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.