Originally posted AUGUST 19, 2015 – I thought it might need a re-telling. 

It all began as I watched her create her art.  I was fascinated at her steady and strong work to create something both practical and beautiful.  To watch her delicate movements was like watching a dance…it was beautiful enough that I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.

This was strange, because I had once been afraid of her.  That fear turned to fascination, then admiration, and then a mutual understanding and friendship.  Because I had never seen her as an individual, nor had I ever taken the time to notice her distinct gifts, personality and beauty.

I asked her for her name.  She told me it was Emily.  I expressed my thanks for allowing me to watch her…she graciously, and somewhat blushingly allowed me within the confines of her workspace, but not too far.  I frightened her, she said.

“I frighten YOU?”, I asked.

She seemed incredulous at my response and asked me to take a moment and look at myself from her point of view.  I was much larger, unknown, and she has children to protect and feed.  My presence alone is a threat not just to her, but to her entire family.  I understood and kept my ground.

“But I’ve always been afraid of YOU.”, I said.

She smiled and looked at me as if I were a small child.  How could I fear her, she wondered?  Because I didn’t know her.  Her movements were furtive sometimes, and seemingly aggressive other times…she startled me.  AND I had heard she loved and lived in the dark spaces, poison was her weapon…to say nothing of her startling appearance, which strangely, as we spoke together, began to work on me as more exotic beauty than ugliness.

She smiled again, pausing in her work.  Didn’t I see that any sort of aggression I might feel from her was merely an instinct to be aware of something that could, without even realizing it, kill her?

And once again I had an epiphany.  My fear and distance were based on untruth.  My hate was based on tradition and misinformation.

Had I but taken the time to know a single spider, I would have had different feelings about all spiders.

Emily (whose sisters Anne and Charlotte, also live on the porch of “Il Casa Della Porte Rosse”, where I sit each evening) weaves a silken stained-glass window each evening; it is a wonder to behold.  Practical (not only food for her family but keeps a certain amount of bugs away from me) and beautiful, and new each night.  We not only now live in peace, we live in harmony…she is a friend.

How many faces, met through the years, have I written off because I didn’t take the time to see what they created, to ask why they behaved with fear or aggression toward me?  How many people have I written off because not only did I not understand them, I didn’t WANT to understand them.  I saw them as different than me, therefore inferior to me.  God forgive me.

Emily has taught me a great lesson in God’s charge to love even my enemies and when you love even the least significant (from YOUR perspective) you love God.

I let Emily know that I’d still be wary of her, if she were in my house…she said the feeling was mutual.

“For you were all baptized into The King and have put on Himself.  So now there is neither Jew nor Greek, neither slave nor free, neither male nor female…you are all unified with The King, Jesus.  And if you belong to The King, then you are also Abraham’s descendants; heirs to the promise God gave to him.  GALATIANS 3:27-29 

Several years ago I visited my former High School in Washington State. I’m not a true sentimental sort but  I enjoyed walking around familiar halls and passages, remembering things I had long forgotten.

In the early 70s, when I attended, this was a new school.  It started with one class at a time, adding a class/grade of students each year, until (with my class) there were Freshmen-Seniors attending.  Mine was the first class to attend all four years.

Because the school was new, each graduating class left a “gift” to the school; somethings that may have not been in the original budget.  For instance, one class left a scoreboard for the new gym, another, a totem pole.

I was writing songs at that point, and performed quite a bit during my High School years, and so the class that graduated after mine commissioned me for an ALMA MATER, since the high school didn’t have one, even though we had a fight song.  So, I wrote my High School’s ALMA MATER, “SCARLET & GOLD” the year after I graduated, and the Class of ’77 “gifted” it to the school.

All of that is a “set up” for my visit several years ago. As I walked around, noticing how young all the students were; children really, they in turn probably wondered who the old, weird, guy was, as they saw me pass with a wistful smile – wearing my stick-on VISITOR badge.

I eventually found myself in the halls of the music department, where I spent not just the most, but the most enjoyable times.  As I turned a corner, there before me, a good seven to eight feet high, and more than that in width, was an original painting of our ALMA MATER, my ALMA MATER.  Words and notes painted carefully and artfully in scarlet and gold paint.  Above it all, with the title, was the phrase, “A gift from the Class of 1977, words & music by Rick Vale, Class of 1976”.

I was, only for a moment and no longer, moved.

Kids (and I do mean “kids”) were starting to pass by me, on their way to CHORUS or some other music class in the choral room.  I was reading the lyrics from top to bottom when, to my surprise, I saw a wrong word.  It wasn’t horribly wrong, just a surprise, and not my words.

One of the students passing by stopped and smiled at me and saw my “VISITOR” pass, but didn’t read my name.

“This is our ALMA MATER.” She said.

“Thanks, yes, I saw that,” I replied, “but there’s a mistake in that part of the lyric.” I said as I pointed down to the lower part of the painting where the error was.

“Really?” she asked, somewhat suspiciously.  “How do you know that?”

“Well,” I said, indicating my VISITOR BADGE with my name underneath, “I wrote it.”

Her expression was what I would have if I had suddenly run into Abraham Lincoln; pleasantly shocked, but mostly because I thought he had been dead for quite some time.

Then she whispered reverentially, “Really?”

“Sure enough.” I said.

“Well I suppose you ought to know.  Wow, we sing this all the time and would’ve never thought I would have met, or talked to, the writer!  That makes a lot of difference; knowing the writer and not just the song.” 

That makes a lot of difference; knowing the writer and not just the song.

Freeze that moment in time for just a bit.  See me, almost the same generation as this young girl’s grandparents, looking at her smile and hearing her say those words.

Now listen to God say the same words.

Your mission and my mission during our perpetual life is only this: to know God and the One He sent.  Yet many folks I know don’t ever get past “the song”.  What is the song, you ask?

The Bible.  The Church.  The Pastor.  Our religion…etc.

Getting to know God isn’t relegated to, nor limited to, reading about Him…but actually getting to know Him.  You might know of God through the scripture, and all the rest, but knowing Him should never be limited to those things, He’s bigger, and more personal, than that.

Imagine a wedding where the Minister turns to the Groom, hands him a book, and says, “This is a biography of your new Bride.  Read it.  Memorize it, and you will know her.” 

To which the Groom says (if he’s wise, and he is) “I’m happy to do that, but shouldn’t I also talk with her, listen to her, hold her, take her into my home, become a part of her?”

The Minister (who, if he were unwise) might say, “Yes of course, all that is possible with the book.”

OR he could be a wise Minister and say, “You’re correct.  She lives off the page as well as on, and this book should never be an excuse to not talk with her, listen to her, hold her, take her into your heart, or become a part of her…and she of you.”

You can always know a little about the songwriter from their songs, but you can’t ever really know the songwriter without talking to them face-to-face.  And I know too many people who stop right there with God…at the song…they never get beyond “the song”, and they never really know Him.

Remember there were many, many souls who knew our Father well…before a word of Scripture was written.  Let’s not use this Holy Book as an excuse not to stroll in the garden with Him in the cool of the day, or to see Him in each face we pass, or to hear His “still, small, voice” on the breeze.

He is everywhere.

He will speak in whatever way you will listen.  He will race across time and space to wipe your tear.  You will have to use your faith, and His biography, to filter His voice through your own murky paradigm, but…

…don’t ever believe our God can be limited to a page…

…or that “learning  about Him” is the same as ” knowing Him”…

…don’t ever believe the Song is all there is to the Songwriter.

“SCARLET & GOLD”: Kamiakin High School ALMA MATER, Kennewick, Washington
Words & music by Rick Vale
Recorded at Eastern Washington University, Autumn 1976
Rick Vale, vocals & arrangement | Sound Engineer: Tom Hall

What I have always called, “the best day/the worst day” started 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 13^th (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! 

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 (ah…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.

Once again, this holiday, I performed with the Indianapolis Jazz Orchestra (the “big band” I’ve been singing with for over 19 years).  We have played many “patriotic” gigs throughout the years, and always some Glenn Miller, some George M. Cohan, some John Philip Sousa.  Many times there is 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’s always a good time.

Once, as I was leaving one of those gigs, at a retirement center, while walking through the crowd, 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…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 may have an impact on someone else that you could never imagine.

Central Christian Church and THE CHRISTIAN CHURCH (DISCIPLES OF CHRIST) has a story…and our histories, 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.  The story of God is the story of His people and their journey with (or without) Him…and it 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.

I am so blessed and happy to live in a country that makes it relatively easy to be a Believer & Follower of Jesus the Christ.  I am thankful every day, as a Pastor, that I do not face the persecution and unfathomable struggles that many of my brothers and sisters throughout the world face daily.  We are truly blessed, in the United States, to be allowed to “live and let live”…though some of us could use a little more practice.

We, as a nation, have rarely had to face what other Christians around the world face, as tension between the church and the government.  Throughout the nations governments and non-Christians resent the fact that a Christian’s allegiance is FIRST given to God, and THEN to the nation.  Here in the U.S.A., although it has turned to a more politicized moniker, being a “Christian” is a label with some influence in the greatest circles of power, or at least a relative comfort level within those circles.  The same cannot be said for many countries outside of the U.S.

Does that make this a “Christian” country?  Although, for some reason, many believe that this nation is a “new Isreal”-type, the nation of the USA is no more “Christian” than Portugal or Australia (as illustrative examples only).  There is a flawed belief there were MORE Christians in political leadership at the dawn of this nation than there are now. But all one needs to do is read a little history to find the percentage was probably the same as it is now.  And what some of those leaders defined as Christ-like-behavior would shock us today.  But there WAS an eager tolerance, in that time, to allow the people of this new country to choose where, when, how or not to worship (unlike the countries from which our colonists came, where religion was forced upon the populace). 

Was this nation founded on Christian principals?  It would seem so, as many would define Christianity and as many interpret scriptures then and now.  But looking at the way some Christians have historically used their faith to justify slavery and aggressive war against other nations, one wonders what the difference is between patriotism and faith.  Again, Tzarist Russia (as an example) and Nazi Germany (as another) would have claimed, and DID claim, that theirs were Christian nations: their concepts about government and “who was in and who was out” were argued using the scripture AND the belief that God blessed their efforts and was “on their side”.

This belief in a “Christian” United States has, unfortunately, given some Christians pause.  Sometimes the Supreme Court of the United States hands down decisions that make some Christians (not all) shudder.  These decisions about marriage, about life before birth, etc. are reminders that this country is simply that…a country. It is not a nation set aside from any other nation, by God, for special “anointing”.  It is a country filled with God’s children…like all of the other countries of the world. 

 And AS God’s children, we understand that our allegiance to God dictates that we pray for, but not worship, our respective countries and their leaders.  We realize that our leaders and lawmakers will do things we agree with and some things we don’t agree with.  We will agree and disagree with our own Christian brothers and sisters also.  As children of God we realize that God and God alone will define what life is, what marriage is, what love is, and who has residency in His Kingdom…many of us would be surprised at His decisions about precisely those things.

Even in the Kingdom, the searching and re-searching of the scripture may lead YOU to define God and other things in ways which might be different from the way I see God.  How then can we expect our nation to always agree with what we individually define as “Christian”?

The laws of this country and the laws of God may at times connect, intersect, run parallel and/or conflict.  That is the reality of life in this Age.  We are promised, however, that in the Age-To-Come, there will be no boundaries, no war, no strangers.  There will be One King, one law, and one peace.  We’re not there yet, but we will be soon…and for now we need to practice not looking shocked at who else is sitting at God’s table (and not being offended when they are shocked to see us.)

We, as Believers and Followers of the One True God, manifested in Jesus the Promised One, have one agenda: to KNOW God.  We have a primary allegiance: to the Almighty Father and His Only Son…and we have one command from Him to follow: love one another as I have loved you.

I love this country, where we celebrate the freedom to worship as we please, we define our faith as we please, we agree or disagree with our country’s leaders as we please.  God help me to remember the millions that don’t have this freedom…and help me love the ones who have not chosen the ultimate freedom that comes from knowing God and His Son.