Weighing In On Fat Tuesday

My wife Holly gave me a new set of bathroom scales for Christmas. I love Holly, but I have not yet warmed up to these new scales even though we have a daily up close and personal encounter with one another. Here’s the problem: My old set of scales could be counted on to give me a range of daily readings from which I could choose the number that I wanted. While on the scale, if I posed like Ralph Macchio of the Karate Kid facing down his enemy, I could usually cajole that old scale into taking a few pounds off that we both recognized were there. We both knew it was a lie, but that old scale wouldn’t bring it up and neither would I. It was a lie that friends keep between themselves for the sake of the relationship. But the new scale (a more upscale scale – an electronic version) doesn’t understand my need to have some flexibility in my daily weigh-ins. I stand on it and within a few seconds a number (which I rarely like) is illuminated. If I step off the scale and then on again, the exact same number lights up as if the scale is saying: “How dense are you, anyway? You couldn’t read it the first time? Try me again, Tubby, if you have the guts, and I know that you do.” If the reading on my new scale is too disheartening, I sometimes seek out my old friend who usually gives me at least one lighter option. But I have to tell you that as much as I love that second opinion that I am beginning to understand that it isn’t all that helpful or healthy for me. As hard as it is, I am beginning to accept the new set of numbers as representing the way things really are rather than the way that I want them to be. It is not easy to be confronted with the facts, is it? It is hard to face the truth about ourselves whether that truth is our weight or something else. Most of us prefer to have at least a couple of options from which we can choose, from which we can construct the version of ourselves that makes us look the best. But if we want to be healthy, and if we want to be free, the truth has a way of grounding us in reality and providing us with a clearer sense of who we really are and what we face. Jesus tells us that the truth will set us free, and after we get over our shock and denial, we begin to recognize his wisdom. One of the many things that I appreciate about Lent is that it can offer us a daily reality check about how we really stand with God and with one another rather than how we like to portray ourselves. Those who give up something that they value for Lent will be faced with deprivation and denial and the inevitable question: “Do I love this thing more than I love God?” Those who create more silence in their lives for this season will end up hearing voices that they usually don’t hear – either the sound of their own heart or the voice of God. If you are willing to listen and to be open to the facts about who you are and where you stand, the season of Lent can lead you “from the unreal to the real, from darkness into light” as they say at the end of a yoga session. Lent can be an up close and personal encounter with God. Entering into Lent is not for the weak-hearted or for those who love the darkness more than the light or the lies more than the truth. If you allow it to do so, Lent has a way of accurately assessing you even if you are tempted to stand in a Karate Kid position to obscure the facts. So on Fat Tuesday, let us gather as many opinions as we can about who we are. But let us have the courage to step on a set of more truthful scales tomorrow.

Do you have more than prepared remarks to share? (Thank you Jacqueline Bisset)

The award shows have begun – the Golden Globes, the People’s Choice Awards, and the Screen Actors Guild have already been held. The Grammys are next with the Oscars coming up in March. Award winners who expect to win often pull out a card with their prepared comments – usually a lot easier to do for a man in a tuxedo jacket than a woman with a strapless gown. The words are often mundane and predictable: “I want to thank my spouse and my publicist and all who stood by me when others said that this kind of movie could never be made.” Blah, blah, blah. But sometimes, the award winner (especially if they didn’t expect to win) is flummoxed and virtually speechless or launches into a stream of conscious monologue that makes everyone wonder what words will come out next. The viewer wants to turn away but is transfixed. And the censors occasionally miss a word or two as well. Such was the case when Jacqueline Bisset climbed the stage at the Golden Globes to accept her best supporting actress statue. Actors make a living by channeling a scriptwriter’s words and by faking a director’s intended emotions. But when Ms. Bisset began her ramble on January 12 she was on her own – she had no card, no direction, no one to say “Cut.” And she (like many others) spoke over the music intended to stop her. One of the highlights for me was when she quoted her mother who used to say: “Go to hell and don’t come back.” I am sure that isn’t future sermon material, but I am also sure that most of us have felt that way one time or another, haven’t we? But Bisset contrasted herself with her mother when she said: “My mother was not entirely me. I believe that if you want to look good, you’ve got to forgive everybody. You have to forgive everybody. It’s the best beauty treatment. Forgiveness for yourself and for the others.” I am not sure whether she had a little card of remarks or not, but I appreciated Bisset’s off the cuff speech so much more than any she would have read. There was some wisdom there. Yes, they were a bit scary, but they were also a truer reflection of what she was really experiencing at the time. With the exception of worship services, I don’t carry around a printed text of prepared remarks. But if I was honest with myself, I’d have to admit that I probably carry around a bunch of tiny speeches in my head all the time – the “right thing” to say at the bank, at the grocery store, or in any number of weekly encounters with people. People don’t expect or want a Jacqueline Bisset ramble when they ask: “What’s up, Reverend?” But I hope that my interactions with people aren’t completely scripted. And I hope that my communication with others – especially those whom I love – is more than a series of file cards that we each read from. It would be both predictable and horrible at the same time. I often long for a soundtrack for my life – a song here or there that would tell me and those around me just how we should be feeling. It would just make things simpler, wouldn’t it? We would laugh together or cry together until the next song came on or the director called: “Cut.” There would be a lot less confusion or misunderstanding. The truth, as I see it anyway, is that sometimes things happen to us and to those we love that we just can’t predict or script in advance. We review our mental file cards and we have no speech to share. And the music just won’t come – we don’t know whether what we are experiencing should make us joyful or devastate us. All we can do is be present, take it in, and hang on to one another. The words and the music will come to us later. I am sure that our prepared remarks will serve us just fine in some of the coming events of 2014. But they will also fail us in many other circumstances. It is those unscripted events and how we react to them that will give us the potential for growth and wisdom. (Clue the exit music. It is time to move on.)

Goodbye, Phyo (A message for my Camp Christian friends)

Goodbye, Phyo. See you later, Hiram, Wilmington, & Lakeside. Your days are numbered, Portahoga, Maumee, Hocking, & Miami. Get ready to join up with the retired names of camps past: Portage, Cuyahoga, Mahoning, Olentangy, Philadelphia, Oyo; Chi Rho Camps #1, #2, #3, and so on. And I am sure there were others whose names I do not recall. (Was there a junior camp called “Camp Roadkill?” I can never remember). As you may know, this is the last summer for our current camp names at Camp Christian. Just as old class photos in the movie “Dead Poets Society” bore witness to students long gone, one day in the future the plaques and banners in the old dining hall – which was once the new dining hall in the 1960’s – will be silent reminders of what once was. And what of the grand traditions that accompany these names – poking people in the back with a fork as a primitive and crass method of acceptance; the candle holding boys singing obscure and vaguely suggestive songs (“I’ll taste your strawberries, I’ll drink your sweet wine) to the candle holding girls who sing back; the Alma Maters (“neath the elms” upon the campus – what elms? I thought all the elms died); (kerosene soaked cheesecloth’s bursting into flame back in the woods (no comment necessary); the Chi Rho shower (jumping in the pool instead of taking a shower with soap); those fellowship times in the Adirondack (used to be green) chairs – “one person to a chair please;” the Monday Night Hoedown – a sweat fest that brings the whole camp closer together every single week; Quest truths – “God the Holy Spirit shines through me;” Vespers – one of the greatest spots to worship in the whole world – wait, we moved it somewhere else, didn’t we?; the evening rituals surrounding closing circles and closing Chi Rho’s – “Good night, campers;” torches, candles, somewhat eternal flames; Morning Watch and Morning Prayers; CYF Officers; leaving room for the Holy Spirit; deep camp romances which can last part of a day or a lifetime; that “C” word – Consecration. I haven’t been around Magnetic Springs all that long – only since 1968 when I first arrived at Camp Christian for Chi Rho Camp #3 – I still miss old Camp #3, that number was so meaningful to me. Not having been there in the 1950’s and early 1960’s, there are a whole bunch of things I don’t know about Camp. But one thing I am sure of is this: The true value of the Camp Christian experience has never been contained in that “T” word “Tradition.” What does it matter if the camps we attend are numbered, named after Ohio rivers, or even named after the places where they used to meet before Camp Christian was purchased? Is it Advance Conference or Advanced Conference? Does it really matter - although we need to clear up that confusing combination: “Advance Retreat” - are we going forward or falling back? As all church folks know, traditions can assist us in passing on and sharing the truly valuable stuff like love, acceptance, devotion, and joy. But no tradition – no matter how sacred it may seem to us – contains or controls any of those eternal and essential things. It is as Paul says in 2 Corinthians 7: “we have this treasure in clay jars; so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us.” The tradition is not the treasure. The programs at Camp Christian have always had the same goal – the creation of Christian community where everyone can experience the transforming love of Jesus Christ. If our traditions help us in creating that community, then we should think seriously about keeping them. If they don’t, then we should have given them up already. The current class of students in “Dead Poets Society” were encouraged to “Carpe Diem” – to seize the day, to live in the now rather than in the past or even in the future. As the song “Today” suggests, “Today while the blossoms still cling to the vine, I’ll taste your strawberries, I’ll drink your sweet wine, A million tomorrows will all pass away, ‘Ere I forget all the joy that is mine, Today.” So, campers and counselors and staffers in all weeks of the summer of 2013, find the joy, experience God, and please don’t stick anyone with a fork. Even if it is tradition.

Please Hold On. Sudden Stops are Sometimes Necessary

“Please Hold On, Sudden Stops are Sometimes Necessary” cautioned the sign on the San Francisco Transit System bus. “I should take a picture of that,” I thought. “Good sermon illustration.” Two days later it would prove not to be a sermon illustration but a prophetic warning. Two days later I was back in Ohio driving south on Rt. 91 in Stow. It was raining. I was jet lagged. I was travelling about 40 miles an hour – a speed consistent with the flow of traffic. I turned my head to the right to see if the windows I had opened were letting too much water into the car. When I turned my head back, I was stunned to see that the car in front of me had come to a complete and sudden stop. Maybe the driver decided at the last minute to turn and had to stop for oncoming traffic. If I had not turned my head when I did, my Civic would have plowed into his back end regardless of whether or not I had braked. It was way too late to brake. Instead I whipped my steering wheel to the right to swerve around him – I don’t recall checking to see whether or not there was a car to the right of me. But there wasn’t. I am not sure if all four wheels stayed on the road, but as I veered to the right I began to lose control of the vehicle. It probably would have been fun if I was playing Grand Theft Auto or Super Mario Cart. I regained control and wrenched the steering wheel back to the left after I passed by the stopped car. The entire incident was over in just a few seconds of “real time,” but it still isn’t really over for me. I looked back in my rearview mirror to see that the cars behind me had slowed way down – they were giving this stunt driving man all the room I needed. I pulled into the post office parking lot and turned off the ignition. As I sat there I realized just how close I was to killing someone. How close I was to killing myself. Or at least significantly injuring myself or others. How close I was to the hospital, to the jail, to the morgue. To a complete shift in the direction of my life or the life of someone else. Life does come at you fast, sometimes, doesn’t it? Please hold on, sudden stops are sometimes necessary. I regained enough of a grip to start the car and continue on my travels to the church and later up to the Cleveland Clinic to see a church member. Another crisis averted, another return to life as normal, another list of things to check off my Kindle “To Do” list. When I finally got home later in the day, I opened some bottles and toasted with Holly – a toast to life. It was almost like a thanksgiving offering brought to an altar. I knew that I was blessed to be at my home that night with my wife. Earlier in my trip south on Rt. 91 before the sudden stop, I was sitting at a red light and examining a cross that nine year old Bella Curet has made for me and given to me a few days before Easter. Bella was the sole member of my pastor’s class and was baptized on Easter morning. The cross had been hanging from my mirror along with some Russian prayer beads. The cross had fallen and when I picked it up I noticed words I hadn’t seen before written on the blue material of the sewn cross. “He Still Lives,” the words proclaimed. An appropriate enough Easter message. But after my near death experience, I realized that Jesus was not the only one who still lives. At least for another day, “He Still Lives” described me. I am thankful.

Digging My Friend's Grave

I dug my friend’s grave in the morning, and in the evening, in the dark, I laid him to rest. I didn’t ask anyone’s permission to dig that grave. There is probably some rule or law that prohibits it. Maybe there is an opening or closing fee. I didn’t ask anyone. I just grabbed my shovel and went to work. Most of us have heard the expression: “He dug his own grave.” My friend could not do that for he had died a few hours before I started digging. He had no say in the matter. I actually dug two graves. Trying to excavate the first spot, I chopped up tree roots and battled my way down to a rock which would not budge. If only someone had placed a “Do Not Dig Here” sign on that spot, it would have saved me a lot of sweat. I gave up on gravesite #1 and tried to imagine a nearby spot that contained no underground tree roots or large rocks. Utilizing my x-ray vision, I found one and began again. The ground was softer and contained fewer obstacles. I had found the right place. As I worked, I asked the questions that anyone in my position faced: “How long, how wide, and how deep?” I hadn’t measured the body of my friend. It would have been unseemly. The very thought of it reminded me of the undertakers in those old Westerns who would casually stroll up to the likely loser before a gun battle and calculate his height for the coffin that would be constructed. So I dug a hole that I hoped would be longer and wider and deeper than needed (just like God’s love). What happened to my friend? What was the cause and circumstances of his death? He had died in his sleep. No autopsy was performed or needed. He was old and he had cancer. Both he and I had had tumors removed from our legs. I was lucky – the growth in my leg was not cancerous. My leg healed and I moved on. My friend was not so fortunate – his tumor was cancerous, and as the surgeon said, “I couldn’t get it all out.” He was given seven months to live. That prognosis was delivered in the spring. My friend rebounded, but we all knew he had been in the last season of his life. I was out of town at a clergy retreat when news of my friend’s death came to me. I packed up my books I was planning to read and hurried home. In a twist of irony, his death came five years to the day that news reached me of my mother’s death who had passed on in her sleep while I was on a clergy retreat in Arizona. I don’t know what it is about clergy retreats, but I have been called home from other events because parishioners have died. Future publicity material for these events may consider adding this warning: “This retreat may to hazardous to the health of those close to you.” I had planned on laying my friend to rest soon after digging that hole, but Holly – who was also out of town – changed her flight plans to arrive home that evening. She wanted to bid him goodbye. We both loved him. Just as I had wept when I first saw his body, so did she. She embraced him for the last time. We knew he was suffering, but we didn’t want to let him go. He had meant so much to us – more than we could have imagined when we first met him. We wrapped his body in a sheet I had had since my college days. It had a nature pattern and seemed appropriate. I had bought it as a twenty year old thinking that it would display my sense of chic. He wore it better than any old mattress ever did. I thought I saw his side move when I went to pull the sheet around him. Was it a miracle, a revival? No. Just a false hope. I wrapped him in his shroud and thought of the monks of the Abbey of Gethsemani who wrap their dead brothers in plain coverings before they bury them directly in the ground with no coffin or vault. Like the monks, my friend lived a simple life and enjoyed uncomplicated pleasures. It didn’t take much to please him. I carried his body out to the newly dug hole. He was lighter than he had been when he was healthy, but he was not weightless. I had a headlamp on my head and Holly carried a flashlight. It was dark. I had my last embrace during that short walk, but finally I laid him down. I was thankful that the hole was longer and wider and deeper than needed. What would anyone have thought if they had come upon us in the dark? Would they have seen the shovel and the hole and yelled, “Grave robbers” and accused us of crimes against nature? If the authorities had been called, I guess we would have said, “We are making a deposit, not a withdrawal.” But our work was undisturbed by any others. We said a prayer and our goodbyes, and we went about the work of covering his body. We would never see him again. After the work was done, Holly retrieved a beautiful mum that a friend had dropped off, and she placed it on the flesh dirt. Afterwards, we drank a toast to our friend, our pug, our Captain. He was a good dog, a very good dog. If you believe that God prepares a room in heaven for each one of us no matter what kind of scoundrels we might be, it is hard to imagine a heaven worth residing in without all of our friends, human or otherwise.

Summer Solstice

When I was a kid, I experienced summer as endless. When classes let out in June, it seemed as if an infinite number of days rolled out before me until those ominous school bells would call me back in early September. Summer was a season of plenty – plenty of warmth, sunlight, and free time. If we didn’t do something today, it didn’t matter. There was always another summer tomorrow. Summer meant abundance to me. Nowadays, summer almost seems likes it’s over before it begins. Why did I ever learn about the summer solstice? It threatens to ruin things for me. June 20 was the longest day of the year in our part of the world – at least in terms of daylight. Amazing as it seems, it is all downhill from here. We will actually be losing daylight for the next six months – first it is an unnoticeable drip of a moment or two, then there is a persistent flow, then a rush of hours swallowed up by the darkness until late December rolls around, .and daylight begins to get its revenge and nibble away ever so slowly and quietly at the dark. What happened to the summer? One of the truths that I cling to during the usually cold and snowy Northeast Ohio winters is the knowledge that after the winter solstice that every single day gets a little bit brighter. That fact has often brought me great joy and consolation. So if the winter solstice is an occasion of hope for me, should the summer solstice be experienced as a time of loss? I hate to give up on summer already. I deeply resonate with the connection of the summer solstice to the birth of John the Baptist and the winter solstice to the birth of Jesus. John himself said with respect to his position with Jesus: “He must increase, but I must decrease.” (John 3:30) John was great, but not as great as Jesus. Instead, he paved the way for Jesus. After John’s birth (which will be celebrated in a few days), the days grow shorter. After the birth of Jesus, every day brings more light. I love that idea – it reminds me of the yin/yang – in the midst of the darkness there is a spot of light; in the midst of the light, there is a spot of darkness. Both darkness and light have their time and their place. This connection just might be the one that makes me celebrate the summer solstice rather than mourn it. It is also an idea that can give all of us hope amidst any dark situation in our lives as well as make us thoughtful and appreciative of the brightest days we experience. In the face of the coming darkness that summer solstice portends, we decided to face it bravely yesterday and celebrate. Holly and I and some friends joined with a group of people in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park for a Yoga Solstice Festival. There is nothing quite like manipulating a 56 year old body during a dozen sun salutations to make a guy feel really alive – or old – or broken down. We had to sign waivers to participate – yoga can be dangerous, you know. But I enjoyed it and I really love those position names - especially downward facing dog. Do real dogs ever get into that position? I don’t think our pugs could. We didn’t stay too long but headed home where we hosted a backyard summer solstice cookout featuring a Weight Watchers approved menu. We even managed to stay up long enough to see the sun set – we are wild living folks – but the party ended shortly after that. Take that, summer solstice. Bring on the darkness – but, please, only a moment at a time.

To Hoodie or not to Hoodie

Like everyone I have talked with, I am saddened by the shooting death of teenager Trayvon Martin and outraged at the lack of justice in Sanford, Florida. The shooter has not been charged with any crime. Groups too numerous to count have sought to find meaningful ways to express their sympathy and solidarity. One popular response is the wearing of hooded sweatshirts at rallies and other events. Trayvon was wearing a hooded sweatshirt when he was profiled as a suspicious person by the shooter. Both of my sons wear hoodies, but since they are white they are unlikely to be called suspicious because of that kind of attire. A few days ago, Lebron James released a picture on Twitter of the Miami Heat wearing hoodies. And some of my clergy colleagues will be attending a worship service and prayer vigil in Cleveland after which they are planning to don hoodies and march a short distance around town.
I affirm this expression of concern about this horrible incident, and I hope that all in attendance (marchers and bystanders) will be moved to consider God’s vision of a peaceful and just world. And that they also are moved to action.
As much as I support this witness by others, I am conflicted as to the best way that I can participate in this process. I just don’t know if wearing a hoodie is the best way for me to express my own feelings. As a 55 year old white suburban male, I wonder at what my hoodie wearing, Cleveland marching image would say to others. Part of my struggling is with my own collection of hoodies. You see, I could wear a blue hoodie that I have which has the letters M-I-C-H-I-G-A-N on the front, but I can tell you that more than a few Buckeye supporters through the years have acted irrationally at the sight of those letters. Better to leave that one in the closet. Then there is that crimson zipped hoodie which has on its front these letters: H-A-R-V-A-R-D. A bald middle aged white man wearing a Harvard sweatshirt while marching for justice? I might as well be pictured in Doonesbury as a cliché for out of touch intellectual elitist. Then there is that brown hoodie I was given for completing three trail races last fall. It says “OhioOutside” on the front. I love the people I have run alongside at trail races, but they are among the whitest groups that I am ever in. And a group of hood wearing white folks probably sends the wrong message too.
I just don’t want to be like one of those palm waving folks who showed up as Jesus was coming into Jerusalem. They came for the excitement, they were attracted by the energy of it all, but in their end their faith in and commitment to Jesus was as deep as a thimble. Part of the cheering crowd one day, but a no-show after that. I don’t want to be a hoodie-wearing hypocrite.
So I think I am sitting out the hoodie wearing movement right now. It is right for others and a genuine statement of support for them to make. I hope it is a life-changing way for them to be involved and a genuine witness to their faith. But it just isn’t right for me. I am still struggling with the response that is true and authentic for me.
Let us all hope that all of our responses to this crime are more than just fashion statements.