey, to want me to want to come back and find more.

Maybe I’ll join him on a hunt next time I’m back home.

I’ll ask him if I can just tag along and not take a gun.

I think I know what he will say: “What difference will it make? You never could shoot anything anyway.”

Thanksgivukkah, Franksgiving, or Thanksmas?

It won’t happen again until the year 79811. That’s 77,798 years from now. So if you’re Jewish, enjoy the moment.

 I’m referring to the concurrence of Thanksgiving and Hanukkah. Some American Jews are calling it Thanksgivukkah.

Actually Hanukkah begins on the Wednesday evening before Thanksgiving, which this year falls on November 28. It’s a rare occasion for Jews to celebrate two holidays at once, one uniquely American—Thanksgiving---and the other singularly Jewish: Hanukkah, giving these Jews the opportunity to reclaim the true meaning of Hanukkah, which some say was never about giving (gifts) anyway but about taking, as in the Maccabean revolt taking back the Temple from the Seleucids in 164 BCE; it’s about celebrating and being thankful for such epochal moments.

So, for some Jews, Thanksgivukkah fits nicely into the true meaning of Hanukkah, conveying a historical memory of thankfulness.

Had President Franklin Roosevelt had his way, this confluence of Hanukkah with Thanksgiving would never have happened, for Roosevelt wanted Thanksgiving moved back a week earlier in November to boost retail sales during the Great Depression. It had long been the practice in America to celebrate Thanksgiving on the last Thursday of November. President Abraham Lincoln made it official by proclaiming a national Thanksgiving Day in 1863. Franklin’s effort to move Thanksgiving back a week, dubbed Franksgiving by its opponents, fell flat, and Roosevelt reluctantly signed a bill in 1941 setting Thanksgiving on the fourth Thursday in November.

The emergence of Black Friday surely found Roosevelt snickering from his grave, albeit through clenched teeth on his cigarette holder, for Black Friday virtually redeemed his idea: Use Thanksgiving as a prompt for buying and selling.

 So here we find ourselves with Black Friday smearing a pristine Thanksgiving Day with a dreary gray, reducing it from a family celebration of gratitude to a bargain basement retail wake-up call, a nuisance for money makers, delaying their customers’ dash to save cash, stalling the race to keep pace with the competition--- much like one of those annoying internet commercials you have to watch for 29 seconds before you can skip it with a click.

Maybe we should just give in, nodding in Thanksgiving’s direction, saluting it as we rush to the mall. Perhaps we’re made for Franksgiving. It’s simply part of human nature to desire the best product at the lowest price, and if Thanksgiving is merely a commercial warm-up for that, so be it.

But then, we are also wired for thankfulness. The spirit of thanksgiving didn't begin at Plymouth Rock in 1692.

Those early settlers in North America brought thanksgiving with them.  And their ancestors celebrated fall harvests with festivals of thanksgiving. Thanksgiving is built into our collective consciousness. In reality, when the earliest settlers arrived in North America, thanksgiving was already here, already a part of the Native Americans’ cycle of life. No wonder Squanto met the Pilgrims with gifts of thanksgiving.

Instead of bypassing Thanksgiving, on the one hand, or feeling guilty about shopping, on the other, maybe we should recognize our dual personalities: We are givers and getters, passers and receivers, grabbers and releasers, Thanksgivukkahers and Franksgivers.

So, why not start Thanksgiving with Christmas? I mean, why not combine the spirit of thankfulness with the spirit of gifting (shopping)?

Call it Thanksmas.

Yes, we may charge to the malls on Black Friday, or even on Thursday afternoon, trying to find that deal of the day, in hopes of surprising our loved ones on Christmas morning. It’s not necessarily a bad thing.

But before bolting for the door, try pausing and letting the spirit of Christmas---the attitude of gratitude for grace--- invade your Thanksgiving Day. The commercialization of these two holidays doesn't have to dominate the entire holiday screen, although it will certainly make its presence known.

But when it does, threatening to dictate its agenda, try retreating if only for a moment to a quiet place--- maybe outdoors, or a secluded room, even if it’s a closet---and get alone.

Then, taking a deep breath, thank God for life--- as difficult as yours may be today---and for yourself, that special person you truly are, even though you may have difficulty believing it at the moment.  And remember to be thankful for others, the special ones that make life so much better, as well as those in the other room right now, the ones aggravating the stew out of you.

And recalling that Jesus was born in a day when people were haggling over the best price for a night in the inn while grumbling about paying their taxes, thank him for life’s messes, for from them can come life’s greatest miracles.

Now exhale.

You've just experienced Thanksmas. 

No escaping the reality of global warming

I sat down to the evening news. That’s not always the best thing to do if you want to unwind for the day, which was my intent.

I had been to a conference sponsored by the Sustainable Religious Lands Committee of the Festival of Faiths. In partnership with the Center for Interfaith Relations and Bellarmine University’s Campus Ministry, I had heard speakers address issues intended to raise our awareness of the alarmingly high environmental and human risks resulting from the much-acclaimed national “Energy Independence” boom. Speakers underscored how a new generation of fossil fuel extraction infrastructures threatens the health of our planet. This holds particular relevance for me, a resident of central Kentucky, because the proposed Bluegrass Pipeline carrying dangerous fracking material that, if spilled, could harm people and the land, is scheduled to be operational in our region by December, 2015.

Although the conference had been most helpful and hopeful, I was a bit overwhelmed.

And so I slouched down to the evening news, which I caught in progress, just in time to listen to Anne Thompson’s report, “Unbearable Neighbors.” 

Cute title, I thought. I’ll relax.

She reported how for many years tourists have gathered in the small northern Canadian town of Churchill to watch the gathering of polar bears. The bears and the people coexist from late June when the ice disappears around Hudson Bay to late November when it reforms. But the ice is reconstituting about a month later these days, causing the bears to endure the land that much longer without their main food source: ring seal, which thrive in the sea ice.

 “Greenhouse gases threaten the existence of the polar bears,” said Dr. Steven Amstrup, chief scientist for Polar Bear International.

I jumped up and proclaimed to my wife that I had heard about this at the conference.

‘“The Unbearable Neighbors?”’ she asked.

“No, the sea ice,” I exclaimed.

One of the conference speakers, Samuel Avery, had spoken of what scientists call “positive feedback loops,” associated with the earth’s climate.  A positive feedback loop is basically an effect that makes itself worse, and ice melt is one of those positive feedback loops. Sea ice helps keep the earth cool because its shiny surface reflects 80 percent of the incoming solar energy back into the atmosphere. But as ice melts, the water’s darker surface reflects only 5 percent of the sunlight, absorbing the other 95 percent, which in turn heats our planet even more, causing more ice to melt, which leads to more absorption. 

Once it gets started, it’s hard to stop. So here is the conundrum: How can we as addicted as we are to fossil fuels reverse a trend that mightily marches toward wrecking our climate?

If you refuse to stick your head in the sand, pretending global warming doesn't exist and poses no real threat to life as we know it, you too feel at least a little frustrated about untangling the mess we humans have made on our little planet we call Earth.

Speakers at the conference didn't only describe the problem, they offered solutions as well. But there is no silver bullet, no quick, easy fix to what we've created on this, the Lord’s creation.  As I was reminded by the evening news, environmental issues related to greenhouse gases are interrelated. They affect seals and polar bears and weather patterns and drinking water.

Finding answers will require a paradigm shift---a different way of thinking. Viewing the environment as a trust God has given us to care for and develop and not as a mere commodity to be exploited for our personal gain and profit is a start in changing our direction.  

Perhaps recognizing that God not only owns “the cattle on a thousand hills” (Psalm 50:10), but the land beneath their feet as well will remind us that we are after all only renters, stewards of this earth; God is the owner.

And harming one part of his property---yes, even a small piece of land beneath what appears to be a harmless pipeline--- affects the whole.

You can’t escape that fact.

Not even by watching the evening news.

On a van with the nuns

I first planted a garden because of something an Italian monk wrote some 1500 years ago.

His name is Benedict--- St. Benedict of Nursia. And the document he penned became known as his Rule or guide for monastic life. As author Jon Sweeney has noted, the Rule of St. Benedict became not only the basic guide for generations of monks in various religious orders, but it established a “way of life rooted in the Gospel and grounded in the scriptural principles of charity, stability and faithfulness.” 

Benedict didn't want the monks to be “idle,” so in addition to their time spent praying and reading the Scriptures, he required them to work with their hands. “When they live by the labor of their hands, as our fathers and the apostles did, then they are really monks,” wrote Benedict. He saw everything done for the Lord as an act of worship, whether it was kneeling at an altar, crafting a table, or working the land.

I wasn't attracted to woodwork, but I could plant a garden, even though I’d never done that either.

So this city boy grew to love that little plot of ground in our back yard that my wife so generously allotted me.

One of my proudest moments as a keeper of God’s good earth came when my friend, Brother Paul, a Cistercian monk from the Abby of Gethsemani, stopped by on his way to a dental appointment and cast an approving eye on my little Garden of Eden.

I secretly turned more grass into garden, and Lori pretended not to notice.

One thing leads to another: My concern and love for the land soon extended far beyond the piece of earth I tended.

And so last week I found myself on a van with several of the Sisters of Loretto. They were a small representation of the nuns who so courageously refused to allow the powerful Bluegrass Pipeline to survey their land.

Why did they do that, and why was I on the van with them?

The liquids the pipeline would carry contain dangerous fracking material that if spilled---and at least one spill involving all kinds of pipelines occurs every day---could seriously harm the land God has given the nuns and us.

In fact, according to the U.S, Pipeline and Hazardous Materials Safety Administration, a “significant incident” involving a hazardous liquids pipeline occurs every three days. Due to the highly toxic nature of these natural gas liquids, any spill or leak---however big or small---could be extremely harmful to local residents, the environment, and the land.

And so I joined the nuns in delivering a petition to Kentucky Governor Steve Beshear’s office, urging him to oppose this pipeline, which will threaten homes and drinking water --and would cut through the heart of Kentucky, including my beloved Abby of Gethsemani, the oldest operating monastery in America, where Brother Paul and others live, quietly abiding by St. Benedict’s Rule.

Traveling with the nuns, we talk of how we are up against it. The Bluegrass Pipeline is a powerful entity and promises jobs, although most are temporary, and offers money to landowners for easements.

But my traveling companions are full of faith. There’s the diminutive Sister Mary. You’d never guess she’s been at the Motherhouse since 1958, for she is still as feisty as a Terrier pup. Sister Pauline, a member of the community since 1951, speaks with measured words of wisdom indicative of a life spent in contemplation.  Sister Ceciliana’s 63 years as a nun apparently hasn't dulled the effervescent glow constantly beaming from her jovial face. (Or is the 63 years the reason for her glow?)

The nuns are joined by Co-Members of the Loretto community: Peg, whose smile is infectious, is of the United Church of Christ; Susan, whose quiet reserve belies her wealth of knowledge about the pipeline’s dangers, is a Mennonite; and JoAnn, a Catholic, serves as our capable and faithful driver, as well as a sensitive conversationalist.

We are bound together by the love of Christ that also binds us to the land he entrusted to our care.

“Look at the sun breaking through those clouds,” declares Sister Ceceliana, as we bump along in our van. “It’s almost like a second sunrise.”

Later that day, having returned from our mission to the State Capitol, I stroll around the grounds surrounding the Loretto Motherhouse and see an amazing thing: the sun suddenly splitting the clouds, much like it did earlier that morning. St. Benedict’s words echo in my ears until the wind whispers that it’s time to return to work.

And then I realize I've already been there.

Living on the way to life’s exit

“Tonight
We are young
---Fun.

It’s 7 a.m. on any given weekday, and the regular crowd shuffles in. No one asks where to sit; it’s been settled by habit over the years.

I’m at the retirement facility in Lubbock, TX, where my mom and dad live. And on this day, I join my dad’s breakfast bunch. This morning Dad, age 89, is undergoing a knee replacement while Mom, 92, waits in their apartment.

At the breakfast table, Larry, the retired cotton farmer, sits to my left, calmly smiling beneath his red suspenders and flannel shirt. To my right Bob, once an entrepreneur has a back problem that forces him to hunch over just a bit. He leads the discussion as to the whereabouts of the missing Tabasco sauce. Next to him is Leonard, whose wistful eyes, shock of gray hair and lean frame could give you the impression he might just don a hard hat and build another house in South Bend, Indiana. Then there is the soft spoken, unassuming Elvin, who at 99 years young, just had his driver’s license renewed for two more years. Dr. Holmes, the retired pediatrician, sitting across from me, speaks tenderly and respectfully but with a measure of authority, and tucking his chin to his chest as he speaks, reminds me of a wise owl. I assume Tom, the former art teacher, sported his trimmed goatee when he taught years ago, for it still fits the professorial part.

And here they hold court on the events of life as summarized on last evening’s news.

Sitting with my elders, I at fifty-seven, feel somewhat like the Sigma Chi pledge I once was, communing at the breakfast table with the older guys at Baylor’s Student Union, cautious of saying too much yet feeling compelled to join in. A brief semester later and I would have a pledge fetching coffee for me. Ahh, we were young frat boys clad in our saddle oxfords, button down shirts with frat pins--- sipping our coffee, sitting on the edge of our seats, anxious to implement our plans to set the world ablaze.

We were young.

At least for a night.

Or a wake up coffee at the Student Union.

And then I was gone.

I moved on from the table.

In the passing years, I watched as others, including myself in certain seasons of life, tried to cheat the Time Keeper. But like Billy, the character Michael Douglas plays in the just released movie, Last Vegas, we can put on a slick image in an attempt to outrun the aging process that relentlessly chases us. Yet the truth is impossible to hide: Sooner or later time catches us all. “Your teeth, your hair, even your tan is phony,” his friend Paddy (Robert De Niro), tells Billy.

The fact is, we can deny it; we can resist it; we can fight it, but we can’t hide from it: We all grow older. And, at some point, we are gone.

Dying is a process that begins at birth and must be allowed to happen in predictable and unknown ways. The God of the present moment fills in the gaps and all points in between, making living worthwhile. I’ll do all I can to look and feel as healthy as possible while anticipating fellowship at another Table set by the Friend of Friends.

In the meantime, we sit at the table with each other, appreciating each moment for all it’s worth.

It’s Larry ordering an extra poached egg and slipping in one of his stripes of bacon for me to take to Mom (“It’s what your dad does each morning,” he whispers to me); it’s Everett taking Mom and Dad’s dog out while I’m taking care of Dad at the hospital; it’s Bob printing my airline tickets so I can spend some extra time with Dad; and it’s the Dr. listening for me to tell him how Dad is doing while showing me how to adjust that little gadget on the stationary bike in the exercise room. And it's Tom and Leonard repeatedly asking how Mom and Dad are getting along.

Little slices of caring in a time where time is all we really have.

“I’m sure your parents are glad you’ve come all the way out here to help take care of them,” Bobbie at the ladies’ breakfast table says to me as I walk by on my way to the airport. “But then, I guess you had it coming,” she laughs.

“Oh yeah,” I chuckle back to her. “They spent plenty of time taking care of me.”

I find my way to the exit.

And then, I am gone.

Something to talk about

She lowered her eyes as if she were too ashamed to look at me. Her quivering voice revealed the emotional pain she was experiencing: “Pastor, what those people are saying about me just isn’t true.”

The sad part was that “those people” were from the Christian community, the family of God, the people called to love and support one another. This lady, in my opinion virtually incapable of doing that for which she was accused, wasn’t the first to be wounded by verbal attacks from people whose Savior commanded them to love others unconditionally. And unfortunately, I know she won’t be the last.

The problem---gossip--- should come as no surprise: The religious folk of Jesus day accused him of being a party boy, “a gluttonous man and a wine bibber,” because he came “eating and drinking,” while at the same time John the Baptist was said to “have a devil,” since he was so austere.

The early Christians were frequently victims of malicious talk. They were not only accused of being cannibals (Didn’t they meet in a secret ritual where someone commanded, “Take and eat, this is my body broken for you”?) but perpetrators of incest (Didn’t they refer to each other as “brothers and sisters” and have something called a “holy kiss”?) and sorcerers (They spoke the Latin words, Hoc est corpus meum, “This is my body,” during their ritual of communion, which later was adapted to “hocus pocus,” a magical incantation, or so it was rumored.)

But things changed dramatically when the Emperor Constantine declared Christianity the official religion of the Roman Empire in 313 C.E. Suddenly, Christians moved from the outside to the inside, from a fringe movement to the Emperor’s religion, from ostracism to popularity.

I’m simplifying the complex development of this new religion, but in a relatively short time, it had produced a cadre of religious authorities whose role included enforcing uniformity. That meant “different” had to be denied or even destroyed. If rumor had you on the wrong side of the theological divide, you might find yourself in mortal danger.

The system was well-nigh perfected by The Inquisition during the Middle Ages. Inquisitors had to have two or three witnesses to someone’s heretical beliefs and/or practices before proceeding with an interrogation, which frequently involved torture. In an effort to avoid someone being accused by mere hearsay, victims were allowed to name anyone who might hold a grudge against them. If the accused named the accuser, the charges would be dropped. Philip Daileader, Professor of History at the College of William and Mary, says it was like playing a game of “Battleship” for your life, as you would desperately try to figure out who the person was that might have snitched on you.

Protestants may not have had a papal inquisition, but their history is no better when it comes to the darkest dangers of slander. The Salem Witch Trials, to name just one of many shameful episodes, bear witness to that.

The Inquisition has long since ceased to be, and we don’t burn witches. But the rumor mill still operates with remarkable efficiency, and the results are often devastating. Pastor Charles Swindoll tells of a suicide note with only two words written on it: “They said.”

Of course, it’s not simply among some Christians that we see the anomaly of people claiming to be on a journey to heaven while trash talking their traveling companions. It’s an all too human activity, something religion generally tries to rise above. The Buddha apparently sensed the same problem among his followers. He advocated a wonderful test for the problem of murmuring. Before something is spoken, it should pass through three gates: 1^st gate: “Is it true?” 2^nd gate: “Is it necessary?” 3^rd gate: “Is it kind?”

If her accusers had simply filtered their whisperings through those three gates, the hurting lady in my office would not have felt shut out and alone.

Jesus, himself a victim of false indictments, tells us how we can overcome our attraction to gossip: “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

Remarkably simple.

And humanly impossible.

Maybe that’s why Jesus liked to remind his disciples that “With God all things are possible.”

“Possible,” would include using words to build up rather than tear down.

Now that’s something to talk about.

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

Listen, really listen

 

I arrived before daybreak at the Abbey of Gethsemani, unaware that the day I had chosen as a personal day of prayer and reflection happened to be the Feast Day for St. Francis of Assisi, and for me that made the day all the more special, for St. Francis is one of my favorite religious persons in all of history. His decision to seek simplicity, walk the pathway of peace, love animals and respect nature has been an abiding source of inspiration to me.

So, after joining the monks for prayer, I took to the Knobs, the cone-shaped hills characteristic of this area of Kentucky, and in so doing, I thought I would not only honor the spirit of St. Francis---the patron saint of animals and ecology--- but most of all, I would listen for God out there, in the woods.

After an hour of hard hiking, I sat down for a brief respite---the stillness of a pristine lake before me, the blue sky stretching like the vault of heaven above me, the lush forest behind me. I felt like Simon Peter, who atop the mountain with Jesus, wanted to stay there and build a tabernacle.

Even when I left the environs of Gethsemani hours later, it was as if I were departing with St. Francis and a cloud of witnesses cheering me on.

But mountaintop experiences don’t last forever. Like Peter, James, and John, I too would have to return with Jesus from atop the mountain to the world of people below.

Within twenty four short hours, I had gone from walking with Francis in in the spirit of peace to fighting like Attila the Hun in a winner take all argument.

I had an image of an irate Italian taxi driver, shaking his fist out the car window while yelling expletives at other drivers and thought, At least I’m not like that.

But I felt like it.

When we respond to an angry person with a fiery barb, instead of piercing them, we only allow our cutting remark to reverberate back into our own soul because in lashing out, we adopt their anger: We become our own enemy.

But, by settling down and getting back in touch with our true self, we at least retain the possibility of maintaining peace. When we allow the Spirit to calm our spirit, an amazing thing can happen: We can listen, really listen, to the anger of others and hear what’s being said beneath their words. Then, words used as weapons of war can be transformed into instruments of peace.

Maybe that’s one reason so many are attracted to Pope Francis: People have the sense that he is ready to listen. And it’s difficult to be angry with someone who is wise enough to stay quiet and caring enough to really listen.

On St. Francis’ Feast Day, the Pope returned to Assisi to celebrate the saint for whose name he shares. Visiting a soup kitchen, he ate with some physically and mentally challenged people. The man who manages the soup kitchen described the Pope by saying, in a heavy Italian accent, “He don’t speak a lot, ummm, he leesten.”

Indeed, the pope listens because he apparently is at peace with himself.

St. Francis would be proud.

But much more importantly, so is the Lord.

Both remind me: Settle down. Be at peace.

And leesten, really leesten.

 

 

Now I want to sing

Some people are gifted with beautiful solo voices to bless an audience; other singers, perhaps not quite as vocally talented, bless others with quartet voices; then there are those that bless others by not singing.

I've always thought of myself as being in that latter category.

But that’s changed of late.

Let me back up. 

When I was about 10 years old, I was in what we called in my church, “Junior Choir.” One day after Wednesday afternoon choir practice, the music minister asked me to stay behind, “for just a few minutes,” which I didn't like because I was in a hurry to beat my friend Jimmy Coker to be first in line for fried chicken, mashed taters and gravy at the church fellowship meal. Anyway, the music minister had me stand next to him while he sat at the piano and hit one note after another. After each successive tap on the key, he would ask, “Is this note higher or lower than the last one?” And I would answer, wondering all the while why we were engaging in this strange exercise.

The music minister kept wincing and shaking his head as if he were trying to solve a difficult math problem. Befuddled, he said, “Well, you aren't tone deaf.” Whatever that was I was glad I didn't have it. Then, as if I weren't in the room, he said to himself, “I've never known anyone to sing so flat.”

His concern, he explained to me, was that with the upcoming statewide church music contest, my voice might diminish the choir’s chances for placing--or maybe even winning.

I managed to skip choir for a couple of weeks. Then the weekend of the contest, I pretended to have a sore throat.

I couldn't completely quit the choir; Mom wouldn't allow that.  But whenever I did attend, I would sing like Barney Fife in the Andy Griffith episode where Andy convinced Barney that the solo mic was so “hot” that Barney had to mouth the words silently.

By the time I was in junior high, I had become a church choir drop out. 

It’s not that I didn't enjoy singing. I did and still do. This morning, in fact, I sang to my garden, “Rise up o plants of God,” to the tune of the hymn, “Rise Up O Men of God.”

But garden singing is like shower singing: it’s not meant for human consumption.

To this day I double and triple check my lapel mic during the worship service for fear that it somehow might be on, allowing the church and TV audience alike to hear my off pitch voice. I can imagine it all going viral, with a YouTube title, “How a preacher couldn't get his congregation to stop laughing.”

A few weeks ago, our church joined several other churches for in an evangelistic event. I discovered that the other three preachers involved had actually been minsters of music before they became pastors. I confessed my envy: They could actually leave their mic on while they sang, without fearing that people would hear and laugh uncontrollably.

My fellow ministers have the advantage of breaking out in song during their sermon. It’s like having a 30 second commercial break, only the advertisement supports the program.

I tried it once, sort of. The words of the hymn, “Grace, Greater than our Sin,” popped into my head as I was preaching and before I could stop myself, I was singing the hymn’s first lines, “Grace, grace, God’s grace.”

But that was as far as I got.  My wife looked gimlet-eyed at me. A dear, sweet lady suddenly stiffened up in the pew as if she had been struck with a pain of indigestion. Several youth looked up slack jawed while one of my best sleepers momentarily stirred.

I ceased singing and retreated to my sermon manuscript.

But like I said, my perception of my singing has changed lately.

You see, I've found a new audience, my grandson, Eli. It’s practically a nightly ritual: My daughter, Madi--- Eli’s mom---delivers her baby into my arms and out the back door Eli and I go.

That’s when the singing begins. That kid loves my voice. Soon, he’s curling his legs up to my chest as if he’s a little ball, and before I've finished singing all stanzas of “Jesus Loves Me,” he’s fast asleep.

As I hand him back to Madi, I thank the Lord that He, Like Eli, is not concerned with the quality of my voice: He hears the song in my heart. And when it overflows with love, God receives what I have to offer.

And even applauds.