During my college years, in Seattle, I played the piano and sang – somewhat frequently – to try and make a living while going to class.  I had some “regular gigs” (playing for some ballet classes and playing in the Executive Dining Room of the Rainier Tower every week) AND every-once-in-a-while a special party or wedding.  As payment for one event I did at the historic Olympic Four Seasons in downtown Seattle I went a little “above and beyond” and did some extra playing for the hotel itself on a night when I was there to play for a party – the hotel gave me a dinner for two at their famed Georgian Room.

Now keep in mind that I was barely 21, had only really experienced anything as elegant and elite as The Georgian Room because I was a sometime performer in places like that, meaning: I entered through the back door or kitchen, did my gig and left the same way – not mingling with the guests NOR eating the food NOR drinking the wine.  So this free dinner was not only going to be a new adventure, but also something that otherwise would’ve cost me the monetary equivalent of tuition for one semester at my school; a little out of my range. 

I asked a girl friend (as opposed to a girlfriend) to join me.  She eagerly agreed.  She was a performer/student herself and shared the same world as I; dining mostly on ramen noodles, pizza, popcorn, etc.  This was going to be spectacular…we didn’t eat for two days, in preparation.

I picked her up and, being a girl, she looked perfect for the occasion; chic, but not TOO dressy.  I wore my best white button-down, nice linen khakis, freshly-shined brown oxfords…plus (did I say I was younger) I didn’t need AS MUCH HELP looking good as I do now.  I imagined we would turn heads as we, much like Eliza Doolittle at the ball, walked into the Georgian Room.

I admit, I had some expectations (based mostly on the movies and television shows I watched) about what i would experience in such a fancy place; snooty staff, food names I couldn’t pronounce, a lot of “raw” things I wouldn’t want in my stomach…etc.  But the one thing I wasn’t expecting happened at the door to the restaurant when I said we had reservations.

The Maitre d’, (and he really was THE perfect definition of a gentleman) smiled and asked if I had a jacket, since jackets were required in the room.  I had never heard of such a thing.  Shocked, embarrassed and thinking of some extravagant story I could tell about my jacket being stolen right outside as I saved myself and my date from certain death just before entering the restaurant…mostly I remember no response, except “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” 

The Maitre ‘d gave me a sincere and truly reassuring smile and said not to worry, several gentleman who dined there regularly kept jackets in the cloak room just off the Maitre d’s station.  He sized me up and brought out a green jacket which he helped me slip on.  First, it was perhaps the most comfortable jacket I’d ever worn…perfect fit, and whatever the cut and fabric were I now judge every jacket I’ve worn since by that one.  Second, from that time on we never were treated by him or the staff as if we didn’t belong in that place and time.

Although the jacket wasn’t mine, it fit better than anything I one at the time, and I felt oddly comfortable as we were seated by a large beautiful window, under a chandelier.  Our server couldn’t have been more engaging, welcoming and helpful…pointing out some things we would really like and encouraging us to try some new things…since our dinner was “on the house”.  It was that “night of the green jacket” that I found out crudité just means “raw veggies” and vichyssoise is just cold potato soup…among other things.

By the end of the evening we were laughing, comfortable, surprised, satisfied, …and filled with memories that I still have some 40 years later…I’m assuming it was probably less memorable for my “date”, but who knows?

When we left, the Maitre d, after asking how our evening was, removed my jacket and asked my name.  I told him, he took out a form and found a number on the page that corresponded with a discreetly-placed number sewn in the inside of the jacket, and wrote my name beside it – under the other few names beside that number.

“There”, he said, “when you return, your jacket will be here.”

I learned some things that night, as my Father (in His undeniably supernatural AND natural way) taught me not to make assumptions about anyone or anything, that trying new things (like new foods and new destinations) stretches and invigorates the mind and body.  He taught me that some people have a gift of making others feel good about themselves, and I wanted to find out how to cultivate that gift.

But most of what I learned had to do with “putting on” something I didn’t think of as “mine” and learning that most often, we don’t see ourselves as others see us, we don’t imagine that some experiences, gifts, blessings, are for us…when, in fact, they fit us perfectly.

I know that’s true with Gifts of the Spirit.  I know that it is much easier to see another person’s giftedness than our own.  That’s why I’ve always thought “Spiritual Gift Assessment” tests should not be taken by the person trying to discover their own gifts but by someone else, who knows them well. I know that some people would never see themselves in a certain “jacket” because it is so out of their usual or out of their self-defined comfort zone…only then to have a friend, mentor, or someone they love, tell them the “jacket” truly fits…they should wear it, even if only for a short time and place.

The lessons of THE GREEN JACKET have stayed with me.  There are times  I’ve found myself in a place or time where I’m sure I don’t fit…then, remarkably, comfortingly, someone speaks with the inspiration of the Spirit and says, “Why don’t you just try it on.”

The “green jacket” may represent a change in life, a place in your congregation or family, or what some call a “special anointing” for a specific time or place.  Whatever your jacket is, I say to you: “Why don’t you just try it on.”

You may be surprised what God has tailored for you.

Miss LaClaire, Miss Just, Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Van Dyke, Mrs. Goranson, Mrs. Stankman, Mr. McNamara. When Graduation comes around I go through these names and memories again. I may not remember everything they ever taught but I remember every name and face of the teachers I had through Grade School (6th Grade). And when I read the paper and see the names and faces of those Graduating I find it difficult to put my trust in these young kids…if it wasn’t the trust I had in their educators.

If I can remember each name of each teacher I had in those “formative” years AND the names of most, if not all of my Middle School, High School and University teachers…they must have had SOME impact. I thank God for those who teach. It is sometimes a thankless but glorious job to stand at the gate and train those who must pass through to the next leadership time. At times I have an epiphany and think that my parents weren’t so crazy after all when they mourned about MY generation and I think of this great quote:

“I’m trying very hard to understand this generation.
They have adjusted the timetable for childbearing
so that menopause and teaching a sixteen-year-old how to
drive a car will occur in the same week.”
ERMA BOMBECK (U.S. humorist, 1927-1996)

But as much as I remember (or don’t) about those that taught me to read, write, add and subtract…it’s these names that I remember more, and hold even closer to my heart…Pearl Mohler, Della Reibolt, Della Nunez, June Clinebell, Violet Van Hoose, Jean Martin, Eloise Woods…These were my Sunday School teachers from the time I was in the Nursery through my High School years, at HIGHLANDS CHURCH OF GOD in Kennewick, Washington. These women not only taught me the stories of Scripture (using everything from flannel graphs to play dough and puppets) but they LOVED me and when I was at my home church, I was as much at home as I was with my parents in our home. To those remarkable people, all gone except for one now, I give thanks to God.

As the years run by and each new “class” walks through the pages of the Herald Bulletin and through the halls of Central Christian Church, let’s thank God for the people He has placed in our children’s path, to teach, train and lead. Let us always pray for our children’s safety and wisdom for teachers.

As much as we may shake our heads at some of the things we see with each generation, it is good to know that some things haven’t changed in a millennium, and through those years, teachers were always held as precious:

“What nobler employment, or more valuable to the state,
than that of the man who instructs the rising generation?”
MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO
(Ancient Roman Lawyer, Writer, Scholar, Orator and Statesman, 106 BC-43 BC)

“Thank you.” To all at Central who teach, who have taught, who will teach. I also thank those who teach our own Church small groups, as well as those who have taught and are teaching in the public school system…God smiles on you.

“Teach the youth about the way they should go;
even when they are old they will not depart from it.”
PROVERBS 22:6

RE-PLANTING.

Five years ago I travelled back to my home state of Washington, to take my Dad’s ashes back home, and to spend some time with friends and family on both sides of the great state of Washington.  The moment I saw Mt. Rainier from the window of my plane I realized that place will always hold a part of my heart.  I enjoyed time with friends then, in my hometown of The Tri-Cities (Richland, Pasco & Kennewick) and spent the last part of the week with family and friends on the WEST side of WA…while enjoying the Pike Place Market, Puget Sound, Downtown Seattle and the islands.

When God called me away from that place, and He truly did “call” me away, I thought I was leaving the mountainous and art-souled “heaven-on-earth” for the unknown dry, flat prairie.  I will admit that the differences in fashion, design, art, coffee, geography, politics and people are stark between the Pacific Northwest and the Midwest.  The differences, in fact, are so stark that it’s almost like moving to a different country going from one to another.  It took a while for my family to adjust to the differences, it took ME awhile to adjust.  I wondered just what God had in mind for me…little did I know.

But God knows what he’s doing.  My choice would have been to never move from the PNW, but God knew that I would fall in love with the Midwest.  He knew that I would revel in the rich history, the beauty of the seasons, and the warm hearts of the people.  He knew that up-rooting me from Seattle and planting me in Anderson would lead to the publishing of much of my choral music, would place me in the center of loving congregations, would introduce me to the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) denomination, would provide for me and my family the necessary comfort and support needed through some very difficult times, and would finally lead me to a time & place that I describe to everyone as “living the best life I’ve ever had”.  I didn’t foresee any of those things…God did.  My trust in Him has grown because He called me away from my comfort zone.

Do I still love the Pacific Northwest?  Yes, who wouldn’t?  Do I still miss my friends and family here?  Of course.  But I haven’t lost the PNW…I’ve merely gained a wider, fuller experience of life because I love where I am also.

If we are who we claim to be, followers of the Most High God, we will be “called” out of our comfort zones.  When we remember that we are children and don’t know everything, when we trust our Father to know more and be more than we could ever be…then we can say, “Yes” when He asks us to leave what we cling to.

It is a hard thing to leave what you love.  It is a difficult physical task to step out of familiarity and step into the unknown, but if you trust me, then hear me when I say…Father always knows best.  God’s bottom-line is that all of His children would experience the joy.  And although that joy comes from a place within and not through circumstances or surroundings, God knows what we enjoy more than we do and would have everyone “living their best lives.”

Take care to listen when He calls this week…and “fear not”, God knows your heart better than you. 

PALM SUNDAY.  I have some wonderful memories associated with this day and time.  My Dad was the choir director at my home church, for several years, and Palm Sunday evening was often the performance of the annual CHOIR CANTATA (usually one by John W. Peterson…for all of you folks who remember his standards from church choir repertoire in the 1950s & ’60s).  Also, Mom was the resident playwright and director for some truly awesome church productions, complete with soldiers, disciples and angels.  As an only child, I was usually involved in all of that, just because if Mom & Dad were at the church, so was I.  Later, when I was writing music, Palm Sunday and Holy Week became the times when some of my own music was performed at worship…some of those pieces are still some of my personal favorites.

Then, of course, my all-time favorite PALM SUNDAY was more than three decades ago when my oldest son, Cameron, was born (I think that was the only time in my life I’ve missed a Palm Sunday Worship Service). 

It may be just me, but growing up in a church family and experiencing Palm Sunday processionals as a child, just as the weather was warming up, enjoying the “dramatic” and “musical” events…it was (and still is) like Christmas in that no matter what else is going on in the world, this is a time set aside for celebration.

One particular Palm Sunday, during my college days in Seattle when my irreverence during serious occasions was maturing, was quite amusing.  During our worship we began with a processional from the back; first the choir (I was a tenor, in the back row), children with palm branches, and then the Pastoral Staff who were all participating in the worship leading.  Most of the staff at the time (I was the Office Manager at this point) were young, and then there was a more mature woman on staff as well, as our professional Church Counselor.  We all took our places and the service began.  The Senior Pastor stepped to the pulpit and addressed the full sanctuary with words of greeting and led in a responsive reading (the usual, from the Gospels, recounting the Jerusalem processional).

Suddenly, jumping from her seat next to the song leader, our Counseling Pastor, during a calm part of the reading, quickly moved to the center of the platform and started, what seemed like, an odd sort of tap dance (on the carpet).  Everything stopped.  We stared, during what seemed like hours, trying to figure out if she was having some sort of Pentecostal moment (surely not), or spasm, (a very fun and rhythmic one, if that was it) or just what.  When suddenly a small girl in the front of the sanctuary jumped up and yelled excitedly, “A dance!” as she started clapping and “dancing” along with our Associate Pastor.

Well, by that time, the confused congregation (especially those of us in the choir and close to the front) weren’t certain about what to do.  By that time our female Associate had stopped “dancing” and was watching the little girl.  She then moved down the couple of steps to the girl, took her hands and started to dance with her.  The pianist began to play the song we had just sung and some clapping began.  We began to get caught up in this strange, impromptu dance party, in the middle of what had been a carefully-planned worship service.

The whole thing lasted only a moment.  When the song ended everyone clapped, and our Associate moved to the pulpit to explain that one of the candles had lit a palm frond end on fire and a little ember had floated down to the carpet where it began to burn.  Our vigilant Associate was the only one who noticed.  Thereby, she jumped from her seat, scurried to the burning carpet and began stomping it out with her high-heeled feet.  It wasn’t apoplexy or the Holy Spirit…it was a small fire…which looked to us like a dance from a person for whom dancing wasn’t a part of her perceived nature.

But for that moment a misunderstood action turned into a spontaneous dance party and the agenda was set aside.

Two-thousand years ago, Jesus could have stopped the procession on the way to Jerusalem and given everyone a lesson in WHY He was entering Jerusalem, and WHAT He was going to do. But, for the crowds at least, He let it go, He let them celebrate.  They were misinterpreting what was going on, but Jesus didn’t stop the praise, and knew it was futile to try.  He also understood there is a time for everything, present circumstances don’t override expressions of joy.  In THE Kingdom, there is ALWAYS a reason to dance.

That is, I guess, what the pageantry, music and drama of PALM SUNDAY and HOLY WEEK are for me.  No matter what else is going on in the world, and much of the world around us is in chaos, because of who HE is, and because of WHAT is certain and sure in our future…it IS appropriate to interrupt the agenda and dance.

I don’t know if you’ve seen the “11 Seasons of Indiana” (here they are, for your information):

1. Winter
2. Fool’s Spring
3. Pot Hole Period
4. Second Winter
5. Spring of Deception/Pot Hole Season 2
6. Third Winter
7. Actual Spring/Pot Hole Season 3
8. Summer
9. False Autumn
10. Second Summer (1 Week)
11. Actual Autumn

…but POT HOLE SEASON seems to hang on (like a cough after a 60-year-old man’s cold) long after Winter and Spring have come and gone.

Pot Holes; the inevitable result of cold and moisture slowly, insidiously, working its way into the pavement and breaking it apart (there’s a sermon right there!).  Last year I replaced not one, but TWO tires due to those “satanic land-mines of doom”.

However, since I do believe that all Spiritual Truths have a Physical Metaphor, I looked (as I was standing by the side of the road last year waiting for AAA) for a lesson in the Pot Hole. Actually I didn’t have to use a lot of imagination.  The pictures are pretty clear.

POT HOLE SYMBOLISM – If one looks at a Pot Hole as the inevitable obstruction along the road of life – caused by whatever reason – then some metaphors immediately come to mind:

1. Take Pot Holes seriously. If I hit one, it’s not just hole in the road, it could cause enough damage to hurt me, hurt YOU, AND make it impossible for me to get anywhere down the road.  Sometimes I don’t take “pitfalls” seriously enough.  Humans make mistakes. Life deals cards that are sometimes a good hand and sometimes not.  But if we don’t prepare for obstacles (before they happen), we don’t take the consequences seriously enough and are hit twice as hard.  Let’s not get so secure in our protection from God that we forget what life around us is like…and prepare for it.  Again, like the Apostle Paul says, “put on the whole armor…SO THAT WHEN THE DAY COMES…”

2. I may not be able to prevent them, but I can sometimes avoid them. When it comes to poor choices or “walking close to the edge”, how many pitfalls in life could I avoid if I just avoided getting close?  Temptation not in my control is one thing (and, since we know Jesus was tempted, and Jesus didn’t sin, then temptation alone is not a sin), but what I call “tempting temptation” is MY responsibility completely.  The Apostle Paul tells us to avoid anything that would tangle us up and cause us to “lose the race”, that’s not always “sin”, it could be anything that slows us down from our primary objective.  When possible, avoid using the roads with pot holes…WHEN YOU KNOW ABOUT THEM.

3. Pot Holes are easier to see in the daylight. But some folks just don’t understand what the concept. Jesus and the teaching in the letters of Paul, John, and Peter remind us to “walk in the light”, so that we don’t stumble.  It seems obvious, but some of us tend to like the danger of living on the edge, pushing the boundaries and find ourselves walking (driving) in the dark…unable to see the approaching danger.  Stay in the light.

4. Don’t travel too fast. There is a fine line between confidence and recklessness.  By not recognizing, ignoring, or not caring about the danger of obstacles/pot holes I get complacent and start driving too fast.  Although I am personally guilty of driving my body and my life at reckless speeds sometimes, I preach (to myself and others) that to not be “in the moment” is to miss out on “God moments”.  I have a “mantra” I try to live up to, and one I preach/teach:

“Every moment has its time.  Every person has their place.
Do not brush by any moment, no matter how bad, or any person, no matter how uncomfortable.
In doing so, you may miss the miracle God has on His agenda for you,
and you may miss the opportunity to be someone else’s miracle.”

I will keep my eye on the ultimate goal, but I also need to consistently be aware of my current surroundings, not just because I’ll miss out on something good, but also so I can recognize obstacles as they approach, and see them for what they are.

5. Sometimes you’re the follower. Sometimes you’re the leader.  This year I found myself suddenly on a busy Indianapolis road that was pockmarked with deep Pot Holes.  Having not driven on the road since Autumn I was unaware of the dangers and immediately got behind someone else who seemed to know the way better than I did.  I slowed when they slowed, I dodged when they dodged…it helped to have someone in the lead.  Later in the week I was driving to a notorious minor stretch of road with at least a dozen holes all together.  Behind me, and I mean RIGHT behind me, was a person not wanting to follow the speed limit (in Edgewood where the speed limit is the 11^th Commandment) and I came to the place, tapped my brakes and went into the left lane to avoid the dreaded war zone.  I looked in my back mirror and saw the car begin to take the opportunity to pass me on the right…they immediately hit the first hole and stopped (unhurt) and slowly followed me the rest of the way, a safer distance behind.  Sometimes you follow.  Sometimes you lead.

6. It helps if you’ve traveled that road before. Through the obstacle courses that are “Pot Hole Season” in Indiana, there are a few places I have now come to know and can smoothly turn, swerve, and brake, like a strong slalom skier in the Winter Olympics. Because I have to travel that road, and have been there before, I know where the pitfalls are…and I avoid them.  I’ve heard so often, and sometimes say, “I wouldn’t wish what I went through on my worst enemy, but I wish everyone could be where I am now, on the other side.” Another reason to not brush off even the bad moments is that hitting a pot hole teaches us, strengthens us…not only for ourselves, but to be there for someone else who is traveling down the same road.

 Pot Hole Season isn’t one of my favorite times of year in Indiana, but I CAN say that I’m stronger for it.   My prayer is that you avoid the damage done by unavoidable pot holes in life, and that you may never be the cause of someone else’s obstacle in life.

Knowing that eventually the pot holes will be patched, the roads will be smooth, and all will be well (if only for a short time, till the next winter) also helps me get through.  Another lesson of the season is our constant message and lesson:

Everything will be OK in the end.  If it’s not OK, it’s not the end.

 “Weeping lasts for a night, but joy comes in the morning.”