Movie Stars and Gospel Choirs

It had been one of those rather dreary March days, but there was lots of activitiy at my church. Many people had been around most of the afternoon and now on this Wednesday evening, they had packed the sanctuary. The praise band was warming up for the service—rather raucous at times, but no one complained; excitement was in the air. I looked around, surprised at who had shown up for a Wednesday evening service. There were lots of folks from my church, others that I didn’t know, even some teenagers had come without their parents.

The service began with a beautiful prayer from our former pastor’s son, and then we began. Our singing was a little timid at first, but with a little encouragement, our praise filled the sanctuary. We sang a lot—never tiring of the melody. The preacher also warmed up and got excited and we reacted. We sang, we clapped, our hands were in the air—it was awesome! I couldn’t stay for the entire time, but understand that many people stayed for at least three hours.

Okay, so there’s one little fact that I’ve left out—there was a movie crew in town and they were shooting a church scene for a movie. We were all extras in this fun little adventure. I had to leave early because the choir was practicing for Easter Sunday in one of the smaller classrooms and I was needed on the piano. I’ll be honest, at first I wanted to stay in the sanctuary where all of the action was, but when I walked into the choir room where the real life stuff was happening, I wanted to go back and grab folks from the sanctuary and put them in the choir.

This incident has been playing over and over in my mind for several weeks now. I wondered what would happen if, on the following Sunday our worship leader said something like this; “Pretend that those cameras are still rolling and let’s praise God this morning!” Please understand, that I’m not criticizing my friends at church, I’m puzzled and curious about all of our behavior, including my own. At first I would have told you that what was happening on that Wednesday evening was “pretend” worship, but after thinking about it, I’m not so sure. We were given permission to cut loose, and we did. Actually, it felt pretty good.

Generally, we’re all rather reserved in our worship and I don’t know that it’s a conscious choice or if it happens by default. There was another occasion where I’ve watched people totally abandon their inhibitions during a worship service and that was during a church exchange visit with a Baptist Church from Detroit. (Their church had been racially targeted and our church had expressed our love to them and a strong friendship formed.) When they visited us with members of their congregation, including the choir, I can’t even begin to describe some of the things that happened, nor can I explain it. I remember sitting in the choir loft singing with their choir (concentrating hard on the clapping and swaying thing) and members of my own congregation were on their feet, barely able to control their emotions.

And so I’m left wondering. I’m not judging—I would never equate spirituality with one’s physical behavior in church—I know better than that. Many of us were raised in church environments that were much more structured than those same denominations are right now. And I certainly don’t believe in behaving in ways that are expected in a certain environment. I know it starts in the heart and if my heart isn’t right, no amount of emotion can make up for that.

And so I’ll pray—for myself and for all of us, that as we approach Easter, we will be ready and open to worship God with abandon—however that looks for each of us. I’m praying that I don’t need the movie cameras or the gospel choir, but that my heart overflows. I’m getting excited, how about you?


(For those of you who are reading this as a note on facebook, this is also posted on my blog: theda-cuttingloose.blogspot.com)

Playing the part of Jesus/A non-speaking role

My friend Jeff always gets asked to play the part of Jesus in our church. If there was anyone who looked like Jesus from all of the pictures that are around, it’s Jeff. A few years ago we bought a white robe for him and it was a perfect fit—no alterations necessary. He’s lean, he can grow a beard on command, and he’s got one of the kindest faces you’ve ever seen. Yes, Jeff is always the first person that comes to mind whenever we need a “Jesus.” This past Christmas Jeff was asked to play the role of Isaiah the prophet in our cantata and although he was honored, he was a little nervous to do so. Come to find out, this was his first “speaking part.” I was amazed because, after all he’d been on stage many times; he’s carried a cross on Good Friday, danced on Easter Sunday, and sat across the table from a man with many prayer requests in the video, “Coffee with Jesus.” But Jesus had never had a speaking part!

I immediately felt bad about this, thinking we’ve made a huge mistake here having all of those dramas and never giving Jesus a speaking part. Jeff had never even spoken into a microphone! I started to pull together some life lessons with this realization—lessons like; that’s our problem, we always want Jesus around, but we don’t want to hear what He has to say. I was already planning on the next drama/video where we definitely would give Jesus something to say.

But I kept thinking . . . and pondering . . . and even listening perhaps for Him to speak. We were driving down the freeway in Grand Rapids when I saw a billboard that said, “I miss it when you don’t say ‘Merry Christmas,’” signed, Jesus. Wow—seriously, a message from Jesus right there on the freeway? It caught me off guard and I started to ask myself some question. If Jesus rented a billboard, is that really what He would write on it? I tried to imagine what He would really say: “Watch for me—I’m here;” “Love each other as I have loved you;” “My peace I leave with you . . . not as the world gives.” Yeah, if Jesus was into renting billboards, I think He’d say things like that.

But is a billboard really His style? There are those who might believe it is, but I don’t think so. When Jesus was on earth, he certainly spoke, but when people didn’t hear what He said, He acted; He healed the sick, touched the unclean, respected the outcasts, cleansed the temple, and washed feet.

And this all started with the action we just celebrated—His birth. Jesus as God willingly submitted himself to being born. I took my grandson Jack to an outdoor nativity scene a few nights ago and watched as he walked up to the doll in the manger and touched it gently; Jesus as a baby--a non-speaking role. On Christmas Eve my infant granddaughter Piper played the part of Jesus in a live nativity at her church. She didn’t make a sound; Jesus as a baby—a non-speaking role.

So I’ve kind of come full-circle. In the “Coffee with Jesus” video, Jesus wanted to speak, but He couldn’t because the gentleman he was with wouldn’t stop talking. The noisier we get, the less we’re able to hear. At one point He did reach out His hand in a gesture of reassurance, but it went unnoticed. Even when we don’t listen, or when we out-talk Jesus, He still communicates by his actions in our lives. Maybe that's the best way to get our attention. He still heals us, touches us when we’re unclean, respects us when others don’t, and cleanses those places in our lives that need it.

I think that's why this is my favorite Christmas Carol ever:

How silently, how silently the wondrous gift is given.
So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of His heaven.
No ear may hear His coming, but in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive Him still, the dear Christ enters in.

"A King Comes Riding By" and Shepherd's Pie

Family stories—those legends that get passed down through the generations—some true, some highly exaggerated, others probably myths, but too good to abandon so we keep telling them. I was reminded of that when I spent a delightful shopping weekend with some of my favorite women. Each year, the men go off to the woods to do the manly thing by providing venison for their families; translation—they go to hunting camp and have a blast and maybe one of them might shoot something.

Hunting camp itself is based on legend. The “Clyde’s Cup Club,” is named after their ancestor Clyde who has been gone for so many years that many of them never really knew him. But oh the stories—they can all repeat the stories. Topping the list, is a tale of a young Clyde’s escapade with a certain young lady in a horse-drawn wagon and his inability to take “no” for an answer.

Clyde’s sons are all gone as well, but their sons and grandsons occupy bedrooms at the club that are named after each one of them. There’s “Stan’s Studio,” “Jack’s Joint,” “Bob’s Bungalow,” and “Ken’s Castle.” At night they sit by the fire and reminisce. They talk about Clyde, they talk about Clyde’s sons, and they talk about themselves. And they laugh. In fourteen years or so little Jack will join them—by that time there will be new stories and the old ones will have changed in the telling.

So, as I went on my fourth annual shopping trip, I was keenly aware of the stories and legends that exist amongst the women as well. We compete for “best deal” of the weekend; we discuss whether or not it was worth it to have Kari in a wheel chair last year with her handicap parking privilege; and we laugh about the times we’ve packed too many of us into one fitting room. We come home and we laugh and talk some more and none of us would miss “show and tell” where we each take our turn showing our purchases.

My grand-daughter Piper joined us this past weekend, making me aware of the generational stories that will be passed on to her. (She belonged with us because she is a girl after all and it’s never too early to start her training in proper shopping techniques.) She was fussing a little in the evening, so my daughter decided to tell her some of our classic family stories. “Auntie Ro-Ro” decided to entertain her with stories of her grandmother. So . . . the legend of the shepherd’s pie started its journey through the generations.

It’s not that funny really, but my children witnessed it and they think it’s funny. It involved a recipe with layers of hamburger, corn, some canned soup and mashed potatoes on top. Rather than preparing the instant mashed potatoes, I merely sprinkled the flakes on top, assuming that some magic would take place in the oven and turn the flakes into mashed potatoes. The shepherd’s pie was a thin layer of goo which my children have never forgotten. And now Piper knows the story, but she’s okay with it because she also believes in magic.

When it was my turn to tell Piper a story, the tables were turned on Auntie Ro-Ro. It involved a Palm Sunday, a children’s choir up front and a four-year-old Ro-Ro who had not yet developed her musical ear. Above the children’s gentle singing of the song “A King Comes Riding By,” we heard her loud chant—same words but no melody. So here’s where some bad parenting came in—her father and I laughed, and when she observed us she became silent. Honestly, we tried not to, we just did and to this day she reminds us about it. Call me a bad mom, but it still makes me laugh. (She did figure it out eventually and has lots of musical skills.)

Piper heard these stories and more and will continue to hear them as she grows up. I expect they’ll change with the telling and with time, but that’s okay. We’ll tell her about the glamorous outfit we bought for her on her first shopping trip; a gold dress, little gold shoes and a fur shrug—all in the tiniest sizes ever. (We opted out of the purse.) We’ll tell her how we all were watching the Michigan/Michigan State game on television while waiting for her to be born, and I’m sure her dad and mom will tell her that Uncle Tony and Uncle Tito were able to use their season tickets and actually see the game live because of her arrival.

And so the stories continue . . . and grow . . . and change. My children and grandchildren will pass them on. And they will laugh.

“Life will go on as long as there is someone to sing, to dance, to tell stories and to listen.”
Oren Lyons

At First He Mumbled

So I decided to go on a little spiritual retreat today. I’ve wanted to do this for some time now, but I’ve been procrastinating. In my job as worship director, it’s very easy for me to get caught up in the details of what I do, and it’s so easy to forget the big picture. Our Advent theme has already been announced, we’ve already had a brainstorming session about how best to portray our theme throughout the season, and it feels like we’re good to go.

But . . . something’s been bugging me and I couldn’t put my finger on it. Our pastor is going to be preaching on the first few chapters of Hebrews. That excited me because if you ever asked me what my favorite book of the Bible is—that’s it. So here I was with sermon titles, all sorts of music and plenty of ideas for artistic illustration, but the scripture had not yet spoken to me.

So I decided to leave for a day, find a quiet place and see if I could hear God speaking to me through the book of Hebrews. I chose today as the right day—a bleak and rainy Tuesday. After procrastinating until close to 10:00, I drove to Petoskey, listening to “You are Holy,” the song we had sort of decided as a good theme song for Advent. I listened to the background music to see if I could figure out the right piano part, I listened to the volume, I planned how to introduce the song, etc. It took me at least 20 minutes to let all of that go, and really sing along, “I’ll sing your praises forever, deeper in love with You. Here in Your courts where I’m close to Your throne, I’ve found where I belong.”

Okay, that put me in the right mood. My first stop was a coffee shop—after all, I needed sustenance for the day. I found myself a cozy little corner and started to read some notes and think. Okay, so I did a little bit of people-watching also. I watched a mother chastise her son who had Downs Syndrome because he was holding the outside door open too long. I melted when his dad put a comforting arm around his shoulder briefly. Oh, and I gave directions to someone who asked how to get to Petoskey High School—I hope they were right.

My next stop was the Petoskey Library where I found a quiet table by the window. I became very diligent—I filled at least 10 sheets of paper with notes. I organized things and I made progress that felt really good. I dug into my Bible finding wonderful Old Testament scriptures that applied to the Hebrews passages. I thought about the Advent candles, the children, the stage arrangements, and those wonderful creative props. I got really excited working on the communion service that we have just before Christmas.

I got a little hungry again, so I walked over to a Pub for lunch. They gave me some peanuts, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw the shells on the floor like everyone else did. I kept them in a little pile on my table and even after the waitress came and swept them from my table to the floor, I still couldn’t do it.

So, back to the library to finish my day with some more note-taking. I was feeling rather smug about my accomplishments, and it was getting late in the afternoon, so I thought I’d try my hand at a little poetry. Here’s where God stopped mumbling. (Yea, I know He never was mumbling; I just wasn’t listening.) I tried to put Hebrews 1:1-4 into a poem. It took a little bit of work, and it may need a little bit of tweaking, but something happened in that writing. I started out writing about Jesus, and all of the things those verses say about Him, and suddenly the poem became about who I am because of Him.

So, here it is:

Reflection of the perfect one
Was mirrored in God’s only Son.
The imprint of the Father’s face—
A human visage of His grace.
Creator, when the world began,
Now offered as redemption’s plan.
Unlike the angels, Jesus came
To share our life, our death, our shame;
And humbled down to hell’s abyss,
Was raised above to heaven’s bliss.
Inheriting all things divine
My Savior/Brother makes them mine.
His faithful word I now embrace,
I too reflect my Father’s face.


And that’s what I did today.

Piety in the Parking Lot

I was really important for about two minutes the other day and then, once again I was smacked in the face with the truth about myself. Our township supervisor was opening up a package that had three shiny new green parking signs, and one of them was mine. I finally had my own reserved parking spot! Enough of those folks who were using the bike path parking in all of the good spots! No more election-day dilemmas of early voters making us walk a distance! We were entitled to the three best parking spots in the lot.

And then it hit me. I don’t feel that same sense of entitlement at my afternoon/Sunday morning job at the church. The only reserved spots at the church (other than handicapped) are for “first time visitors.” In fact staff people are encouraged to park far away from the door, especially on Sunday morning and I’ve never questioned it. In the true spirit of “piety” and “servanthood,” I’ve always parked across the street in the grass.

So I had a dilemma. Why was I willing to be a servant at church, but nowhere else? Now what should I do? I decided that I probably was an okay little servant because, after all I had identified the problem quickly and besides, I wasn’t the only one with a reserved spot—there were three of us. We had made the decision as a group. I was able to live with that . . . until . . . someone . . . stole . . . my . . . spot.

I had to go to the eye doctor one morning so I left the office and came back. The parking lot had 3 cars in it; the supervisor’s, the clerk’s, and wait a minute . . . someone was in my spot! And they were just there sitting in their truck . . . ignoring my looks of indignation! The gentleman (and it pains me to call him that) had dropped his wife off to pay their taxes, and she was in the office! And I had to process her check . . . and try to be nice! After they left, I found out that they had done it intentionally complaining that we had taken the best spots, leaving them to walk further. And you know what? They’re right! Servant behavior goes beyond how I behave at church, or how I behave in spiritual matters. It’s a life-style and I haven’t caught on yet.

So, now what do I do? I’m not sure. I could take that sign and move it to a parking spot far far away, but that’s kind of silly. I could add another sign to the “Reserved for Township Treasurer” that says “or anyone else who needs it.” I think for now I’ll leave it as it is, and I’ll let it serve as a daily reminder of my short-comings, lest I get too arrogant.

But for now . . . I guess I’ll put the idea of that reserved bathroom stall on hold. Sometimes those tennis players think they own the place . . . oh yeah I have a long way to go.

Oops . . . there He is (Jesus and the Jelly Doughnut)

Some days it’s easy, some days it’s messy, and other days it seems like it barely happens at all. From the time I awaken in the morning, to the time I go to bed at night, my expectations of what the day is going to be like seldom match how those days turn out, especially on those days when I’m following Jesus. I used the phrase, “oops, there He is” to describe how some of my days have turned out lately, and was challenged to blog about it. It was one of those half-way sincere challenges, but it made me stop and think about why I said it.

I had a really good week a few weeks ago. I woke up at 4:00a.m. one morning, worrying about the challenges that day was going to bring, just knowing that at some point someone was going to be upset with me; it wasn’t a question of “if,” it was a question of “when” and “how many?” So I did the only thing I knew how to do, I prayed about it. I asked God to take control of the day, subconsciously believing that, if it went as badly as I thought it might, I could blame Him, rather than myself. By 10:30 a.m., I was surprised to realize that the inevitable had not yet happened, by afternoon I was downright hopeful, and by 9:30 that evening thoroughly amazed at how well the day had gone.

So I invited God to take charge of the next few days as well. I couldn’t believe how the burden of stress was lifted as I became accustomed to not being in charge (like I ever was anyway). I stopped anticipating and started to live in the moment. One afternoon we were out in the boat and I started to worry about how we were going to get it back into the slip since it was a breezy day, we needed to be stern in (like backing in, in a car), and the harbor was crowded. I sensed immediately that worry was not going to help and, “oops, there He was,” reminding me that I wasn’t in charge and to enjoy the afternoon on the water. As we approached the harbor, Ron also voiced his worry so we talked about it. We came up with a concise plan as to who would do what when we got there. We pulled into that slip like pros.

But one of the biggest admissions that week was realizing my powerlessness over the weather. Since it was Venetian Festival time in Charlevoix, and we spent a lot of time outdoors, I started in on my “weather-fretting.” Watching the seven-day forecast (never correct in Northern Michigan), looking at the sky, followed by complaining and grumbling; that would be my normal routine, but “oops, there He was” again, telling me that, if my happiness depended on the weather, I would be unhappy about two thirds of my life.

I started to catch on to the idea that I wasn’t responsible for other people’s behavior, only my own. We were watching one of the many concerts in the park, and there were people behind us complaining (just loudly enough so we could hear them) about our chairs being too tall. After my son Tony politely yet firmly had some “words” with them, I was able to turn around, look them in the eye, and offer to negotiate our place on the lawn for theirs.

So . . . after one serendipitous week, you’d think I would have learned something. Well, you know how that goes. You start to think you’re pretty clever for letting God be in charge, and that puts you right back to square one. I’m not sure I’ll ever quite get it. It’s not that I don’t want Him in charge, but often He’s my second choice because I still think I’m the better choice.

Like the other day I was in a crowded doughnut shop, trying to figure out what kind of doughnut I wanted. I was already upset because all of the cream-filled ones were gone and I watched as everything I picked was sucked up by the people (mostly tourists making random selections) in front of me. I wanted to complain loudly to Ron, or at best let out a huge annoyed sigh, but “oops, there He was.” Jesus stopped me in my tracks and asked me if I really needed to stress out over a doughnut.

I think it’s scary sometimes to follow Jesus. The advantages of letting Him take charge of situations that I could potentially mess up, are huge. But there are times where He puts me in situations that I don’t wish to be in—messy, challenging and sometimes discouraging. I’ve got stories about that too, but I’ll save them.

For now, I’m going to keep extending that invitation to Him, and watch what He does. And when He gives me that lemon-filled doughnut instead of the cream-filled one, well I guess I’m going to have to eat it.

Dolly, Sally, Julia etal

Never have I been involved with such a riotous group of women as the “Steel Magnolias” in our heyday. This friendship formed, oddly enough, after church choir rehearsals on Wednesday nights. Off to Pizza Hut we’d go for Cokes and/or pizza, depending on our fickle dieting. We’d rehash our weeks, talk about kids and husbands, but most of all we’d laugh. We’d laugh because, even though life is tough, it’s pretty funny too. Over the years we have seen each other through loss of parents, struggles with children, divorce, an amputation, a pregnancy scare at age forty-seven, numerous health issues, and the list goes on.

We called ourselves the “Steel Magnolias” (SMAGS for short) because we watched the movie together once and thought the “tough, yet soft” implication applied to us as well. Periodically we’d argue over our characters—everyone wanted to be Julia Roberts and no one wanted to be mean ole’ Shirley MacLaine. Since I was the youngest of the group, I usually staked my claim on whatever character I wanted, but I probably resembled Daryl Hannah who changed from prudish to worldly-wise right before our eyes.

The friendship grew from Pizza Hut and movie nights (oh yeah, there was “The Color Purple” night where we all wore purple and served purple snacks) to some pretty awesome Christmas gatherings. We started to hunt for gifts that had magnolias on them and, over the years these items became easier to find; we believed that we single-handedly were responsible for the rise in magnolia popularity. We had magnolia candle holders, photo frames, magnolia-scented everything, and photographs of magnolia trees taken on vacation. Imagine the delight of finding magnolia brand toilet paper and buying it for six of your best friends!

But . . . the queen of magnolia gifts was Lori. She went a little crazy. Her entire home was decorated with magnolias—curtains, bed spread, you name it. She gave each of us sets of magnolia china (no, I’m not kidding), umbrellas, and hand-made Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls with magnolia clothing. I’ll never forget the year of the shiny, quilted, and totally unflattering magnolia bath robes. We all looked so over-weight in those that I don’t believe we ever took a picture.

Steel Magnolias still exist, but we’ll never be what we once were. One of us has moved away, but a few Christmases ago she sent all of us magnolia travel bags, probably hoping we’d travel out to Las Vegas and visit. And Lori, well she’s no longer with us either, we lost her on the 4th of July several years ago after chronic health problems. We knew that her health wasn’t good, but we were still shocked, devastated, and even a little mad that she had the nerve to die. But oh, the stories we told at her funeral—the pastor had to cut us off.

It’s not a cliché to say that we are comforted by her memory. Lori left us with so much . . . I’ll write more about her later. Often, when we’re together, we tell Lori stories and oh, how we miss her! But for now, every time I use my china, every time I see that shapeless polyester robe in my closet, every time I look at the magnolia cross-stitched table cloth, or the embroidered apron I received after her death, I remember and I’m grateful.