Memories on Father's Day Eve

I've been talking about throwing a party at the cemetery this Halloween. I've invited lots of people--mostly family members, but so far, no takers. So, it's probably not going to happen, but I still talk about it. You see, it will be a very special occasion--my father's one-hundredth birthday. I think that's reason enough to at least get out a can of silly string or something.

Yep, my dad was lucky enough to have his birthday on Halloween and when I was a child it was pretty easy to just dip into my candy bucket and give him whatever he wanted as a present. In later years, when I had lots more money, I would go to the "Five and Dime" store and buy an ash tray or screw driver for him. (That's right, I said "Five and Dime"--the sixties version of the Dollar Store.)

My dad has been gone for forty-one years now. He died when he was just a little older than I am right now. It's hard to imagine that he never experienced life past this age. So yeah, I was pretty young when it all happened and I remember only a few of the details; young enough also to not realize the enormity of what I would miss in later years. Nope, I never really felt sorry for myself, but there are lots of conversations I wish I could have had with him.

So, allow me to just reminisce briefly on this "Father's Day" eve. I was the youngest of six children and my father was 43 when I was born. He was very thin, worked hard, was always tired, and never really felt well. He smoked lots of cigarettes and had a pretty addictive personality, but managed to reel himself in when he needed it (with the help of my mother I'm sure).

There was no expendable income in our household, so my dad spent his evenings filing saws in our basement to earn extra money. Right after dinner, you could hear the "screech, screech" of the file on the circular saw blades as they went around on his machine. But, at about 8:00 he'd call it a night and come upstairs and do what he loved to do the most--read. He'd sit in his favorite chair--an uncomfortable looking maroon velvet thing and read for a few hours. When I was ready to go to bed, I'd walk over to him, kiss him on the cheek, and go to bed.

We had very few conversations, my dad and I, but I thought he was brilliant. I remember in the sixties, he had several political opinions that I would quote when I went to school. Some of these opinions got me into a bit of trouble. (We won't go there okay?) He also helped me with my catechism questions sometimes. I would rather ask him than my mother for help because he gave short answers and didn't give me sermons like my mom would.

My dad was well-respected by a variety of people. Every Saturday afternoon he would take us kids to the library. The librarian, Mrs. Hackett, who looked just like you would imagine with a name like that, knew exactly the kind of books my dad wanted and they would talk so long, I'd get antsy and want to leave. My dad was also a respected cabinet-maker. We received phone calls several years after his death with requests for his cabinetry work. He also served as an elder in our church almost every time he was eligible.

But what I loved most about my dad was his awesome sense of humor. He had a favorite joke that he could never tell without bursting into laughter before he got to the punch line. (I won't retell it, because the way I would tell it wouldn't be funny at all.) Every now and then, someone would upset my dad when he was driving and his language would get colorful to say the least. My sister and I would giggle in the back seat with a little silent vow between us to not tell my mom.

But, I do need to tell you about my dad's faith. My mom was the outspoken Jesus-follower in my household, but my dad lived his faith every day. When he became ill with cancer, he never questioned God. I remember one afternoon when I was very upset over his cancer diagnosis, he pulled me aside and said that if he wasn't upset about it, I didn't need to be either. That's one of the few times he referred to himself as "daddy." The night before one of his surgeries, a nurse asked him if he would like some sleeping medication. He said, "no thank-you, I have Psalm 90," ("He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. . .") Because of his life and example, I share his faith.

So yes, even though it's been 41 years, I still miss my dad. I wish he could have met Ron, spent time with my kids, and have gotten to know his great-grandchildren. But it's fun to talk about him, to share memories with brothers and sisters, especially the older ones who remember more than I do.

So . . . maybe I will celebrate his hundredth at the cemetery this year on Halloween. Let me know if you want to join me. Maybe we'll hang out, tell a few jokes, read Psalm 90, who knows?

The Ultimate Pyramid Scam

I got sucked in badly this time. It was the ultimate pyramid and I thought I was smarter than that. In a moment of weakness, I got talked into it and now I can't get out. It didn't come in the form of a chain letter; I wasn't invited to someone's house for a plan that they "just wanted to show me." Nope, nothing like that. This came to me from my daughter in an innocent little zip-lock bag. It's called "friendship" bread and supposedly it comes from the Amish.

Apparently you let this bag of goo sit on your counter for 10 days before you bake it. The trick is that you have to do things to it while it sits there. You've got to squeeze and caress the bag every day, add special ingredients to it on special days, and burp it occasionaly. Heck, I'm not sure I even took care of my kids that well.

I question everything about the process. On the fifth day I was advised to add milk without refrigerating it. Okay, so if this pyramid works like they say it does with its implied origins, there might be drops of milk in that bag that date back to the early nineteen hundreds. That's some fermentation!

After ten days of serious babysitting, I thought I was ready to make up the bread--not so fast! After adding more ingredients, the instructions indicated that I was supposed to remove four cups of the mixture and put each into a zip-lock bag; three of them were to be distributed to my friends and one was to be saved for myself as another starter.

But, I didn't want to give it to my friends--I'm not that good at selling the idea to them. Just because it's called "friendship" bread doesn't mean that your friends want to participate. Personally, I think that the name was designed to dupe innocent people (kind of like "Herman the 'friendly' coffee cake" that I remember going around about 25 years ago.) Besides, a recipe that quadruples every 10 days scares me a little. So I decided to beat the system. I did all the math and decided to make up my own batch along with some of the batches that should have been distributed to others.

My kitchen looks like a war zone. Now I've got six loaves of the stuff lined up on the counter. Oh, and by the way, it comes with special strange instructions like; do not use a metal bowl or spoon. I accidently touched a metal fork to it when I had it in the pan and thought it would blow up in my face. I'm not much of a baker, but I've never feared for my life like I did tonight.

Now that it's done it tastes okay, but my daughter's batch tasted better; I'm pretty sure it's because she got the Martha Stewart genes from her dad. (She was curious about the addition of instant vanilla pudding--not exactly "Amish.") So, if you come to my house during the next week or so, I just might serve some to you. Don't tell me that you like it because, guess what? I've got one starter bag sitting on my counter. In ten days I just might be sharing it with you.

My Pet Snakes

Brass Serpent

Sometimes I worship snakes—how about you? Oh, I’m not talking about the big ugly ones; I’m talking about the cute little innocent ones. You’re probably thinking I’m totally absurd, but hear me out. Do you remember the story in the Bible when those constantly-complaining Israelites were dying of snake bites? The snake bites caused them to regret their childish whining and they begged Moses to talk to God on their behalf. God told Moses to make a serpent of brass, place it on a pole and tell the people to look at it, and they would be healed. That’s all they had to do—look at it! It’s hard to imagine that some still refused, but those who complied were instantly healed.

When I was in Sunday school, I learned that the brass serpent was a symbol of Christ being lifted up on the cross, and if I looked to him, I too would have life. The creation of that brass serpent was a good thing—God had told Moses to make it. That’s why I was so surprised when I was reading in II Kings the other day that the serpent was later destroyed. Good King Hezekiah made some major reforms in Judah, demolishing idols, getting rid of all association with foreign Gods, and . . . he destroyed the brass serpent. The Bible says that Hezekiah “did right in the sight of the Lord.”

Why did he destroy the object that healed the Israelites? Because the object didn’t heal them—God did. They began to worship and burn incense to the object. While the object was a good thing, the worship of it was not. I’m sure that we’re all pretty familiar with the concept of idolatry, defined as “excessive or blind adoration,” but I have usually applied that to either the worship of idols, or the act of placing something in front of God in my life.

I’ve always been able to define what I thought were my own personal idols—recreation, material possessions, self-sufficiency. I’m pretty sure everyone can come up with their own idols, but this brass serpent thing made me dig a little deeper. Even as I search for God, those things that lead me to Him, can become a distraction if I begin to put too much value in them. When Isaiah saw his vision of the Lord, he did not worship the angels, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t hold on to the burning coal that touched his lips as a special kind of “good luck charm.” He simply said, “my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!”

So, what are those good things in my life—those things that were once given to bring me to God, but now hold so much importance that I’ve turned them into an idol? Do I have serpents in my life? Oh, as I dig just a little bit, I can find many of them. I think I probably sort of worshiped that denomination that I was raised in—maybe I’ve worshiped the catechism or other elements of Christian instruction I’ve received. Have I worshiped an experience like a retreat, or perhaps a person—a spiritual leader or writer for whom my respect has turned into worship? If I’m totally honest, I have to admit that there’s even been a time in my life when I’ve worshiped the sacraments.

How about you? What are your serpents—good things that have brought you closer to God, but now have become too important? Is it a certain song, a certain style, a certain element or “gimmick” within the worship service? Is it tradition, or new approaches; is it a person, a pastor? The list of possibilities is very long.

Hezekiah challenges me today. I can so easily become like the Israelites. That visible tangible brass serpent is so easy to worship. I would have been so mad if I walked into the temple and my brass serpent was gone! But I am asked to give those things up and seek God in new and powerful ways as I worship with His people. It is my prayer that all of us can give up our serpents as we search for God in our lives and as we draw together corporately. May we all be able to say with Isaiah, “My eyes have seen the King, the Lord of Hosts.”

Facebook and Grace

“I like walking in the rain because no one knows I’m crying;” “The doughnut I got in my mailbox this morning made me happy;” “Fernando Rodney got lucky.” What do all of these phrases have in common? These are all statuses that I read yesterday from my friends on “facebook.” I love reading them and trying to figure out the meaning, or what’s going on in the lives of my computer buddies. There was one status however, that really caught my attention—“your grace is enough, your grace is enough, your grace is enough for me.” Even though I know this song, the repetition is what drew me; does saying it three times brings good luck? Does saying it three times make it more personally convicting? I think I know why my friend was saying this—why she needed to say it. Things happen sometime that either shake us up, or at best make us stop and think.

I believe that every now and then we need to remind ourselves about the bottom line—grace. It’s pretty elusive sometimes for something so simple. I was talking to someone who isn’t a believer and I threw out the word “grace” and she stopped me, not understanding what it really meant. I was surprised because she is a person who demonstrates grace every day to her family and friends, yet it is a foreign concept to her. I thought everyone understood that grace was favor that was totally undeserved.

Is grace enough? I had a conversation one day with someone who was working hard on forgiveness. She was trying with every ounce of her being to forgive someone who had committed a heinous act against her family. Her motive for forgiveness?—she believed she would never make it to heaven if she couldn’t forgive this person. It broke my heart to watch her struggle. Does grace cover those situations where it is nearly impossible to forgive someone?

Is grace enough? I had one of those great hot-tub conversations a few days ago. We were discussing the battles we all have going on inside of us with particular sins. Sometimes we lose the battle and give in—more often than we care to admit. During those times when we’ve given in, is grace still enough?

Or how about that Sunday school teacher that told my son that if you die with even just one un-confessed sin, you could be lost forever? Is grace enough to cover that un-confessed sin? I remember that the Israelites even had special sacrifices to cover those sins that they were clueless about. How about those? Does grace cover them?

I believe that grace does cover those things and John Donne covers it beautifully in his poem “Hymn to God the Father.” Whenever I take off in an airplane, I lean back in my seat and recite this in my head and heart—just in case . . .

Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun
Which was my sin though it were done before?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin by which I won
Others to sin, and made my sin their door?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallowed in a score?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.

I have a sin of fear that when I have spun
My last thread, I shall perish on that shore.
But, swear by Thyself that at my death Thy Son
Shall shine as He shines now and heretofore.
And having done that, Thou hast done,
I fear no more.

Cutting Loose

My friend Pat became a widow a few weeks ago. From the time her husband was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer to the time of his passing, it was less than a week. The first day that he was in the hospital, I received an email from her--the diagnosis was bad, but she had hope. Throughout the next few days, as she watched her husband's health deteriorate, her faith never wavered. I watched Pat remain calm and strong throughout the funeral in spite of her deep sadness. She's one of my new heroes--not because of her calm demeanor or the gracious way she greeted all of the guests, but because she actually believed the things she had said throughout the week; "God is the great physician," "God will bring us through this," "we serve an awesome God and He will carry us through this," "sadness on our part, but joy for Jim as he has gone to be with his Lord and Savior." None of these phrases were new to me, in fact I've used them many times myself, but honestly, they have often been cliches.



Watching a close friend go through an unexpected crisis, gave me reason to examine my own "trust level " with God. Do I really believe all of those things I say to others in crisis? I had a challenge going on in my own life that was minor compared to what Pat was going through and I was doing everything but trust. I was denying, worrying and trying to talk God into handling my life the way I believed He should handle it. My own reactions forced me to regroup and re-examine my own beliefs. I had to peel back all of the labels and get down to the core of my faith.



Holy Week couldn't have come at a better time. God always shows up in big ways during that time. I woke up early Easter morning with excitement flowing through me. "Christ has died and Christ has risen;" "He's not here, He arose just like He said. He's not here, you won't find Him among the dead . . . " "I will rise when He calls my name, no more sorrow, no more pain,"
"Savior, He can move the mountains, my God is mighty to save . . . " The music for the Easter service was flashing through my mind from all directions and I couldn't wait for the service to begin.



Death to life--that's what Easter is about: the story of Joseph being miraculously found in Kenya and brought to the orphanage; the cardboard testimonies of individual lives being changed; Pastor Chip's story about little John saying, "I want Jesus." That's what Easter does for me. I'm starting to understand the message again; the same message Pat was trying to tell me. This life, with all of my attachment to it, is not the whole story. If I want to stay on that road that leads from death to life, I have to start cutting myself loose. Don't get me wrong, life is good and it's fun and there's lots to do, but it can be interrupted at any time and that has to be okay.


That was what I learned at Easter this year. Chances are I've learned it before and I'll learn it again because it takes a lot of practice to get it right. And so . . . if I had been up there on Easter Sunday during the time of cardboard testimonies, the first side of my cardboard would say, "Way too attached to this life," and, on the other side, "Cutting loose."