Me and my Tilley

When my friend, Donna Johnson, was the executive director of Camp Discovery in Blythewood, SC, she had a sign at the entrance which read, “Leave your hats at the gate.”

This actually meant more than if you were a Patriots fan, she wanted to save you from embarrassing yourself by wearing your cap around other people. Her point was that at the camp, everyone was just who they were; no more, no less, and that was plenty. When I passed through the gate, I wasn’t Reverend or Doctor Hunter. I was Jim. Just Jim. For people of The Way, that’s pretty foundational.

The very essence of who we, who were created in the image of God, are is, “Child of God.” That trumps everything; titles, status, education, gender, race, age, physical ability, finances, even sports teams. “This is my son” proclaimed the voice that spoke when the heavens were torn apart at Jesus’ baptism. “This is my child,” says that same voice at our baptism. God claims you. That is the beginning point; it’s all built on that.

I once spent a beautiful spring day at Donna’s place, blowing bubbles into the face of a little girl I had just met. She was around ten or eleven, blind, unable to talk, bound to a wheel chair that reclined because she had no real control of her limbs, and occasionally she needed me to wipe her mouth due to drooling. Donna, a recreational therapist, said that my new friend would enjoy some sensory stimulation so we sat in the shade of a large tree with its new spring leaves, felt the gentle wind, and I blew bubbles on her face. When I had to pause in order to reload, I could tell she was excitedly anticipating the next barrage. Her breathing would become faster, her head would turn in the direction of the last bubble, and there would be a slight, nervous giggle deep in her throat. Then, when a big fat one popped on her cheek she would laugh like one of those babies on Facebook, and I would laugh like one of those babies on Facebook, and her angel would smile, and my angel would think, “He seems to be coming around.”

Who do you think was God’s favorite in that scene? I think the company line is that God doesn’t have favorites. But, my favorite is the little girl, who will never have a degree, never to get a job, never to get out of her wheelchair, always need someone to wipe her mouth, and gave me a gift of laughter I remember ten years later. Perhaps, on her part, she appreciated the nervous fellow blowing bubbles.

Reciprocal. That’s another word Donna introduced into my relational world. Neither of us had a hat on. We were just two children of God, laughing with the angels under a tall tree on a spring day.

This is part of my forest dwelling pondering because around here I am just an old guy that drops in Subway for a tuna on wheat now and then, plays poker on Thursday nights, and talks too much about his grandchildren. Jim.

I used to tell folks that I was retiring as a pastor so I could concentrate on being a Christian. I didn’t mean that as a slam on pastoring. I am completely grateful for my years as a Church leader. I just meant that, for me, thinking about numbers, missions, and other ways to be identified as a vital congregation was getting a little distracting. Those are all good things and they were a part of what I was supposed to think about during  that part my life but now it’s just Jim; trying to live justly, loving kindness, walking a little more humbly with God. Trying to remember that part of me that is the best part, the fundamental part, the part that can’t be earned. The part that was created by the one that fills galaxies and laughs at bubbles with little girls and old men.

No hats. Except a straw one to wear while working in the yard, a Tilley to wear when hiking, a couple Panthers caps. . .

Matthews Creek, which runs through the heart of Asbury Hills Camp and Retreat Center, is worth the trip into the South Carolina mountains. It is a pristine mountain stream, lively in places, beautiful everywhere. You can hear the voice of God, “like the sound of waters,” as it breaks over the rocks its current has smoothed for thousands of years.

Back in the day, when I used to help lead youth retreats from Epworth Children’s Home to Asbury Hills, the creek figured prominently in our stay as we played and pondered in and around it. Since many of the kids had never been to the mountains and had never seen anything like Matthews Creek I used to tease them and ask them to remind me to turn the creek off before we went to bed. I don’t remember anyone ever falling for that. In fact, I have no memory of anyone thinking that it was as funny as I did. It just intrigued me that the beautiful creek just flowed and flowed and flowed, whether I was staring at it in awe or not.

All this came back to me the other day as I hiked to Catawba Falls with a couple of my grands. These Falls are the beginnings of the Catawba River and as you make the mile or so trek from the trailhead to the base of the falls, you wade through the shallow beginnings of the river that takes on tributaries and becomes the basin, that becomes the river, that creates the lakes (Wylie and Norman) that I used to play and ponder on as a boy.

Every time I have visited the falls there have been other people there. There has always been an audience and without exception, all are stuck by the 150 foot majesty that literally fills each of the five senses. No one just looks up, goes ho hum, and turns around to begin the trip back to the trailhead. But, just like Matthews creek, Catawba Falls just falls and falls and falls, whether people are watching or not. Middle of the night? Trail closed? Snow covered and impossible to get to? Thunder storm? Still falling.

Nine months ago I was leading a somewhat public life. Once a week people would gather at the building where I worked and one of the expectations of the day was that I would have something to share with them about our relationship with God. That meant that most of the time when I did my reading and pondered my prayers I would stop and make a quick note when the Spirit spoke. I did this so I would have something I could tell “them” later that week. Reading and praying like that can get your reading and praying off track. You start reading and praying with a focus on having something to tell them.

Now when I ponder and think about God’s love surrounding us  like the sheriff’s posse that surrounds the bad guys so completely that there’s nothing to do but surrender, there’s no one to tell. It is pretty rare; in fact it is very rare, that anyone ever asks me what I think about some spiritual principle. All I do with most of my insights now days is to quietly pray, change my heart O God.

And realize that true life, the gift of life, flows on and on and on. And the true audience, the Living One, the pulling-for-you One, the Loving One, the surrounding One, is always there. It is a living relationship that flows forever and it is bound by the one who is ever present to me. Storms, blocked trails, midnight, still there.

Every creek, every waterfall, every lily, every sparrow, every retired preacher.