It was a tragic story, to begin with.  He was a young father, in construction.  He was a high school jock who hadn’t lost his physical peak with age.  His home was filled with his young wife and three small children: girls.  He loved his family and his life was full of simple pleasures.  I didn’t exactly know him, but his parents were members of my congregation.

He lived each day following a pattern that wasn’t a rut, but was predictable: he rose early, went to work and came home.  But there was one feature about him that seemed incongruous to the rest of him.  He loved Broadway musicals, especially FIDDLER ON THE ROOF.  And so, each day, he would return from a long day of hard labor, greet his kids, kiss his wife, put on an LP of some Broadway soundtrack, more often than not, “IF I WERE A RICH MAN” (his favorite of favorites) from “FIDDLER ON THE ROOF”. Then, he would lay down on the couch and fall asleep till dinner.

One day he did all that, laid down, and never got back up.

Like I said, it was tragic.  But even in this case…well.

The church organist and I were the same age, young.  We lacked the maturity of experience to let inappropriate moments of humor pass through our minds to be nibbled on later.  If the plate was put in front of us, we ate it…or worked hard to not let it tempt us (usually without success).  We were the musicians at the church and therefore were asked to be the musicians at the funeral.  The service was not at our church, but at a small, older, funeral home out-of-town.  This was the type of place where the organ and singer were behind a screen at the back of the platform.  We could see out, but no one could see in and see us.

Most of the service requested was standard fare.  However, the family insisted on my singing his favorite song.  You guessed it: “IF I WERE A RICH MAN”.

Picture the cast: a minister prone to appreciate the off-kilter humor of human nature, two twenty-somethings who had a difficult time taking anything seriously, a grieving family, an old funeral home…it’s a gold mine.

The actual performance was more difficult than I imagined when we simply practicing.  First off, the mood alone was wrong.  This was a funeral, not a cabaret.  We had to find that musical performance balance between appropriate while still being true to a song THAT WASN’T WRITTEN FOR A FUNERAL.  So, the organist and I KNEW we couldn’t perform it “full-boar”, as if at the Schubert Theatre.  The logistics alone were impossible.  We were tucked in a room large enough for a Hammond B3 and a singer.  There wasn’t enough room there (as my dear Aunt Eva would say) to “cuss a cat without getting fur in your mouth”.  So my friend, the organist, had to play the familiar, “boom-chuck-chuck, boom-chuck” accompaniment (on a Hammond B3, better known for blues, rock and gospel, than show tunes), and I had to read over her shoulder because there wasn’t room for a music stand.  The microphone was fixed to the wall, NOT the wall the organ was on.  The organ was to my left, the mic was to my right.  The melody I knew, the words…not so much.  So I had to look to my left, get as many words in my mind as possible while directing my voice to the mic on my right.  All the while, actually looking at (through the screen) the congregation.

The time came.  Just on the other side of the screen, a mere two feet in front of us, were the chairs for the minister and anyone else speaking at the service, backs to us.  Our Pastor had just finished his remarks, telling the story and meaning of this song to the departed.  He sat down.  She started playing.  I started singing.

It was all going well.  And then the surreal moment hit my friend playing the organ.  By the movement of her back, I could tell she was beginning to chuckle to herself.  Her past history indicated she wouldn’t be able to stop.  It got worse.  This may not be true for you, but for me (and obviously her) if you have to laugh silently, laugh-tears start up.  I was doing fine, but suddenly she was silently laughing and tearing up.  She couldn’t see the music, she turned a page too early, I lost the words.  Then I started.  I couldn’t control it.  This was perhaps the most ridiculous thing (at that point in my life) that had ever happened to me.  I started to sing and couldn’t.  I didn’t know what the words were so I just sang (when I could) “dai-dai-dai…”.  My inner Tevye had left the building.  In a frantic effort to stop the madness I reached over to point to the END OF THE SONG, and ended up 1) accidentally hitting her in the jaw, and 2) falling over a stack of music.

Our Pastor, true to his nature, had his head bowed the whole time.  When we finished in glorious fashion, he rose and gave the longed-for benediction.  It was over.

Well, not quite.

In an effort to sneak out as quickly as possible, we entered the side room where the family had gathered, before getting into the coach and ride to the cemetery.  In horror, I saw the departed’s mother and wife approach us.  They hugged me.  They said how moved they both were at my rendition of RICH MAN, and so touched that I “broke down during the last verse”…it meant so much to them that I was moved as well.

Well, of course.  They couldn’t SEE what was going on, they could only hear it.

I don’t know what you can get out of this story, but several lessons come to me:
FIRST: The young father was truly a “rich man”. The world may have considered him to be just another working man of the masses, but his life was full and rich

SECOND: The SPIRIT can work through absolutely even the most ridiculous of weaknesses to do THE SPIRIT’S work.

And so, once again we are assured:
“…all things work together for those/with those, who love God and are called according to his purpose…” (ROMANS 8:28)
and
“…the Lord works in mysterious ways…” (not Scripture, but appropriate)

…and finally,

“…in our weakness, He is our strength.” (II CORINTHIANS 12:9)

Each June 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.

In the last few days I have had the remarkable pleasure, and privilege, to be in Rome and see the almost 2000-year-old Colosseum, the Roman Forum and the Arch of Titus. I stood where Paul discussed the new philosophy of THE WAY in the Athenian Agora. I walked through vast and empty villas, theatres, restaurants, and markets where, in 79 AD, 26,000 lives were snuffed out by Vesuvius (2000 in Pompeii alone). I saw the green-blue Mediterranean as I looked down on the caldera from high above in windy Santorini, Greece. I stood silent in the house where Mary, Jesus’ mother, lived out the end of her days, I watched a lone figure place flowers on the grave of John, Jesus’ cousin who took Mary into his home. And I walked the ancient, marble streets of Ephesus (where, once again, the memory of Paul came to mind…he visited there, lived for 3 years there, and confronted paganism there) to the theatre (which could accommodate 10% of the population: 24,000) where the great argument between the leaders of THE WAY and the worshippers of ARTEMIS took place.

All this in around 14 days. And you know what I felt? Aside from grateful, privileged, and awed…I felt overwhelmingly insignificant.

Insignificant.

I was, in every one of those moments, only a drop of water in the great turquoise sea of time. I was flooded by the thought of all the feet that had walked the ancient streets of Rome, Pompeii, Athens, and Ephesus. I was stunned…knowing that I have heard of these cities all my life, I had quoted from the great men and women who lived then and there. I stood where Julius Caesar was assassinated, not only thinking about that event, but also how it was significant enough to be captured in great artists, like Vincenzo Camuccini (“The Assassination of Julius Caesar”) and writers, like Shakespeare (“Julius Caesar”).

And when I stood at the grave of my favorite of the gospel writers, John, I felt that he was not only more “real”, but a friend.

And again, I felt, in all that great history…insignificant.

“INSIGNIFICANT” (Merriam-Webster): lacking weight, position, or influence…not worth considering…unimportant. 

Did all the great people whose shadows are left in these places of rich history feel the same way? After all, they were just people, like me. Did any of them think their words or actions would not only be spoken of thousands of years later, but that these places, given weight by their presence, would become almost sacred to the millions who visit daily? Probably not.

I could stand still in the unseen corner of this all, saying to myself, “No matter how great I imagine that I am, I’m not worth considering…in light of all the world’s greatness and history.

That is a harsh, but not necessarily a bad, lesson. We all are, after all, members of a collective, a community. OUR God reminds us (through Paul, especially) that each of us is unique, with talents and gifts to offer to the community…for the benefit of the community. I AM insignificant when set next to the entire Community of Faith. It’s not ever just about me.

The wave of history and greatness I experienced (not even mentioning the food, the art, the music, the people along the way) taught me some good, very good, lessons about life.

We cannot live with what I would call the “Intention of Significant Destiny” or, in other words, living so that one-thousand years from now people will know who we are and call us “great.” Our Teacher/King tells us that it is always about “today”, loving others today, trusting His Father today, living the “embarrassingly extravagant life (zoe)” today! “Don’t worry about tomorrow…” He says, when it comes to wondering how we will survive…but also in the greater sense: the purpose of our lives is not to write ourselves as the leading role in the story of history…but to concentrate on leading a life that serves the people of today. 

And if my God says, “You are significant to me.” That is enough. Human history often forgets, often confuses, often polishes, the actual “truth (aletheia)” of the moment…time muddies, it infrequently clarifies. But the King of Universe, and the author of time’s story, believes in me…sometimes more than I believe in Him. 

My significance, I realized…standing at the top of a peak in Santorini, in Mary’s house and John’s tomb in Ephesus, at the Roman Colosseum, in the Athenian Agora, and in the “tomb” of Pompeii…is based entirely upon what my Creator believes about me…whether I FEEL it or not.  As for the rest…

…time will tell.

When my parents passed away in 2013, I had a lot of boxes, furniture, and “memories on film” to go through.  “Memories on film”/photos.  In this new world of digital photos stored in a chip the size of a thumbnail, it is overwhelming to go through the thousands of “hard-copy” photos kept for generations and say, ”What should I keep?  Which ones DON’T I have?  What will mean something to MY children?” and “They’re only photos…is it worth the trouble and money to keep them?”

I had to set a standard, a formula, for deciding what to keep:

1. If the photo doesn’t have a PERSON in it I’m not keeping it. (Sorry, Mom, all those photos from the thousands upon thousands of road trips to historic markers around the country are now “dust in the wind”)
2. If I already have a copy…the photo is toast.
3. If I don’t know who the people are and Mom didn’t write their names on the back…they’re gone.
4. If I know who the people in the photos are, but don’t care…they’re trashed.
5. If they are embarrassing photos of me, they are treated as if they never existed. (Editing history is a wonderful thing.)

Of course, as the Estate Sale coordinator reminded me, “almost everything is worth something to someone”.  So, I found myself in the strange, ironic and “sermon-illustrative” position of removing photos from frames and preserving the frames for sale, eliminating the photos, or keeping them (according to the above-mentioned criteria), BECAUSE, as important as our images are, they are sometimes worth nothing to anyone but us.

The frames that surround us can be traded, bought, and sold.

As I’ve been on a trip this last week, taking photos to remind me of place, people, and moments – I stopped and thought about the fact that I can’t sell photos that carry thoughts and deep memories. They are, in some cases, all I have left of a life that lived and walked next to me.  But the frames, THEY were worth something to someone else, and would frame other photos and other memories…people would purchase those.

And so, LESSONS I have learned from “FRAMES”:

1. A person who would choose your photo over your frame is a friend worth your investment.
2. To many people, it is not your essence they are attracted to, it is your frame: your trappings, your accumulations, your “setting” without your frame, some people may not even recognize your photo, and those are people you can do without.
3. A frame can also be looked at as walls of love that can be passed on to others when the image is gone to a “new frame.”
4. The frame is the paradigm through which people see us. Different people/paradigms, different frames. Though I am the same, I am not seen the same way by all the people that know me. None of THEM know me completely. Only my Heavenly Father knows me completely, “trans-frame”, and as much as we’d love to know our Heavenly Father, we only know HIM through the frame we have fit HIS image into, carved, created and defined by our limited life experience.

It is an arrogant and misinformed assumption to believe that someone else would see God through the same “frame” as we do.  It is also arrogant and misinformed to believe that if that person DOESN’T see God the same way as we do, THEY are wrong. It could be possible that the image is the same, but the frame is different.

In the end, I thank my Heavenly Father that I grew up in this place, had wonderful parents, friends and family to surround and teach me – people who helped create my “frame”.  But LIFE moves forward, one frame is exchanged for another, and that is a good thing.  One day ALL frames will be removed, and only our image/essence and God’s image/essence will live. Paradigms will shift once and for all, pretense will end, and Truth will be the Word of the day.

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.
Now these three remain:
faith, hope, and love.
But the greatest of these is love.

I CORINTHIANS 13:12-13

When I travel, which I love to do and am doing now, I am constantly surrounded by the beautiful tapestry of life: on all sides, families and children.  As I age, I have a “love/hate” relationship with crowds.  I like to watch people, especially from other cultures, all together, vacationing: multiple languages, ages…I find that entertaining.  On the other hand, especially the older I get, I am not a fan of crowds.  I still like to be around people, but more and more I like to be on the outside looking in, rather than the middle.

My favorite pastime is observing and learning from human nature, and so, as in any vacation, I found a spot where I could sit and observe.  I love watching people interact, I love multiple cultures together in one place (family and friend dynamics don’t seem to change with the culture or language) and I ALWAYS find: if you’re searching for God to speak to you, He will. 

I sat and watched, on a crowded boulevard, as literally hundreds of families, couples, singles passed by shops and cafes.  Some were families, some couples, some singles, some groups of teens or groups of men, groups of women.  I could hear English, Spanish, Italian, Japanese, some Russian, and some German (or Dutch?)…in any case it was a beautiful sight…from a distance.

The children are especially fun to watch, and parenting, even within one ethnic group and/or age, is always a source of conversation. In this case, there were lots of kids.  I began watching one small boy in particular.  He was small, maybe 4 or 5 years old.  He was Italian (I recognized, though could not translate, the language).  He was seemingly alone…that’s why I kept an eye on him – to see if any parent or sibling was nearby.  He had been distracted by a very colorful car and was looking in to see if he could get inside.

Suddenly, as if realizing he was in a sea of strangers, some 6 people deep, he stopped and looked around – turning quickly one way and then the other – as his face turned from joy to panic.  I could see from his face he was about to cry, feeling what HE wouldn’t have been able to label, but I could – abandonment.

He shouted at the top of his little lungs, “Papa!”  Again and again, turning, looking, eyes wide with a little fear.  It all happened in an instant, but probably seemed like ages to him.

Then, the tall young father, who had been standing some 2 feet away, his back turned, turned around and their eyes locked.  The little boy stepped to him, and the man easily lifted him up, kissed him and said one of the few Italian phrases I could translate: “Sono qui.” (“I am here.”).

In a flash, and with yet another thankful prayer to the Spirit, I saw a “life picture” of mine, which has played over and over:

I pull away.

I am surrounded by the crowd of strangers.

I feel danger.

I feel abandoned.

I cry out…

…only to find that God has never left my side.

He lifts me up, kisses me and says, “I am here.”

This season of life, both mine and ours (in this time and place) I need to remember that I may pull away, but HE never does.  As close as a hand, a hug…and a kiss…is my Jesus. 

Another “trip around the sun” is coming up: and I am continually “feeling” my age.  Now that I’m officially on the “other side of the hill” birthday gifts are intangible moments, birthday decorations are the wrinkles and grey hair that bear witness to many of those past, intangible and full moments…and I am filled with gratitude.

I am happy to know that I am reaching the point where I have lived longer than I will live in the future years (unless I live to be 132 years old).  Having never been fearful of death, I don’t, at this point, have any desire to live longer than I should…and in fact, am happier to be the age I am than at any other time in my life.

God HAS been, IS now, and WILL be a friend to me, He has gone the “extra mile” for me and continues to shock me with His graciousness …as little as I have done for Him in return. To be a BELIEVER & FOLLOWER on the “other-side-of-the-hill” means, at times, to look back, to observe God and oneself from a distance, and continue to learn.

I climbed up the hill, aiming to reach the summit quickly…by travelling straight for it. In my rush to reach the pinnacle (to “grow up”) I missed some beautiful sights.  Sure, I had the strength then to grab an outcropping of rock when I needed to and pull myself up.  Yes, I could look back at the sunset of each day and see what I had accomplished.  Of course, it’s good to have goals, make a plan, and work the plan, but along the way I MAY have passed up times I didn’t need to move so quickly.  In my effort to go, go, go…I might have missed the goal completely sometimes.  God’s request that I love Him is played out by loving those He has placed in my path – and, unfortunately, sometimes the path was more important than those who took up space on the path.

I find, now that I’m on the other side going down instead of up, I “zigzag” (partially to keep from falling down!)  Now the path is just as steep, but I am going down, not up.  I’ve learned, there is more to be seen and experienced by not racing down the hill.  And the truth is, I’ll reach the bottom when the time is right. Till then, I should enjoy the path and the people on it – not going straight down but covering the entire width of the hill and all it has to offer.

When I climbed UP, my goal was the summit. Searching for a “mountain-top” experience was often the goal of my younger self.  Now I realize that those experiences happen, are serendipitous and not always a result of planning. I’ve learned to accept them and enjoy them when they come.  Now I see the valley below and realize that every part of THE HILL has something to offer.  The path is God’s creation, He has gone ahead of me, and it is cleared and made especially for me. Who am I to deviate from His map?  Getting PAST the summit is the actual goal…partially because the air is so thin at the top, no one could stay there for long.

As my younger self ascended the hill, I had no choice but to empty my pack of things that were too heavy. Now that I am over the summit, I’m finding I do not even miss the things I threw out of my pack – and so, I only hold on to the things that might be helpful to someone else along the way.  I tend to be a hoarder, in part because the things I collect around me have meaning and are memory-holders.  But, in truth, my age has brought me to the stage telling me how little I need.  Also, my joy, my life, my journey, is more fulfilling (once again) when I pay attention to the people and places on the path – it’s good to have things with you that connect you with those people and places.  Connection with others is the important thing.

Now that I am closer to valley, I can see “a gate” at the bottom of the hill. I’ve always known “the gate” was there, but now (like everyone on this journey of life) I SEE it more clearly. Truthfully, I can see that the path contains a series of hills, of summits and valleys, but I didn’t enjoy the wisdom of that until I got “over-the-hill”.  And as I had been climbing up, my thought was that my life would end once I got TO the summit…but now that I am OVER the summit, I’m glad to see that there is still more, and there will be more, forever more (“The road goes ever on…” J.R.R. Tolkien) – especially once I walk THROUGH “the gate” to the garden…in the valley.

I am thankful to everyone whose paths have crossed mine, who are walking the path with me, who sometimes carry my pack for me, who guard me when I sleep, and mend me when I fall.  To the ones who travel with me, by blood or by choice, I am who I am because of you and your love.  And to The Great Shepherd who leads and asks me to follow, I say: I am just beginning to make out the melody You’ve been singing, and I look forward to a continuing journey filled with many more years on this path, and unfathomable moments beyond the gate. 

A BLOG by Rick Vale

“I don’t believe in God anymore,” I overheard her say to a friend on the phone, while we were both in line at KROGER, “I just know too many hypocrites.” 

I was so happy to have a theme for my BLOG that I didn’t turn around and say, “So if you saw a man walking on the streets of Anderson with bad hair, would you stop believing in barbers, too?” 

Seriously, when John Hinckley tried to assassinate President Reagan, in an effort to appease the actress Jodi Foster, did anyone blame JODI FOSTER?  I know it’s difficult, because for many people Christians are the only reflection of God they see – but please, let’s not blame God for some (not all) of His followers.

This overheard conversation was on the heels of another that I was a part of, just days before, where an acquaintance stated that they had stopped going to their church, after 2019/2020, because they don’t like the new Pastor.  That all may be true, and his Pastor may indeed be a moron…but is worship/faith/congregational life about the Pastor…or the sanctuary…or the hypocrites…or the worship style?

On the other hand, is WORSHIP/CHURCH-GOING and BELIEF something we sigh and shoulder, like medicine, or in-laws, or spin class?  Absolutely not.  Belief/ Worship should unlock doors, unclip wings, open windows…and, in short, set us free!

Unfortunately, Belief and Worship are so strongly tied to individual paradigms, preferences, history and deep-seated emotion that it is difficult to separate all of that from what Worship actually requires.

You and I have songs which suddenly stir up memories and cause us to feel secure, safe, loved…and we want to hear that song in worship (for some it’s AMAZING GRACE and others, LORD, I LIFT YOUR NAME ON HIGH)…it’s what makes worship wonderful for us.  However, does my pew-mate, who doesn’t have MY history or sentiment, feel the same way?  Of course not.  My world does not necessarily define THEIR world.

One congregation, where I ministered, had an extraordinarily great Sacred Dance team: professional and beautiful.  Sitting on the same pew, experiencing the same worship moment of dance, one parishioner said that she had a problem with dance in the sanctuary because dance was “of the devil”, as she had been taught.  In the same pew was a deaf worshipper who said that she was always thrilled when we had dance because it was the ONE part of worship that didn’t need to be “interpreted” for her.  

The woman who didn’t enjoy the dance realized the truth that dance isn’t “of the devil”, but her paradigm and history with dance colored her perception of it in worship, it was generational and based on childhood experience and teaching.  The non-hearing worshiper, who had no other experience in church, had no such preconceptions.  The first lady wasn’t going to leave the church or stop worshiping because she didn’t enjoy the dance, and the second wasn’t defining ALL of worship by her emotional tie to dance, and limited personal experience of worship…I think BOTH were wise in their decisions. 

I like hamburgers (I got that from my dad), and I mourn that red meat no longer likes me.  But, in the day, I preferred BURGER KING over McDONALDS, when it came to burger prep.  On the other hand, McDONALDS had BURGER KING beat when it came to milk shakes and fries (in MY opinion).  BOTH franchises sell burgers, but the rest is up to personal preference, or what “speaks to me” (shakes and fries DO speak to me).

I prefer worship like ours at Central, with scripture, prayer, hymns from the hymnal, communion, pipe organ and some good tradition.  Somewhere in town, however, is a church that doesn’t own any hymnals, the Pastor might read one scripture and the songs go on, one after another, for 30-45 minutes…after that the Pastor preaches for an hour…and the congregation LOVES it.  Both congregations worship (that’s the burger), but one congregation prefers their worship (burger) with ketchup and the other with mayo.  Is one correct and the other wrong?  No.  If one is unhappy with their worship, should they cease believing?  No.  Should they find a worship pattern that speaks to them?  Yes.  As long as they’re serving burgers¸ then it’s just a matter of finding the way one likes it prepared.

When a worshiper sits in worship unhappy and tense because they don’t like the songs, the pastor, the “style” …should they stop believing in worship?  Of course not…what they don’t like isn’t “worship”, it’s the peripherals.

When a person labeling themselves as “Christian” treats another human being in a manner that would make Jesus wanna slap ‘em upside the head…should we stop believing in God?  Of course not, the problem isn’t God, it’s the Follower.

At the heart of “Belief” AND “Worship” are the same elements: Spirit & Truth / Heart & Mind.  Everything else is flexible.  Everything else is commentary.  Everything else is a “condiment.”

JOHN 4:7-26
A woman of Samaria came to draw water.
“Give Me a drink,” Jesus said to her,
for His disciples had gone into town to buy food.
“How is it that You, a Jew, ask for a drink from me, a Samaritan woman?” she asked Him.
For Jews do not associate with Samaritans.
Jesus answered, “If you knew the gift of God, and who is saying to you,
‘Give Me a drink,’ you would ask Him,
and He would give you living water.”
“Sir,” said the woman, “You don’t even have a bucket, and the well is deep. So where do You get this ‘living water’? You aren’t greater than our father Jacob, are You? He gave us the well and drank from it himself, as did his sons and livestock.”
Jesus said, “Everyone who drinks from this water will get thirsty again. But whoever drinks from the water that I will give him will never get thirsty again — ever! In fact, the water I will give him will become a well , of water springing up within him for eternal life.”
“Sir,” the woman said to Him, “give me this water so I won’t get thirsty
and come here to draw water.”
“Go call your husband,” He told her, “and come back here.”
“I don’t have a husband,” she answered.
“You have correctly said, ‘I don’t have a husband,’” Jesus said. “For you’ve had five husbands, and the man you now have is not your husband. What you have said is true.”
“Sir,” the woman replied, “I see that You are a prophet. Our fathers worshiped on this mountain, yet you Jews say that
the place to worship is in Jerusalem.”
Jesus told her, “Believe Me, woman, an hour is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem. You Samaritans worship what you do not know. We worship what we do know because salvation is from the Jews. But an hour is coming, and is now here, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth. Yes, the Father wants such people to worship Him. God is spirit,
and those who worship Him must worship in spirit and truth.”
The woman said to Him, “I know that Messiah, is coming” (who is called Christ).
“When He comes, He will explain everything to us.”
“I am He,” Jesus told her, “The One speaking to you.”

THE BLOG by Pastor Ken Rickett: “ENIGMAS”

Not only do I have an infatuation with large jigsaw puzzles (1000-3000 pieces), but I also spend hours in puzzle books which have a variety of Sudoku, crossword, brick by brick, syl-la-cros-tic, anagram magic squares, word math, escalators, & starspell puzzles, among others.

Enigmatic! You bet! Open a box of a 3000-piece jigsaw puzzle and pick out one piece and ask yourself, “exactly where will this one piece fit when the puzzle is finished?” Realize that you are asking the same question for each of the 3000 pieces! And puzzle books are often hard to solve; the cryptic clues are difficult to figure out, and once in a blue moon, I may barely attempt a puzzle on any given page and in frustration, give up long before I can solve it!

AH…BUT I like challenges. Whether it be family members or friends, whether it be parishioners (when I pastored congregations) or a custom or tradition, there is something enigmatic about people and

events…something mysterious, not understood nor grasped, something that defies explanation. As a husband and as a parent, there are some instances in which one’s own family can be enigmatic, unreadable, not acting in accord with past behavior. This

explains why a surprise birthday party is not usually a surprise…enigmatic behavior around the time of an approaching birthday gives away the secret! And enigmatic behavior in family members may give no clues to the reason(s) for the display of strong emotions (anger, tears, etc.) nor the deepening despair that is expressed by words or by reaction.   

There are times that even those we deeply love are mysteries to us. Most of us have experienced more than a few times in which we had to solve an enigma (puzzling) among family members. I had a family member who lived into her 80s, never married and lived with her parents (my grandparents)…talk about an enigmatic person! Not only was she socially withdrawn, a sharp contrast to her outgoing sisters. She was unable to get a job outside the home. Much of her conversation was a repeat of something just said. Yet, she went to the town library every two weeks for decades and decades until her death, checking out two to four books and reading them. But she could not tell any of us the plot of those books although the family felt that she was fully aware of the storylines. When she was in a nursing home briefly before her passing, the family learned that she suffered all her life from a type of dementia in which her brain could not process and express thoughts for communication. However unfortunate this diagnosis, the enigma, the riddle of her unusual behavior, became solved. 

The world is full of enigmas. For example, what happened to the Malaysian flight MH170 that disappeared without a trace over the ocean a few years ago? What really led to the disappearance of the ancient Mayan dynasty in Central America? What is “driving” the disconnect between today’s church and the people of the land? (If

we knew the answer to this puzzle, positive and effective steps would have been undertaken years ago!) Enigmas give rise to legitimate theories as well as conspiracies as we cope with the vastness of what is not known nor understood.

Enigma, ainigma in Greek (noun), comes from ainissesthai, “to speak in riddles” and refers to things as well as people as “riddles almost impossible to understand.” Does this word appear in Scripture? Yes, but only once. I Corinthians 13:12 (paraphrased) “we see through a mirror but darkly.’ The Greek word ainigma is translated: “darkly” or “dimly.” referring to our human inability to see and to understand the vastness of what God has not yet revealed to us about God-Self and the impossibility of any of us to fully grasp “the image of God within us.”

WHEW! Maybe a bit more explanation will help. In Greek, ainigma has the connotation of being impossible to understand in this earthy life. In this one instance, enigma is NOT a mystery, that is, it is not something hidden but may be found by diligent searching. God still has not fully revealed God-Self and will not be fully revealed until we gather in God’s eternal community. AND, likewise, we, although we are living in Christ, will not see the fullness of the Image of God in us until we enter the Kingdom of Heaven. These things are seen only dimly (darkly as if no light can fully illuminate it). 

So what are we to grasp in this life, even if not perfectly? Faith, hope, and love, and the greatest of these is love. 

The working of God’s Spirit promised by Jesus is enigmatic. The Spirit is never fully known, and neither is God, who is constantly revealing who He is. So, we spend a lifetime seeking to know God and His Love as revealed in Christ. O, the puzzles that confront us who would dare to follow God, revealed in Christ through the Holy Spirit!

Has it ever occurred to you that without enigmas, we would have no reason to live by faith, hope, and love?

When I was a High School student, I played percussion in the local symphony orchestra and the High School band/orchestra.  In the band, I played a variety of drums, but mostly “triples” and we played through most of every song, if we had measures of rests, it was usually not for more than 4 to 8 measures of counting.

However, when playing symphonic music even with the variety of instruments that a percussionist is playing during one piece, the percussionist spends a lot of time counting empty measures.  Sometimes the percussionist may play a crash cymbal at the crescendo of a phrase and not play again for 200 or more measures, then play one or two strikes on the triangle.  Sometimes the percussion enhances or echoes another instrument during the piece, sometimes a drum gives a little extra and added pulse to the orchestra for movement.  Sometimes it is the color that is added: sleighbells or woodblock.  And once-in-a-while, when the moon is blue, the percussionist gets a solo line.

That’s what it’s like to play, not only in the percussion section, but in ANY section of a symphonic orchestra: sometimes you harmonize, sometimes you amplify, sometimes you echo, sometimes you solo, and many times you are silent.  The composer and the conductor see how it all works together…but many times they are the only people who see the whole picture…and balances it out for the ears of the audience.

That is a lesson to be learned by those of us in a “community of faith”, where we each have a role, a gift, a “part” to be performed within the whole of this “symphony of faith.”

Each of us, for the most part, receives a copy of our own part.  To believe that we are looking at the ENTIRE SCORE is as ridiculous as believing that the timpani is the only instrument playing in Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.  There are times when what WE do enhances or harmonizes with another “player”.  There are times to echo what is playing in some other section of the Body of Believers.  There are times when the entire symphony plays together, and we are a part of that magnificent crescendo.  There are times when we need to sit, wait, and be silent as other players perform. And then there are times when we are the soloists, and the other players support us.  The One who wrote the song is the One who knows how and when everyone should play their part.  And the conductor follows the instructions set by the Composer.

It is that way in the Kingdom.  We are, for the most part, playing a part that we alone can see.  We don’t know anyone else’s part until we hear it, even then, it is not our job to do anything but assure that OUR part is played when it should be, and that we don’t play when we shouldn’t…so that that symphony is heard by the world in the way the Composer intended.

A friend of mine sent this link to me, some time ago…a classic. But this gives one a little taste of what it’s like to be a small part of a larger “Kingdom”/Symphony.

Sid Caesar & Imogene Coca – Your Show of Shows – Classical Musicians
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VeV9t2pqHWA

THE BLOG by Pastor Rick Vale
Thoughts on the April 8, 2024 Solar Eclipse, as seen in Anderson, Indiana

No one produces a show like our God. It was a spectacular hour and a breathtaking few minutes Monday during the total eclipse of the sun, over Indiana.

We sat out with our neighbors, donned our ever-so-chic and safe, government-approved shades, ate chips and popcorn, watched, and waited.

We checked the status of the sun with our shades on and watched as our neighborhood moved to twilight. We saw birds return to their nests as all around us shadows deepened to a magical dusk…slowly those birds stopped chirping.  The “sunlight-activated” lights on the outsides of our condos blinked on…and in a moment, it was dark…and incredible.

In the distance we heard the cheers of crowds gathered close by, someone begin setting off fireworks.  It was a moment. 

A memory from 1980 came knocking about that time and I was back in May of that year, another time when the sun “went out”. That time, however, what was going to happen next was unknown…the government closed everything down and ordered people home. It was a Sunday, and many congregations were ordered home. Mount St. Helens had erupted, and a sickeningly black and boiling cloud of ash was crossing the state of Washington. No one knew what to expect. Was the ash poisonous? If it rained would the rain be acid? What would happen in the dark. And it got dark, really dark.

I was wondering, last Monday, if that time in 1980 was a bit like those people long ago who didn’t expect an eclipse and faced an unknown without precedent but filled with fear.

As this entire memory passed through my mind in an instant, I was snapped back into the moment by the cheers of my neighbors and the distant crowd when suddenly a spark of light caused the sun to look like a diamond ring. I saw it, brilliant against a dark sky, without my government-approved shades, and then put them on to see what an infinitesimal sliver of sun had peeked through.

Yet looking around it was suddenly, noticeably, brighter. The “diamond ring” itself was stunning, but the fact that so little light could have such a grand effect on the earth was what struck me.

I immediately felt/heard The Spirit remind me about the power of light, and how little light it takes to change the landscape. Names started passing through my mind. Aside from the obvious, Jesus of Nazareth, there was: Paul of Tarsus, Rosa Parks, Oskar Schindler, Martin Luther King, Jr., Johann Sebastian Bach, Moses, Michael Faraday, Wolfgang Mozart, Todd Beamer, John Newton, Thomas Jefferson, Edward DeVere…and on and on. Solitary lives, some well-known and some not so well-known, who stood up to darkness and/or changed the world for the better because of their “single light”.

How little light it takes to change the landscape of the world. 

I frequently hear people remark, with a sense of futility, that there is “nothing I can do” when faced with so much darkness. I would hope that I’ve remembered to remind them how much change has come (for good AND bad) to entire civilizations because of the actions of one person.

Jesus is speaking to a “crowd of individuals” not groups of congregations when He says: “You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt should lose its taste, how can it be made salty? It’s no longer good for anything but to be thrown out and trampled on by men. You are the light of the world. A city situated on a hill cannot be hidden. No one lights a lamp and puts it under a basket, but rather on a lampstand, and it gives light for all who are in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before men, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” MATTHEW 5:13-16

How little light it takes to change the landscape of the world.