Usually during this holiday weekend I am performing somewhere, as I am this weekend. We pull out the songs that only get sung once a year (as it is with Christmas) and celebrate this wonderful country of ours…

…but one July, something special happened.  It was a private event in a beautiful retirement community in Indianapolis where I sang with the Indianapolis Jazz Orchestra the songs we played every year at this time: Glenn Miller, George M. Cohan, John Philip Sousa, etc.  There was ice cream, grandkids, lemonade, and fireworks.  And of course, one of the highlights is to play the Military Service songs and have any audience members who served to stand at their song.  It was a good, all-American, kind of evening.

As I left, walking through the crowd, arranging their chairs for the fireworks, a man stopped me by touching my arm.  He was surrounded by his kids and grandkids.  He pulled me aside and thanked me for the music and asked if I had served in the military (my short hair).  I said that I hadn’t, but that I was the son of an Army Veteran.  Then he asked, “Where did he serve, and did he tell you what he did, and share stories?”

“Well, yes,” I said, “He was a peace-time Vet in Germany and Korea…and he told me quite a few things.”

Then he asked me a question that I wasn’t expecting: “Have you told YOUR children?” He asked. “Because” he said, “It’s important to keep telling the stories.”

He continued just for a short time, before his family led him away, obviously thinking that he had taken too much of my time.  But before he let me go, he said, “We need to remember…and we need to tell our children…and they need to tell theirs.”

I walked to my car wrapping my head around this conversation that took less than a couple of minutes, probably…as it affected me.

“We need to remember, and we need to tell.”

In this time and place, with renewed questions about truth in the news media, is it possible that families and generations become the care-takers of history…as it always used to be?  Is there, or should there be, a responsibility to tell our stories to each generation so that they remember?

Yesterday I listened to an historian on the radio.  He was saying how important it is to remember the story of the United States, because we are “losing our core”, as he put it.  He referenced a relatively new tradition in an African nation, where they get together in their neighborhoods, celebrating their National Day.  Along with the dancing, singing, fireworks, etc.  They “give their testimonies” (tell their stories). These are stories of their own personal survival through the genocide that rocked their people.  These are first-hand stories, and the people who tell them say they are afraid their children and grand-children will forget, grow apathetic and entitled.

A very wise tradition, in my opinion…because it’s true: generations forget.

The Spirit encourages the “telling of one’s story”.  It used to be that the Church carried that tradition out.  In MY home church, Sunday night was a time when the Pastor would regularly ask if anyone had a “testimony”, and someone would stand and tell about a recent “God Moment” they had.  Those times were far more effective on my young mind than reading the Bible…I KNEW these people, I trusted them.  Age and experience has taught me that everyone sees their stories through their own filters, much like today’s blurring of NEWS and COMMENTARY, but I’m not sure that’s all together a bad thing.

The power of someone’s story is evident at Central Christian, when some of our Elders tell THEIR stories during our annual observation of LENT…it is one of our most moving seasons of the year.

Of course, the stories related to a nation’s history, such as the beginnings of the United States, need to be repeated.  God’s people in the Old Testament told their history and made each generation learn it LITERALLY word-for-word, so that it did not get changed or edited with every telling.  The oral tradition of the Jewish people is legendarily accurate.

EVERYONE has a story.  Have you ever believed you have a responsibility to pass it on?  Remember that as mundane as you may believe your own life is, it surely has an impact on others, in ways you could never imagine.

Central Christian Church and THE CHRISTIAN CHURCH (DISCIPLES OF CHRIST) has a story. Our history stories, or “core” (the reason our church began) needs to be continually remembered.

The story of America is the story of how, who, and why we were ever formed.  That needs to be remembered honestly and repeated loudly to those in power, and to the citizens of this nation.  AND the story of God is the story of His people and their journey with (or without) Him…and IT ALSO needs to be repeated loudly and constantly to His children.

Your story; why you were created, your journey with and without God, needs to be repeated…loudly…regularly…and given freely to each generation…we have a responsibility to remember and tell.

Mrs. G. has become one of my favorite teachers, in memory.  I was seven or eight-years-old when I stepped into her class, at Jason Lee Elementary,  she stole my “creative” heart.  Everything we did that year woke my inner artist with the methods she used to teach.  We wrote and bound books (I have two of them) to read to the First Graders, helping them to read.  We made pottery, made butter, made bread, made bricks, learned how to weave, all this to while learning the early history of the Americas, and we wrote, produced, and performed plays that illustrated everything from math, to spelling, to English.

She was, and that class was, very formative for me…obviously building and discovering what are now so many parts of my life. 

One day we took a “field trip”, one of my first.  We traveled as a class to the “big kids school” (the Junior High School) to see a play.  This was one of my first, up close.  It was probably only as good as it could be; costumes and set were probably rudimentary…but for me, at that moment in time, it was an incredible and magic moment.  After the show I went backstage and stood craning my neck to see all the backstage magic: sets, lights, props.  One of the actors came up to me, a girl who played a princess (as I recall), and I asked her a million questions about the stage-craft…really more interested in the everything BEFORE the acting, at that point.  Somewhere during the conversation she asked if I had come with a class of other kids.  It was only then that I realized I had wandered off by myself backstage.  I immediately panicked, knowing they would leave without me; the long walk back to school, the scolding from Mrs. G and worse, from my parents…or the ultimate…I’d be sent to the Principal!

I turned to quickly escape and there was Mrs G.  She looked upset, but bent down and gave me a hug.  She said she was worried and left the other kids on the bus to go ahead as she searched for me through the school, she took me back to the school in her car.

We spoke of it again, many, many years later when she and her husband ended up attending the church my parents attended.  I was an adult, working as an actor, songwriter, church musician…pretty much all skills that were based in what I learned in her class, when I visited my folks and their congregation.  I was grown, married, with kids by this point.  It was a very happy reunion; she hadn’t changed a bit in my eyes. She had saved a couple of my books and gave them to me, and I asked her if she remembered that day at the Junior High Play.  She said she did, that I was her “little lost sheep”.  I then begged her to admit that I was her favorite pupil in all these years.

She said, “You are ALL my favorites…but at that time, YOU were the one in trouble, so I focused on you.”

“What man among you, who has 100 sheep and loses one of them, does not leave the 99 in the open field and go after the lost one until he finds it?   When he has found it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders,   and coming home, he calls his friends and neighbors together, saying to them, ‘Rejoice with me, because I have found my lost sheep!’   I tell you, in the same way, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over 99 righteous people who don’t need repentance.”
LUKE 15:4-7

 Jesus’ shepherd loved ALL the sheep, but at that place and time there was ONE who needed his attention.

Mrs. G loved ALL her students, but at that place and time the person who needed her undivided attention was me.  My life mattered to her, like the sheep matters to the shepherd.  And that has made a great difference in my life.

Our home is like a beautiful “storage room”, we have a lot of stuff.  But I can point to each item of mine and tell you the story behind it, and why I hang on to it.  I suppose that’s how hoarding starts.

There is one piece of “knick-knackery” that reminds me of a time in my life I would like to forget, but also need to celebrate.

We all have periods, I suppose, where circumstances have broken us.  I’m not going to get into that specific period in my life except to say it was years ago and during that time I received a gift from a good, older, wiser, friend from my theatre world.  Knowing that life (through my own choices, other people’s choices and some other circumstances) was handing me a platter of pain and garbage, she asked to meet for coffee.  We met, we hugged, and she handed me a silk-wrapped gift.  I opened it and found a beautiful Asian-crafted bowl (see photo).  Not a bowl to fill things with, but a beautiful, blue-glazed bowl to sit on a shelf…perhaps someday in Anderson, Indiana…to serve as a remembrance for me.

“I’m not going to tell you why I’m giving this, or why it is designed the way it is.  Part of your journey should be to search its meaning out…and it has one” she said.

“I will tell you this.  The form of this bowl is also a form of Japanese philosophy…it’s called ‘kintsugi’.” And with that, she changed the subject, sipped her chai latte, and spoke no more of it.  We chattered about other things.

I took the beautiful blue bowl with gold veins home and looked the word up.

The art (and philosophy) of “kintsugi” is to take cracked and broken pottery…even if it is pottery which had been used in a practical way (in fact, that’s even better) and instead of throwing away the pieces, they are glued back together with a lacquer mixed with powdered gold.

Why?  So that when seen or used again one would be reminded that breakage in our most vulnerable times leads to repairs that ARE not, and SHOULD not be, disguised as something ugly but signify something that is fully healed and stronger.  Kintsugi is a philosophy which has been around for over 600 years, and…

…this TRUTH in Japanese philosophy is TRUTH from God.

The Spirit reminds us that God does not cause disaster or difficulties.  And although one could argue that God may test us, even Jesus urges us to pray that His Father doesn’t test us.  Yet, difficult times come…to everyone (the BELIEVER & FOLLOWER and to the non-Believer) sometimes it’s a test, sometimes it’s just “life”.

What God DOES with those moments and seasons is “kintsugi”.

I’ve almost always referred to God as “the metaphysical Rumpelstiltskin”: He turns “straw” into “gold”, in partnership WITH us and FOR us (see ROMANS 8:28).

When I see that bowl my mind travels back to the time when both the bowl, and I, were broken.  Then I saw and touched the strength (and beauty) of the gold veining today.  I would not wish much of my own journey on anyone, but I would hope that everyone could end up where I am now.

My beautiful scars are now as much a part of me as anything and everything else, in fact they have come to define me.

The irony is not lost on me that in the Age-to-Come my new body will probably be without scars.  And the only person we meet in that New Heaven and New Earth bearing scars…

…will be Jesus.  His scars healed ours.

Each June (PRIDE month) I think about my friend, Michael.  Michael was a conductor, chorus master, lecturer, author, musicologist, accompanist, and my vocal coach when I performed opera.  He was also, more importantly, my friend.

I first met him when, as a very young singer, was making my professional debut in opera and he was assigned to me, by the company, as my “coach”.  He led me in the style of singing the small role that I had.  Despite our age difference, we immediately became fast friends.  He was much older than he looked, (we almost looked the same age) and so seemed like a “wunderkind”: a brilliant man with a quick wit and energy that made the rest of us look like slackers…and I’ve never been accused of being a “slacker”.

When he learned that I was getting my degree in Music Composition he insisted on hearing every piece I wrote and coming to each performance of my new works at the college I attended.  He would analyze each piece, not to judge or criticize, but to ask questions about my choices of phrases, keys, motives, themes and construction…all without ever SEEING the music on paper…just from what he had heard, once.  He made me think about my own compositions in ways I had never thought…He listened.  

He introduced me to his musical love, Richard Wagner.  He knew more about the composer than anyone I had ever met and was writing a book on his favorite composer…a commissioned work (a publisher paid him an advance to write it…that’s how good he was).

Mike and I would get together regularly, maybe once or twice a month, to eat, drink, and talk about music…both his and mine.  He would always have his calendar handy so that he could write down when my next concert was.  We continued to work together at the Opera Company.  And when Seattle Opera commissioned ME to compose a small touring opera for their company, I dedicated it to him…and he accompanied the opera on one of the three Pacific Northwest tours.

One day I called and left a message for him.  He never returned the call.  I called a couple more times over the next few weeks…until at last a female voice answered.  It was a mutual theatre friend of ours.  As I was obviously startled at her voice on his phone, in his apartment, she said, “Rick, didn’t you hear?  Michael is very sick, you know…SICK. He’s been in the hospital for the past three weeks.”

The way she emphasized the word, “sick” was the code back in the ‘80’s, in Seattle, for someone who had AIDS.  I was stunned.  Frankly, I’d forgotten he was a part of the LGBTQ (or what we just used to call, “gay”, community there.  What stunned me was that he didn’t share his illness with me, and we were good friends.

As we continued to talk, she said that he was embarrassed.  He didn’t want me, a “Christian friend”, to know that he was “sick”.  He was afraid that I would judge and that I would condemn…and most importantly, that I would leave.  Ironic, since because of HIS choice not to share this information with me I, in effect, DID abandon him when I could’ve been there.

I attended his funeral a few weeks later.  It was a doubly sad affair, for me, at least.  To this day I feel like I had no closure.  And I was angry.  Not at him, but at the notion that he believed any Christian would be filled with judgment and hate for him: one of the nicest, kindest, most generous people I had ever met…to this day.

I’m older now…maybe not wiser.  I am, in many ways, more cynical and bitter.  I understand that Jesus tells us, who Believe & Follow Him, that the world and sometimes the Church will “hate” us.  But what really hurts is to think the “world” would hate any “Christian” because many believe “Christians” themselves are filled with hate.  That’s not what Jesus teaches, on the contrary: we are to love our “brothers and sisters” (fellow followers) AND our enemies…I don’t do math, but I’m pretty sure that covers everyone.  So how could Michael think that I, whom he knew well, would judge him, would hate him, would abandon him?  Not because of anything I did, I hope, but perhaps because of what some other “Christian” had done to him, all in God’s name.

I stood on one side of that story long ago…now I stand in both worlds and see both sides.  There are those “Christians” whose FIRST response will always be reminding us of God’s judgment; careful to let us all know that if Jesus isn’t here in the flesh to judge the living and the dead, they will be happy to take up that job.  AND there are “Christians” who believe Jesus’ command to love is “conditional”.

But thankfully, though it’s sometimes difficult to see, there are those who understand that to know a person’s heart, read a person’s mind, and judge a person’s story is something that God and God alone has the power, and the responsibility, to do.  Our job is simple: love them all and let JESUS sort it out in the end.

I think about what would’ve happened with Michael had the reputation of “Christians” in the ‘80s been as the most caring and loving, the most compassionate and least judgmental of all humanity.  I try to bring closure to his death by imagining him telling me everything and me just hugging him in response…because he was my friend, and because Jesus is my King.

Central Christian Church in Anderson, Indiana could, and should, be known as the people who love like no one else.  We are the people who choose to treat everyone with love: those with whom we agree, and those with whom we don’t agree.  Then we stand aside and let the Spirit do the work of the Spirit.

We can, and WILL, be those who others see and say, “If being a CHRISTIAN means being like those people at Central, then count me in…when I was hungry, they fed me, when I was thirsty, they gave me something to drink…when I had AIDS and was dying, they cared for me, and loved me, without judgment or superiority.”

Each June (PRIDE MONTH) my heart remembers what my head may forget: that Michael is as unworthy as all of us to receive God’s love…and yet God loves Him as He loves us all. God loves us not because of who WE are, but because of who HE is.

If we belong to Jesus, how then should we live?

We are GOD’S people. Jesus is our KING. Our primary allegiance is to THE KINGDOM OF GOD.  With Jesus “breath of the Spirit” breathing through us, we can be people who love others as Jesus loves them – people who remember Jesus loved us, UNCONDITIONALLY, before we ever loved Him.

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….?!