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So I’ve been writing these reflections for 22 days now. It has been for me the one definitive Lenten undertaking of my life. I haven’t managed to pray or eat or exercise or anything else on any kind of consistent schedule. (I am praying and eating and exercising, but, as is my way, I’m doing all these things haphazardly.) What I have managed to do for 22 days in a row is to sit down and write a few words that I publish each day. I promised to do so to those of you who are bothering to read my words, and that promise has kept me accountable.

Writing these reflections every day has been both a burden and a blessing. I appreciate better what people go through who write columns serveral days a week. Somewhere I read that living under this kind of deadline is like living underneath a windmill. As soon as you successfully manage to negotiate the blade coming towards you,  there’s another one right behind it looking to give you a good wack, and then another, and another. There is no let up. That’s the burden part. I will be glad for Easter to get here so the blades will quit descending upon me.

The blessing is that grace threads have come to me that I’m pretty sure wouldn’t have if I hadn’t forced myself to sit down at my keyboard every day. A spark of a thought — that’s all I’m initially looking for — appears from somewhere.   Can I say that God gave me that thought? To say so might be presumptuous on my part, or, it might be presumptuous on my part to say it is my own thought. Who knows for sure? The interplay between our thoughts and God’s thoughts is mysterious for sure.

The work part has to do with taking that little spark of a thought and developing it for a couple of paragraphs. It is no different, in a way, from the work involved in, say, daily cleaning your kitchen. You don’t necessarily want to do it, but in doing it so you are gratified by the order that is revealed. The universe seems a bit less chaotic. The way forward seems a bit clearer.

So thanks for your part in holding me accountable, and may you allow others to hold you accountable in similar ways. We are on this journey together.

Lord Jesus, you have bound us together in a holy fellowship of accountability, that we might do our part to receive the grace with which you would bless us. Help us to be there for one another in ways that challenge us to become what you have in mind for us. Amen.

 Drew was born on December 13^th, 1963.  An immeasurable blessing occurred nine months later, a day Drew would look back on as the “best day” of his life:  He was adopted by Connie and Dave Morrison.  Connie remembers how when they first met Drew, he instinctively reached out to his Dad, wanting to be held by this strong, gentle man.  Drew was a “fat”, happy baby.

The gift of parents came with the gift of a brother, Dave, just twenty months older than Drew, an instant playmate and best friend throughout his childhood.   Innately competitive, the two boys would on occasion fight.  Connie came up with a brilliant conflict resolution technique:  when a fight broke out, she would make the boys sit face to face on the stairs for as long as it took for the anger to dissolve and their brotherly affection to be restored.  It eventually, it always did.

Diane was born two years after Drew, completing a family of which any child would be blessed to grow up in. 

It was a family where the parents went out of their way to provide every opportunity for their children.   Early on there were jazz and tap dance lessons – with Drew, naturally agile, teaching his whole family the movements to “It’s a Grand Old Flag.”   Later there were piano lessons.  Drew and Dave’s baseball and football teams were coached by their Dad. 

Every Sunday the family worshipped God at the Prince of Peace Lutheran Church.  Christmas Eve always included the candlelight service at the church, followed by lots of friends coming to the house. On Christmas day the family sang “Happy Birthday” to Jesus, the first gift of all, and the children reveled in the extreme generosity of Mom and Dad.

There were wonderful family vacations to places like Puerto Rico and Disney World, and overnights to New York City.  The wintertime brought trips to Vermont for skiing and snowmobile.   There was a Christmas in Barbados marked by the memory of Drew singing “Go Tell It on the Mountain” at the top of his lungs. 

Usually as the kids of a family enter into their teen years, the trips together become less frequent:  truthfully speaking, how many teenagers can bear their family’s company for the extended time and narrow confines that characterize a family trip?   But not so with the Morrison family.  The trips just got better and better, cultivating an extraordinary sense of togetherness. 

For instance, the summer Dave turned seventeen and got his license, their Mom fearlessly packed Dave, Drew and Diane up in the van and headed off cross country, leaving Dad at home to make the money that paid for the trip.  For 28 days they wandered the country side seeing America, staying in KOA campsites.  Drew in particular would make sure their campsites were set up just so, with his mom’s chair comfortably in place in the shade, and the radio tuned into some good music.  After making sure their Mom was safe and content, the three teenagers would set out to explore the vicinity surrounding the campground.  At night Dave and Drew would rough-it out in a tent while Mom and Diane slept in the back of the van.   

They didn’t see everything there was to see of America on that road trip, but they sure saw a good junk of it, including stops at the Football Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio, Grand Canyon, Pike’s Peak, Vegas, and the Badlands of South Dakota.  You can’t put a price tag on memories like these.

It was important to their Mom and Dad that Dave, Drew and Diane would learn to rely on one another and look out for one another.   When there wasn’t enough money for the whole family to go; their parents would send Dave, Drew and Diane off on vacations by themselves; on a cruise for instance, waiting at shore for them to return. 

The summer David was eighteen and Drew sixteen his parents sent the boys to Europe for a backpacking trip — just the two of them — where they sang “God Bless America” in a German Pub.  Two years later, when Dave was twenty, Drew eighteen and Diane sixteen, the three were sent on a tour of the middle east, travelling through Jordan, Israel and Egypt.  There isn’t a teenager on this planet who wouldn’t have loved to trade places with the Morrison kids on their adventures.

Drew was very gifted athletically, and during his time at Morris Hills High School he dedicated himself to his training, excelling in sports.   He began starting on the varsity football team as a sophomore, and in his senior year Drew led his team to a number one ranking in Morris County.  He played linebacker and was known for his tough, physical play.  He was also the punter.  In track and field Drew broke school records in javelin and discus.   He did well in his studies, and was a favorite of teachers and classmates alike with his warm, outgoing, gregarious personality.  His classmates voted him “Class Rowdy.” 

When Diane entered high school she was always so proud when people would make the connection:  “You’re Drew Morrison’s sister?!”

Drew graduated in 1982, and headed off to Southern Illinois University on a full scholarship for track and field.   His first love, however, was football.   A bit undersized to make it as a linebacker at a big time football program, Drew managed to win the starting job of punter at his school as a “walk on”, and his full scholarship was transferred to the football team.  Earning the nick name “The Golden Toe Boy,” Drew set the school record for the longest punt ever.  Then on national television, Drew smashed his sown record by another seventeen yards with an amazing 83 yard punt, helping his team win the Division II National Championship 1983.

Following his graduation in 1987, Drew was invited to try out for the Dallas Cowboys. 

Though Drew experienced some truly great days on the football field, he would often say that the best day of his life was the day he was adopted into the Morrison family.  Close on the heels of that blessed day was the one in March of 1992 in which Drew met Rebecca.   It was God’s hand, Drew was certain, that brought the two of them together.  Rebecca didn’t know of, nor care much about, all the accolades Drew had won as a football hero.  What attracted Rebecca to Drew was the sensitivity and tenderness she recognized in his soul. 

They were strongly attracted to one another from the start, but for six weeks following their first meeting the circumstances of their lives made it impossible for them to be physically in the presence of one another.  Throughout this time they talked on the phone every day for hours on end, sharing with one another the depths of their souls.  They read scriptures to one another and spoke of their deepest longings.   And they fell deeply in love with one another.  Rebecca balanced the outgoing energy of Drew with her soft-spoken, steady nature.  

Rebecca remembers how when her 37^th birthday rolled around in March, she was feeling down about growing older.   Drew wrote a poem for Rebecca, presenting it to her in a beautiful frame.   It touched Rebecca deeply.  It included these lines:    

A year has passed — another token of our most precious gift   LIFE.

It may not seem like much.  In fact…

May even get you a little down

The number one gift we take for granted.

Let’s Reflect…

And see what one year of your life has done for me…

Drew goes on in the poem to describe his own sense of discouragement he had known before he met Rebecca. And then he continues…

Then you stepped into my life;

a godsend only I could know and experience

You took my hand and said, “Don’t cry, I’m here for you.”

This past year you have given another the most precious gift one can give another –  yourself

Rebecca, be proud and happy today of all days

Because my life is one of a thousand that you have touched. 

Rebecca, know that this celebrated day

Of this one year of your life is so precious

Hold on sweetness and enjoy the rest of the 365 days

So I can look onto your eyes as my wife and be able to tell you

Feliz Nacimiento!

Rebecca had a teenage son, Louis, whom she loved deeply.  Drew warmly welcomed Louis into his heart as well.  

Ten months after first meeting, Drew asked Rebecca to marry him, and she happily accepted.  Five months later, on June 19^th, 1993 Drew and Rebecca were joined together in holy matrimony.  The setting was the Mallard Inn in Panther Valley – mallards, it is said, mate for life.  Drew’s best man, his brother Dave made the toast to the couple’s happiness together, wishing them “Feliz Navidad.” 

Drew was an aficionado of classic rock with an incredible memory for decades-old lyrics.   He carefully chose the first song to dance with his bride:  “Thank You” by Led Zeppelin, which include these words: 

If the sun refused to shine, I would still be loving you.
If the mountains should crumble to the sea, there would still be you and me.

Kind woman, I give you my all…

And so today, my world it smiles, your hand in mine, we walk the miles,
Thanks to you it will be done, for you to me are the only one.

Rebecca and Drew honeymooned for ten days in the warm sunshine of Aruba, after which they joined Dave on his sailboat. 

Drew taught Rebecca to fish and to love the whole experience of fishing.  For the first four years of their marriage they lived at Budd Lake, after which they moved to Buford, South Carolina.  In both settings fishing was always very close at hand.  

After four years down south, Drew and Rebecca returned home to live in Parsippany in order to be closer to their family.  It was at that point that our congregation was blessed to have them become members of our church. 

Having known such success early on in life in the physical realm, Drew devoted himself in his later years to deepening his spiritual life.  He practiced simplicity and devoted himself to staying close to what truly matters in life.  His personal motto was “simplicity and beauty”.  His home was very important to him, and lovingly he took great care in setting up his home, getting the wall decorations and the placement of the furniture just so.  

Drew worked in a variety of service capacities, including with senior citizens at the Morris County Nutrition Program, with little children at Little Blessings Child Care, and, along with Rebecca, as the care takers of our church.  He found joy playing congas in Reconstruction, the church band.  He attended our spiritual formation groups and weekend retreats, intimately sharing from his heart about the importance of his faith with his church family in ways that moved us deeply.   As his brother David put it, the better you got to know Drew, the more you were impressed by the depths of his mind and soul. 

Drew always cherished his time with Rebecca. He loved quiet evenings spent at home with her.  He would cook dinner for Rebecca, afterwards perhaps they would dance together to music. 

Drew’s family referred to them as the “Velcro kids”; always inseparable.  For their tenth anniversary they took a cruise through the Western Caribbean for eight days.   When Rebecca turned fifty, Drew threw her a great surprise birthday party.  Afterwards, with their good friends Brian and Awilda Higgins they vacationed in Hawaii, a place Rebecca had always wanted to visit.  Last July they had a wonderful time sharing in the cruise to Bermuda that Drew’s parents took the whole family on to celebrate their 50^th wedding anniversary.   (The picture on the front of our bulletin this morning was taken on that trip.) 

At family gatherings, it was always Drew to whom everybody turned for the saying of the blessing.  His spirituality touched the whole family.  Drew went out of his way to be a part of the lives of his nephews and nieces:  Dave’s children Sarah and John Drew; and Diane’s children:  Robert and Morgan.  Drew had a very genuine, open-hearted way of being with them, and they loved him deeply.  Drew and Rebecca made a point of being there for them at their sporting events (with Drew teaching Rebecca the rules to hockey).  They were there for other special events, with a particular attention given to their confirmations. 

Drew lived with a great deal of physical pain.  Arthritis struck his joints where old football injuries had left scars.   His hands and knees throbbed, and he underwent two hip replacement surgeries.  Some nights the pain would keep him awake; only Rebecca saw the full toll the pain took on Drew.  In spite of the pain, Drew always did his best to take a positive outlook towards his life.  

In the past couple of months there seemed to be a special poignancy to Drew’s heart, as though he sensed he wasn’t long for this earth.  In the fall he loved to sit on the balcony of their apartment watching the leaves change.  He took pictures of the autumn colors, and also of the clouds. 

At a recent family gathering, the “Velcro Kids” are remembered playing with walkie talkies, roaming opposite ends of the house, repeating over and over to one another, “I love you, Rebecca”; “I love you, Drew.”  In worship on a Sunday early in December, Drew was moved to come forward during our prayer time to share passionately from his heart regarding the profound gratitude he felt for his life, stirring all of us present deeply to appreciate our lives as well.

The Wednesday night before he died, Drew and Rebecca were present at his nephew John Drew’s hockey game, loudly wooping it up as John’s team won a rare victory.  As a graduate of their same high school, John and his friends looked up to Drew for the sports legacy he embodied. 

In the end, the apostle Paul says, it is only love that does not end.   We are placed on this earth to learn the lessons of love.  Drew knew much love in this life and he gave much love as well.  In death, he has been perfected in love.

Sarah’s Uncle John died last week at the age of 91.  These are words of remembrance I spoke at his funeral on November 18, 2009.

I came into the family about eighteen years ago, which makes me a relative newcomer.   From the beginning, and throughout the years, John always made me feel so welcome.  “How’s Jeff?” he would say, with his double-handed hearty hand shake, and that warm smile, and those tender eyes.

The John I knew was always glad to be alive, happy to be in the company of others, never in a hurry to be anywhere else than in the present moment.   I marveled at his remarkable story-telling ability – how he always had a tale to tell if you asked for remembrances of years past.    You weren’t always sure which part of the stories were fact and which were creative embellishment arising from the charm of his imagination, but the stories always succeeded in holding one’s attention.  He liked simple things:  a good meal, a good laugh, a good story, a good dog.  He had stories to tell of all the good dogs he had known, including the powerful one named Queenie he had as a child that would pull him and his brother Bob around on a sled in the winter; the one named Cindy he had in the navy that the general coveted, so faithful standing guard at the door of the mess hall, waiting for a command from John; and of course, his late in life friend – little, sweet Suzie.

He gave the impression of having extraordinary equanimity – always even keeled.  I never heard him complain about anything.  He seemed to take life in stride. 

But of course, every life has its share of struggles, and John’s life was no exception.   It is out of the forge of sufferings mixed with faith that character is shaped.    For the back story of John’s life I am reliant upon my wife Sarah and to Kathy.

John had a happy childhood, but at age 19 he suffered heart-wrenching grief along with the rest of the family when his kid sister Katherine suddenly died from an infection at the tender age of 17. 

He went off to fight for his country in the Navy during World War II, nearly losing his life from injuries suffered in the explosion of his ship.

John married Ruth early on in his adult years, and though it was a happy marriage, they weren’t able to have children, and John had always wanted children of his own.   And so John found other places to express the love he had hoped to shower upon his own children:  On his nephews and nieces, on good dogs, in his church work, and in a making a home with Ruth where guests would always be welcomed.  

He also loved his work, where he enjoyed the challenge of figuring out how to make something work.  He devoted himself to his work, perhaps at times more than he should have.  One time his finger got caught in some machinery resulting in the loss of that finger.   In his telling of the story, John mostly remembered being annoyed with the fact that he hadn’t been able to finish the particular job he was working on.  

John bought a camper, and looked forward to the day when he would retire, and he and Ruth could leisurely travel.   But when that time finally came to leave the work behind, Ruth had become very sick.  Leisurely travel wasn’t possible.    John would always regret he hadn’t taken the time when he had it; a lesson I suspect we all learn too late in life.  Surely this lesson had a hand in shaping the serenity he expressed so strongly in his latter years. 

The death of his beloved Ruth rocked John, and to family members it seemed as though the light in him had nearly been extinguished.  It looked as though John was ready to pack it in. 

But he decided to make one more trip down to Durham, North Carolina to see the part of the family located there.  And there was Helen, widowed from his youngest uncle, sharing the family history that he treasured so, and love bloomed, life began again, and the joy returned.   With Helen at his side, the camper did get put to use after all.  Helen, full of courage, said goodbye to her home in North Carolina, returning with John to make a home together in Ohio, and share with one another the adventures of the latter years of their lives.  John loved Helen’s children, Joan and Dick, as his own.  Indeed, they shared the same McGranahan blood. 

John and Helen happily spent two decades together, never missing an opportunity to get together with family.  

 On a visit to Durham in 1999, John was driving with Helen when somebody in too much of a hurry came up from behind and side-swiped their car.  Their car flipped; Helen was injured, but fortunately not severely; John’s body, however was broken nearly to the point of death.  It was an injury that would have taken many a younger man, and John wasn’t expected to live, but with his dogged determination and fierce love of life, he began to  recover, amazing us all.  Kathy and Sarah remember sneaking Suzie into the intensive care unit so John could get a nuzzle of encouragement from the good dog. 

Before long, John was back on his feet, but he realized he needed to be closer to family. So five and a half years ago Helen and John said good bye to so much that was familiar, and like Abraham and Sarah long before them, set off once more trusting in the graciousness of God.  They moved to Mount Holly, New Jersey to be close to his beloved brother Bob and his family.  In his last years John became a fixture in Kathy and Thad’s home, who loved him well.

A sermon preached on November 1, 2009 based upon Mark 12:28 – 34.

One of the scribes came near and heard them disputing with one another, and seeing that he answered them well, he asked him, ‘Which commandment is the first of all?’ Jesus answered, ‘The first is, “Hear, O Israel: the Lord our God, the Lord is one; you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind, and with all your strength.” The second is this, “You shall love your neighbour as yourself.” There is no other commandment greater than these.’ Then the scribe said to him, ‘You are right, Teacher; you have truly said that “he is one, and besides him there is no other”; and “to love him with all the heart, and with all the understanding, and with all the strength”, and “to love one’s neighbour as oneself”,—this is much more important than all whole burnt-offerings and sacrifices.’ When Jesus saw that he answered wisely, he said to him, ‘You are not far from the kingdom of God.’ After that no one dared to ask him any question.

On one level, this passage seems to express an exquisite simplicity. We human beings have this compulsive tendency to make life overly complicated, which is one way to see the confrontation that took place between Jesus and the religious authorities.   The passage we read describes the final argument that took place between Jesus and the teachers of the law.   What is the most important commandment, Jesus was asked.  In reply he said that it was to live out a two- dimensional love:  love of God and love of neighbor.  We don’t need 614 laws and the complicated religious system human beings had concocted with the elaborate temple sacrifices. The truth in the end is simple.

It is a truth that I think we know in our hearts to be true. It is a truth that the teacher of the law who challenged Jesus that day couldn’t help but acknowledge, and one that all great religious traditions, at their best, lead us to: Love of the holy that is beyond everything, and love of the mortal, flesh and blood that is close at hand.

And yet, when I begin to ponder what it means to love God and love neighbor, my mind gets all tied up in knots. The love of neighbor part is hard enough. Who is my neighbor? What exactly must I do? How far do I need to go? When have I done enough? There are enough questions here for a whole lifetime of sermons.

But it’s actually the other dimension that leaves my brain most baffled: Love God with all you soul, and heart and mind and strength. What, pray tell, does that mean? God is invisible, wholly other. The ten commandments begins by prohibiting any “graven images” of God, because as soon as you try to conjure up an image of God, you end up reducing the mystery of God and creating an idol. God is not a “being” next to other “beings”; God is the ground of all being, the source.

Tell me to love my wife, my child, a member of the church or even a stranger I meet out in the world, and I have my senses to draw upon. I can see, hear, touch and smell them. I can carry the memories derived from my senses around with me and ponder the possibilities of how I can express love to them. Not so with God.

There’s a dilemma here, and one way we can try to solve this dilemma is to work it through in our heads this way: well, the way to show our love to God is to keep ourselves busy doing the work in this world that God wants done, which, of course, is to sing various renditions of the same old song “Love your neighbor as yourself.” And there is something to that.

But there is a problem with this solution, and it is the fact that this one-dimensional focus on the love of neighbor has an inevitable frustration built into it. What happens when we try to love people and our best efforts seem to bring about, as far as we can tell, nothing enduring, or in fact seems to make things worse? And what about the fact that human life exists in a state of perpetual decay, and so sooner or later every neighbor we seek to love is taken from us by death?

And then there’s the undeniable fact that sometimes the people we try to love can seem downright unlovable. Remember what Charlie Brown said? “I love humanity; it’s human beings I can’t stand.” And what about those times when we ourselves seem rather unlovable, which pretty well screws up the whole “love your neighbor as yourself” equation?

Pour ourselves out in loving our neighbors as ourselves, and it can seem we destine ourselves to become bitter and burn out. So the love of neighbor needs to be rooted deeper — in eternity, in that mystery for which we have the inadequate word “God.”

I believe that deep down within all of us, the love of God resides, waiting to find expression. It is there within us as children, but as we grow up, our words, our ideas, our minds get in the way, and the love gets blocked.

There is a story I read long ago that has stayed with me over the years. It involves a poor shepherd and an early “desert father.” In the centuries following Constantine’s embrace of the Church, there was a tradition of people retreating from the world to devote themselves to prayer and contemplation of God, known as the “desert fathers”, and in some instances, “desert mothers.” Often they were deep thinkers – theologians – from which much spiritual wisdom was passed on.

In the story I heard a desert father is in the company of a simple shepherd as a day comes to a close. The desert father notices that the shepherd takes a wooden bowl filled with goat’s milk, and carefully places it on the ground in a location that is raised up higher that the surroundings. He inquires of the poor shepherd why he has done this. “I am so grateful to God,” says the shepherd. “In my love for God I set out this bowl of the richest cream for God to enjoy.”

The desert father feels compelled to correct the shortcomings of the shepherd’s conceptions of God. “My friend,” he says, “don’t your realize that God is pure spirit, and as such, has no need for your bowl of cream?” The shepherd replies, “Well, I don’t know about the pure spirit business, but what I do know is that every night God comes down from heaven and drinks the milk, for in the morning the bowl is always empty.” The desert father answers smugly, “There will be moonlight tonight. We will watch together to discern the truth regarding what happens to your bowl of milk.”

They sit together where they can observe the bowl, and sure enough, shortly after nightfall, a little fox comes trotting along very intently, laps up the milk, and disappears into the wilderness. The shepherd is crestfallen. “How foolish I have been! You were right. God has no need for my little bowl of milk.”

That night, the desert father had a restless night sleep. God appeared to him in a dream – in a blaze of light, perhaps? “What you did to my child the poor shepherd was cruel,” said God. “I always appreciated his offering of a bowl of his goat’s milk. You are right. I am spirit, and since I had no need for the milk myself, I shared the milk each night with my little friend the fox.”

There is this deeper love within us – this sense of awe and wonder at the miracle of being alive — of simple, pure gratitude, and it needs to find expression. The shepherd’s nightly offering gave him a means by which to express that love. We must find such means as well, or else we will wither in our attempts at loving our neighbor.

I read an article recently about a woman who experiences the gift of tongues in her prayer life. I have never received such a gift, and like many “sophisticated” Christians, have tended to look askance at such strange practices. I was struck, however, by what the woman said. She has no idea how, without the gift of the tongues that pour out of her, how she would express the innate gratitude and love for God that is within her. Without it, she says, her mind perpetually gets in the way, worrying about having the right words, the right concepts. She’s right. Like the desert father, we can get trapped in our intellects, unable to access the depths of our hearts.

Vladimir Lenin, the father of 20th century communism, once said something to the effect that he had stopped listening to great music, or contemplating masterful works of visual art, because he found that doing so led to a distracting softness of his heart in which he wanted to go around and pat people on the head. Lenin’s ideology involved a militant atheism, but he had his own god in the doctrine of communism. In his mind any thing that distracted him from devotion to his inflexible ideals was to be avoided. Lenin would have done well to listen to the love hidden in his heart that arose within him when he came into contact with beauty.

Eight years ago our congregation broke ground to build a new sanctuary. In a way, our sanctuary is like the shepherd’s bowl of milk. God is everywhere, so on one level there is no need to put all this money and energy into building a beautiful sanctuary. You can worship God anywhere; in your living room, for instance, or out in the woods.

But the fact of the matter is that we are creatures who depend upon the gift of our five senses to open ourselves up to God. We rely on things like a well-designed worship space in which much consideration has been given to light and color and sound, and inspired, well-rehearsed music, and words hopefully well-crafted, and the taste of bread and wine. In the perception of our senses these things help transport us to that place where our hearts are opened up and the love that resides deep within, rooted in heaven rather than earth, may find expression.

Later in our service we will once more take bread and wine and evoke the memory of a time two thousand years ago when Jesus did the same with his friends in an upper room in Jerusalem. In the eyes of the world, the love he had come to share for all his neighbors would soon seem woefully unsuccessful. Rejected, he died like a common criminal upon the cross. We reenact this last supper with a desire to find with Jesus the love that is rooted not in time but in eternity – that love which alone can sustain us for the journey.

 (Seated at a round table are five males of ascending age, preparing to play a card game. Henry 1, the youngest, is 8.  Henry 5 the oldest, is 77.  Henry 4 shuffles a deck of cards, hands it to Henry 5, who gives it to Henry 1 to cut. Henry 5 proceeds to deal out the entire deck.) 

Henry 5: The name of the game is “I doubt it.”

Henry 4: We always liked games.

Henry 5: Here’s how it works. We proceed around the circle, starting at my right (Henry 1). He will put cards face down on the center of the table, announcing to us one to four aces. If one of us doubts the truth of his claim, we say, “I doubt it,” turning the cards over. If the doubter was correct, the one passing off the cards has to pick up — all the cards in the pile. If the doubter was wrong, he must pick up all of the cards. The next person does the same with twos, and so on around the circle. The object of the game is to successfully get rid of all your cards. The one who does so, wins.

Understood?

Henry 1: When I was young, there were moments that would come to me when I would be alone in which everything would suddenly seem to be glowing. Like it was magical. I would look up at the clouds in the sky and imagine myself floating up there — it was like I could fly. I remember sitting on the back porch one time watching a storm blow in on a summer day. There was lightning. And thunder. I remember thinking, “This is so much better than t.v.” I said, “I am alive. Thank you, God.” (Henry 1 puts down two cards.)  Two aces.

Mom: Henry, come inside, Honey.

Henry 1: I want to stay, Mom.

Mom: No, Henry, it’s starting to lightning. Come inside where it’s safe, sweetheart.

Henry 2: Two aces, huh? Well, I’ll let it pass this time.

I hated eighth grade. It was all about fitting in, and I didn’t. I had discovered girls, but they hadn’t discovered me. I got picked on in gym class, and school generally sucked. The only good thing I remember from that whole year was in my reading and writing class. We had this assignment to write about some time when we had been happy. Generally I hated homework, but for some reason I got into this assignment. I wrote about watching the clouds as a little kid. My teacher, Mrs. Robbins, came up to me in the library.

Mrs. Robbins: (Heartfelt.) Henry, I just wanted to tell you; I think your essay about watching clouds when you were a kid just might be the most beautiful piece of writing I’ve ever read. You have a real gift.

Henry 2: Three twos.

Henry 3: You expect me to believe that?

Henry 2: Go ahead, doubt it. I dare you.

Henry 3: I’ll let it slide. (Pause.)  I started out as a journalism major in college. During the summer, I got a job with the local newspaper, working the night shift. Writing articles about the town council meetings at 3 a.m. wasn‘t my idea of a good time. Back at school, I switched to Finance, because somebody told me that’s where the money was.

After graduating I took a job with this big corporation. Found out I had a gift for selling my ideas to the guys upstairs. Ended up in charge of this major account. I was in the fast lane, leaving the competition behind.

Mr. Smith: Henry, my boy, this is nice work — very nice work indeed.

Henry 3: Thank you, sir.

Mr. Smith: I need a go-getter like yourself who’s not afraid to work as my right hand man. It would include a six figure salary. Think you could be that person, Henry?

Henry 3: I’m your man, Mr. Smith. (Mr. Smith gives thumbs up and departs, as Henry 3 watches. Henry places two cards down.)Two threes.

Henry 1: Horse manure.

Henry 3: Excuse me?

Henry 1: In other words, I doubt it. (Flips over Henry 3’s cards, which are exposed to be not what they were said to be. Henry 3 groans, and picks all the cards up.)Henry 4: In a blink of an eye, the years rolled by. I got married, bought a house, had a daughter, bought another, bigger house, and then a bigger house yet. Sent the daughter to private school. Turned 40, had an affair with my secretary, divorced my wife, married the secretary. Realized I‘d screwed everything up. My daughter helped me realize that.

Daughter: Dad, you are such a loser!

Henry 4: Excuse me?!

Daughter:  I said, you are such a loser!

Henry 4:  I got that the first time.

Daughter: Loser, loser, loser!!!

Henry 4: (Placing three cards face down on the table.)  Three losers — I mean “fours.”

Henry 2: I don’t doubt the “loser” part. It’s the “four” part I’m doubtful about, but I’ll let it slide.

Henry 4: Thanks, we losers need all the breaks we can get.

Henry 5:  So the marriage to the secretary fell apart too. My relationship with my daughter — well, I limped along with that as best I could. Sometimes I still think she considers me a loser, but she doesn’t mind my money.

I tried to retire twice, but couldn’t bear all the time on my hands.

Then one day I went for my yearly check up. The doctor found something he didn’t like. Sent me for more tests.

Doctor: I’m not going fool around with you, Henry. It’s not good. You have leukemia, if we fight it, you might have two more years. Otherwise, you’ve got three months, tops. (Henry 5 watches as the doctor exits.)Henry 5: What am I up to?

Henry 4: I just did fours, It’s your turn to do fives.

Henry 5: (Dropping his whole hand of cards face down on the tables.) Four fives then. I’m out. I win.

Henry 1: That’s not fair!

Henry 5: You got that right. (Gets up from the table, and goes to sit on the stage. Henry 1 comes and sits beside him. They stare off into the distance, as if contemplating the clouds.)Henry 1: Aren’t they something?

Henry 5: They really are.

Henry 1: I like to imagine I’m up there flying.

Henry 5: I know, I remember. (Pause.) Those dark clouds rolling in — they’re so magnificent. (Sound of thunder is heard.) Lightning. Did you see that?

Henry 1: Sure did.

Henry 5: You think it’s safe for us to be out here?

Henry 1: I do indeed.

(Curtain.)

Today I received out of the blue one of the most curious emails I ever received. I’ve pasted it below:

Hi,

I need to get your side of the story on your game against Grace on the mount. I have gotten the email from Grace in regards to the game and what happened. Once I have your email, the league will come to a decision on how to handle the situation.

In Christ,

Eric

Our church used to field a team in the church softball league of which Eric is the league president, and evidently my email address was mixed up with somebody else’s who now fields a team. Nonetheless, the email is intriguing. What exactly did happen at “the game against grace on the mount?” The league we used to play in was supposed to be “coed, non-competitive”, with the clear understanding that it wasn’t to be taken too seriously. Before the game started, league rules required a prayer, in which, generally speaking, we’d give God thanks for the ability to be there, ask God for protection that no one might get hurt, and to help us all to have fun and be good sports. Our team used to joke about our mission in the games was to help other teams feel good about themselves, which we succeeded in routinely, because we rarely won.

Apparently something went wrong in “the game against grace on the mount.” (I looked it up on the internet; “Grace on the mount” is a big, new non-denominational church in Netcong.) Evidently the league, represented by Eric, has been called upon to render a decision in a dispute between the two teams. Eric has heard Grace on the mount’s story; now he needs to hear the story from the opponents.

Since Eric signs his email, “In Christ”, it is clear that he is looking to Jesus for aid in rendering his decision. In this regard, I offer Eric this story recorded in Luke 12:13 – 15:

“Someone in the crowd said to (Jesus), ‘Teacher, tell my brother to divide the family inheritance with me.’ But he said to him, ‘Friend, who set me to be a judge or arbitrator over you.’ And he said to them, ‘Take care! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.’”

I don’t think it would be a stretch to assume that Jesus would also want to say, “one’s life does not consist in the abundance of wins.” He might add (which in various forms he’s saying to all of us), “Get a life.”

The other night I decided to go to a nearby Barnes and Nobles bookstore while I was waiting for my son to get through his soccer practice.  It was a great choice, since generally I spend the time obsessing about how my son is doing, and sitting in a bookstore perusing books for an hour and a half is like eating ice cream for me. 

At one point I became aware of a man with a very deep and loud voice talking on a cell phone.  It sounded as though the conversation was about some kind of prospective job – he mentioned that he would have to give his present employer two weeks notice.  His voice boomed across the quiet bookstore, and I found myself irritated, my bookstore delight interrupted.

Initially I felt condemnation for his lack of manners.  But I found myself marveling at the fact of how very different this guy was from me, which seems less a matter of morality than a simple difference in our innate wiring.  I could no more talk loudly on a cell phone in a public place than I could walk around that bookstore naked.  I would be overtaken by embarassed self-consciousness.  That’s how I’m made.  Obviously, this guy and quite a few others I’ve observed, are made differently.  We are what we are, though it doesn’t hurt to have a little consideration to the impact of your behaviors on others, even if it doesn’t come naturally to you.   I suppose this is their growing edge.  Mine has more to do with learning how to let go of the burden of carrying so much self-consciousness around with me.  It does get in the way to living sometimes.  We are what we are. 

Although I can’t talk on a cell phone in a public place, I don’t seem to have a problem talking loudly on this blog, inviting anybody who’s interested to listen in on my inner conversation.   I realize that for some people, they could no more carry on in this manner than they could walk around a bookstore naked.  Go figure. 

I found myself thinking the guy should have the decency to go outside to continue his conversation.   Eventually he did. 

I just got back from taking my monthly turn preaching at the nursing home.  I always go somewhat reluctantly; I generally come away feeling blessed with the feeling that here, for sure, was something worth doing. 

In the ministry, one of the challenges with a lot of the stuff we pastors do is that it can be tough to see with clarity what, if anything, is being accomplished.  We have to take it by faith that something good is being brought about by our labors. 

Week before last I went over to Freddie’s apartment to help him look for his wallet that he had misplaced for five days, causing him a great deal of frustration.  I succeeded in helping him find it.  He was very grateful, but from my point of view, I too, felt fortunate, because the experience provided me with one of those rare instances when something good was accomplished and it was as plain as day:  Freddie was delivered from that nagging anxiety that we all know when we misplace something important.   I was delivered from that nagging anxiety of wondering if I did anything worthwhile that day. 

At the end of my time at the nursing home, I told the old folks, “You pray for me, and I’ll pray for you.  Deal?”  They said it was a deal, but one lady added that they were getting the better part of the deal.  I assured her that I didn’t think that was so.  These old folks are very close to God, and I think their prayers are unusually potent.  Those of us running about in this world driven here and there by the rat race have much to distract us from the presence of God. 

You don’t need to be able to walk, to see, or to hear in order to pray.  All you need to pray is to be.  Those moments of synchronicity that I wrote about in an earlier blog give us a little glimpse of the mysterious ways we are yoked together beyond our understanding, and they should encourage us to take open-hearted, agenda-free praying seriously.  As somebody said, “When I pray, coincidences seem to happen more often.”

The only problem, in the end, is that unlike finding Freddie’s wallet, we don’t often get to see the fruits of our prayer labors.  We have to take it on faith.

Here is another odd “coincidence” similar to the one I reported happening to me in my recent Easter sermon.  Yesterday in the late afternoon our church held its big Spring roast beef dinner and mini-bazaar.   There were a lot of people in the building.  At one point I went out to the mail box and brought in the mail to the church office.  There was a letter which I opened from Gloria, who hasn’t been at church for about 9 months because of a series of health concerns with which she has struggled.  The letter thanked the congregation for the prayer shawl I had brought her a while back, and for all our prayers.  I thought to myself, “Gloria’s letter should go in the monthly church newsletter.”   Barb edits our newsletter.  I was in the process of writing “Barb”, on the letter, to be followed with a short note asking her to publish Gloria’s letter, when precisely at that moment Barb came into the office saying, “Gloria is here.”  She and her husband Bob had just arrived for the dinner, the first time she had set foot in the building for nine months. 

The odd coincidence that I experienced last month took place the day before Easter when I drove to Boonton to go to a costume shop I had heard of but never been inside in order to rent a Roman soldier costume for children’s sermon I had in mind giving in worship the next day.  I got out of my car and stepped onto the main street to look for the shop, at which point I heard my name called from across the street. I looked up to see my good friends Joe and Laurie.  Laurie was holding in her hands a Roman soldier costume.  She had used it the night before in an Easter pageant at the church at which she works.  She was on her way to return the costume, having been delayed by an encounter with another friend (otherwise, the costume would have already been returned.)  In amazement, I crossed the street, told her I was there for a Roman soldier costume.  She handed it to me. 

What am I to make of these strange convergence of events?   I realize that it can be seen as nothing but a coincidence — that these related events just happened to occur simultaneously by nothing more than mere chance.  It doesn’t “feel”, however, like mere chance.  Both instances seem to be clear examples of the phenomenon Carl Jung referred to as “synchronicity”.  Here is a quote from a wickopedia definition: 

“The idea of synchronicity is that the conceptual relationship of minds, defined by the relationship between ideas, is intricately structured in its own logical way and gives rise to relationships which have nothing to do with causal relationships in which a cause precedes an effect. Instead, causal relationships are understood as simultaneous — that is, the cause and effect occur at the same time.
“Synchronous events reveal an underlying pattern, a conceptual framework which encompasses, but is larger than, any of the systems which display the synchronicity.”

In other words, weird stuff happens.  We are related to one another, and impact one another, in ways that go far beyond our understanding. 

The woman who does my taxes is a member of my church.  She’s been under the weather the last couple of days, which is lousy timing for a tax accountant with April 15th approaching.  Her husband told me that she had a dream last night in which she had figured out a way to save me some money.   He said she would keep me posted if the dream proved to mean something more than that she’s  worrying over her client’s tax returns. 

When I get out of the rhythm of blogging, it’s hard to get back in sync. The first blog backs seems momentous. I’ve been posting sermons that I’ve worked over carefully. Daily blogging is a bit more risky, in so far as taking the time to carefully choose my words isn’t so practical, and the likelihood of saying something I might later regret more likely. But since life requires risk, let me plunge ahead.

I had my first ever colonoscopy yesterday, succumbing finally to the earnest requests of my wife, not to mention Fred Coleman, who feels so strongly about the importance of regular colonoscopies that he makes public service announcements promoting them at the end of our worship services. I am 52, and once you pass 50, doctors say a person should have them done regularly.

Tuesday morning at my men’s breakfast the three other men present had all undergone several such procedures, and when I announced I was having my first the next day, they were happy to share their experiences. I felt like I was being initiated into a secret society of older men who have submitted themselves to the humiliation that is having a scope stuck up one’s rectum. It was a nice sense of camaraderie.

I wasn’t aware of being especially afraid of the procedure (or the possibilities that such a procedure might reveal.) Mostly it seemed I had put it off because I assume myself to be in good health with both parents still living into their late 80s, and setting aside the necessary time seemed inconvenient.

Nonetheless, there is something about finding myself essentially naked (except for the hospital gown) on a hospital gurney with nurses attending to me that lends itself to a strong sense of being in the moment, and an awareness of my mortality. It seemed clear to me that should something come out of left field to usher me towards an early exit from this world, it wouldn’t be so much fear of the unknown of death that would consume me as a basic anxiety about the care of the persons I love and how they would manage without me. I trust that in the journey into unknown beyond this life I would be safe in God’s hands. The safety of those who rely upon me; that is the one that is harder to feel at ease with.

Apparently my body is all right, but a sense does remain of having been initiated into the society of those who are compelled to ponder their mortality and submit to the humbling of being a patient. The nurse who cared for me mentioned that she had these procedures done on herself every three years, so in the end, the caretakers take turns being those who are cared for, and this mortality is shared by us all.