Lately I’ve been kicking around II Corinthians 4:16: “So we do not lose heart. Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day.” As I ponder these words, I guess I’m somewhere between believing that they are true because I am experiencing them and hoping they are true because, well, I hope they are true.

I know the first part is certainly true; the outer nature is wasting away. A long time ago I got to the point on life’s journey that I stopped wondering who the guy in the mirror is and started wondering who the young fellow in the old photographs was. I am sure some of the physical things I clearly remember doing when I was young just can’t be true. I am equally sure that feeling like I am Rocky Balboa, ready to go fifteen rounds with Apollo Creed, just because I was able to skip my afternoon nap actually isn’t all that impressive. I’m not saying that I’m not a reasonably healthy sixty-four year old; it’s just that I’m sixty-four and the outer nature is persistently wasting away.

The good news is that the second part of the verse appears to be true as well. The inner nature is being renewed day by day. I believe I am seeing more clearly, loving more dearly, following more nearly than I ever have. Truth is, the outer wearing down makes this inner growth more likely. When we are young and strong we easily believe that we are independent and don’t need anyone or anything. We are more susceptible to the fallacy that there is some kind of giant scoreboard and power, possessions, and prestige are how we keep score. But, when our bodies let us down and maybe when we hit a few bumps (brick walls) in the road we begin to realize there’s no scoreboard, only life and love in the here and now. We become more willing, as one prayer says, to “give up everything contrary to true religion.” We become less willing to hide or worry about having the right answer or pretending that we are something that we are not. That holy person, with all the right answers, that person simply doesn’t exist.

Here in the third stage, it is a bit easier to see things as they are. The simple truth is, there is pain with life, we are flawed, we do hurt one another, and we do tend to worship pretty much anything other than the great I Am. But, this too is true; the universe is wondrous, we have been given life from God, and we do, however incompletely, love. We experience all these true things (live and move and have our being) in the divine presence that promises to never leave us or forsake us. This is the presence that heard our borning cry and the last thing we will do on this earth is breathe its name. It is this eternally abiding Presence that makes everything sacred.

So it’s OK that the outer is wasting away. We had a good time and it still has its moments but its time is passing. The true adventure is with the One who said, “I am the Way, Truth, and Life.” That’s where we find our way.

To walk in the way, to embrace truth, to live; this is my prayer.

Several times over the last few days, I have been reminded to keep Christ in Christmas. More than once I have been told that Christmas isn’t about the tinsel, the gifts, the food, the parties, and it isn’t enough to say “Happy Holidays.”

I suppose all that is true. Christmas, for Christ followers, is not built on those things. It is centered in incarnation. But, I must confess that all those “nots” left me wondering exactly what I’m supposed to do with the tinsel, gifts, food, gatherings, and friendly greetings. I felt like I sure was spending a lot of time on things that weren’t the real Christmas.

Then I came back to incarnation, God with us, and I realized that Christmas actually can be found in each of the above. In fact, that may be the simple and profound truth of Christmas. We can recognize and bring the presence of Christ into all the trappings and activities of the season. Perhaps we are actually experiencing God with us when we are awed by beautiful decorations, when we lovingly give and receive presents, when we eat with gratitude, when we celebrate and rejoice in one another’s company, and yes, when we smile and say, “Thank you. Happy holidays to you.” Wonder, love, generosity, and thankfulness, all those things are signs of God’s presence.

I believe that recognizing that and being that for one another is how we keep Christ in Christmas.

So, I am thankful for each one of you that share this amazing thing called life with me. Thank you for sharing your wonderful selves. Thank you for being Christ to me in so many ways. In other words, Merry Christmas.

Like a lot of folks flirting with ninety, my Dad often talks about having more friends that are dead than ones that are still alive. I suppose that is true. In fact, my posse of those passed is getting pretty big in its own right. But, sometimes if feels like they haven’t gone anywhere. Sometimes I realize they are still here. They live in the stories, their life lessons endure in my heart, they come to me in my dreams.

As I write this, leaves are falling from the trees just outside my window. These are leaves that were nourished by last year’s leaves, and in a few months they will nourish next Spring’s leaves. They carry in their cells the leaves of the past and they will be a part of the leaves of the future. The connection is forever. We too are forever connected to one another, both materially and spiritually. The veil isn’t as thick as we think.

A lot of us can testify concerning times a reminder seemed to have come from a loved one long dead. Perhaps it was a rainbow, a song on the radio, or a cardinal at the bird feeder at just the right time. There are a lot of whispers and winks from the other side.

Today (November 1) is All Saints’ Day, a day we remember and give thanks, not just for the upper case Saints, but for all those that have gone before us. We are thankful for the paths they have shown us and the love they gave. More than that, we remember that even now they surround us and cheer us on, like a passionate, home crowd as we take our turn on the field. (Hebrews 12:1) Again, the veil isn’t as thick as we think. Death is more a bridge than a wall.

So, once a year we are invited via the church calendar to remember and over the next few days I am going to do just that. I am going to remember my mother, my grandparents, mentors, teachers, and friends. And, yes, I am going to ponder a few of the upper case Saints as well. As I remember, I am going to try to hear their cheers. Listen with me.

When I retired from pastoring, they asked me, “What are you not going to miss?”

Not a hard question at all. It actually came to me pretty easily, “I am not going to miss being the chair of the complaint department.”

I don’t like complaining. It wears me out. I was absolutely not going to miss people taking time out of their busy day to call or come by the office to tell me what they didn’t like about the church. So, I was a little surprised to notice the “C” word in the psalm that called me to prayer this morning. “In the evening, in the morning, and at noon I will complain and lament.” (Psalm 55)

Seriously? This ancient worship leader is actually committing to complain to the Lord three times a day? That’s not how I was brought up.

I was taught, no make that, it was drilled into my very fiber, through word and deed, to not complain. “I’ll be alright.” “It doesn’t hurt that much.” “No, I’m fine.” Those are my conditioned responses when life gets a little dicey. I guess that’s why my patience ran thin when folks came by to let me know “a lot of people are saying.”

We. Do. Not. Complain. Actually, we look at complaining with such distain that we don’t even use that word. We call it whining.

But there it was, straight from that part of scripture known as the Bible’s prayer book. Evening, morning, and noon; you’ll be hearing from me about how I’m not good with the way things are going.

So I tried it. I really did. I centered myself, took an attitude of prayer and complained. I mean you can’t go around for years suggesting that people pray the Psalms if you aren’t willing to give it whirl yourself.

Full disclosure, I didn’t jump right in there with a, “I need to speak with the man in charge!” I started with old habits. “Thank you Lord for this day, for all the loving people in my life, for giving me all I need.” And then I came to the part where I was intentionally going to do some complaining.

Hmm, what to complain about? Not the weather; a hurricane was coming to the coast but it’s hard to whine about the weather on a sunny autumn day in the mountains. No complaints in the food department either and a fellow that’s four years cancer free isn’t going to call attention to little sinus issue. Nope, it’s all good here. Sorry to bother you.

Wait. Now that we’ve brought up that hurricane, it doesn’t seem right to me that the vulnerable people of Haiti, the ones that I saw living in tents and plywood boxes, the ones just turning the corner after the earthquake, should have to endure a massive hurricane with no real shelter and no food or clean water at the corner grocery to stockpile.

Oh, and it’s getting painful to live in a political world where fact checking is just part of what we do. I really don’t think leaders should look the people, that they say they want to serve, in the eye and lie. That’s just me but put that one in the complaint box too. Oh, and while we’re at it:
– If you ask me, I think people ought to worry more about getting it right than being right.
– I want the black lives folks and the blue lives folks to start listening to each other.
– And I don’t like that some of my loved ones have chronic disease.
– Here’s another, why do children have to look into the empty eyes of their parents whose lives have been stolen by Alzheimer’s?
– And, why? I dare you to give me some cosmic plan about how it’s actually a good thing that children in Aleppo wonder each night if the bombs exploding will be the last thing they hear.
– I think it’s a piss poor thing that a fourteen year old shoots and kills a six year old.

No, it’s not alright, it hurts a lot, and we are not fine.

I guess I did have a complaint list after all. It went on for a while.

But it wasn’t whining. It was praying and when I was done I believe the Spirit spoke. “I hear you.” The complaint was mutual. To drift into theology for a minute, that is at least flirting with the heart of the cross. “I thirst.” “Where are you God?!?” “Forgive them.”

I don’t think that’s the end of the story. I do believe that somehow the One who said “Blessed are the poor, the ones that mourn, the persecuted…” will comfort and redeem but for now, perhaps it helps to know that we are heard. So,
Lord, in your mercy…
Hear our prayer (of complaint)

I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me but it was certainly pleasant to bump into the Lord a couple of times last week; sort of like, running over to Walmart and bumping into a good friend. “Oh hey! Look who’s here!” It’s always a gift to find yourself in the presence of the great I Am, the One who is; right here, right now.

One of the times was at church. (I guess you saw that coming) Kathryn and I go to a little mountain church that averages around twenty a Sunday. Maybe it’s because there are so few of us and the sanctuary is small, but it is easy to see that we are a pretty diverse group. Some of us have lived all over the country and we made our way to this area because we love living in the forest. We get all excited when we see a beautiful, black bear in our yard. Some of us live on property that our grandparents spent a lifetime trying to tame and think it’s great when one of our neighbors shoots one of those smelly nuisances. Some of us are kind of hybrids. All of us meet at the table, pray for one another, laugh with one another, “sing” with one another, and are somehow herded into God’s presence by Pastor Kim. Kim brings a lot of talent to the game but it is my opinion that her strongest pitch is that she seems to think that we are all awesome. All of us. Anyway, last Sunday I went to Bethel United Methodist in the Crooked Creek area of the Old Fort township and I bumped into the One who thinks we are all awesome. All of us.

I also came by a burning, even though it was soaked, bush the other day on my afternoon walk. I was about half way into my planned hike when the rain started coming in buckets; five gallon buckets. It wasn’t long till I felt like I had been immersed. It was water, water everywhere and actually quite a few drops to drink if you were willing to open your mouth and stick out your tongue. It was refreshing, cleansing, purifying . . . baptismal like. Then the buckets turned to drizzle and the sun pushed the clouds away and said, “Hey y’all, look at this.” After the washing, everything was greener, browner, bluer, cleaner. As I journeyed on, beams broke through the leaves of a tree and created a circle of light on side of the road. Just beyond the circle was a hill where the road bent west into the sun. Like Moses, I turned aside to that altar and stood for a few minutes, washed in light and water, pondering what may lie beyond the bend, knowing that I’ll be met there.

There were other times as well. Psalm 19 spoke to me, for me, “Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable to you, O Lord.” I also experienced something of an aha as I cut grass and pondered the Lord’s Prayer. Did you know that heaven is mentioned twice and it closes with “forever and ever?” Apparently eternity is a big deal.

All this leads me to realize, once again, that we don’t really bump into the one who promised to never leave us or forsake us. We just are occasionally gifted with remembering that we are ever, lovingly, held. As Paul said, “In him we live and move and have our being.”

Richard Rohr says that we experience God in our lives. He doesn’t mean like a roommate. He means in our very life, the I Am in the we am. I’ll confess to feeling a little like Nicodemus here when Jesus said, “You’re a teacher and you don’t know about this?” because I just can’t get my mind around that one. But, I think it is what John points to when he says, “All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people.” (1:4) Life from the Life.

It’s in our life that we encounter God. It’s in our “divine discontent” that cries for more and turns to sighs too deep for words, it’s in our love for one another that endures all things, it’s in the sustenance we receive when we share that love. . . Christ with us. Closer than breath.

Yep, it’s always a gift to find yourself in the presence of the great I Am, the One who is; right here, right now. Look who’s here indeed.

I don’t know much about history but I do know enough to know that these are not even close to the most divided days in our country’s life. Still, it sure can feel like it. Just try talking to your friends and family about Islam, presidential candidates, gun violence, people who identify as LGBTQ in the church, police lives, or black lives and you’ll see what I mean. Even talking about the weather can be a relationship risk because global warming could slip into the conversation! The sad truth is, unless something happens, the future doesn’t look much better. Whoever wins the presidential election will take office with the lowest approval rating ever. That’s going to make for a fun (not) four years on social media. No, these are not the meanest and rudest days in the history of the United States but they sure are wearing me out. I’m tired, very tired, of arguing with people that I love. I’m tired of avoiding conflict by ignoring the elephants (and donkeys) in the room. Somehow, we have to get through this without devouring one another.

It is my strong belief that we are truly in this together and if we can’t find a way to recognize our oneness, the brokenness that we see all around us is our destiny. Scripture teaches it and Aretha sang it when she exhorted us to think about it: “You need me and I need you (don’t cha know), without each other there ain’t nothing we two can do!”

A few days ago a Facebook friend tried to start a dialogue along these lines by asking what we thought we can do to help things. Unfortunately, she stymied my participation when she ruled out my first inclination, which is to pray. She said that her grandmother taught her that, “God doesn’t work through elves at night. If you see something wrong here, likely it is our doing and He expects you to figure it out.” True enough, but I rarely pray for elves and I don’t particularly like prayers that imply that all we need is for God to straighten out all those “other people.” The prayers that I like ask to be shown ways to become a part of the answer. Good prayers ask for the ability to see what needs to be done and the strength to do it. I particularly like prayers like J. Philip Newell’s in Celtic Benediction, “That I may be well in my own soul and part of the world’s healing.” In other words, I appreciate prayers that have a little humility. Those are prayers that change me and when I change, things around me change.

This brings me to today’s text. It’s one that has never been one of my favorites but it popped into my head the other day and the popping was accompanied with an insight that gave it an upgrade in my list of go-to verses. The verse is a pretty familiar one, “If my people who are called by my name humble themselves, pray, seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin and heal their land.” (II Chronicles 7:14)

This hasn’t been a particular favorite for me because, judging by the way some folks use it, the modern paraphrase could be something like, “If those people (you know who we mean) will turn from their wicked ways, we will have a better shot at becoming the nation I want.” But as I pondered it this time around, the word “humble” jumped out at me.

“If my people humble themselves.” What would happen if we humbled ourselves? What would happen if we remembered that our point of view is just that? It’s just our view from our little point on this planet of seven billion people, in this galaxy with its one hundred thousand light year diameter.

When we think about it with clear eyes, the religious fellow that prayed, “I am glad I’m better than everyone else” sounds ridiculous next to the man who prayed, “Lord have mercy on me a sinner.” (Luke 18:9-14)

Humility. Blessed are the meek, the peacemakers, the poor. Graciousness. Mercy. Forgiveness. The 12-step recognition of needing a power beyond ourselves. Seeking more to understand than to be understood. Humble prayer. These are the things that I think will help me be well in my soul and a part of the world’s healing.

Don’t get me wrong. I still have my point of view. I know who I’m going to vote for, I strongly affirm LGBTQ persons as children of God in every way, and I advocate for common sense gun control with my checkbook and through calls to my representatives. But frankly, these are simply my best guesses in a complicated world. What I know, I know, I know, is that He has shown me what is good and what He requires of me is “to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with our God.” (Micah 6:8)

The moon kind of tricked me this morning. When I woke up, a little before five, it convinced me that the sun was about to peek over the mountains.

Nope. That wasn’t going to happen for almost two hours. The extra light was a full moon reflecting the sun’s rays into the bedroom.

But I felt a little tug so I started the coffee and made my way to the loft for morning prayers. There I was greeted by one of my favorite verses, ” The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament (the sky) shows his handiwork.” (Psalm 19:1)

“Declare” “Shows”

It’s now a little after six and I just added to my to-do list, “take a long look at the sky and prayerfully ask yourself what it’s saying.”

Two quick life lessons from my grandchildren. I have mentioned that I have grandchildren, haven’t I?

Lesson one from my granddaughter, the dancing superstar. Her recital was the other night and she was wonderful. She was dressed spectacularly (and knew it), and she and her classmates were flawless (at least as flawless as six and seven year olds ever are at such things). They hit their marks, did cartwheels, forward rolls, and jumped to the music, all while “Working at the Carwash.” Afterward, I told her that she had been fantastic and I hoped that she felt good about her performance. Her response? “I had fun!”

Lesson two from my four year old grandson, the soccer superstar. He is usually one of the smallest on the field but his super power is speed.

In one of the last games of his season, a kid on the other team knocked him down. Some folks would have started crying and stayed down but my little buddy hasn’t backed down in, well, ever. He jumped up and shouted at his opponent, “Why’d you knock me down?” The other fellow’s reply was the classic soccer response, “Cause I’m a ninja.”

Here’s what happened next. Flash realized that the ball was still live so he kicked it around the ninja warrior and into the net. Gooooooaaaaaaallllll!

Flash then looked at the ninja, stuck his tongue out, and jogged back down field.

My daughter wasn’t particularly thrilled with the sportsmanship but my son-in-law, who understands the intricacies of soccer, explained that was just a four year old’s way of politely saying, “I got your ninja.”

So there it is, some days you are looking good, hitting your marks, and feeling the music of life. Enjoy them. Have fun. There’s no guarantee that things will go that way tomorrow so savor it. Because, some days the ninjas knock you down. When they do, don’t be afraid, stay in the game, the ball is still live, so keep your focus on the main thing. And if you want to, in a good sport kind of way, stick your tongue out and say, “I got your ninja.”

This grand experiment of not working for a living is now coming to the end of its first year. I think it is time to stop dodging the question that I have been asked again and again, “How’s retirement?”

Dodging isn’t really the right word. I actually didn’t know the answer. I needed some time to get my balance. Retirement is a pretty big transition and I wasn’t really sure how it was.

It would seem to be a simple question, requiring a simple and pithy answer, but when my tired clergy brothers and sisters ask it, they look at me like it will break their heart if I don’t tell them that it is absolutely wonderful. So, for their sake, let me start by saying, yep, it’s good.

It’s good to be hugged more often by grandchildren, daughters, sons-in-law, my brother, and my father. It’s good to get, and to be able to accept, more invitations to dance recitals, soccer matches, to play with toy cars, and to go fishing in the pond behind my daughter’s new home.

It’s good to focus a little more on my inner life and less on the structural life of the church. It’s good to be just Jim, to have a beer, and to be able to let it slip that I may not have voted a straight Republican ticket for the last thirty years and probably won’t in the near future, without having to go into defense mode.

In other words, it’s good to rest.

I think that it’s worth noting that when Paul was listing all the things that he had suffered; things like, floggings, stonings, shipwrecks, hunger, and thirst; he threw in “and besides other things, I am under daily pressure because of my anxiety for the churches.” I am not a whiner but if you take it seriously, that pastoring gig can wear you down. Anxiety for the church is a real thing. So yes my tired brothers and sisters, it is good to rest.

But here’s the bad news, even when you are retired, it’s still life. There’s still pain, sorrow, grief, and responsibility. Fathers have strokes, friends die, family members go crazy (and think you have). You’re still human and have to say “I’m sorry” a lot. And, God still interrupts and says, “It looks to me like somebody needs to do/say/be something there and I kinda had you in mind,” and sometimes doing/saying/being isn’t particularly easy. So, it’s still life.

Life. You know, love, joy, sorrow, grief, distress, worry, peace, faith, boredom, breathtaking excitement, beauty, anger, moments of courage, moments of fear, ignorance, wonder, presence. . . life, and it’s good. Always has been, still is.

Not exactly a pithy answer but it’ll have to do.

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. . .