Somewhere Today

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I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that this MLK Day in America:

– A powerful man with multiple residences, and more money than he will be able to spend, sought ways to gather more without regard to the people his actions will hurt.

-A man, who spent the afternoon begging on a busy street corner, gave his coat to the sick fellow that lives in the tent next to his.

-A bully shoved a young woman that had been assigned male at her birth.

-An grandmother in a nursing home whispered “thank you” to a queer CNA for changing her soiled sheets.

-A frustrated young man posted on social media that everyone that voted for Trump is racist.

-A middle aged man with one of those red hats stopped on the interstate to change a tire for an African American mother and her children.

-A good looking young preacher spoke to a large gathering and used the word “they” scores of times.

-A tired pastor spoke to a handful and used the word “we” a lot.

-And, some as they looked around, and recalled the legacy of King, became more committed to not imitating the powerful, and not hiding the candle of love’s way.

Wrote This, But Can’t Remember Who To Send It To

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I have more than a thousand stories from my time as pastor at the children’s home. There’s one that I’ve never told. Until now. I share it now with love, and because I believe it deserves to be told.

I got to Epworth Children’s Home in Columbia, SC about four years before she did. Of course, she had been in the system her entire life.

She was on her fifth placement, second adoptive family, and third complete name change. That means that in less than fifteen years, she was born, given a first, middle, and last name; put up for adoption, given a new first, middle, and last name; then those adoptive parents decided having a child wasn’t their thing, so she lived in a couple of foster homes until she got adopted again and was given a brand new first, middle, and last name. The newest parents turned her over to a children’s home to “get straightened out.” (I was a part of many meetings concerning her goals and objectives, but was never clear on what “straightened out” meant.)

I am pretty sure she is the only kid I ever cussed in front of. As in, “Damn, you’ve had three completely different names?” “Yep,” she said with a sheepish smile and a shrug.

We’ll call her Rachel here. What’s one more name?

Speaking of names, we were pretty formal at the home when I got there. It was Mr. Smith, Ms Jones, Dr. Brown, or in my case, Reverend Hunter. Rachel went with “Rev” and it caught on.

“What’s up, Rev?” “Where ya going, Rev?” “Can I go, Rev?” “I got a question for ya, Rev.” You’re not that funny, Rev.”

To help you picture her, think taller than average, wavy, light brown hair, fair-skinned, lively light eyes, contagious laugh, smart, poised, and graceful. Depending on her mood, she was completely beautiful, straight up pretty, too cute, or sadly unattractive. She could do them all, but straight up pretty was her go to.

A lot of girls in foster care develop an edge. A tough veneer that’s hard to get through. It’s actually a pretty handy survival skill, but Rachel didn’t have it. She was not tough, perhaps too trusting, and on top of that, she wasn’t very good at basketball.

When I was at the home, girls’ basketball was a big thing. A huge thing. We had a great coach, a good facility, did well in state tournaments, and actually went undefeated over the course of a couple of seasons. A lot of girls became pretty good players. A handful went on to play in college. Rachel came to the gym, and hoped no one would pass her the ball.

I think she was more interested in proms, sleep overs at her friends’ houses, clothes that were stylish, and telling her mom about her day. You know, all the stuff that girls who live in a children’s home don’t have.

She did give a high school beauty contest a try though. I told God it’d be awesome if she did well. Truth is, I told God I’d owe him one if she won.

She was plenty pretty and plenty talented, but white girls fixed up by black house parents, using donated clothes… well, that look is a little too eclectic for an upscale high school.

I told her that winning didn’t matter. I said being brave enough to try as your authentic self deserved a trophy bigger than one those folks could give her. She smiled, said thanks, but her eyes told me she thought she had come in last.

She did excel at church though. Choir, youth group, Bible study, parties with other churches, sharing her faith with folks, and mission trips. I can still see her on a scorching South Carolina summer day, with those paint splattered overalls, a tool belt around her waist, grinning as she told me about her new friends, and the family that lived in the house with the new roof. Hard to say how many adults that week told me how impressed they were by Rachel. “She’s awesome!” “I love her!”

She was a rock star church kid. Except when she wasn’t.

She’d do super Christian for months, and then go on a school skipping, getting high with her current boyfriend spree, and the sadly unattractive look would settle in. I tried so very, very hard to tell her there is a lot of living space between super Christian and lost girl. I don’t know why, but it was always all or nothing for Rachel.

I guess a lot of us have trouble giving up on perfection. Especially if we think it may win us love and belonging. Perfection’s just so damn hard to maintain.

A couple of years passed, and the parents decided to give it another shot. Another couple of years passed, and I left the children’s home and went back to being a regular pastor.

The connection grew weaker, but I’d hear stuff.

It was a bumpy ride. Rachel had a little girl that she gave up for adoption. Then she got her balance, married a loving young man, and they had two beautiful daughters. They were hard working and making it. They got very involved in a good church. Sunday School leaders, the works. Almost perfect. Almost a good ending.

I paused for a bit after writing that last sentence.

It was few years ago, a couple of days after Mothers’ Day, when a former colleague called to tell me that early that Sunday morning Rachel had taken her own life. Sunday. Mothers’ Day.

Of course I went to her funeral. A lot of us were there from the old days. We hugged each other, and didn’t even try to find words. Then we quietly found our seats, and spent the next hour wiping our eyes a good bit.

The pastor did a good job. He held the balance between celebrating her life and the almost unspeakable tragedy. He said she died from mental illness. I thought I was going to be almost okay. Nope.

The family was walking out when the youngest daughter, maybe three or four years old, began to weep and loudly cry out, “No! I don’t want to leave! You said we were going to see Mommy! I want my Mommy! Where’s Mommy?!”

I thought about the Mothers’ Days for the rest of that little girl’s life, and then I cussed in front of Rachel for the second time. This time from the heart, with conviction, and a good bit worse. This time I cussed right at God. It’s been a few years now. Can’t say I’m completely over it.

Addendum: A good friend that was my partner in ministry at the children’s home has connected with Rachel’s oldest daughter, the one she needed to put up for adoption. I’m told the young woman is awesome and wants to learn every thing she can about her birth mother. My friend has shared bunches of memories, and gave her all the pictures she had of Rachel. Except one she keeps in her office.

And she tells her Rachel was beautiful inside and out. Because she was.

I just wish Rachel had been able to believe it.

Granddaddy Musings Post Holiday Season

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Musing One:

Granddaddys are cool toys. They are like magic dragons, or bears that live in hundred acre woods, and a lot like velveteen rabbits. An awful lot like velveteen rabbits.

They buy ice cream, tell stories, holler at soccer games, drink imaginary tea, and the next day help you learn to drive. They know stuff, can do stuff, and make you laugh.

Then one day, you beat them in foosball, they have h-o-r-s-e before you have a letter, and you see that there is a good deal of foolishness mixed in with the wisdom.

And, they wonder why they should expect a sixteen year old and a seventy-three year old to have a lot to talk about. Not an awful lot in common. Except a bunch of love and hearts full of memories. And, that’s a lot.

Musing Two:

My legacy is not going to be that I changed anything. The poor remain, and the powerful continue to take what they want with disregard for the pain they inflict.

The best I can hope for is that I will leave enough evidence for my descendants to see clearly that I was trying to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with God.

My prayer is that when they see this evidence they won’t think I was foolish and weak. I don’t mind being called foolish and weak, but it will mean that they chose a different path.

Musing Three:

There is a growing number of loved ones sitting around the table of Christmas past. Perhaps more than the number sitting around Christmas present.

As more of my heart crosses over, the veil gets thinner.

Sometimes I whisper, “If possible, tell them I said hello.”

And sometimes Spirit whispers, “They said, hey back.”

Autobiography

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Out of silence.

In the womb, I was knit.

Love awakened me.

I spoke, thought, and reasoned as a child.

Love gently called, “Awake, my child.”

I dozed off. Deeply forgetting.

Love shook me. Twice. A third time.

I remembered.

To stay awake I poured a big mug of righteousness. Filled to the brim with rightness.

Love took that mug, gave thanks, and broke it.

Broke the next one too.

Threatened to continue if I didn’t remember to pour in a good bit of fresh mercy every morning.

These days, Love and I walk in the woods. I whisper, “Love, awaken me.”

One day, silence will come again.

I’ll be still. As death.

Love will whisper, “Awake, my love.”

This I believe on every level of my being.

But, if I should die before a I wake.

Throwing Pebbles

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This one is a guest post, written by my former co-pastor, Kathryn Hunter. Pretty proud of her pebble throwing.

This past weekend Nebo Crossing, a large church in Marion, NC hosted the North Carolina Faith and Freedom Coalition. 

The speakers and presenters list included Kristi Noem (She was a no show), Michael Whatley (Trump’s handpicked candidate for US Senator from NC); Dr. Ben Carson; a variety of Fox News and Newsmax personalities, Turning Point speakers, Support Israel groups; and many Republican candidates in mid-term NC races. They had the audacity to call it “The Salt and Light Conference.” 

As one who has lived my life with a desire to follow Jesus Christ, and to be salt and light in the world, I was quite frankly, repulsed. I signed up to join the protestors. 

We were a very small group, no more than ten at any given time, and with many different agendas; climate control, healthcare, budget, vote for the Democrats, etc. I appeared to be the only one motivated by the desire to stand against the co-opting of Jesus. 

My signs read:  “Jesus said, ‘Love your neighbor;’” “Choose Kindness;” and “Jesus said, ‘Feed the Hungry.’” In addition to one slightly more political, “Stop Starving the Palestinians.”

I went to both days of the event. When I got there Saturday,  the first sight, in the church parking lot, was a large Vote for Trump bus covered with anti-abortion messages and pictures of fetuses. And of course, a huge American flag flying above it. That afternoon, most of the car traffic passing us were large, black,  SUVs with tinted windows, and government tags. The kind of cars driven only by the rich.

Sunday was an open- to -the- public worship service. Before then, all events required tickets, so, the feel was different. It seemed that most were regular church attendees and the cars that passed were med-sized SUVs and trucks with Jesus stickers, mixed with Trump stickers. Most folks waved and smiled at us. They wanted us to know that Jesus loved (even) us. They offered us water and invited us to come to church. 

For the most part, we were treated politely, even by the self-professed MAGA woman who tried to save us and almost gagged when she read my t-shirt that  said, “Equity, Inclusion and Belonging.” 

She also felt it necessary to tell me that pastors with MDivs are morons. Hard not to take that personally since I’m a pastor and have a Master of Divinity degree. 

One, very kind woman, with large American flag earrings, came and offered us beaded bracelets. The one she gave me says  “JOY.” We had a good conversation, and her faith in Jesus is real and deep. As I told her, you could see the Spirit shining through her. 

My heart breaks  for those whose faith is being abused and manipulated for others’ hunger for power and gain. She most likely does not know that her church is a White Christian Nationalist Church, or even what that is. 

Not all the actions were kind. We were called “Baby Killers.” Some waved fists and yelled “Power to Israel.” Some rev’ed their trucks and blew past us as we sat two feet from the road. I did not feel threatened, but the police were searching everyone who entered the church for weapons, so evidently they felt threatened

I feel like I tossed a very tiny pebble into a very large pond. Perhaps its ripples will have some effect on others. I pray so. But, for me it was the toss that was important. As has been said by others when asked why they protest – “it will most likely not change them, but I do it so they do not change me.”  

If you are feeling worried, anxious, or fearful about what is happening in our country, I invite you to toss some pebbles – you will feel better.

Nowhere? Everywhere?

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Last Saturday night, a minister friend ask me where I’m going to church these days. Likely he just asked to make conversation, what with Sunday coming and all. I’m confident he didn’t realize I don’t have a short answer for that one. If fact, after I rambled for a minute or so, I bet he was wishing I’d go ahead and say, “nowhere.”

Turns out I stayed up very late that night watching college football, slept in, and began drafting this essay about the time the liturgists in my time zone were reading the call to worship. Maybe the answer actually is nowhere.

I do worship at a couple churches about once a month at each, and there’s one on the west coast I follow a little on line. I give a some money to all three, chat with the pastors, am moved by the music, support their mission events, and consider the folks who call these churches home my friends. So, it’s not quite “nowhere.” But, that isn’t the model I recommended to folks for over thirty years as a local church pastor.

I do practice spiritual disciples daily. I have spiritual friends I check in with concerning soul matters on a regular basis. I study and write, and I hand out food a couple of times a week. Probably wouldn’t qualify as a philanthropist, but I do lean into generosity. I try my best to be caught on the side of justice and mercy in what I say and do. To sum up, I hope to live in such a way that friends and neighbors have good reason to answer in the affirmative if asked if I’m a Christ follower. Does that count? Maybe.

Still, where to I go to church these days?

Quite frankly, I now find church on the other side of those brick walls. Like the psalmist, I believe the heavens sing of God’s glory, and stones can worship. Like St. Francis, I believe the first cathedral is the one outdoors. I am comfortable calling earth “mother” and sky “father.” After all, I am made of of sky, earth, fire, and water. We must be relatives. I preach to, and am often preached at, by woodpeckers, crows, snakes, and trees.

I’ll throw this in there too. Somehow over the last few years, my ability to see Christ in others has extended beyond cute kids. On clear days I can see the divine in the despairing fellow holding the “Help” sign at the stop light. Also in my friends around the poker table, the holy Muslim, and the self-proclaimed atheist. On really clear days I am even able to see the sacred in the fearful ones who seek to divide and oppress.

Maybe it’s part of old age. If you get old and have been paying attention, you realize mercy and forgiveness is the way to go. You see God working in places without a baptismal font or altar table anywhere in sight.

I am not by any stretch encouraging folks to discontinue church attendance. A church filled with the spirit of Christ is a wonderful thing. I have been nurtured and kept by such. I believe I still qualify as a church person.

I am saying though, that for me, the answer to my friend’s question is actually, “everywhere.”

The Choir

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(It probably helps to be looking over a burning candle, out an open window, into a forest, on a drizzly Monday morning, with a hound dog sleeping next to you, but these words came to me this morning.)

The Choir

Occasionally I hear the ever-present, surrounding choir.

It sings while it dances, and its words are many versions of “I love you.”

Sometimes I can’t tell if I am singing along or if I am supposed to simply listen. I think it’s calling me to join in.

It hums, “You are enough. You have enough.” It shushes me when I protest.

Everything, Everywhere

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If there wasn’t a Bible, what would build your faith and guide your life?

That was the question a friend and I kicked around for an hour or so the other day. I think our conversation was podcast worthy.

As we shared our thoughts, both of us were stretched a little because we approached the question from different places. He attends a church that leads with “Bible Believing” when describing itself. I identify more as a Christ follower. While there is some overlap in those positions, there is a difference.

Of course there is another camp that wasn’t represented that day. This third camp is actually the one that inspired the question. The camp of good, moral, loving people that would have trouble locating the 23’rd Psalm. How were they formed into good, moral, loving people? I don’t think it is because they know us folks that can find all 150 of the psalms.

Full disclosure, I approached this time of dialogue firmly believing that the Spirit is speaking through and in all of life. Yes, we know we are loved because the Bible tells us so, but a lot of other stuff does as well.

It’s worth noting that Jesus didn’t say, “After I’m gone there will be a book to guide you.” He said the Spirit will lead us into all truth, and show us some things he hadn’t got around to yet. (see John 16:12&13)

So that was my starting point. After an hour, I came away with the following affirmations.

First of all, the Bible truly contains words of life, words to live by, words like: “God is love,” “Do for others what you’d have them do for you,” “Love your neighbor as yourself,” “God so loved,” “Blessed are the peacemakers,” “God with us,” “In God we live and move and have our being,” “Do justly, love mercy, walk humbly,” I could go on for a while.

But, the Creator is not contained in a book any more than in a holy building or a denomination. This ordained Christian pastor would even say that God is not contained by Christianity. I love that CS Lewis said that Aslan the lion, the Christ figure in The Chronicles of Narnia, was not a tame lion. A theologian named Anselm said, “God is beyond that which can be grasped.” The universe itself does not contain its Creator.

So I would add that along with sacred writings, Spirit also speaks within our very selves. We have a moral compass, we know what it is to love, our being alive connects us like an umbilical cord with the Lord of life. The One who molded us, imprinted us with a divine spark. That’s why that list of passages I typed a minute ago feel more like reminders than new ground when we read them. We remember who we are. We hear the sacred whisper from a place inside us deeper than our bones.

I would also add that same One who speaks to us from deep within ourselves, speaks to us from outside of ourselves. We hear/feel/see/sense the voice of the sacred in all creation. The oceans’ water, the dirt of the ancient mountains, fat clouds, bright sun, gleaming moon, rooted things, four legged things, multi legged thing, no legged things, they all sing the song. Every single one of us has heard/felt/seen/sensed their hymn of praise.

Almost every morning I pray a version of this affirmation:“For God’s Word in scripture, in creation, in relationships, for God’s Word that is in all of life, even in me, thanks be to God.”

So, I invite you to take a deep breath.

Pay attention to each of your five senses. They are conduits of the holy. Listen to your heart. Savor a second and third and fourth deep breath. Allow yourself to be open to the truth that all you are taking in is a sacred gift. I’d be willing to bet a sizable amount that you will hear/feel/see/sense the ever humming Hymn of Love.

Who Are You?

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I am a retired United Methodist minister, seventy-two years old.

Some would say that seventy-two isn’t that old, and most days I agree. Still, I watch the seasons change, and wonder how many more leaf cycles I have in me. There is no getting around it, retirement can feel like the second to last thing on your life’s to-do list.

While that feeling is there, and it is a fact that no one is getting younger; I just don’t believe the retirement chapter is supposed to be the one with a bunch of blank pages. That said, I don’t think a retired pastor’s, or any other retired person’s, immediate question should be, how do I fill those pages? That feels a little desperate. Distant travels, books to be read and written, and beach trips with grands will be there. If you are healthy, there will be stuff on those retirement pages. My deeper question is, who am I now that my name isn’t on the church sign? How do I fill my remaining days with meaning?

Not counting a nine month interim appointment and a couple of forays into church politics, I am a decade into the retirement chapter. Turns out Reverend is a tough label to shake. It feels like I should be a little further down the self awareness road, but ten years after culling my wardrobe to a pretty sparse supply of so-called “church clothes,” I’m still asking, who am I?

I have learned that there is an identifiable second half of life. It’s bad math but some call it the third half. It’s different in a lot of ways from the first half or two. A bunch of things besides clothes don’t fit anymore. If you haven’t tested the water earlier, retirement throws you in the deep end this pool, and it’s time to swim.

This season in our journey has its unique gifts, lessons, and tasks. I am no longer a student. I am not building a career. I am not identified by what I do because I no longer do it. I am an elder. (elder and elderly are two different things) Again, it’s a new and different place in life’s journey. There are new maps, and sometimes they are hard to read. I am growing more comfortable with the edges though, and sometimes a compass will do.

I got pretty comfortable with my role in the church and community. I dedicated my life to the local church, and represented it wherever I went. But, turns out my first name actually isn’t “Pastor.” I am not tethered to the denominational nest anymore. The world is a whole lot bigger than I thought.

It baffles some of my friends and family, but I no longer worry too much about what is orthodox, or Wesleyan, or biblical for that matter. I believe that the essence of those things is written on my heart, and I don’t need to keep checking in with them to make sure I am okay. I now ask, is it real? I worry more about being authentic than I do about being right. Like Pinocchio and the Velveteen Rabbit, I just want to be real.

Put another way, I want to be a real, genuine, spiritual human being. Plainly said, like the Spirit, I want to be one who doesn’t do but is love. Okay, maybe that wasn’t plainly said, but that’s what made Pinocchio and the rabbit real.

A friend challenged me to describe myself without referring to what I do or by the roles I fulfill in my life. In other words, who AM I?

I told him, “I’m me. I’m the me I have been all along.”

Retirement Is a new chapter, but it doesn’t define you any more than that job title did. You are more than a retired whatever. It’s just that now you are freer than you ever have been to lay down your label and be your truest you.

May Thoughts ’25

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During the first week of every month I spend some time reading over the previous month’s journal entries.

Here are some thoughts from May that jumped out at me.

– Could it be that my persistent feeling that I am lacking something is not a burden, but actually a gift? It does keep me moving, searching, watching. “Divine discontent?”

– It isn’t doing things for God that I seek. I seek to do things with God. “Cooperate with the Spirit.” Relationship.

– Take time each day to choose one true statement that you want to pray.

– Some days I only do a little bit. So what?

– Pondering how we (creation, the universe, I, Christ) are one. “In Him we live and move and have our being.”

-A hermit crab on the beach has a better chance of grasping the ocean that I do the Creator.

– My friend, Buddy Phillips (who is my age), wrote something on social media about aging that resonates, perhaps haunts me a little. “We are homesick for a place and time that no longer exists, and that we can never revisit. Nor are we able to family who were there in our company but now only in our dreams.”

And finally,

– What do you give a God who that has everything? To say your heart feels like the quick and easy answer. I guess the trick is figuring out what that looks like.