Please pray for me

I usually perceive general requests for prayer, “Please pray for me,” as an indication that the person asking has some specific need they’ve yet to articulate, perhaps it’s an illness, maybe a fear, a potential danger, or a challenge---like an athletic event or an exam.

It’s like the little boy who was misbehaving in church. Finally the little tyke’s dad has had enough of the son’s shenanigans, so Dad picks him up, puts him on his shoulder and proceeds to carry the disobedient lad outside for some good ol’ fashioned discipline.  As everyone turns to watch them exit, the little boy pleads with the audience, “Please pray for me.”

The little guy has a specific request he doesn’t have the time to detail.

So, what are we to make of Pope Francis request on his recent historic visit to the United States for people to pray for him?

It happened on at least three occasions.

While moving through the crowds outside the Apostolic Nunciature in Washington, D.C., the Pope shook hands with Fr. Scott Pilarz, who exclaimed that he was a Jesuit at Georgetown Prep. Pope Francis stopped, smiled and appealed to Fr. Pilarz, "Pray for me."

What’s interesting is the dialog that followed.

Fr. Pilarz replied, “I will.”

The Pope’s response underscored the fact that he wasn’t being flippant or superficially religious: “Really,” the Pope emphasized, “don’t forget it.”

“I promise,” Pilarz said. (What else would you say to the Pope?)

“I need it,” the Pope emphasized.

“I promise, every day,” Fr. Pilarz pledged.

The next day, while standing with political leaders, Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell, Vice-President Joe Biden, Speaker of the House John Boehner, and House Majority Leader Kevin McCarthy, Pope Francis again made the request: “I ask you all: please pray for me.”

After Boehner shocked the political world the next day by resigning as Speaker of the House, the first question asked during his news conference was, “Did the grace of Pope Francis lead to this decision?”

It’s an interesting question. Boehner is a devout Roman Catholic and was moved to tears the day before when the Pope addressed Congress. But the most emotional moment for an openly emotional Boehner wasn’t recorded on camera. When Boehner and Pope Francis were getting ready to exit the building, they momentarily they found themselves alone.

The Pope complimented the House Speaker for his commitment to children and education. Then Pope Francis put his hand on Boehner’s shoulder, kind of pulled him closer and earnestly pleaded with Boehner, “Please pray for me.”

As Boehner told this story, he openly admitted, “Who am I to pray for the Pope?” And then quickly added, “But I did.”

Later, the Pope spoke to students at Our Lady Queen of Angels School in Harlem. He concluded by giving them an assignment: “Pray for me,” he said. And as he left, he reminded them, “Don’t forget your homework.”

I know of religious leaders who resist the thought of asking anyone, especially their congregants, to pray for them. Asking for prayer is to reveal a weakness, some think. It might reveal a chink in the clergy’s spiritual armor.

Imagine that, spiritual leaders having to admit they are actually human.

Others shy away because they aren’t sure how someone will pray for them. In a turn on Boehner’s question, “Who am I to pray for the Pope,” some clergy would ask, “Who are you (laity) to pray for me (clergy)?”

Asking laypeople to pray for them is a risky business, some some spiritual leaders fear. What if the congregants pray that their leaders become more holy or compassionate? What if they pray for their leaders to lead? Or preach shorter more meaningful sermons? And what happens when other people hear such prayers?

What I sense in the Pope’s prayer request is a deep sense of humility, the virtue that characterizes so much of his papacy. He is transparent, revealing that he is is acutely aware of the enormity of his task and the limitations of his capabilities.

And I’m sure behind the general request, “Please pray for me,” are specific concerns too numerous to speculate.

The Pope is not alone in his openness to ask for prayer.

The Apostle Paul requested pray. “Pray for me,” he urged his readers in his letter to the Ephesians: “Ask God to give me the right words so I can boldly explain God’s mysterious plan that the Good News is for Jews and Gentiles alike” (Ephesians 6:19).

And to the Church in Rome he wrote, “Join in my struggle by praying to God for me” (Romans 15:30).

And Jesus himself, in the Garden of Gethsemane, wasn’t above asking his disciples to support him by staying awake and praying during his moment of agony: “Couldn’t you watch with me even for one hour?” (Matthew 26:40).

When someone recently asked Pulitzer-Prize winning journalist and Catholic historian, Garry Wills, why the Pope appears more popular with non-Catholics than with many Catholics, he replied, “Maybe it’s because he reminds some people of Jesus.”

Even if we don’t get it exactly right or fall asleep trying, we can at least in a spirit of humility like Pope Francis, admit our own need for others’ prayers and pray for each other…clergy and laity alike.

When we do, we find ourselves in the best of company.

Practicing the finest of virtues.

Letting our souls catch up with our bodies

Sometimes our best advice to others is forgotten by ourselves.

Not very long ago I admonished the worshippers on Sunday morning to slow down, do less, and take a true Sabbath rest. We tend to get swallowed up by life’s demands and forget the important stuff that really matters.

I told my listeners the story of the young, high-strung, typical Type-A, American tourist who was exploring Africa. He hired a guide and gave him the jammed packed itinerary. The tourist had a tight schedule because he wanted to see as much of the African wilderness as he possible could in his limited time. The first morning, he was up early and moving, rushing from one site to the next. The second day was much the same as he relentlessly kept to his agenda like a hound dog after his prey. The third day was the same. But on the fourth day, the tourist awoke and couldn’t find his guide. After a quick search, he saw the guide resting under a tree. The American was incensed and wanted to know why the guide wasn’t ready.

“We must stop and let our souls catch up with our bodies,” the guide calmly said.

It happens to us, doesn’t it? And you don’t have to be a young, activity driven American tourist to feel it. I talk to retired people who tell me they are busier than before retirement.

I awoke today, longing to go and sit under that tree with the tour guide and let my soul catch up with my body.

Sometimes life comes at us like several action movies being played in our mind all at the same time. And even when the movie is over and the screen goes white, the script still plays inside our heads.

And it’s not just the filled schedules that can overwhelm us. The absences of life, or fear of them, can create vacuums that suck the wind from our sails, leaving us adrift on the sea of life.

This summer we buried my wife’s dad. And a few weeks ago, my dad was diagnosed with a terminal illness.

Several times I’ve awakened and felt my heart thump, thump, thumping. I had to admit that it has been weeks since I’ve had the Sabbath rest I advised my listeners to take.

“So, I’ll just clear my schedule and take off for the Abby of Gethsemani,” I thought this morning and then I halted after weighing the consequences of cancelling commitments.

Glancing out the kitchen window, I saw the small bench some friends gave Lori when her father died several months ago. The early morning sun was spotlighting it, catching my attention. The bench seemed to shimmer and beg, “Why not? I’m here. Won’t you come and join me?”

And so I did.

But before I sat down, I read the inscription on the bench. I had read it before, I felt sure, but had not really thought about it.

Until now.

“A father holds a child’s hands for a while…their hearts forever.”

I recalled a photograph of Lori’s father, George, holding her hand when she was 8 or 9 years old. His youthful smile had a “take on the world” confidence to it. Lori’s eyes are sparkling, proud to have her daddy’s hand. He’s been gone several months now. But his presence I still feel in Lori’s heart.

And I felt my dad’s hands there on the bench, too, my hand latched to his when at about 10 years of age I tried to keep up with him as we scurried across the downtown square to pick up a package one cold Christmas Eve, his hands full of youthful energy, transferring the anticipation of Christmas to mine.

Those hands, once the steady hands of a skilled dentist, now tremble when I help him up from his wheel chair.

“None of us are going to get out of here alive, David,” Dad reminds me as he answers my question, “What did you think when they told you it was cancer.”

“So, there’s no sense in being sad about it and dwelling on it,” he concludes.

We let go of the hands, finally and forever.

But not the heart.

It’s with us always.

We have to remind ourselves of that because we tend to forget. Sometimes we have to stop, rest a while, and at least let our souls begin to catch up with our bodies.

And embrace the things that last forever.

Dad’s still Dad

“I miss you tucking me in bed.”

The words were not from one of my children, now grown and away from home, longing for the comfort of days gone bye.

The words were from my dad. He had been diagnosed with cancer several weeks earlier and had just completed his first treatment when I visited him. The prognosis for longevity is not good---less than a year.  

Dad told how me how he missed our nightly ritual after I had returned home from my visit with him and Mom.

I quickly learned Dad’s routine of getting to bed. First, of course, I help him get undressed and into his pajamas. I make sure his trousers are creased on the hanger and his shirt collar buttoned.   “Would you put my shoes on the far end of the closet?” He repeatedly reminds me he doesn’t need my help with his shoes, even though we both know he is not able to bend down low enough to get them on and off.

Dad was a dentist, so brushing his teeth is mandatory.  “Would you please hand me that toothpaste from the medicine cabinet?” Always the polite gentleman, Dad prefaces his requests with, “David, I hate to ask you this, but…”

We then switch his electric mobile wheelchair (mobi) with his regular wheelchair and place it next to his bed.

Dad instructed me on how to roll up a towel and place it against the bed railing to support his back while he sleeps. My sister-in-law, Joy, had perfected this technique when she was helping him to bed before my visit. If I didn’t get the towel wrapped tightly enough and in the correct spot, he would gently remind me how Joy did it. I couldn’t help but smile.

After having prayer with Dad, I would bump fists with him. A nurse started this little tradition with Dad, and my older brother Mark picked it up. After bumping fists, they would make a swishing sound as they slowly pulled their hands away from each other. This always made Dad laugh, for some reason, and so I continued the ritual.

The moment Dad told me how much he missed me tucking him into bed, I thought of how often the roles of children and parents reverse as they age, although Dad wasn’t the one to tuck me in when I was a child. Mom did that.  And after tucking Dad into bed, I would make my way to Mom’s room in the assisted living area of their retirement complex and help her to bed.  But that’s another story.

For both of them, I am still their son, and they are still my parents. At times it feels like our roles have reversed, but it’s not so much that they have reversed as that they have changed. When I am with them, I am a caregiver.

And the time will come when my role will change in another way. As I struggled to get Dad’s shoes on him, my son, Dave, who was there with us for a few days, bent down to help, and I wondered when he might someday be assisting me with my shoes.

Time flashes by just as quickly as the swooshing of our hands after we do our fist bump at bedtime.

Only yesterday, it seems, Mom and Dad were waving bye as I drove off to college for the first time. I had a lump in my throat then.

And I felt it again when I got into the van to leave for the airport after my stay with Mom and Dad. Dad was determined to follow me to the parking lot. There, we made one last fist bump followed by the swoosh.

I think Dad must have had a lump in his throat too, for there he was, in the rearview mirror, waving from his mobi, tears welling up in his eyes.

I may be a caregiver for him.

But Dad’s still Dad.

  

Moving on up with my books

I’m moving.

Not out but up.

To be more exact, I’m moving up one flight of stairs.

Our church’s growing children’s ministry needs the space where my second study is located, so I’m giving that room to them. How can you turn down children?

But this is an enormous task, for I have books, many books.

If my books were all e-books, or on a computer, this would be a cinch: I’d just carry that little reading device upstairs to my new hideaway.

If only it were that easy.

I have hundreds and hundreds of books. It’s almost embarrassing. When I first moved here, I had to ask for this second study, not just because I do my best thinking when I’m away from the noise and interruptions surrounding an office, but also because one room couldn’t house all my books. So, I have books in two offices or studies and more books in my third study at home.

When I was pondering where to place my books to accommodate the children, I thought, “Why not just take all my books to the house and have one study there?”

“Oh no,” Lori immediately voted (And I might add, hers is the only vote that counts) “there is no way all those books could fit in this house unless we sold half of our furniture. It would look like a library and not a home.”

Now my poor books look so lonely and sad, like the puppy left behind because the family didn’t have room for him when they moved. And I’m not sure the location on the second floor will solve the book space problem, for as the church grows, as I hope and expect it will, we will someday need the new second study space as well.

As I begin the tedious task of packing those books, I tenderly place them in boxes, holding each one, thumbing through the pages, reading notes I’d made in margins. It’s like sitting down and getting reacquainted with an old friend over a cup of coffee.  Each book is unique, not only for what I learned from each one, but also for the memory I have of where I was intellectually and physically when I read them.

Reaching for the top shelf, I start with the theology section, in alphabetical order. And soon I find my old friend, Karl Barth, the Swiss Protestant theologian. He’s impossible to miss, stretching across an entire shelf with his thirteen-volume magnum opus, Church Dogmatics.  It’s cumbersome taking them from the shelf, (over 6 million words and 8,000 pages) not to mention reading them.  And if reading them was a challenge, and I didn’t study every word of each volume, think about writing that much.

Before tucking Barth away, I glance at the tiny print of one the seemingly endless footnotes he worked into the main text and smile as I recall being diagnosed with a mild case of eye convergence insufficiency at the close of the semester I spent with Barth’s Dogmatics. But I loved him still, and was so was enamored with the “Father of Neo-Orthodoxy” that when my parents were touring Switzerland, I asked if they could possibly manage a detour to Basel to take a picture of Barth’s study, which they did.

Having packed Barth and the “Bs,” I came to the “Cs” and there sits my old friend, John Calvin and his Institutes of the Christian Religion. Staring at those two volumes, I’m back at Princeton Theological Seminary, sitting in Professor E.A.Dowey’s seminar on Calvin, feeling like a nervous kid on the first day of school in a new grade, for Dr. Dowey was one of the preeminent Calvin scholars of the day, and after all, this was a seminar on the profound theologian, John Calvin. Thumbing through the pages, I see notes and the neat underlining I made with a ruler and ink pen, straight and exact, like Calvin’s thinking.

I’ve only started the “Cs” and time is getting away.

With digital books, I would be done by now.

But there is something about the rustle of the pages, the details of the cover, the feel of the binding, even the smell of the each book that for some people like me, evokes memories that in themselves remind us not just what we learned but how and when and where.

And that in itself can be an impetus to read more, propelling us forward.

Or at least to the second floor.