So, the other day I saw something on television that triggered a memory of a particular day I hadn’t “pulled out of the file” for a long time. I saw it once again with clarity and supposed there must be a reason to come to me at this time & place…I’m sure there’s a reason, but am not certain what that reason is…so I will write it down. 

The memory. I was a musical composition major in college, while also pursuing a career in classical (opera) vocal performance. So, to those ends, many of my late nights were filled with composing (“old school”, with a pencil or a Flair pen – remember those?) and most of my days were filled with rehearsals, competitions, sometimes performances, and adjudications. I had more energy than I have now.  Didn’t we all?

This memory is of a particular adjudication. For those of you who may not have heard that term, “adjudication”, it is a sort of performance “test” where one is scored and critiqued by judges and these scores are used sometimes for grades, or as markers of progress…or sometimes as entrance exams into performing art schools or post-graduate studies (the judges are often from other schools and universties). Sometimes these vocal adjudications are private: you, an accompanist, a few judges. Sometimes there is an audience…which may or may not include those who are singing.

This particular adjudication was an out-of-town event in a nice auditorium. It was open to the public and the auditorium contained about two-hundred in attendance. There were three judges at a table about halfway back from the stage, in the seats. The audience all had to sit behind them. There was a tall, thin, unsmiling man on the left, a large bald and bearded man on the right, and a much smaller, older, woman of color in the middle…always smiling. I remember her most: large-framed glasses and a lavender suit. She was the judge in charge, the judge in the middle, and the other two followed her lead.

I sang my prepared aria and an art song. Then, at this particular adjudication, the singers had to “sight sing”. In other words, each singer was given a sealed manila envelope with a sheet of music (or two) in it which they were then asked to sing, unrehearsed and unaccompanied, for the judges and those present. The instructions we had been given told us the song would not be in a foreign language, that it would be “legit” in nature (not a popular song, but perhaps an older folk song, hymn, Victorian parlor song, something to be sung in a “classical/operatic” style). We could ask for a starting note or simply choose our own key.

For many, as you can imagine, this was the most stomach-churning part of the whole day. Sight-singing (singing a song simply by looking for the first time at the music) was usually not as difficult for me simply because…I grew up in church, singing hymns from a hymnal, in parts, surrounded by others who did the same thing, including mom & dad. 

I received my envelope. I unsealed it and took out the music. I had a moment that seemed like an hour, where my mind wasn’t quite able to comprehend what I was seeing. The guidelines clearly said that the songs in our classical and opera category would be of that style and nature…I had clearly received a song from the other category (which was part of the adjudication the previous day) the song was “STORMY WEATHER”.

I knew if I asked for another song I would be disqualified. In a moment I made the decision to sing it, partially because I knew it well. I also knew that I couldn’t change the words (which meant I couldn’t change the gender of the “object of the lyric”) so I had to sing it as it was written. But I also knew that I shouldn’t sing this song in the same style as opera. I should sing it as I would sing any blues…and so I did. I chose my own key and belted it out…not really knowing what would happen after that.

Knowing that I was probably going to be disqualified or whatever actually gave me some relief and I sang as I liked to sing, not really caring what the score was going to me. I looked at the faces of the judges and finally settled on the lady in the lavender suit. She smiled at me, encouraging my every phrase…even when I had to sing (embarrassingly, as a 19-year-old) “…since my man and I ain’t together…” she simply kept on grinning.

At the end of the final phrase, I held the last note longer than I needed to (showing off a bit)…getting softer and softer until it faded away (I have – or HAD – good lungs). Those there applauded…loudly…a few stood. The male judges glared…the lady in the lavender suit raised her eyebrows, still grinning.

“What was that?!” said the thin man on the left, not without some indignation.

“It was the song I was given.” I replied.

“That’s impossible,” he said, “let me see that!” He got up and barreled down the aisle to the stage where I was. He took the music out of my hand and then flashed it to the others.

“Well, that’s wrong.” He said, giving me back my music, “This never happens. A singer isn’t supposed to get the wrong song…we’ll discuss what’s to be done next.” And he walked a little slower back to his seat.

“You had a choice. You chose to sing it, even though you knew it was not right?” said the large, bald man…like it was MY fault.

“Yes, I wasn’t sure what to do but sing it. It was the song I was given.”

“Well, you CHOSE the wrong thing to do…you made the wrong decision.”

At the moment I felt about six-inches tall and thought I should apologize. Then the head judge, the lady in the lavender suit, took her large-frame glasses off and said, “I think it’s marvelous.”

As the other two judges gave her the side-eye, she continued. “I’m sorry, but I applaud you for not only giving a fine performance but singing the song you were given…that deserves something. It isn’t necessarily a part of the adjudication, to see how one does when they are thrown a curve ball, but maybe it should be.” 

I was, after some discussion, not disqualified, but was given “Honorable Mention” since giving me another song to sing would’ve also been unfair, and giving me First or Second place would’ve also been unfair…on the other hand, the lady in the lavender suit offered me a scholarship to her university two years, full ride…where she was head of the department (that’s another story for another time).

I can still hear her say, “…you sang the song you were given, that deserves something.” 

I sang the song I was given. It wasn’t the song I was expecting. It wasn’t the song I particularly wanted, or would’ve chosen. But it was the one I was given. One person, one “judge” said it was impossible that I would receive that song and almost called me a liar, as if it were MY fault I received that song. Another “judge” said the singing of that song was my choice, and a bad one…I shouldn’t have sung it. And yet another…the head judge, the important judge, the one that mattered, said, “…you sang the song you were given, that deserves something.”

Paul the Apostle complained of a “thorn in his side”. We don’t know what that was, it could’ve been illness, a person, a situation, a crippling condition…whatever it was this man of deep faith prayed to have it taken away…and it wasn’t. So, he “sang the song he was given.” Someone may have said that Paul was a sinner, therefore afflicted. Someone may have said he didn’t have enough faith, or he wouldn’t have that thorn. Someone may have said his affliction was his own choice. This is the Apostle Paul we’re talking about. 

Fanny Crosby wasn’t born blind but became blind early in life and remained so for the rest of her life. She prayed for sight and it didn’t come. Some told her and her parents that they could “pray the blindness away” if they just had faith. Some told her parents, and told HER to her face, that sin caused her blindness. She still “sang the song she was given”, and wrote over 800 hymns to the One True God, songs of insight and vision…ironic, isn’t it? 

There are many more examples in the Scripture and in life of God’s children who don’t get the song they want or are supposed to get. Sometimes they get to choose another, sometimes they don’t. 

Sometimes a “song” isn’t just a “song”.

I was given a song to sing. It’s not the song I wanted. It’s not the song I would’ve chosen. I could’ve asked for another, and in my heart I did. But in the end, I sing the song I was given. Some judges say that God would never give me that song, as if it were MY fault that song was given to me. Some say, I CHOSE to sing that song when I could’ve refused. But I’m a singer, and singing is what I do. I know that my only real and true choice was to sing the song I was given. Some judges have said to me, as they said to Paul, as they said to Fanny, and as they’ve said to many, many others, that my faith is weak and if I’d only try I could “pray the song away” – as if I hadn’t already tried, as if I had no faith at all…and as if I needed to “pray it away”.

But the Judge in the middle, the One who counts, said, “…you sang the song you were given, that deserves something.” That Judge in the Middle isn’t just talking to me… 

…and sometimes, a “song” isn’t just a “song”.

Let those who have ears…hear.

One of the best things about bacon (and my other addictions: popcorn, Fritos, and crackers) is salt.  You can keep your sugar…even chocolate does not have the same appeal as bacon, popcorn, taco chips, mixed nuts…and anything else like that.

I like salt.  And although I’m trying to be very careful about exactly how much salt I ingest, since I’m of “that age”, I still like it.  And when I was researching about the properties of salt, etc found this very interesting fact:  Salt has its own flavor, technically, HOWEVER it is known for “jump-starting” our taste buds, opening them up to accept MORE flavor, causing us to want MORE food.

Now I’ve been enlightened even more about Jesus’ words, “You are the SALT of the earth.”  Not only is salt a preservative and flavoring but it causes those tasting it to want MORE.  When we are truly the SALT OF THE EARTH we cause those around us to want more of what we have: life, light, peace, love.  And, as Jesus also says, when “salt has lost its flavor” (by sitting around being unused) then it is good for nothing but to make roads with.  Old salt kills, so if it is spread on grass or growth, it will kill it, a great way to make paths and roads, back in the day.

It’s not used so much today, but SALT used to be one of the main preservatives of foods that otherwise wouldn’t last too long.  The fish from the Galilee used to be salted and shipped to Rome, where it was used as soldiers’ food while they conquered the world.

Another obvious lesson from this “physical metaphor” of this “spiritual truth” is that TOO MUCH salt doesn’t make the food taste better.  That’s a lesson in discretion, kindness, and benevolence.  How many times has the “good news” of Jesus been ruined because it’s been forced down someone’s throat, as opposed to “sprinkled with care” in JUST THE RIGHT AMOUNTS to make life flavorful?

SALT – the flavor-enhancer/attractor and preservative.

And so…if your “salt” is being poured out of the shaker each time you have any connection with those around you, they are getting a “taste” of the full life that you have from God.  It’s available to them as well.  However, if you keep it to yourself, it not only becomes useless it actually becomes poison.  To not share the life and light of God is bad for YOU and those around you.

When Jesus said to His disciples, and the thousands of others sitting on the mountain, listening to Him teach, “All of you are the salt of the earth” He was speaking precisely of these attributes…it is a created attribute: we have the ability to make people hungry for Jesus, we have the ability to preserve TRUE life as first given to us by Him.

Years ago, when I was leading a high-school-aged group of worship singers, one of our singers was singing “We are salty, we are salty…”, mishearing the actual lyric, “We exalt Thee, we exalt Thee.”  Of course, having never actually used the word, “exalt”, they weren’t certain what it meant – but knew we were the “salt of the earth” so “we are salty” made more sense.  I have always remembered that with a smile, every time I’ve sung that song in worship…it makes sense.

All this reminds me of one of my favorite scriptures, a rare picture of the love of God compared to flavor:

PSALM 34:8 “Taste and see that the Lord is good;
blessed is the one who takes refuge in him.”

It was May 18, 1980, when Mount St. Helens erupted.  It was a Sunday, early in the morning, and I was living in Seattle.  What I remember is that I heard a sound outside my house, like someone had thrown a big ball up against the wall – it was loud enough that I looked out the window.  But the mountain was far enough away that I wouldn’t have seen anything.  The wind was blowing east, and the mountain was some hours south of Seattle, so it wasn’t until we were in church that we heard about the eruption.  Later in the day, during an outdoor bar-b-que, a few of us guys got up on the roof of the house (which was on a hill) and looked with binoculars at the ash cloud in the distance.  But we were somewhat unaffected by it all.

My parents, some 4 hours east, were at church. My Mom was a greeter that day, standing at the door and watching a dark cloud in the distance grow larger and larger with every hour.  When the announcement was broadcast that the mountain had erupted and the cloud that all eastern Washington was seeing was an ash cloud, church was cancelled, and people were told to go home.  No one really knew what the cloud contained; something poisonous?  Something dangerous?  And so, to avoid panic, people were sent home. They had a totally different experience than we did in Seattle.

Then there was the woman with her two kids, travelling close to the mountain in their station wagon when the mountain blew.  Suddenly, she said, the sky was black and all around her was chaos: trees were being stripped of their limbs, lakes were evaporating.  She made her kids lie down in the car and drove as fast as she could, but finally couldn’t see where she was going, and then her tires melted, and she was stuck.  Her mind shut down, unable to comprehend what was happening.  Her children were terrorized by the event, and her reaction.

She spoke from her home, weeks later, after returning from the hospital where she was treated for shock.  You see, to HER it seemed as if the world had ended.  Everywhere she looked, everything she saw was black, desolate and alien.  She saw no living creatures but herself and her children. She had no idea if devastation had consumed the entire world or not.  That experience made her lose her mind a little.  When she and her children were discovered a few hours after she pulled over on the back road she was travelling, she was incoherent, her children were panic-stricken and in shock. She was brought around when she was shown photos of her home and city still intact; when she was shown that the eruption, though massive, didn’t destroy the world.  Even though, from her perspective, the world was destroyed. 

That’s what I took away from the story.  From her perspective the entire world (or, at least, her world) was destroyed.  It was only when caregivers understood HER perspective that they could break through and help her.

We all have trauma; we all have to deal with devastation in our own lives at times.  Sometimes we fail to get the support we need because others around us aren’t feeling the same effects of that trauma as we are.  This should be a lesson for us.  As Jesus dealt with each living being according to THEIR need and THEIR perspective…so should we be able to “put ourselves in their place” and therefore help to bring them out.  Just because you or I may not react in the same way to the same predicament doesn’t mean that another’s pain is less important.  Sometimes we reject the call to care because we don’t think that the other person is really “that bad off”.

On May 18, 1980, I was barely affected by the “blast”, as we called it.  While just a few miles away a woman and her children thought their world was gone.

Every day we walk next to someone whose world is collapsing and every day we are reminded, by God, that the way to His heart is to love our neighbor.  Today, this week, watch for, reach out to, and love the ones that God sends our way.

What I have always called, “the best day/the worst day” actually began the night before.

It was when I was a sophomore, majoring in music performance, at the state university I attended right out of high school. On May 13th (one day before my birthday) I was practicing, after the usual dinner of carbs and soda, in a practice room in the Music Building. The rehearsal rooms were, by design, soundproof to the hallway and each other. But that night, there were a couple of people standing directly outside my practice room door, I could hear them talking as I was packing up to leave. I recognized one of the voices as a friend I was meeting for dinner the next day. I started to open the door to say “Hi”, when I heard her say…

“…remember, tomorrow night at 7pm. It’s a surprise for his Birthday, I’ll get him there by 7:30pm.”

She was throwing me a surprise Birthday party!

Since I had never had a surprise Birthday Party, I was excited. Even more so, since (as a control freak) I like to know about “surprises” before they happen. (I know, that defeats the purpose…what can I say?). However, even with the knowledge of that good news, the next day didn’t start well. I had a “presentation” to give in my first class, which meant shirt and tie. I woke up late (as usual). I leapt out of my bed and sprinted down the hall to the showers for the fastest shower and shave I had ever done. Back to the dorm room and on with the white shirt, pants…I sat on the bed to slip on both my shoes while tying my tie. Rushing, and doing multiple things to be ready in 15 minutes, I jumped up from the bed where I was sitting – ready to step in front of the mirror and behold my glory – when suddenly, without any time to catch a breath or blink, I was painfully on my back, on the floor.

In my multitasking frenzy I had zipped the end of my tie into my pants. When I stood, I flipped myself on my back and ripped off the end of my tie. After breathing in, I remembered…

…I’m having a surprise party tonight!

OK, so things didn’t seem so bad. I tucked the end of the tie in my shirt, put on a jacket to cover the mangled end of my tie if it slipped out of it’s hiding place in my button-down. Then I grabbed my stack of books and raced to the cafeteria to grab a quick coffee (I was already addicted at this point in my life) before heading to my presentation…

…I’m having a surprise party tonight!

Once I arrived at the cafeteria, I placed my stack of books in a cubby downstairs and took two stairs at a time up to the second floor where the magic bean juice was dispensed. Once my coffee lid was secure, I raced (carefully) down the stairs to discover…my books were missing.

Sure enough, someone had taken all my books (a thief who obviously enjoyed reading philosophy, music theory and opera, no doubt). Now I need to add at this point that one of the books was borrowed from my mother. It was one of her prized possessions and I promised her it would be safe, as I tucked it in my car on my way to school from my home, two hours away, some months before.

My first thought was…” I’m dead.”

My presentation notes, my books and my mother’s Christmas Book all gone, with no hope of return. Then I remembered…

…I’m having a surprise party tonight!

And with that thought, the problem was placed in a folder a little further back in my brain and my day brightened despite the shredded tie, my aching back, the stolen books and a presentation that I would have to make up “on the fly”. (a little play on words, considering how my tie got mangled).

The presentation was, miraculously, stunning. (I was carried around on the backs of my fellow students, as they cheered…at least that’s MY recollection). My back recovered (ahhh…youth!) and with every hour of the day, good or bad, in the back of my mind was the constant underscore of a party in my future.

I returned to my dorm room around 4pm to find my wall phone blinking with a message.

(Editor’s note: For the young people: a wall phone is like an iPHONE without the screen or camera. It is, if you can believe it, FASTENED to the wall; immovable. People call, but you don’t know who is calling until you answer. In the case of this particular phone, one could leave a message, and a little light would blink on the wall phone of the recipient…it was a brave new world.)

In any case, I listened to the message and called the number. It was the SECURITY OFFICE on campus.
“Are you missing a rucksack?” they asked.
Not totally certain at that point in my life what a “rucksack” was, I said, “No, but I AM missing some books.”
“Can you describe the books?”
“Well, one of them is big, red, and is titled, CHRISTMAS CAROLS FROM AROUND THE WORLD…inside is the name, Margery Baker.”
“You can come claim your rucksack before 5:30pm today.”

I went to CAMPUS SECURITY. Sure enough, there was a backpack (what Shirley in CAMPUS SECURITY called a “rucksack”) that I didn’t recognize. And after I showed her my campus ID she smiled and handed it to me. My books were inside, along with several other things. That’s right…whomever stole my books had lost their “rucksack”.
“Don’t you want it all?” Shirley asked.
I have to say, as tempted as I was by the idea of obtaining my thief’s stuff: an ANDY GIBB cassette, macramé key chain, WORLDS OF ADVANCED GEOMETRY book, and a corduroy cap, I refrained.

I returned to my dorm room in triumph, saying aloud, “God is good.” (Not realizing at the time, in my spiritual immaturity, that God would STILL be good, even if my books hadn’t been found…since “God, being good.” has little to do with me…but that’s another BLOG).

The party I had dreamed of all day finally came to pass, and it was wonderful. That party had colored my day; causing all that went wrong to be placed in priority after the knowledge of what was happening at the end of the day. It was like knowing that the destination was worth any trouble along the journey.

Even at that point in my spiritual immaturity I realized the Spirit had led me into a Truth that would stay with me: knowing what is at the end of the journey puts everything else in perspective.

Every-once-in-a-while I stand in awe as I look on the lives of the Children of God around me, especially my flock, my congregation. These people who suffer loss, sickness, and circumstances that might cripple anyone else, not only survive, but thrive. They live as if they know what lies at the end of the journey. They let all circumstances, good and bad, all moments, all people, roll over them, through them…with the knowledge that there’s a party at the end of the day.

For those of us who BELIEVE & FOLLOW: how would our experience of each day change, if we knew what was at the end of the journey?

Funny thing…we DO know.

In my office at church I have a wall filed with crosses.  Some are big, some are small, some metal and some wood.  Some are hand-made, others a little more industrial.

When I moved into my office (2007) I had five crosses that I wanted to display, but that was too few to really know what to do with…so I went to a local craft/décor store, where there was a sale on “wall décor” (including crosses) and got the idea for a “wall of crosses” from their display…the beauty was in the way each item was a cross, but each significantly individual and unique…I purchased another five crosses to add to my collection.

Soon after, my Dad sent me two crosses that he had carved upon the occasion of me stepping into the pulpit at Central, I received a couple of “gift crosses” upon my installation and since then have received several more from weddings, etc.  I’ve also started collecting a cross when I travel, if I see an interesting one.  All that to say, my wall now is covered a bit and I’ll need to start moving crosses around to the next wall.  It looks like I’m trying to keep vampires out of the office, at this point.

As I write, I can look up and directly at the “cross wall” and see some beautiful crosses, some crosses that have a meaning because of who gave them, or where I purchased them…but they all have an “intrinsic” value because of their own beauty.

On one hand…The cross: an implement of torturous death.  Even the symbol of a cross could strike a deep and unfathomable fear in the people of Jesus’ day.  This method of execution was devised as to cause as much suffering as possible, while displaying the suffering as a warning to anyone else who might think of crossing the Roman government of the time.  The cross: a symbol, not only of state-sanctioned death, but state-sanctioned inhuman, horrific, torture. It is a symbol that Believers and Followers since have stared at daily without, perhaps, knowing the implications of such a symbol, or feeling the depth of terror that symbol would strike in all of our Believing and Following forebears.  To think that such a symbol would be carved with such love, worn as jewelry, and decorating a Pastor’s wall is almost morbidly-idiotic.

On the other hand God, the “Spiritual Rumplestiltskin”, as I like to call Him sometimes (He “turns straw into gold”) has taken the cross and actually re-created it as a thing of beauty, goodness and truth.  The mere fact that this instrument of torture and death, used on His own Son, has become a symbol for a beautiful gift of freedom and love is also unfathomable.  God, who takes the chaos and makes order, takes garbage and makes jewels, takes the broken things and makes them new…God, who currently is restoring the entire world to newness and prepping it for the Age to Come has done a wonderful thing with this cross.

We often hear, “Everything happens for a reason.”  Which (and I hate to burst anyone’s bubble), is not only an inaccurate scriptural quote…but not an actual scriptural quote at all. Bad things are generally not something that God plans.  In fact the “reason” much, if not all, of the bad things in the world happen because we’re stupid and make BAD choices. THAT’s the “reason”.  What God does is take the bad and make it good.  God takes the tangle that we’ve created, and at our request, creates a tapestry.

Wasn’t the evilness of the cross part of God’s “plan”? The sacrifice that needed to be made by His Son was necessary.  Were the evil plans and thoughts of those who eventually led Jesus through the streets and to Golgotha all a part of God’s will?  Of course not, and neither were any of those people involved mere robots or puppets without a choice. God knew, because He exists “out of time”.  He could see what was GOING to happen (from our perspective of time) before it actually happened to us, and the evil became beautiful.  It is God to make “all things new”.  It is in His nature (and ours, for that matter) to “re-create”.

And so, I display my wall of crosses proudly.  This evil thing, this wicked idea to make another human suffer the pain and humility of inhuman death has been turned, as all things that are imperfect, wicked, twisted and evil will also turn.

When I look at my wall now, I try to remember the “journey” this cross made, from something designed to torture and kill, to something that is (for me, at least) a gate to the garden. 

I am old enough to remember when, in 1957, Alan Shepherd was lifted into space and returned safely, although he did not orbit. Communication with the spacecraft was by “radio”, which we knew was a “bit more complicated” than the radios in our homes. Amazed at the apparent technology that made that feat possible, I remember the black and white television in our living room that depended on an antenna and the 1949 pickup truck with open windows for an air conditioner which was driven by my grandfather.

When John Glenn orbited the earth several times in 1962, I was at home and not at school because the night before this space adventure, the old wooden high school in our community had burned to the ground. I marveled at the stages of lift-off, the communications with Astronaut Glenn while our family still had the two-party telephone line. I remember the space center’s constant reference to computers that made all systems in the spacecraft respond to the nanosecond, so precise, so correct in all the calculations. And no grocery store nor bank at that time had anything computerized. I also remember, about this time, being invited to our neighbor’s house to watch “Bonanza” in color, being struck by the fact that the preceding and post programs were still black and white…the “bookends” of a brave new world emerging and affecting daily lives.

How I clearly remember the first astronauts on the moon in the summer of 1968. I was a summer youth minister between my freshman and sophomore years in college. Residing in a small house owned by the church, I had with me a group of several teenagers who, along with me, were glued to the TV watching the very first moonwalk as it happened. You could not ever imagine a group of teenagers so silent, so awed, so mesmerized by the drama unfolding before their eyes. The voices between the astronauts and Houston Space Center, a distance of 240,000 miles, stood in sharp contrast to the “land” phones in every residence, connected by telephone wires.

Fast forward to April, 2026, when four astronauts circled the back side of the moon and splashed down safely off the California coast. The world of 1968, the first moonwalk, cannot even begin to compare with the world of 2026 with satellite TV, smart phones with cameras and recording abilities at our fingertips, wi-fi connections to computers, online banking, school lessons online that prevent “snow days”, electric cars, modern cars with unbelievable luxuries such as tv, GPS, etc already built into the design and function…to name a few developments in recent years.

In the old days, the word “incubator” almost exclusively referred to a temperature-controlled machine that hatched eggs OR a machine that kept premature or ill newborn infants alive until they were able to live in the “normal” world. Nowadays, “incubator” refers to the efforts to design and grow new businesses, new ideas, new machinery or technology, etc. just like a hospital incubator allows a newborn to survive.

The first flight into space by Alan Shepherd in 1957 left me, a young lad of 9 years old, aware of the sharp difference between the intricate and precise technical abilities of the space program (three stage rockets, designing the material for the space capsule to re-enter the atmosphere safely, communication systems, etc.) that was so unfamiliar to everyday life at that time. Surely, this first flight was an incubator of a technological age yet-to-come. Frankly, I suspect that the very 1950s-era technology that lifted Shepherd into space is now, in some newly designed and creative way, an incubator for our technological daily life.

For decades, the ability to send a person into space and return safely was considered “rocket science”, that is, something separate from everyday life of the populace in the late 1950s. The early space program was, at that time, considered to be an incubator for future space development, not future everyday life…until now. Those who developed smart phones, iPADS, home and office computers, automobile upgrades, etc. which made some of that early technology available in everyday life. Consequently, the year 2026 is uniquely different.

The birth of Jesus of Nazareth was not the incubator of Christianity. The incubator of Christianity was the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus interpreted in a way that Jesus is the fulfillment of God’s promise of salvation for all humankind through faith in Jesus Christ, Son of God. Pastor Rick, in his Lenten Bible Study on Ephesians, helped us to grasp that the Apostle Paul who started congregations in cities far beyond Jerusalem was the incubator of the Church in which we have become servants of our Lord Jesus Christ today…in spite of the differences between Catholic and Protestant understandings of the Church of Jesus Christ.

We can no longer speak of the Church as something we pass on to the next generations. What the church unwittingly passes on to the next generation of church members is property, bylaws, traditions, vision, structure, etc. But the painful truth remains—we cannot pass on to the next generation a vital relationship with Jesus Christ and one another. Yes, we can model it and live it, but a relationship has to be foraged by love and grace by every believer. Neither can we pass down to the next generation of Church members the Spirit of the Living God Each and every person must open their lives to the “movement of the Spirit”…we need to understand that the Church in every generation is an incubator because God makes all things new. If our role is to “pass down” to future generations, then the more we are confronted with generations for whom the Church does not seem relevant or spiritually fulfilling. As incubators, we think less about the Church we pass on and more about the vital and renewing grace of God as revealed in Jesus Christ who enriches relationships every generation!

Weird, isn’t it…to imagine ourselves as incubators of tomorrow’s Church! And what will we do now with such a powerful image….?!

Recently I was in Inverness, Scotland. It was my first trip to the U.K. and my first destination on this first trip. I was taking it all in, enjoying what I had only dreamed about for years. There was much to explore, historically and gastronomically, all within walking distance from the pub and rooms above where we were staying…but there was one place around the corner I saw when we arrived. I decided to walk over in the morning and check it out.

Now, everyone who knows me knows that I am a sucker for a bookshop…and here I was in Scotland, walking to what is advertised as Scotland’s oldest second-hand bookshop. I opened the door.

Immediately I was overwhelmed by the atmosphere of the place. The building (ca. 1790) was split timber, stone, and brick.. The floor was a bit uneven and seemed to slope, at a slight angle, up from the entryway. Inside was a large open space with a balcony that ran around all sides and what little sunlight there was outside shown through colored glass. I immediately started browsing by the entrance door and touched, opened, paged through, the older and newer titles of books that filled the entire space.

There were books and books and more books. The shelves, which were eight to ten feet high, couldn’t hold them all. Much of the spare space on the floor was crowded with even more stacks of books. However, each nook filled with shelves was organized, labeled, and easy to find one’s way through.

I turned through pages of history, art, poetry…and theology (some of my favorite theologians and commentators, along with some of my favorite authors and poets, are Scottish – so I was taking my time). Drawn to the older-looking bindings, I was somewhat shocked at the prices. They were reasonable. Then I remembered that my definition of “old” and Europe’s definition of “old” were not the same. Scotland’s “old” is older and there is more of it. Even books published in the 1900s and before, some signed, were very reasonably priced.

The feel of the bindings, the sound of each page as I turned through them, the musty smell of leather, paper, old stone and burning wood (as there was an old, large, woodfire stove in the middle of the room…fighting of the chill of Scotland in the Highlands) were all playing in the back of my mind, as my eyes concentrated on what I held. Other shoppers and tourists walked pass me, around me, and I heard languages: German, French, Japanese, Italian, “American” and “Scotch” English…and more. But it was all simply an underscore to the covers and pages that occupied my eyes and my mind at the time.

My heartrate was slowing down, my mind was starting to “ease”. Lately, the recent stress of world and national events have bothered me more than they should. They’ve played on my aging mind and body. Even the full and wonderful season which just passed at church, with all of its extra events, special worship services, and the things that take up more of my aging mind were, though enjoyable, tiring. This moment, this first day in Scotland in this bookshop though, played like a beautiful song in my bones, and acted like much-needed medicine. Again, others might not feel the same way about an old, Scottish, bookshop, but for me this place, these books, this atmosphere, was magical.

After some moments of moving my face and hands from book to book I finally set the books down and started looking around. On one end of the room, downstairs, was a large table, stacked (of course) with more books, and presided over by the proprietor of the hour: a man who looked like he had auditioned and been cast because  he looked exactly like whom you would expect to BE the bookseller – middle aged, tartan sweater, wire-rim glasses. On the opposite end of the room was a circular staircase, leading up to the balcony where there were more books, prints, maps, etc. I decided to climb up with my camera phone and get some interesting photos.

I stopped at the top of the circular staircase and looked around at the space in total for the first time…my face now out of the books and shelves. I looked across and saw, above the sellers table, a beautifully carved part of the balcony and my mind put it together and I recognized immediately what I saw…it was a pulpit. A pulpit. With mouth agape, I put the book down, stepped back, and turned my head and body to look all around me, up and down, far and near. Of course, the colored glass was stained glass (how had I not noticed that?), the part of the balcony where I was standing had obviously at one time been the choir loft, the “sloping floor”, the windows, the pulpit…everything said: this was once a church.

I had been so focused on the shelves and books, the bindings and pages, that they stole my attention away from the obvious things surrounding me. When I finally raised my head from them I “saw where I was”.

And there it is.

I wasn’t just in a bookshop in Scotland, I was in a physical metaphor illustrating the Truth of  The Kingdom of God.

Jesus gives us the well-known illustration of The Kingdom of God being like a mustard seed; small but growing into a large enough shrub that it’s almost a tree. However, one of the many epiphanies I had when visiting Israel was a day when I asked our guide what the ubiquitous plant was we saw everywhere, in town and country, growing wild. He told me it was mustard. I didn’t recognize that variety. He said, once it takes root it spreads insidiously and is almost impossible to eradicate. Now, I had always accepted the illustration of the mustard seed telling me The Kingdom would start small and grow large…but I had never thought of it illustrating its inevitable growth, spreading, impossible to put down, and surrounding me. 

The Plan, His Plan, is not and never has been, to “rescue us from the world”…but rather to ”restore the world FOR us”, bringing earth and heaven together under one King: Jesus. That’s what the Kingdom is…and once planted, it’s growth to fulness is inevitable. I/we will surely lose the “strength for today” that comes from “hope for tomorrow” if we concentrate on the “individual book titles, bindings, pages” of life and forget to look up every-once-in-a-while to see The Kingdom growing around us…still and always. We will forget, in the overwhelming amount of “books on shelves” (containing the good and bad of the world around us) that all pages of life are housed in a working Plan, a Promise, a Sanctuary, and THAT is the TRUE reality.

I will not give in to bad doubt nor unhealthy fear. God is still working the Plan. The Kingdom seed has been planted, and it will inevitably grow to fulness. We KNOW the end of the story. We might be able to hinder it, but we can never stop it. The world around us can only distract us when we forget to step back, look up, look out, and look forward. 

That old Scottish bookshop is still a “sanctuary”, to me at least. It houses and encompasses thousands upon thousands of books and chapters and sentences and words…I can concentrate on the details of life, focus on the worrisome things…but if I would simply take a moment to look up from the dusty page, I’d be able to see no matter how bad the times may be in this chapter, or even how good they may me…the real story is: God is holding all things, good and bad, together…as He is leads us to the place and time when earth and heaven are one.

Step back and look around every every once-in-a-while. Never lose faith. Never lose hope. No matter what the pages tell us…we are housed in God’s bookshop.

******* 

(NOTE: The Leakey Bookshop, on Church Street in Inverness, began as St. Mary’s Gaelic Church, created for Highlanders who spoke only Gaelic. It eventually became Greyfriars Free Church, serving the community for centuries.)

Ahhh…April 15th…TAX DAY!  Is it a coincidence that the TITANIC sank AND Lincoln was assassinated on April 15th?  I don’t think so.

Filling out those forms reminds me why I have my degree in writing music and not mathematics (songwriting is easier); names and numbers, blood type, grandmother’s girdle size…all that information that you give nowhere else but on a 1040!

I always think of that time when Jesus was approached by the leaders (trying to get a good “quote” and hang Him with it) if the Jews should pay taxes to Caesar; something that they detested…not just the loss of income and the graft involved in the process, but the fact that Caesar’s face was on the coinage and he considered himself a god…therefore making the coin a “graven image”.  Jesus very cleverly turned the question on its ear and endorsed, of all things, the Roman tax while indicating that God should be given His due as well.

But what does God require?  Is there a form to fill out?  Is it a once-a-year event?  No, actually the scripture makes it quite clear…here are our taxes to God:

MICAH 6:8 “He has told you all what is good and what it is the Lord requires of you…only to act justly, to love faithfulness and to walk humbly with your God.”

TO ACT JUSTLY…God requires His children to “do the right thing”, after all, that’s what holiness is.

TO LOVE FAITHFULNESS…to act and behave with integrity, faithfully…and love God for His faithfulness

TO WALK HUMBLY…to remember that we are the sheep, He is the Shepherd.

There are few places in the scripture where our direction is specifically spelled out for us, this is one of those jewels that we can look to and know directly that this is what God requires.  It is a verse that can be confirmed throughout the scripture and in the words of Jesus Himself.

“Do you see these stars and stripes?” Jesus says, “Give to America what is due to America, and give to God what is due to God.”

One of my very first memories is my dad lifting me up so I could see over the balcony of our American apartment in Frankfurt, Germany, and hear the carolers in the courtyard below, singing German carols.  (It’s still not Christmas until I hear some German carols reminding me of my earliest Christmas memories.) 

I grew up with singing parents, and in a singing church. Singing in a group has been a part of my life, continually, since I was born.

Several years ago, some “musical friends” had a large “music” party filled with all sorts of food and drink that had no nutritional value in the least and friends, old and young, just getting together to sing some hymns. At the door we were handed a customized bound book of hymns and psalms (and “spiritual songs”).  The guests were, for the most part, singers by profession.  All night we ate, drank, laughed, chattered, and sang…it was a taste of my own personal heaven.  As I sat and looked at and listened to the variety of singles, couples, and groups, all ages, all types, I smiled and listened as everyone sang along.  Some songs were familiar, others were not…and no one cared.  It was a great evening!

I was especially taken with the thought that we all were singing the same song, but not all were singing the same notes, some were singing the same words, but maybe not at the same time as everyone else…on purpose, or not.  Some were singing the melody, and at one point we sang a duet, and the treble voices sang one part, and the lower voices the other.  It was beautiful and the differences in voice, range, dynamic and polyphony (singing various moving lines of music simultaneously) still created a unified thought and the sense that ALL of us were “journeying” together to the same conclusion, along the same theme, but at different paths.

The phrase, “many paths to God” is one that Christians have avoided because it seemingly conflicts with Jesus own words, “I am THE way, THE Truth and THE life…no one comes to the Father except through Me.”  I don’t think the “many paths” idea conflicts with Jesus at all…I may be “splitting hairs”, but I believe that Jesus is stating there is ONE DOOR…but it is also obvious to me, in the scripture and in life, that each of us comes to that door through a variety of ways.  It also seems evident, by virtue of the scripture, that each of us feels, sees, hears, and experiences things in a different way.  Our journeys of faith have different beginnings, but the same end, have different twists and turns, but the same arrival point, have different tempos of transport, but the same destination.

I don’t believe that God wants us all to sing in unison, because we couldn’t…we are all as different as Soprano is from Alto, and Tenor is from Bass.  Jesus has a song written specifically for each of us.  Also, the scripture reminds us, there are “a variety of gifts, but One Spirit”.  We also have differences built into us, and we begin our journeys at different times.  Our perspectives of God are different depending on what He has done for and to each of us, and where we are in our maturity as Spiritual beings.  We couldn’t and shouldn’t sing in unison.  It is not the church’s job to make its congregation “toe the party line”, but to know the breadth and depth of the love of the Father…nurturing the Spirit in each person to “lead into all Truth.”

We are made to sing the song together…but without the beauty of our individual voices and parts the song would not be so rich, so full, so moving…it is the combination of ALL our “journeys to Jesus” that makes the voyage so wonderful…and the destination cadence so breath-taking.

If the foot should say, “Because I’m not a hand, I don’t belong to the body,” in spite of this it still belongs to the body. And if the ear should say, “Because I’m not an eye, I don’t belong to the body,” in spite of this it still belongs to the body. If the whole body were an eye, where would the hearing be? If the whole body were an ear, where would the sense of smell be? But now God has placed each one of the parts in one body just as He wanted. And if they were all the same part, where would the body be? Now there are many parts, yet one body.

I CORINTHIANS 12:15-20

We were created to sing in HARMONY. 

So, I grew up in church.  We went to Highland Church of God in Kennewick, Washington – every time the door was open.  Dad sang in , and directed the choir. Mom was the Church Secretary and  sometimes the Chair of the Women’s Missionary Society.  We had worship on Sunday Mornings, Sunday Evenings, and Wednesday evenings (followed by choir practice).  It was, as they say, “formative in my construct”. 

Yes, I enjoyed the Bible Study, the good preaching, and the incredible (what we say in “Christianese”) “fellowship”.   But at the top of my list of “things I love about church and worship” and what kept me going even when I didn’t want to, was…music.  I loved the music, and I grew up in a VERY musical church.  We sang, at least 500 hymns each Sunday (so it seemed), each Sunday night, and each Wednesday evening.  The personnel of our choir, our Junior Choir, our Youth Band, and instrumentalists made up almost 60% of the entire congregation.

Music was, for me at least, the language of God.

However, as a young child, I sometimes found the “theology-filled” lyrical phrases nonsensical – in my small mind – and so I would adapt them to what I thought they said, – and what would fit with my personal rudimentary theology.

Case in point: “With our jellied toast proclaim, Christ is born in Bethlehem!”

You know that familiar phrase from “HARK! THE HERALD ANGELS (“Harold’s Angels” as opposed to “Michael’s Angels”, I suppose) SING!”  Now, ask anyone who knows me well and they will say that one of my favorite, and almost daily, foods (other than God’s most perfect creation: bacon) is toast.  I’ve loved toast since before I could speak.  I can’t imagine a more perfect food for angels than toast with jelly!  And when would they be most likely to celebrate with toast and jelly?  CHRISTMAS!  It all made sense to me.

Another case in point: “Bringing in the cheese”.

It was YEARS before I knew what a “sheave” was (even though I lived in farming country), and still wasn’t sure what that had to do with the song.  But “cheese”?! Well, yeah!  It’s another favorite food…and I find it TOTALLY understandable why someone would “come rejoicing, bringing in the cheese”…who wouldn’t?!

The mistaken lyric that made my mother laugh so hard she choked on her coffee, however, was “Up from the gravy, a rose” which I recall fondly each Easter.  Now think about this doctrinal picture: out of a gooey mess, something beautiful.  That’s what Easter is all about isn’t it?  Never mind WHY there would be a rose in a bowl of gravy, just go with it.  So, that’s what I thought I heard, and definitely what I sang.  And in my six-year-old theology it made perfect sense… 

 …until I knew better.

Aside from the obvious “food allusions” in each of these mistaken lyrics (my counselor is helping me through that obvious Freudian debacle) there is a lesson here about God growing as we grow.

People, and sometimes especially those who identify as “Christians”, don’t ever want to admit that sometimes they learned and believed something that was wrong.  They, and we, find it difficult to admit to ourselves and others, that we have learned something new, grown, and our minds have changed.  There are simply too many folks who stop learning and cling to what they first understood…even when it doesn’t make sense with everything else God says.

Were those hymn lyrics EVER “with our jellied toast proclaim”?  No, they never were – the lyrics never changed.  Did I, as a small child, misunderstand the “intent” of the lyric?  No, I understood completely that the angels were happy and proclaiming the birth of Jesus…but as I grew, my understanding grew, and in my eyes and mind the lyrics grew as well.

God, our Father, started with a group of slaves from Egypt who knew, vaguely, of Yahweh – but not in a mature way.  He proposed a covenant with them (“I will be your God.  You will be My people), containing ten precepts.  They are simple, they are rudimentary, and they are the type of rules one would give a small child.  (Example: “Don’t cross the busy street without holding my hand.”) But as generations grew, failed, grew, failed, and grew again – up to this very generation – the understanding of God/Yahweh and ourselves has become more precise, more detailed, deeper, and more subtle.  As the Apostle Paul would say, “we are going from MILK to MEAT”.  Did God change?  Does God change? No.  But WE did. And we will.

When an individual makes the choice to BELIEVE that God indeed exists, that Jesus is His Son, and that He is present to love, protect, and preserve (“sozo” = “preserve/restore”, sometimes translated at “save”) us….and then chooses to FOLLOW that Good Shepherd and King, relinquishing all personal rights in allegiance to Him…then that person starts to grow (hopefully).  As that person grows, they will begin to see God differently, more fully.  They will, inevitably, discover their preconceived ideas of who HE is and who THEY are may be wrong.

And now they have another choice: Do I let my PRIDE rule, or do I let my KING rule?

Unfortunately, too many denominations, theologies, and people have let their pride rule – using the excuse: “God doesn’t change.”  And they are correct, HE doesn’t, but WE do.  His words are constant, though He will sometimes speak to us as a child, and sometimes not try to explain things that are beyond our understanding. Other times He will bring us close and reveal His quietest thoughts…and THOSE conversations are different than the conversations with a child…because of OUR understanding, not HIS. 

I have realized that I need to learn something new every day, to grow my mind and to temper my ego.  When those lessons come into conflict with what I BELIEVED was true, then I should change, and I should admit that my understanding THEN was faulty.

Maya Anjelou’s words echo the scripture, because ALL truth comes from God, and HE chooses who will speak it…and THIS is truth: “Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.”

“Up from the gravy, a rose.” might be a very picturesque way of describing the core of Easter Life Lessons – but it is inaccurate, next to the actual lyric.  Once I discovered that, leaving my misinterpreted lyric behind was bittersweet.  But as a child of the King, I have a responsibility to “do better” when I “know better” – and I also have the responsibility to carry the flashlight of all Truth (“alethea”) in all places, at all times.

My personal prayer is: To always admit when I have learned better, and to apologize if I have stated or taught something contrary to the more accurate Truth.

We are not the Hebrew slaves of thousands of years ago, just being introduced to Yahweh.  We have the benefit of years, scripture, and the Holy Spirit.  Let’s not “stay in the grave” but continue to move forward, to learn, to change, and to humbly grow along the journey from lowland to highland, as we follow the Good Shepherd.

When I was a child, I spoke like a child,
I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child.
When I became a man, I put aside childish things.
For now we see indistinctly, as in a mirror,
but then face to face.
Now I know in part, but then I will know fully,
as I am fully known.

PAUL, to the Church in Corinth – and to us.
I CORINTHIANS 13:11-12