On Being a Quakarene

My father was a Quaker -- part of the Society of Friends.  As were his parents. And their parents before them.  Various family lines go way back, one to William Penn's settlement, others from England through Virginia to the western push into the Carolinas, moving north to Indiana only when war clouds loomed on the horizon in the mid-1800s.

In contrast, I was raised in the Church of the Nazarene.  At age eight, I insisted on joining the church along with my parents and older brothers.  Two years later, in 1968, I carried a flag at the 17th General Assembly of the Church of the Nazarene in Kansas City.  I have now attended ten General Assemblies.  I was a student at a Nazarene institute of higher education for two years and a parent of Nazarene students for twelve.  My older daughter is a Nazarene pastor with an M.Div from NTS and has an article in the latest issue of Holiness Today!  I'm all in.

Still, I am sometimes acutely aware of the Quaker DNA passed on to me from my ancestors.  It manifests itself in several ways, including:

1. Pacifism.  My natural instinct is to put violence into the same category as profanity: a sign of weakness, demonstrating either an underdeveloped vocabulary or little imagination.  I want to say, "Oh, come on, people.  Surely you can do better than that!"

2. "Authority issues"  I put this in quotes because I've actually heard those words directed toward me.  The Quakers take seriously the instructions of Jesus in Matthew 23:8-12 and advocated equality long before it was popular to do so.  It's a view that sets well with me.

3.  Inward Light.  I love the journey I'm on with God and the way his Spirit speaks to me and guides me by many means.  Although I listen carefully to a variety of mentors, I have yet to run across any individual I would trust to be my spiritual director.

4.  Silence.  Quaker meetings are known for their silences as those gathered wait for the movement of the Spirit in and among them.  I value silence in my life.

5.  Simplicity.  The simple life tugs at me more than any fancy get-up in either appearance or possessions.

These Quaker values have often left me out of step with what I encounter in the Church of the Nazarene.

1.  Pacifism.  I have found a spirit of militarism that seeks to destroy anyone or anything perceived as a threat.  Even when there is no physical violence, I still see the need to strike out against others as a sign of weakness and want to say, "Come on, people.  Surely, there's a better way!"

2.  Authority issues.  In the hierarchy of the Church of the Nazarene, pastors are set apart -- more accountable to higher authorities, more responsible, having more authority.  There is a tendency to view congregations as flocks of sheep of small intellect in need of a rod-carrying shepherd to direct them.  Hierarchy is built into everything we do, setting some up higher and encouraging others to follow in submission.

3.  Inward Light.  Going along with the view of the pastor as a shepherd of intellectually- and value-challenged sheep, there is often little regard for the witness of the Spirit to individuals, particularly those who are seen as "less."  This would include lay people in general, but particularly women and children, racial minorities, sexual minorities, and those less fluent in the language spoken by the leaders.  There is a sense that the leaders go up the mountain and bring down the commandments (and vision) to the huddled (and stupid) masses below.

4.  Silence.  I can't count how many times I've been encouraged to be more demonstrative (louder) concerning my faith.  Silence is regarded as a lack of life rather than proceeding out of an inner calm.
I tend to lean the other way, associating shouting with either a lack of underlying substance ("If I say it louder, I'll be more convincing, right?") or the world gone out of control. When I'm confident of my position, I find no reason to raise my voice apart from an emergency situation.

5.  Simplicity.  This value is actually a shared one if one looks at the early Church of the Nazarene, but is not always acknowledged as a goal worth pursuing in present times.

It's a considerable distance from where I live to the nearest Friends Meeting.  And I suspect there is a gap between the lives of the members of that meeting and any idealistic faith community I might conjure up for them based on historic values.  The ideals coursing through my inner being don't necessarily match any real life faith community.  It's just interesting to observe the impact they have on me and how they sometimes leave me marching to the beat of a different drummer in the Church of the Nazarene.

Related posts: 
Why I Go to Church 
Why Ministry in the Church Is Difficult

A Library Story

Years ago, I wrote an unfinished story.  I will now publish it.  It needs an illustrator. It has several possible endings because when I wrote it I didn't know the ending. Now I do.

The Rowdy Young People at the Library

by Marsha Lynn
the Library Director

Once upon a time in a not-very-exciting little town in a not-very-exciting state in the middle of the country, far from exciting things like big cities and mountains and beaches, there was a library with some pretty exciting stuff inside.   At least the people who worked in the library thought so.  There were magazines to tell the people in the not-very-exciting town about what was happening in more exciting parts of the world.   There were newspapers that excitedly reported the most interesting happenings in the not-very-exciting town.   There were computers that connected the people of the not-very-exciting town to the whole wide wonderful world. There were videos that showed pictures of the whole wide wonderful world and told stories about it.  Best of all ...

 ... there were books in the little library in the not-very-exciting town.

The people who worked in the library thought the books were the best part.   Not only did books connect people to the whole wide wonderful world; books took people to worlds that used to exist or could exist or maybe could not exist but are fun to think about.  With no batteries required.  Only imagination.

Unlike big libraries in big exciting cities with lots of money and lots of workers . . . the little library in the not-very-exciting town had only a little money and a few workers. Yet, the library was sometimes a busy place.  It was right on Main Street and was a warm, friendly place.   In the afternoons and evenings when school was out and work was done and most of the stores were closed, people would come to the library ...

... and make copies of important papers or take tests for classes at far-away universities.   They would look at magazines telling what was happening in the wide wonderful world and look around at the world using the computers.  Or they would play quiet computer games.  Or they would borrow books or videos to take home.

Most of the people who came to the library were quiet and polite.  But not all of them.  Some of the people were children, too young to know about being quiet and polite at libraries.  Others were people who should have known about such things but didn’t.

There were young people in the not-very-exciting town – too old for the children’s story hour at the library; too young to be busy with grown-up tasks.  What they wanted was excitement!   But it’s hard to find excitement in a not-very-exciting town.  So they learned to make their own excitement. Sometimes they took their excitement to the library.  They talked and laughed with loud voices.  They said words that shouldn’t be said at the library.  They did things that shouldn’t be done at the library.  In short, they were rowdy!*

*rowdy: rough, disorderly, quarrelsome.

The quiet and polite people in the library said to the library workers, “Oh, those rowdy young people!  Something must be done!”

The library workers said to the library director, “Oh, those rowdy young people and those complaining people in the library!  Something must be done!”

The library director had no one to tell.  Sighing a deep sigh, she added “Do something about the rowdy young people” to her library to-do list.  Then she thought and thought and thought about what to do.  She even prayed about what to do.

The library director remembered that her husband had told her she should write a book about the library.  So she wrote a book about the rowdy young people at the library.  But like many people who start to write a story, she didn’t know how her story would end. Which ending should she choose from among all of the possible endings?

Possible ending #1:

The library director left her family behind each evening that the library was open so she could go to the library and say, “Be quiet!” “Don’t use those words!” “Quit bothering him!” and “No skateboarding in the library!” to the rowdy young people.   While the library director was at the library, her husband ate pizza with friends without her.  He went to the movies without her.  When her grown-up children came home for their Christmas vacation, they went shopping without her.   The library was still full of loud and impolite people, including the library director who didn’t want to be there and yelled at the rowdy young people.  The library director did not like this ending.

Possible ending #2:

The library director put a sign on the door of the library.  It said, “No rowdy young people allowed!”  This made the library director and all the workers at the friendly little library sad.  Where would the rowdy young people go?  Where would they take all the excitement they made if they were no longer allowed to bring it to the library? The library director did not like this ending.

Possible ending #3 
AKA, the real ending to this real story:

The library director went to the rowdy young people and said, “Hi, there.  I am the library director.  I have been hearing about you and need your help.  We need to work together to make the library a nice place for people to come. "

Then the library director talked to the rowdy young people whenever they came into the library for a few days.  She took her laptop and sat with the rowdy young people.  She even signed up for Facebook so she could be friends with the rowdy young people.

The library was not quite so exciting when the library director was around.  But it was still warm and friendly in the library on cold winter afternoons.  So the no-longer-quite-so-rowdy young people kept coming back.  Even when the library director went to the movies with her husband and grown-up children, the library was still a warm and friendly place with only a little rowdiness. The quiet and polite people in the library were happier.  The library staff was happier.  And the library director had new Facebook friends.  This made her very happy.

THE END.

On Online Communities and Faith

In May 1994, my husband and I crammed our first Windows computer system into our minivan and brought it home.  Included was a floppy disk for installing America Online software.  We were about to join the internet age. And our telephone bills would reflect that new era.

Before long I discovered online discussion groups.  People with common interests were starting to find each other.  It opened up a new world to me.  For years I had struggled with spiritual questions it seemed no one else was asking.  First AOL, then the World Wide Web gave me access to people discussing the topics that nagged at my soul, people with journeys similar to mine whom I wouldn't know any other way.  I was also introduced to new authors, such as Brian McLaren and Rob Bell.  I found a new kind of Christianity in postmodernity.  I discovered I already new the fundamentals of the language before I even knew it existed or what it was called.  It was revolutionary!

More than twenty years have passed since those initial adventures in online communities.  Many of my early mentors have moved on.  Social media has become a place of raised voices and contention, especially when discussing politics or religion. In what has long been my favorite community I'm now finding fewer people walking the path I'm walking  I'm relying more on blogs and podcasts for fresh thoughts and guidance down new paths.

One thing I appreciate about online conversation is its pace.  It allows time to think before responding.  And even to edit one's response after further consideration.

It may be time to seek out or form new communities, but I definitely need internet-based communication in my life.  Without it, my world is too small.

On Writing Poetry

This may be crazy talk, but I am close to being frustrated enough with what is available for congregational singing in churches to create my own offerings.  This requires two things, just to start, and then more to continue.  To start, the two requirements are:  1. Lyrics. 2. Music.

I mentioned to someone once that the poets of today are not publishing books of poetry.  They are writing lyrics for songs.  The person with whom I was speaking disagreed with that statement, but I think I'll stand by it.  Almost all of the exposure most people get to poetry comes in the form of song lyrics.

Composing music comes easily to me.  The first time I did it was when I was a teen playing the organ for a wedding.  There was a delay and I was out of music.  I didn't want to go back to start again on one of my songs, so I just wandered through a typical chord progression, weaving an impromptu melody until we were ready to proceed.  As far as I know, no one noticed.  Composing good music may be beyond me, but if all we need is a melody for some words, it doesn't seem like a big deal to me.

Poetry, on the other hand ...  This is not part of my skill set.  It would be nice to find someone else to do that part, but I haven't found such a person.  While I wait, I suppose I may as well try my own hand at it and see what emerges.

That said, here is attempt #1:

Poetry:

  It stirs up fear in me,

  In my heart. It's an art

  I don't know.

Poetry.

  How can I let it flow

  From my heart to the place

  I would go?

Words on words

Must they rhyme?

Must they beat

Out in time?

More than words,

Thoughts unfurled.

Seeking space

In this world.

Poetry:

  I must perfect this art

  If I want to impart

  To the heart

Of this world

  All the stuff I feel

  Swelling up in my heart

  Full and real.

Poetry:

  Is it my destiny?

  To write words never heard,

  Never shared?

Poetry

  May be the death of me.

  How can I squeeze my thoughts

  Into rhyme beating time?

  How can words stuck in structure

  Lead the life that I picture

  For the fruit of my work

  In poetry?

On Home-owner challenges and changing times

Our daughter, son-in-law, and two adorable grandchildren stayed with us a few days this month. On their last full day with us, my daughter said, "The washing machine is making a funny noise." I listened to the noise and wrote it off as simply part of the cycle, clicking off time until the next part of the cycle. It wasn't until they left that I figured out it was clicking off time instead of agitating the clothes. Oops.

On the day they left, they said, "By the way, the drains backed up in your guest bathroom and shower. We have mopped up the floor, but there seems to be a problem."

Why does a house wait until there are guests in residence to set loose the demons???

In response to all this, we shut off the water, closed up the house, and left for a week. (Our plans were already made.) I scheduled a service call two weeks out with Sears for the washer and tried to get hold of a plumber. But when we got home the drain seemed fine, so I canceled that appointment. And Sears pointed out that the washer is thirteen years old and I remembered it has other problems, so I canceled that appointment, as well.

Well, of course, the drain didn't actually heal itself. When I called again, our favorite contractor came out, looked at the 25-foot shrub at the corner of the house and said, "There's your culprit!" The next day, he brought out equipment to dig up the drain lines and, sure enough, the thirsty shrub had managed to worm a root system into the drain exactly like he said. (We had a drought three years ago and he said he's seen a lot of that sort of thing since.)

And, of course, the washer didn't heal itself either so I went shopping. I had an appointment close to a city shopping area that week so I went and stood in Best Buy and looked at washers and said, "Yep, those are washers all right." Then I stood in Sears and looked at washers and said, "Yep, those are washers all right." And I couldn't figure out why I drove all that way to stand there and look at them. How was I planning to choose one? How would I know if they even have the model I really want?

So I came home and did research on washers and compared features and read Consumer Reports and read user reviews and compared prices at stores in multiple cities at various points of the compass and then ordered a washer from Sears online. I did that Thursday evening and it's scheduled to arrive and be installed tomorrow morning.  That's three days earlier than the repair was scheduled.

It seems that we used to go shopping at stores when we needed new stuff, but that whole experience felt a bit foreign to me last week. I realized I go months, maybe even a year or more between visits to the mall. What's the point? As I walked past all the cool stuff in Best Buy to get to the appliances in the back of the store, I noticed there was a lot of cool stuff, but I wasn't sure why I would want to buy any of it there.

Changing times of life and changing times.

A Healthy Church Is a Growing Church(?)

A healthy church is a growing church.  Someone quoted someone saying this in a recent conversation.  The question at hand was how to encourage (numerical) growth.  My attempt to respond was weak.  My response is one that needs to be processed in writing rather than subjected to the jumble of spoken words.

A highly influential book in my life is Hannah Whitall Smiths' A Christian's Secret to a Happy Life.  One of the most influential concepts in that highly influential book involves Jesus' illustration in John 15 of the branches and the vine.  (Jesus is the vine; we are the branches; God the Father is the gardener.)  The author points out that the way to bear fruit (which is not identified) is to focus on abiding in the vine rather than straining to bear fruit.  Fruit is a natural and inevitable result of focusing on our connection to the vine and accepting the pruning shears of the gardener.

I have found this concept useful in many areas of life.  Many things we most desire cannot be obtained by seeking them directly.  Rather, they are byproducts of efforts in a totally different direction.  Happiness is an example.  People who focus on their own happiness aren't likely to find true happiness.  Happiness is a byproduct of healthy relationships and healthy living.  Focusing on one's own happiness tends to damage the relationships that have the most potential to bring happiness!

So what about church growth?  While I agree that a healthy faith community is likely to be attractive to others, I think we are on the wrong track when we make growth our goal.  Growth is a natural byproduct of a healthy community.  Just as the individual who focuses on connecting to Jesus Christ will bear fruit in keeping with the strength of that connection, the faith community that focuses on seeing as Jesus saw and loving as Jesus loved and nurturing a spirit of compassion like that of Jesus for those who are harassed and helpless will be irresistibly attractive and bear the fruit of growth.  Perhaps connection can be assessed and measured by numerical growth, but when that growth is lacking, it's the connection to the vine that needs our attention.

In my own ministry to children right now I'm going with the philosophy that less is more.  Fewer children means more opportunity for one-on-one conversations, more mentoring.  There were seven in the beginning and I haven't looked for more.  But three more started coming.  Then three 7th-grade boys started drifting over from the teen group to forage for snacks in our area.

Can I do with thirteen kids what I could do with seven?  These are high-risk kids.  Can I foster spiritual growth as effectively with more?

I will accept all who desire to come.  I suspect the group will max out at a fairly small size until we develop enough inner resources to effectively welcome and nurture more.  Meanwhile, I will focus on nurturing those present rather than looking past them to those not yet showing interest in the group.  Maybe it will be a big fail to do so, but connection is my passion and we aren't there yet.  Growing the group by focusing on growth rather than on spiritual nurture could lead to a shallowness that would be difficult to overcome.

Do healthy churches grow?  Yes, barring liabilities such as a transient population I suspect they do.  But I think numerical growth is a lousy goal.  It's like setting a goal of so many grapes per branch while neglecting to make sure the branch stays firmly connected to the vine.  If growth is your ultimate goal, you would do well to set it completely aside while you nurture the connection between the branches and the vine.

Extraordinarily Ordinary

Left behind. Yes, it's the name of a book series with related film productions, but that's not what this is all about. In this case, left behind is how I'm feeling.

Several years ago I read The Irresistible Revolution: Living as an Ordinary Radical by Shaine Claiborne and wrote a review which brought an unusual amount of traffic to my blog. I was a bit embarrassed by the attention because it was a less than positive review of a worthwhile and popular book.  While I appreciate the efforts of the author in inner-city ministry, I felt at the time like he would have no regard for someone living a life of radical obedience to Jesus Christ in a more rural setting. Is there a place for ordinary radicals where I live or will urban ministries always have more glamor?  Does true ministry involve packing up and moving to the inner city?  If everyone does that who will do ministry to my hurting neighbors?

I'm still trying to bloom where I am planted rather than transplanting myself elsewhere and have moved on to other books.  Many of them likewise describe urban ministry but I find inspiration in them to get outside my comfort zone in ministering to people who are part of my rural community but still aren't like me.  Or like those with whom I gather on Sunday.

More recently, the only active 20-somethings in the aging congregation of which I'm a part announced they are planning to start a new ministry for their peers -- young adults who are spiritual but alienated from traditional church settings.  As a first step, they will step away from our congregation and seek alternative settings for worship.

This is very interesting to me.  I realize I don't fit their target demographic, but I would love to be part of the conversation.  Alas, it is not to be.  I'm in their rear view mirror as they move toward a shiny new ministry.  My books and what I have gleaned from them don't interest them.  They need to do their own exploration.

This week I found out the leader of a trip I'm taking in January won't be leading it after all.  He has accepted a position with a group specializing in new church plants.  I knew he was involved in that sort of thing and was looking forward to interacting with him maybe a little as we traveled, though his ministry looks different from mine.  Now he has moved on.  Others I thought would be in the group have also dropped out because of conflicts with other ministries.  Even when signing up to go where I thought they were going, I have still been left behind.

As part of my own journey, I extracted myself from the organizational structure of the local church in order to focus on ministry inside and outside the church building.  I hear that many Christians have no friends who aren't also Christians.  I may have fit that description at some points in my life.  I now spend much time in public places interacting with people whose lives are being torn apart by sin.  But I also still show up for church services or activities -- Sunday morning and evening, Wednesday evening, and more. There are many hurting people who show up there looking for a message of hope.  And it's my home.  I should be there to welcome them.

I've been sharing my journey into rural community ministry with an online fellowship group as something new and different.  But recently, I was reminded that I'm still in a traditional church setting.  What might feel radical and different to me looks extraordinarily ordinary from a more detached perspective.  On Sunday mornings I facilitate an adult Sunday School group.  On Wednesday evenings I try to speak some sort of word into the chaos of children's ministry with too wide an age range.  So very ordinary.  For a while I had a teen helper I brought in from the outside world.  My first success story in the making!  But she now has a job and can no longer be involved.

Jesus told a story about a farmer who went out to sow.  Some seeds fell on the path and were eaten by birds.  Other seeds fell in rocky soil and sprang up quickly but then died for lack of roots.  Other seeds grew but the growth was choked out by weeds.  But some seed fell on good soil and yielded a bountiful harvest.

I seem to be still in the sowing mode with no sign of a bountiful harvest.  What I thought was going to be new ground with new opportunities for harvest I now realize looks a lot like the old place.  And yet there is fertile ground here, in spite of rumors to the contrary.    I keep turning to the Master Gardener looking for new cultivation techniques, a fresh approach to the ancient practice of sowing seeds.  It all looks like ordinary gardening to the neighbors who are involved in more exciting pursuits, but I've never done it like this before.  Maybe I need to focus more on doing it and less on trying to present it as something fresh and new to those who surely see how extraordinarily ordinary it is.  Maybe I need to focus on what I'm doing and be less distracted by those who are moving on to greener pastures.

"Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up" (Galatians 6:9).  

Faithfulness means continuing to study and practice creative agricultural methods while trusting the growth and harvest to the "Lord of the harvest" (Matthew 9:38).  I need to have faith in the viability of the seed, faith in the fertility of the soil, faith that rain will come when needed, and faith that there will someday be a harvest if I don't give up.  My ministry results may never look like anything worth looking at but I have a farmer's heart and cannot NOT sow seeds when the weather warms and the soil is dark and rich.

I Love Juvenile Delinquents!

I'm at the library on a Wednesday morning -- working.  In walk two teenage boys.  School is in session.  They are not there.  Uh-oh.  Suspended.  Again.  One was expelled last year but later returned.  He came to me during that time asking for a job.  At 14, he is too young for me to hire even if I had an opening.  But I had a project that required multiple hours and offered to pay him to do it.  He did an excellent job with it.

Now he's back in school.  Except he's not.  He and his "step-cousin" (quotes indicate a need for a wedding to make it official) are suspended.  I ask how they managed that.  I don't comprehend much of their answer, but get the gist of it:  It's the school's fault.  And they have managed to be disrespectful to the wrong person.

Cool!  I'm all over this.  Do they need to do community service?  Because I love unpaid young laborers!  It's a gorgeous day and I have landscaping to weed!  Work at the library counts as community service.  How can I get in on this opportunity?

How I would love to reach into the lives of these young men.  And "young men" they truly are.  In other times and places they would be moving into an adult world, spending time with the older men, learning the ways of the tribe and their place within it.  In our time and culture, they are expected to sit quietly at a desk, pencil in hand, and take in the wisdom of their teachers.  It's obviously not working for them.  They need an alternative curriculum.

How in the world can I, a 56-year-old library lady, make a difference?  I'm old enough to be their grandmother.  Why would they have any respect for me?

My enthusiasm catches them and they agree to pull my weeds.  Except they need to eat lunch first.  Off they go, returning 20 minutes later.  Is it all right if they use the library computers before they start?  Ah, these child-men.  So used to asking permission for everything they do.  I ask, "Am I in charge of you?"  The older one cops an attitude and says, "No, I'm in charge of you!"  Ha ha.  Juvenile humor.  What a cut-up.  I smile and let it slide.  I hold him no malice for the comment.  I wish he could indeed feel in charge of something that would require him to pull his act together.

Since they seem to be open to direction, I offer to tell them they have ten minutes before they need to get back to work.  After fifteen minutes I hunt them down and lament that they are caught up in computer stuff and I'll never get any work out of them.  They're not sure how to take me, but they turn in the computers and go off to ask the town clerk about working at the library instead of the job she assigned them.

They come back with the disappointing news that they have to finish the task she assigned them first.  Aha, so there IS someone in charge of them.  Or at least one of them.  The other claims he isn't required to do community service and is helping only because he's bored.  I have no way of knowing how much truth he's telling as he carefully averts his eyes while talking.

It doesn't matter.  I love honesty, but have no expectation that juvenile delinquents will speak truth to me.  Why would they?  I listen carefully and add a grain of salt to every word.  I try to avoid making any response that depends on them telling me the truth.  But sometimes I detect genuine truth slipping out betwixt and between the lies and am grateful for every morsel of honesty they offer me.  Because I love them.  I know much more about them through my small-town connections than they know about me.  I know they are in difficult home situations.  I know the older one is attentive to his younger sisters.  I know he lied convincingly about his age so he could attend VBS a couple of years ago.  (But was eventually found out and told not to return.)  I know his "step-father" (more quotes for lack of a different wedding) is facing charges of disorderly conduct.  I know his previous stepfather died of cancer a few years ago and the extended family has grieved deeply.  My heart aches for him, a boy/man who has managed to alienate a lot of adults in his short life as a less-than-model student.

They return again.  They're not sure if they want to pull weeds.  We go out together and look at the weeds and they pull a few, but landscaping doesn't seem to be their passion.  They stay long enough for me to probe a little about the impact of this "time off" on their school career.

How I wish I could make a difference for these young men.  But all I know to do is to love them and embrace them with my words for as long as they hang around and then let them go.  My day is richer for the time I have spent interacting with them.  Is theirs better for having been seen and loved by me?  Is love enough?  And if not, what is more?

Lessons from the Life of an Odd Child

I recently took a turn at sharing my life story with my church family.  Fifty-six years in fifty-six minutes.  Two years merited more time than the others:  my junior year of high school -- which turned out to be my last before heading off to early admission to college -- and fifth grade.

Afterward, as I mentally replayed the evening, I realized I had likely failed to convey, or even appreciate myself, the full significance of fifth grade.  And as I teased at my memory, I discovered a fact I had missed:  I think my fifth-grade teacher may have liked me, at least a little!  This is an extraordinary realization.  I was not a well-liked child.  Not by adults; not by my peers.  In fact, by the end of fifth grade, it seemed more people openly despised me than even the more common response of simply overlooking me.

At the beginning of the year, I had a cute and well-liked best friend.  Her father was the pastor of the church where my family was actively involved and we had been best friends since she joined our class in 3rd grade. I knew I was lucky to have her and guarded her friendship with great jealousy, so afraid that she would figure out she could do better and leave me behind.  And she did leave me behind that year.  She and her family moved on to another church and I found myself abandoned and friendless.  We girls had fallen into a pattern of being "mad" at each other, usually expressed by giving someone the silent treatment.  After my friend moved away, all the other girls who had gathered around her subjected me to silence or worse for the rest of the year.  I was an easy target with my hand-me-down clothes and unfashionable shoes and glasses.  I was smart about math and reading and spelling and such.  Not so smart about fifth-grade girl society.  It was a terrible spring.

With a few exceptions.  One was Mr. Self, my first man teacher and favorite teacher ever.  My previous (and subsequent) teachers gave me little notice as a person.  Sure, I was the best student in the class, but I wasn't an attractive child, either in looks or, more importantly, personality.  Rather than attracting good-will from adults, I was either overlooked or perhaps seen as being in need of being "taken down a peg or two" -- too independent, too out-of-step with my classmates, too confident that I was smart and didn't really need their services.  But Mr. Self was kind to me.  He even gave me the lead female role in a play we did, overriding the protests of my classmates and the disgust of the boy forced to be my "husband".  I was quite surprised and pleased, though the fury of my peers took a lot of the pleasure out of the opportunity.

Then came the fateful day.  We were out of the classroom for something and upon returning discovered three desks had been up-ended and their contents dumped on the floor.  I was horrified to realize one of those desks was mine.  Mr. Self had done an unannounced desk inspection and three of us had failed.  The fall-out was there on the floor.  All my clutter and hidden treasures lay exposed to the unfriendly eyes of my classmates.  I thought I would die.  I don't remember crying, but I can't imagine I managed to refrain from doing so.  In fact, there are tears in my eyes even now as I retrieve the memory of that scene from so long ago.

I looked around to see who the other two victims of this cruel teacher trick were.  That would make all the difference in ascertaining the social cost of this horrific scene.  Even being singled out for seeing the school's newly acquired speech therapist was made more tolerable thanks to Deanne Pletcher's lisp.  If a girl as popular as Deanne had to have speech therapy, I could somehow survive it without dying of embarrassment.

Now my eyes rested on Kevin Stroh and his friend Lacy, the impossibly thin boy who was part of us for just that one year and was despised for his bony limbs and slow Texas drawl.  I wouldn't have said then that Kevin was my friend, but looking back now I see we were about as good friends as a boy and girl of that age could be.  He lived closer to me than any of our other classmates and he and his older sister rode to church with my family.  We interacted some away from school, including playing chess some in the summer.  (He moved away a year later and it wasn't until Facebook provided a connection that I learned he went on to become a teacher and to lead a chess club at his school.  That made me feel pretty good, since I may have taught him the game.)

Kevin and Lacy certainly weren't crying as the rest of the class went out for recess, leaving just the three of us to clean up our respective piles of belongings and return them neatly to our desks.  In fact, as they settled down to the task, they seemed to be in good humor.  Soon we were all working and sharing an easy companionship.  And something shifted within me as a realized I was in good company.  They didn't care that I was messy.  After all, they were too. They didn't care what the popular kids thought of me.  They were willing to be my friends.

Although I have four brothers, there was too much tension between us in those years for me to notice the less complicated nature of male relationships.  That recess period was a first step toward learning to appreciate male friendships in a world where I found (and still find) it so very difficult to fit in with typical female social interactions.  In retrospect, it was one of the best things that happened to me that spring of my twelfth year.

Obviously, with 56 minutes to cover 56 years, I didn't spend this much time on the messy desk incident, but as I later dwelt on the memory another part of it slowly surfaced.  I can't be sure how reliable that fuzzy memory is, yet it's there.  It involves Mr. Self drawing me aside and ... but surely not ... apologizing to me, explaining that he didn't expect me to be caught in his messy-desk sweep.  Apparently, when he reached my desk it was too late to stop the process and my desk was too messy to let stand in an obvious show of favoritism.  And he was right.  The last thing I needed that spring was more fuel for my classmates' animosity in the form of being "teacher's pet."

As I look back over the years and examine that faded memory of a teacher who apologized, I am reminded again of why Phil Self is my all-time favorite teacher.  He saw an odd, awkward, girl-child and valued her feelings enough to apologize for humiliating her in front of her peers during that difficult time.  No other adult in my childhood showed that level of perception and concern.  What an amazing gift that apology was!

Thank you, Mr. Self, for dumping my messy desk that day in the spring of 1969.  It turned out to be a far more positive experience than either of us would have expected.

On the other hand, I would appreciate it if you please stay away from my current desks at home and the library where I work.  Despite your efforts, I am still much better at reading, writing, and arithmetic than housekeeping.

I'm going to Israel!

Before my mother-in-law passed away in February, she referred frequently to money she had set aside for my husband and expressed a desire for us to travel to Israel.  Israel?  As in, the Middle East?  This was more than a little surprising. And not exactly a wish I was eager to fulfill.

A few weeks after her death, I saw the notice that a group of people connected with the Church of the Nazarene in Southwest Indiana will be going to Israel in January 2015 with an invitation to be part of that group. Israel!  Well, maybe.  If we could go with people we know.  If someone else would be handling the details of international travel.

So we signed up.  And I'm already enjoying this trip immensely for multiple reasons.

• I haven't been "abroad" for forty years -- since Nazarene Youth Congress was held in Fiesch, Switzerland in 1974 and I attended as a 16-year-old. This is a big deal!
• My husband and I haven't done a genuine vacation trip since our children quit traveling with us. I get email all the time from airlines and travel sites and hotel chains offering me travel opportunities, and I look at them wistfully before pushing the delete button, not sure where to go or why. How wonderful to now say, "No, thank you. I already have a wonderful trip planned."
• I haven't made a trip as an adult that I didn't have to plan. The greatest stress in my life comes from my to-do list, for home, work, and the church. Looming deadlines, forgotten details, and a huge list of unfinished tasks is what keeps my stress level high. Having nine months to prepare for a trip that adds hardly anything to my to-do list -- mostly packing and clearing nine days for travel -- is wonderful! It adds much anticipation all these months ahead of time while adding hardly anything to my to-do list.  At some point, that one small detail of clearing nine days for travel will become a sticking point, but this far ahead of time it looks simple enough and the entire trip appears to be a stress-free adventure.

For previous trips, I have added books set in the region to my reading list. Israel is different. I don't want "Dick and Jane Visit Israel" type novels. Travelogues from modern pilgrims have some appeal, although I think less may be more in that genre. But I think I found the perfect addition to my pile of unread books -- Out-of-Doors in the Holy Land by Henry Van Dyke, written in 1908. Thus far, I've read the introduction and two chapters. His trip from England to Palestine, which he described with admirable brevity, took him 15 days of travel by ship, train, and Mediterranean yacht. I hope to get there from America in 15 hours or so. He saw many people from a wide variety of cultures along the way. Yes, come to think of it, I suspect that will be the case for me as well. I'm looking forward to the rest of his trip, which will be so different and yet maybe remarkably similar to mine. There's a reason great authors are recognized as being great, and this promises to be a great read.

How does such a nice person get labeled a meanie?

It happened again recently.  A grown man, an internet acquaintance, told me I wasn't being very nice.  I couldn't see his face or hear the tone behind his written words, but what popped into my head was a little kid saying, "Teacher!  Teacher!  Marsha is being mean to me!"

This push-back followed an email from another man apologizing for letting me see that he was offended by something I had said.  It was the first I knew of the offense.  I knew he didn't respond positively to a statement I made that contradicted something he had said, and I knew he left the scene shortly after, but the time gap was sufficient that I didn't make the connection.

Two offenses in one day!  It left me wondering:  Am I not a nice person?  And that question led to another question:  Do I want to be a nice person?  When set against such qualities as authentic, discerning, thoughtful, honest, transparent, loving, gentle, kind, good, and patient, where would I rank "nice" on my list of priorities?  Which of those virtues are part and parcel of "nice"?

I encountered someone new at the public library where I work this week.  He offered to do a favor for a staff member and then, with a self-deprecating chuckle, said, "I'm really a mean person."  And my "fraud alarm" went off.  Too much surface niceness, it said.  Watch out for this guy.  People who put their niceness on display make me nervous.  I wonder what lies behind it?

Can I be discerning and committed to honesty and consistently nice all at the same time?  I don't think a commitment to honesty requires one to make unkind comments to or about others, but it might make one less than syrupy sweet when discussing areas where there are different views among the group.  That was the case in both of my offenses this week.  My opinion differed from that of the men who found me less than nice and they were offended by the way I expressed that opinion.  Apparently, nice people don't push back against their statements the way I did.

So what do nice people do when they don't agree with what is being said?  Do they keep their thoughts to themselves?  Do they have skills I lack for expressing their disagreement in a way that doesn't stir up defensiveness?  Are the nicest people those who let others do the hard work of thinking and debating issues while they simply smile and focus on puppies and cookie recipes?

Is "nice" in conversation the equivalent to "bland" in food?  I realize that's my view of people who are nice in every situation.  No salt.  No backbone.  No iron sharpening iron.  Dull and bland.  Or worse, fake; wearing a mask of niceness to lull others into thinking they are wonderful.

And yet ... I spend almost all my time being a nice person.  Polite society depends on nice people being nice to each other, and even to not-so-nice people.  I get a lot of practice in the art of being nice to obnoxious people at the public library.  How is it that I, with all my developed skills, managed to offend two grown men in one day by countering their thoughts with my own in ways they found offensive?  Do I need to be a nicer person or do they need to make more space for me to freely express my viewpoint without taking offense?  If the answer is more niceness needed on my part, how do I get there while valuing authenticity in my relationships and without sacrificing independent thinking?

One more thing to ponder.

Why Ministry in the Church Is Difficult

I live in two worlds – inside the church and outside the church. I have been told many times that if we want to do ministry, we need to go outside the doors of the church building to find people who need God. I had to figure out for myself that those who gather inside the church on Sunday mornings also need God's love in their lives. Many people go to church on Sunday morning lonely and in despair and walk away an hour or so later even more lonely and deeper in despair. They have gathered with God's people and found no connection with God or with people even in that setting.

Out in the community I find endless opportunities to love people. I work with the public and listen to their stories and entrust them with mine. I am glad to see them and make a point to connect with them the best I can. But I seem to have no gift or ability for turning such exchanges to spiritual matters. I listen. I look for openings, for interest in spiritual things, but fail to get there. I'm never sure if I'm doing anything to bring them closer to God.

So I turn back to the church. That's where people with an interest in spiritual matters gather. And from the pastor to the bus child, people at church are hungry for someone to see them and love them as they are and demonstrate God's amazing grace to them. What better setting could there be for discussing matters of the heart?

In the church, however, I find many obstacles to true ministry. Here are a few of them:

1. Little opportunity for real conversation. I spend several hours a week in the church building. Most of that time is split between two formats – groups who sit and listen to a speaker, and smaller groups who meet to discuss a preselected topic. Little time is left for the increased intimacy and freedom of unstructured one-on-one conversations. Anything too raw and vulnerable to share with everyone present in a small group often has no room to be spoken.
   
   
2. Answers for every question. Outside the church the problems are large and don't lend themselves to easy answers. This may be one reason church people often don't like to go “out there.” The answers that are so obviously correct and greeted with a chorus of “Amen” when spoken in the church aren't given nearly so much respect “out there.” But in the church, they are kept on hand to give to people with problems. If you have a problem, we have the solution. Even in the smallest of small groups, there's likely to be someone ready to offer a simple solution to your complex problem.
   
   
3. An emphasis on truth and authority. There is a tone of authority, of being right and justified in all one's actions in the church that isn't encountered elsewhere. One who speaks for the Lord need never apologize or doubt their ability to speak the truth. It allows lines to be drawn rigidly and hearts hardened toward those who cross over them. It allows communication to go one way – from the one who is in possession of truth and authority to those who aren't.
   
   
4. An emphasis on training. Recently, a church person revealed to me that my efforts at ministry are falling short. In attempting to be flexible enough to accommodate everyone involved in a particular program, those of us leading the effort have frustrated people who get lost in the shuffle. We are aware of that problem and working to improve communication and planning. Having someone uninvolved in the program point out our shortcomings was more demoralizing than helpful. It was another example of someone speaking their version of truth rather than engaging in conversation.
   
   
5. An emphasis on discipline. One evening two teen girls went outside to talk in the cold winter darkness rather than joining the teen group. (See obstacle #1. Maybe they needed to talk rather than sit in a group?) Someone became concerned and the ladies Bible study group took up the search, one of them even driving a mile down the road to see if the girls had walked back to town. When the girls were finally found on the church grounds, they were soundly lectured for their bad behavior. I felt terrible about the chastisement they received with so little chance to explain their actions. I consider these young ladies to be my friends.  I don't know how much fence-mending will need to be done or if I will have a chance to do it. I was glad for a chance to chat briefly after the drama with the one I see less often in other settings. She told me she accidentally messed up a chance for her mother to start her chemotherapy sooner rather than later by not taking a call when using her mother's phone. What a burden for a teenage girl to carry. Maybe that's why she seemed less upset by the chastisement she had just received than her friend. Compared to the load she is already carrying, lectures by church ladies might seem pretty trivial. Besides, no one forces church attendance on her. She can just walk away if the church has no more to offer than the rest of her world.

I long to be a blessing as I go through my days. I long to share the joy I have found as an ambassador for God's glorious now-but-not-yet kingdom. Outside the church, my conversations too often lack the depth I long for them to have. But inside the church there are strong forces that leave people isolated and lonely, feeling like no one cares enough to hear the cry of their heart. There are voices of authority setting people straight and pointing out their failings. There is little opportunity for the ministry of focusing on one person and truly listening to them. It can be a discouraging place.

I won't quit trying to do ministry in the church. I'm never sure if being associated with a local church in a small town makes people more or less likely to trust me enough to share their hearts with me. If the answer is less, I suppose I can count it as part of the cost of following Christ. There are hurting, spiritually hungry people in the church and I need to include that setting in my days. If nothing else, the church can be a place for a quick exchange and a hug in between lectures and structured small-group discussions. It's not exactly the place of tender love and joy and good news one might hope it would be, but every now and then it provides a chance to listen to someone who needs someone to listen.

What do you think?  Do you find ministry opportunities in the church?

Somethin' Stupid

I have two lines running through my head.

For years now, one of my "mantras" has been one originating with two dear internet friends:  "God must be God and love must be enough."

A few weeks ago I walked away from a brief encounter and  the following line from an old song popped into my head:  "And then I go and spoil it all by saying somethin' stupid like 'I love you.' "  I hadn't actually said those words to my friend.  What I had said was, "I miss you."  But it may as well have been "I love you."  That's what lay behind it.  And I fear it showed.

This was an encounter with a friend.  But I had to make it happen.  I know where she works.  We used to see each other frequently, but she and her husband quit frequenting the place where we saw each other most -- church.  Just like that.  One week they were there, the next they were gone.  Too busy.  Have a big project they're working on.  No time for church.  No time for friends.  Gone.  For four solid months.

I do not have the gift of telephoning.  It's not as though I don't like to talk on the telephone.  I'm fine with it.  I just don't like making calls.  They don't go well for me.  I consistently interrupt more important activities rather than catching people at a convenient time.  I'm the one who calls your cell just as you get to the front of the checkout line and need to interact with the clerk.  So I generally don't call people.  However, I do somehow have the knack of encounters.  The encounter at hand was at the workplace,  I walked in just as my friend walked out of an inner room and had a few minutes to chat before being called to another task.  She wouldn't have had to be there.  Her schedule isn't predictable.  She might have been dreadfully busy or out of sight.  It was a serendipitous encounter.  My days often bring me that sort of "luck."  But my gift of encounters has failed me in respect to these particular friends the entire summer.  It has been one of near misses other than when I have forced encounters by showing up at their project.

And I have missed them.  Because I love them.  We have been friends.  Good friends.  We have been part of a group that has camped together, hiked together, even vacationed together.  They have made a tremendous contribution to who I am.  I love how much better I am for knowing them.  Now they seem to have simply walked away from our friendship.

So many choices in how to respond.  The church would have me woo them back.  Call them.  Send them cards and letters.  Invite them to my home.  Run the border of harassment in the name of Jesus.

I could treat them as they are treating me.  If they no longer want to be our friends, so be it!  It's not as though I'm so needy I have to run after them and beg them to come back into my life.  Right?  I have other friends.  Right?

Somehow letting them go but continuing to tell them I love them every time I see them doesn't fit any prescribed model.  I feel like it makes me look pathetic and weak.

The thing is, it's authentic.  I can let them go.  Our attachment is not so strong that I can't live without them.  I've done so for going on five months now without plunging into a deep depression or anything.  They aren't my all-in-all.  They're simply friends.  But I miss them.  I miss the good times we had together when our children were teenagers and strengthened our bond with their own friendship.  I miss what they bring to my life.  In short, I love them.

"God must be God, and love must be enough."  But how stupid it is to tell people who obviously no longer want or need you in their lives that you love them.  It's simply asking for further rejection.  How can such pathetic love have any power in it?

Is love enough?  Is it "stupid" to display unrequited love?

Maybe the better question is:  Is authenticity worth the pain of rejection when it puts unrequited love on display?

I choose to love.  I choose authenticity.  Even when it means telling people who have walked away from me that I still love them.  Even when my failure to pursue them beyond what chance encounters may come my way might make my words seem empty.   Hopefully, they aren't offended by my words simply because they don't come with cards and letters and phone calls.  Hopefully, they know they are far from out of mind simply because they're out of sight.

Several years ago an emotionally needy person decided I was the answer to her neediness.  In light of how little value has been placed on my friendship over the years, I found her confidence in the sufficiency of it a bit amusing.  I could give her a list of references to vouch for how mistaken she was in that confidence.  It's usually not all that surprising to me when people figure out they can do better and walk away.  But the friends who have done so recently seemed to actually like me for longer than most in spite of knowing me better than most.  I can go on without them.  It's not as though I haven't been through this before.  But I do value them highly and can't help but let it show on the rare occasion when I see them.  I hope they are doing well.  I hope they are finding fulfilling relationships.  I hope they haven't left God behind in leaving the church behind.  I hope life is wonderful for them.  Because I love them.  Still.  And I may as well say it.  Because it's true.

Is your diet healthy?

My doctor asked me that question a couple of weeks ago.  I laughed and told him I am a gardener.  He repeated the question:  "But do you eat right?"

I'm still trying to figure out the answer.  At 55 I'm struggling with a few extra pounds I seem unable to shed in spite of being favored genetically in that area.  It's difficult to get away from the American diet.

Sometimes I think back to my youth, to the days when Grandma would bring Pepsi with her when she came to visit and we would beg for this exotic treat that tickled one's nose.  The only other time we had soft drinks in the house was when someone was sick.  The belief that clear carbonated drinks are good for an upset stomach brought us ginger ale and 7-Up during that time and left me with a lifelong aversion to such beverages.  But I love Pepsi!

For normal beverages we had milk with every meal in the winter.  In the summer we had Kool-Aid for lunch and supper.  Sugary drinks.  We often had dessert with our meals.  But we also had fruit with every meal and vegetables every meal except breakfast.  And we rarely ate out.  I remember the terrible awkwardness of visiting Ponderosa for the first time as a teenager with a group of my peers and being completely unfamiliar with the place.

When our children were young, I involved them some in meal preparation and taught them the four food groups of the era -- meat/protein, bread/cereal, fruit/vegetable, and dairy.  When they were responsible for menu planning, they were expected to include something from every food group.

Do I eat well today?  This is fair week.  I have eaten fair food the past two nights.  The first night I had a corn dog.  The second night I had a fish sandwich with cola and mooched some of my daughter's cheese fries.  I'm thinking taco-in-a-bag tonight.  As fair food goes, that's not bad.  I have yet to buy ice cream or a funnel cake or cinnamon rolls or even my own french fries.  However, it's certainly not the tomato, lettuce, green bean, and sweet corn diet my garden is offering me.  I'm not sure there will be enough veggies in tonight's taco to offset the complete lack of fruits and vegetables the past two nights.  We did have BLTs and a small cantaloupe for lunch today and I've been snacking on cherry tomatoes, but the green beans still need to be picked.

When my low-carb dieting friends tell me they can't eat something I grow in my garden, I resolve to never be on a low-carb diet.  I have a theory that if every American was given a garden plot and a small barn lot and restricted to eating only what they grew and processed themselves, there would be very little obesity in the land.  If I grow it and eat it fresh from the garden, I figure I can do so guilt free.

So do I have a healthy diet?  By the standards of my youth, I would say the answer is no in terms of balance.  On the other hand, if I ate today like I did in my youth, I suspect I would be even more weight challenged than I am now.  Three full meals every day.  Cereal and toast and milk and fruit for breakfast.  Often sweetened cereal.  It would never do to start my day with that many calories today and then go on to have a sandwich plus fruit and vegetables for lunch and a full dinner every evening with milk or Kool-Aid.  I don't have enough activity to work off that level of consumption.  But then, I don't remember that we ever snacked between meals.  Snacks are a part of life now.

Do I eat well?  I guess the answer is:  I could do better.

Maybe I should take some cherry tomatoes to the fair tonight to add to my taco-in-a-bag.

On the World of Poverty

I'm sinking more and more deeply into poverty.  It's an interesting place.  There are those who would fix it.  At this point, I'm still trying to figure out which parts of it need fixing.

Just to be clear, my husband and I are doing fine financially.  In fact, we are blessed in having enough to share with others.  But one thing I'm learning is that giving people money is rarely, if ever, the best response to poverty.

The economic values of those living in poverty have long been of interest to me.  When I was young, I found them disturbing.  First some history:

In our first year of marriage, way back in the late 1970s, my husband and I were poor college students living on a shoestring budget.  In that year, I never went down the pop and potato chip aisle at the grocery store.  There simply wasn't room in our budget for such things. (And in that era snack foods didn't hold the position in the American diet they do today.)

Not long afterward, I stood in line at the grocery store and watched someone buy potato chips with food stamps.  Something rose up within me at the sight.  What business does someone depending on government assistance have buying junk food?  Ah, the righteous indignation of youth.

As I contemplated that scene and sought a more charitable response, I considered a couple of huge differences between what I had observed and my own experience with living on a tight budget -- 1) the skills and discipline to develop and live within a budget; and 2) the light at the end of the tunnel.  We were within twelve months of being awarded engineering degrees when we married.  If we could just hold on for a year, we could then start cashing in on our education.

As I hang out with my impoverished friends these many years later, I see the same pattern.  One of the chief reasons people don't want to give money to poor people is because it will go to alcohol or cigarettes.  And that may often be the case.  But not always.  Sometimes it will go toward junk food or high-priced convenience food or pet food for multiple pets or an inside climate more comfortable than the donor's or a smart phone or home entertainment nicer than the donor's or tickets to an amusement park or concert the donor passes over in order to be generous.  It challenges the charitable feelings of charitable people to see the beneficiaries of their donations enjoying elements of a lifestyle the donor considers "living large".  It's even worse when the donor didn't want to give in the first place and was taxed for those indulgences on the part of the poor.

One of the things I'm learning as I interact with people living in poverty is to keep my wallet closed.  There are times and ways to give monetary assistance, but it's generally better for our relationship if it's not my money directly supporting their spending decisions.  None of my friends show signs of starvation.  They are not without resources.  And it's easy for money to become the focus of our relationship if it becomes known that I'll dole it out in response to a well-crafted plea for assistance.

What I'm trying to offer people instead of money is an interest in their lives.  I listen to their woes and resist the urge to offer either assistance or advice, particularly when they are asking for neither.  I'm still learning the lanuage and culture of this community of poverty within the larger community.  It's interesting getting different perspectives, sorting out values, listening to stories and trying to figure out which (and how) conflicting accounts have been "enhanced" in the telling.

I almost never watch television.  There are so many other ways to spend my leisure time that are more appealing to me.  But I am fascinated by the interactive soap opera that plays through my days.  I get to interview the characters off-screen to see what makes them tick and even play a small role myself.  I can walk in and out of the "urban" scenes at will and then return to my safe refuge in the "suburbs".  (If you know where I live this will make you smile.  The "city" has a total population of 1,340 people.)  I have yet to really get my hands dirty.

I'm not sure where all this is leading, but I might have a slightly greater chance of doing good in this local soap opera than any on TV.  And it's certainly both educational and often entertaining, although frequently more tragedy than comedy.

So ... Angela told me last night that people say she's a drug dealer, but she obviously is not or she wouldn't be so poor.  What do I make of that statement?  Why even bring it up?  She says that a mutual acquaintance hits his girlfriend, but the girlfriend told me he has hit her only once -- the time he went to jail for it.  Was she afraid of what I would do if I knew the truth?  What IS the truth?  And what motivation do Angela and the girlfriend have for straying from truth when talking to me?

Years ago, I realized that one huge difference between my shoestring living and the person buying junk food with food stamps was hope.  I had confidence that my poverty was temporary.  And it was.  The person buying junk food with food stamps likely has little hope of their lot improving, particularly since making good consumer decisions seems beyond them.  Hope is the most valuable commodity I can offer my poverty-stricken friends.  I'm still trying to figure out how to package it for distribution.

Would you walk across the street for church music?

Morning thoughts:

Yesterday I drove 80 miles to attend a 2-hour church service.  As usual, I took pains to not fall asleep as I drove.  (This seems important to a lot of people, especially the other drivers on the road.)  I had an enticing audiobook with me but started with music.  As I listened, I made mental notes to prune my portable music collection to make room for new music.  One song went on too long and the lyrics had little to say.  Delete.  Another told a story I don't care to hear again.  Delete.  Sure it's shallow and doesn't value the effort behind the recordings, but there are so many recordings to choose from and a mere 16MB of space for everything I want to carry in my pocket.  I can't keep everything if I hope to keep up with new music coming down the pike.

I also had some podcasts with me, but didn't listen to that serious stuff.  After all, I had only two hours on the road and the candy sweetness of a children's audiobook was calling me.  And I was headed toward a 2-hour church service.

I didn't actually delete the music while driving.  I suspect the state lawmakers who told me not to text while driving would likewise frown on figuring out how to delete music while driving.  Instead, I did it during the two-hour service.  There were a lot of people in the service.  Few, if any, noticed or cared if I was distracted by electronics.  Besides, I wasn't the only one.  And maybe I was consulting my electronic scriptures.  (Rationalize, rationalize.)

Driving isn't the only time my chronic sleep-deprivation is a problem.  I also tend to drowse off when doing nothing but sitting and listening.  Combining listening and driving is good.  Doing either alone tends to make my eyelids droop.  Fortunately, there was a loudspeaker to my right last night that made the sound seem sort of like a car radio and I could pretend I was driving and listening.  That went pretty well.

Before the main speaker of the hour(s), however, there were other items on the agenda, including a bunch of music.  It was excellent music -- flawless talent with flawless canned accompaniment.  The quality competed well with the professional recordings in my mp3 collection.  But as I listened, I realized that if the songs were on my iPod, I would delete them.  It's not the style of music I choose for my personal collection.  Not at all.  I wouldn't walk across the street to hear a free concert.  In fact, even as I write this, I am watching time slip away and thinking I might be just a bit tardy for this morning's events and maybe miss the music.

Afternoon thoughts:

We heard this morning that churches should spend less energy worrying about getting the music right.  People walking past the doors don't even know there's music inside, let alone care what it's like.  If they find out we love them, we can stand on our heads to sing and they'll be fine with it.

Huh?  Okay, it's hyperbole, going for the laugh.  But I was listening while sitting in a gathering of people I love.  My sole reason for attending this gathering is to interact with those people.  And yet, I sacrificed this morning's earliest chance for interaction.  And missing the very high quality music was one among several factors contributing to my tardiness.

I have endured much music in the church I don't want to ever encounter elsewhere.  I have also volunteered for church nursery duty in order to excuse myself from concerts.  Maybe music isn't important to many people.  It's important to me.  I will avoid gatherings even of people I love if the music is offensive enough and my sense of obligation isn't strong enough to get me there.

Music isn't that important to many people, but other things are important to them.

"I wouldn't walk across the street to attend a free ______"  What?  A boring lecture on ancient sacred writings?  A lecture on morality and the dire eternal consequences of immorality?  A message about how the God who seems to do nothing to stop tragedy in the world loves them and has a wonderful plan for their life?  An hour of sitting next to friends without interacting with them?

What free event would entice people to walk across the street if their friends were there?

This is something to ponder.  What does it take to make an event designed to offer spiritual nourishment and hope for living more attractive than off-putting?

Conversations

Act One

I ran across a friend in a parking lot a couple of nights ago.  We're members of the same church but she hasn't attended with any regularity for several years.  She struggled as a parent of young children.  Seemed to be missing some basic instincts for controlling a toddler.  We tried to help her set boundaries and be kind but firm.  (And by "we," I mean "we the church."  Personally, I have more questions than answers and am not much for taking on the role of mentor.)

Then she was a single mother with troubled children.  We tried to help her through the tough times during her divorce.

Then she ran into financial problems.  We tried to help her out.  It was an opportunity to do more than simply throw money at someone's problems.  We could take her under our wing and offer her financial advice.  Maybe help her establish a budget and stick to it.

Then she disappeared.  Apparently, she didn't appreciate our helpfulness.  She told me she lost her home and her car and sank deep into despair during that time.  She said she is just now coming out of it.  She's doing better.  I see her positive self-talk on Facebook -- "Today is a good day and I'm not going to let anything or anyone get me down!"  She updated me on her still troubled children.  She told me she has no use for people who are phony friends.  (I wondered if I fit that definition in her mind, but didn't ask.)  People don't know your whole story.  They think they could do better in your situation, but they don't really understand it.

As we talked, she hinted at abuse in her early years.  It was the first I knew about it, although I'm not surprised.  Perhaps the most vulnerable thing she told me is that she has taken up cigarettes.  (I already suspected that; it's a small town.)  Our church doesn't approve of smoking.  Her admission may have been a sort of test.  I don't know if I passed.  I've already lost much ground with her because I'm the town library director and she has unreturned library items at her house and I once asked her about them.  Usually she ducks when she sees me coming, even though I have long given up on ever seeing those items again and have moved on to other challenges.  This time I caught her in a situation where she couldn't easily escape.  We weren't far into our conversation at all before she brought up the library material.  I wish I could remove the library materials from her association with me.  I wish I could erase some of the pain in her life, particularly in regard to well-meaning people who crushed her spirit.  For this round, however, the best I could do was practice my skills of active listening.

Ah, you say, but I could have said this or done that or steered the conversation here. Maybe you could have done that.  What I could do and did do was listen.  There have already been plenty of people with things to say to her. Those messages have left her wounded rather than healed.  She doesn't need additional hurtful words and I couldn't be sure I could say anything guaranteed to lift her up rather than tear her down further.  She offered a hug as we parted and I was glad to return it.

Act Two

Yesterday I mentioned to a couple of people that one of my friends is very generous.  This friend is also poor, underemployed, cohabiting with his fiancee, ignorant in certain areas, and has anger management issues which consistently lead to other problems.  Studies have shown that poor people are often more generous than those better off.  My friend is a good example of that phenomenon.  He is genuinely generous in spirit and had given time and effort to help a project involving my two companions succeed.  When one of them made a face and said, "Yes, I suppose he is, but he sure has other problems," I had to do a little anger management of my own.  What ungracious words from one of the least generous, most self-promoting "Christian" people I know toward someone who showed up to help without promise of reward.  I waited a couple of beats before responding.  She was no longer listening by the time I quietly said, "Don't we all."

Act Three

This morning, I asked in a group setting if there was any good news concerning an unemployed person not present.  The response was negative.  The further comments were more negative.  He says he's trying to find work but our reporter doubts he is trying very hard.  Someone else jumped in and talked about the need for persistence when looking for work.  I tried to suggest that being terminated from a job and having multiple job applications rejected can bring on debilitating discouragement.  In response, I was peppered with more advice about the value of persistence.  An anecdote was offered by someone who can testify to the value of persistence.  Not a single person in the group expressed empathy for the unemployed person dealing with discouragement.  I regretted having asked about him.  Being completely unsuccessful at stirring up any empathy for him after several attempts, I finally gave up and changed the subject.

Lesson Learned

There's one more thing in every person's story about which we have no clue.  We don't know what it's like to struggle with the particular problems of the particular children my friend is trying to raise as a single mother, particularly with the history of abuse she carries.  We don't know what it's like to carry the particular pain my unemployed friend carries.  We don't have their personality and history.  We think we could and would do better if we were in their shoes.  But we have never been and will never be in their shoes.  We will always be in ours, with our personality, our background, our personal baggage, not theirs.

Stop being negative about the negative people.  It's a reminder I need to review often.  I'm glad for the example of a generous spirit my poor, underemployed, ignorant, "sinner" friend shows me.  I would do well to emulate it.

The biggest question this makes me ask is, Why do I have to look outside the church to find such an example?  And why is it so difficult to stir up empathy for others among Christians?

On being outstanding

This morning I read a couple of glowing accolades from a recent memorial service.  They spoke highly of the dearly departed who was an outstanding person in multiple ways.  When I ran across this heretofore unpublished blog entry, I thought it might be a good time to post it.
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Last evening following the rehearsal for a wedding I'm playing for this afternoon, someone asked me two questions as one: "Do you give piano lessons and do you do any recording?"

I understood the first part. The answer is no. I've tried. Giving piano lessons is not in my skill set.

I didn't understand the second part. What type of recording? I sometimes make amateur accompaniment tracks for people wanting to practice a song or audition for something. I've never done anything that goes beyond a mic on the piano attached to whatever device is used for such recordings in a given era. There's a reason for that. I'm not that good. I started my piano career far ahead of my peers. I learned my first Bach 2-part invention in early elementary school. When my piano teacher moved away, I continued with independent study -- playing for hours a day out of any music I could find. However, I developed my skills "a mile wide and an inch deep." I can dabble in most types of music from reading "moderately advanced" printed notation to chording along with the latest popular worship song. The problem is that I never perfect anything. I just dabble here and there. I'm "moderately advanced" in a few areas, but not outstanding in any.

My last post was a five-minute special. I cheated on it. It was supposed to be done without editing. It turns out "without editing" is not an option for me. My backspace key gets a lot of compulsive use as I type. That's why I have so little to show for my five minutes. But even with compulsive editing, my writing is not outstanding. Sometimes people tell me it is above average. I have no reason to discount their assessment, but I'm pretty sure it's not outstanding.

I wonder what percentage of the world's population is outstanding in some area. How many can measure up to Robin Williams for ad lib comedy? How many writers of satire can stand in the same class as Samuel Clemens, a.k.a., Mark Twain? How many cellists have skills on par with Yo Yo Ma?

I'm sure there are many people who are outstanding in various areas and yet not famous, people who do what they do in outstanding ways who have never had their skills recognized beyond a limited sphere of time and space.  Even in this day of viral YouTube videos which give anyone a potential spot on stage if they can do something people enjoy watching.

There was a time I longed to join the outstanding crowd, to be at the top of the pack.  Now I realize I'm not willing to pay the price. I would rather be part of a team, working together to produce something adequate for the need.  Doing my part, carrying my part of the load, but not standing out as above and beyond the rest of the team.

It turns out the person questioning me has a band.  They need a keyboard player.  But my life is full of lesser things that add up to more when taken all together.  At some point I made the choice to give up being outstanding.  I think I'm all right with that choice.  Even though it means I will likely never make a list of top bloggers of America.

The Parable of the Great Banquet -- Luke 14:15-24

DIY Photo:  Today's photo is of a maze.  Since it's a do-it-yourself photo, you may select whatever type of maze pleases you.  Maybe one from a pencil game book.  Or maybe one for mice.  Or one made of shrubbery and intended for meditation.  Or a midwest fall "corn maze".  Or a game with a marble to roll around.  So many possibilities, why should I choose for you?  As always, thank you for handling this part of the blog on your own.
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Sometimes I think myself into a maze -- twists and turns and dead ends impeding my process.  I worry I won't be able to find my way out the other side.  That happened this week.

The setting was a small group Bible study.  We were looking at Jesus' parable of the great banquet in Luke 14.  Someone noted that poor and crippled and blind and lame people were seen as sinners in those days.  Their infirmities were evidence that God was punishing them.  The message of the parable is that God invites sinners to be saved and enter His kingdom.

The difference between that view and the one emerging in my own mind was too subtle to explain well to the group.  Maybe I can get a better grasp on it here.

When the original invited guests were too preoccupied to attend the banquet, the master looked around for other guests.  The ones who agreed to attend were the poor, the crippled, the blind, and the lame.  They were well-pleased to accept the invitation.  "Sure, we would love to come!  When and where?"

As my friend noted, Jesus' listeners would have seen these people as sinners, rebels against the Master of the Banquet.  The difference between us has to do with the truth behind that perception.

In my friend's view, the listeners saw the invitation going out to rebels who then set aside their rebellion and accepted the invitation.  They repented of the sin evidenced by their "punishment" and entered the hall, even while still broken by that punishment.  It's a message of grace and redemption.  Former rebels have been wooed back into relationship with the Master of the Banquet.  They still bear the results of their former rebellion, but they are now welcome at the banquet.

In contrast, subtle as it is, I deem it important to note that Jesus' listeners were mistaken in their assessment.  Being poor, crippled, blind, or lame is not a sign someone is a rebel.  However, those infirmities label them as rebels in the view of Jesus' listeners.  The point of the parable is that we are often wrong about which people are likely guests at the banquet.  People we're certain are not Christians and will never be given admission to heaven apart from repenting of their sins and beginning a new life that looks more like ours may actually be in a better position to attend the banquet than we are.  While we are too busy doing worthwhile things to show up, the broken people around us may be closer to the heart of God than we are.

I think I'm moving away from the former interpretation and toward the latter because of my interactions with poor people.  I often find them to be more generous, more accepting, less self-focused, less judgmental than my middle-class church friends.  In many ways, they have much to teach me about kingdom living, even though they seldom darken the door of a church and have never studied Luke 14.  They haven't claimed their kingdom citizenship yet, but they aren't in rebellion, just a bit unsure if they can come up with the entrance fee.  When the invitation arrives, their response will be, "Sure, we'll come.  When and where?"

Recently, I have seen the stark contrast between the worst of professing Christians looking out for their own interests and the best of unchurched "sinners" stepping aside rather than demanding their rights.  When I look at the parable of the great banquet, I see the gates of the kingdom swinging open to the latter group.  And I hope to find my way in with them.

What do you think?

I like my own writing

Today's DIY photo:   spiral notebook with a hand holding a pen poised over fresh white lined paper.  (Got it?  I do appreciate your contribution in this area, dear reader.)

I was chatting with my daughter this morning, the one who blogs over here.  We were talking about blogs and research papers and writing and I commented that I enjoy returning to what I've written in the past.  Even when I don't remember writing it and can't fill in any gaps that didn't make it from mind swirls into words, I still enjoy reading it.  Is that a good thing?  Would I like it even better if I invested in some schooling on the art of writing and allowed an instructor to hone my skills?  What does it say about the development of my skills if I can go back eons in time to the beginning of this blog -- AKA eight years -- and find pleasure in reviewing my own words from that less mature time of life.

I once read a book that had been republished a decade or two or three after it was written.  In the introduction, the author said the publisher had offered him a chance to revise and update it.  He read it through and decided he liked it as it was, that other than using fewer commas he wouldn't change a thing.  And he didn't.  Even the excessive commas were left in.  As I read it I understood why the publisher had given him a chance to revise it and thought he would have been ahead of the game to take that chance.

I am reminded of that book when I find such pleasure in words written by my own hand in times past.  Apparently, I'm not making much progress with my writing skills.

Here's an example of my early blogging -- on writing.  I did do one tiny edit.  I have gradually noticed an overuse of "that" in my writing and deleted one instance.  Any suggestions as to further edits?  It's nice that blogger posts are forever editable.