“We weren’t the first to arrive that morning. Sitting off in a corner was my new friend, the tax collector, Matthew. He was sitting close to the back corner, on one of the benches against the wall. His head was bowed and his shoulders so slumped and sad looking that it was hard to see that he was actually rather tall and strong.” (The Samaritan’s Friend page 17)

In Luke, chapter 18, Jesus tells a story about two men praying in the synagogue. One is reminding himself, and God, that he is living the good life. He gets it. He’s on God’s dean’s list. He says, “I thank you,” but can you really thank God while patting yourself on the back?

The other man can barely mumble, “God, be merciful to me.” He doesn’t say why he so desperately desires mercy, he just labels himself a sinner.

I’m sure you remember which one Jesus likes best but, let’s not rush to that.

The guy who refers to God once and himself four times while praying certainly isn’t a sympathetic figure, but he is keeping a good Lent. He’s fasting. He’s tithing. He probably didn’t wash last Wednesday’s ashes off till Friday morning. Truth be told, he’s the one I resolve to become every year around this time. Oops.

In spite of our desire to do better, it’s not the religious honor student that finds God, it’s the one that sounds pitiful. The one that’s checking all the right boxes, misses it.

That’s a little distressing. Surely Lent’s invitation isn’t to become pitiful and halt all religious practices.

It is necessary however, to see that Lent’s invitation is more about the heart than actions. Doing this, doing that, doing more of this, and a lot more of that, is a hard and fast way to get nowhere.

The proud man would probably disagree. He wasn’t the one slumped in the corner. His heart didn’t hurt at all. According to his scoreboard, he was winning. It’s likely he went home feeling pretty good about himself.

The man asking for mercy might not want to agree either. His heart hurt. He felt like he was lost. He obviously had some deep regrets, and wasn’t happy with the way life was going. When he shook the rabbi’s hand at the end of the service, he did not say, “Enjoyed it, Rev.”

Is that the price we pay for giving up the merit badge chase? Is this part of what it means to “take up your cross?” Does the pain of falling short push us to the back corner, buried by our failure to be the spouse, parent, friend, person we hoped to be?

This is where good spiritual directors ask, “What do you think God says about all this?” So, what is God saying to us, as we sit back in the furthermost corner?

Like I said earlier, I’m sure you remember which one Jesus likes best.

I can easily picture Jesus, who is sometimes referred to as God-among-us, smiling politely at the proud man as he walks by, on his way to go and sit with his friend in the corner.

It’s harder than checking all the right boxes. Box checking feels good. Heart rending, well, it rends your heart. But, somehow Christ approves and says, “Now you’re on the right track. Where do you want to go from here?”

“As they walked away, I wondered where they were going. I wanted to ask. I wanted to talk some more. What I really wanted was for them to take me with them. Just as I was realizing this, Jesus stopped and turned around. He looked at me for long moment, grinned like he was daring me and said, ‘You want to come?’

Didn’t bother to ask where. ‘Yes. Yes I do?’” (The Samaritan’s Friend, page 10)

The first chapter of The Samaritan’s Friend is my retelling of the marriage at Cana; the wedding recounted in John, chapter two, where the water gets turned into wine. Good wine. Not six dollars a bottle, and bunch of it. A bunch.

I had a hard time writing about that. Not because I have a problem with alcohol in the Bible. I like the idea of Jesus providing good wine at a wedding. It says a lot about him, who he was, and how Christ is present in life’s sacred times. Again, it was good wine and a bunch of it. My struggle is not concerning what the guests were drinking. I struggle with miracles.

Water changing into high quality wine, blind folks instantly seeing clearly, people who have been unable to stand for decades jumping up and dancing; these things are problematic for me.

It’s not because I don’t believe that the One who exists before the universe, and taught bumblebees to fly, can’t pull these things off. And just between us, I’ve witnessed more than a couple of events that defy reasoning and go beyond typical human experience. I just don’t think expecting a life of jaw dropping, rescuing from struggle, miracles is the path.

Going through life thinking that the seas will part and giants will be easily defeated leads to magical thinking. (Magic as in delusional, not magic as in first kisses or babies lying on your chest.)

Seas rarely part, giants often win, and beautiful people are crucified. That’s the reality of it.

Welcome to Ash Wednesday. “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Jesus’s call to come and follow is a call to walk in that reality. It’s a call to know that Christ is present when we throw up after chemo, or weep bitterly, wishing for one more afternoon with a loved one.

Been there. Done that. Christ was present.

Of course, life isn’t all hurling and grieving. There are jokes, hugs, and hearts filled with love. But, hear me, I’ve observed all that coming from a man in a wheelchair.

The peculiar call of Ash Wednesday and Lent is to dare to follow into reality, not a Jesus themed Disney world.

It is a dare. It requires courage, and it requires faith. A faith that trusts that somehow, someway, even though there may be some pretty tough days, the worst word is never the last word.

You want to come?

Rejoice with me friends! My book, The Samaritan’s Friend, has been published and is available in all the usual online places.

Since you follow this blog, I would like to make an offer that holds a small request.

If you would like a free copy, send me an email, Hunter62415@gmail.com and I will send one, signed if you wish. The ask is that after reading it, you post a picture of the book on social media, saying that you read it, and that you also find the book on amazon.com and give it an honest review. Yep, I’m enlisting you as my launch team.

No worries if you have other things on your plate, but if you do read it, I love to hear what you think.

Grace, Jim

In a few weeks I will turn 70, completing my seventieth spin around the sun as they say.

I like saying it that way. A year long trip around our personal star feels cooler than adding another candle to a crowded cake. Plus, it inspires some pondering.

This year, I’m taking the ride with over 7 billion other Homo Sapiens. That’s a bunch of passengers. Over the course of our planet’s life maybe 117 billion of us have been born.

Of course it took us between 200,000 and 300,000 years to do that. Which seems like a long time until you consider that the mountain outside my western North Carolina window is 480 million years old. Which seems like a long time until you consider that the earth is 4.5 billion years old. Which seems like a long time until you consider that the universe is 13.7 billion years old. I’m not sure what was, or how old that may be, before the universe exploded into existence.

On top of it all, we’re invited to consider that the One who started this with such wild extravagance, has no beginning.

Back to our personal star. It’s not surprising that some ancients considered Sol a deity. He keeps us alive, makes things grow, and if he goes out, we go out. I don’t pray to him but I sure appreciate him. He lives in the neighborhood we call The Milky Way, which has between 100 and 400 billion other stars. It’s a pretty big neighborhood, about 100,000 light years across. There are maybe 100 billion such neighborhoods. We call them galaxies.

Meanwhile, on the back deck, there is a spider meticulously weaving her web. She’s hoping a gentleman spider will come by, they’ll hit it off, and she can get her eggs tucked away before it gets too cold. I believe that the One that knows when sparrows fall, the one without a beginning, is somehow in her and with her.

Maybe Adam, the Terminix man, won’t notice her when he comes by next week. I’m not going to point her out.

So here we are, the current Charlotte and me, riding an air bubble around my favorite star.

In the immensity of all this, here’s something I believe about Charlotte the spider. And me. And you. You remember Pooh’s buddy, Tigger? I believe he got it right when he sang, “The wonderful thing about Tigger is I’m the only one.” He is the only one, and I believe we can all sing with him, inserting our names.

In the vastness of time and space, you and I are completely, for ever and ever, unique. There has never been a you, and there will never be another you. That’s true for snowflakes, leaves, spiders, you, and me. If possible, that makes us all, the whole thing, even more amazing and sacred.

My plan when I do hit 70 is to take a walk. Nod to the sun. Watch a leaf fall. Hum a little “All Creatures of Our God and King.” Be glad I was born.

Re-retired. Who knew there was such a thing? I thought out to pasture was rather permanent, and you couldn’t get called up for a rodeo from way out there. I was wrong. The call came in the form of a mildly panicked District Superintendent, but it felt like it came from a slightly higher power. From somewhere I heard, “You wanna go one more time?”

So it was off to First United Methodist Church in Marion NC as interim pastor.

How hard could it be? Just pull out thirty-six or so sermons from the greatest hits file, and coast on home. Well, when I looked at those sermons, I realized that my theology had shifted a little. Those oldie goldies just didn’t fit so well anymore.

That shouldn’t have surprised me. I don’t see how your way of seeing things couldn’t move a bit after fellow-shipping frequently with trees and crows, traveling to a couple of holy places, spending more time with friends who are just over the accepted edges, and listening to folks that made me feel like I needed to stop trying to be a duck, cause they didn’t think I was ugly at all, and probably not a duck anyway.

Oh, and since I had tagged out the first time, two presidents had been elected, I had learned what the word “pandemic” means, and I had to get some new clothes.

I showed up anyway. And this happened:

– I baptized a baby. I whispered to her through my mask that God claimed her, and when I dripped water on her hair and crossed her ridiculously soft forehead, I remembered that God claims me too. God claims us all.

– I sat with some folks when their mother died. I told them hurting is okay. I reminded them that Jesus was pretty serious about death being more a graduation than an end. I said, “She’s truly a part of you. The connection is unbreakable. Love connects and is stronger than everything, even death.” Then I went home, thought about my Mom, and reviewed all that.

-When my time was up, a couple of folks said that I had helped them grow in their relationship with the Spirit. I thought, I’m thankful for that, but all I did was say in some form or fashion, thirty-six or so times: “God loves us, that’s nonnegotiable. Our task is to figure out ways to love God and others. Yep, those others.”

All to say that in nine months of showing up and welcoming, Christ was present. We got to know one another and we were changed. We did a rodeo. One I’m so thankful for.

But it’s my last one. Back to the pasture, way out there.

(In memory of Reverend Warren Owens. I am proud to join him on the list of pastors who served First United Methodist Church of Marion.)

This post is not complete but I am posting it anyway because I don’t believe it will ever be complete.

I have been working on creating a Rule of Life and I want to go ahead and share it, even though it’s work in progress, in the hope that it may prove helpful to you but mostly to increase my chances of living into it.

First, some of the sayings, mini rules if you will, that have inspired me. Many will be familiar to you:
– Love God and love neighbor
-Do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly
-Seek to see more clearly, love more dearly, and follow more nearly
-Practice a life marked by prayer, being present, generosity, service, and witness
-Do no harm, do good, stay in love with God
-Show up, pay attention, cooperate with God, release the outcome

Now,
A Rule of Life
1) Seek God in all things, pray always.
2) Endeavor to keep the question, “What would you have me do?” ever before me.
3) Pay attention, notice, observe creation and remember that you are a part.
4) Be kind, hope in all things to do no harm. Leave a small footprint.
5) Don’t cling, especially to material things.
6) Seek the simple and true in every encounter. Remember to breathe and stay centered.
7) Pursue compassion and love.
8) Welcome others, especially those who may not feel welcome. Practice hospitality.
9) Respect. Honor. Listen well. Hold fewer opinions.
10) Be honest with self and others, seek to dissolve bias and see clearly.

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

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

1/1 Just realized that when I made my list of prominent events in 2020 that I left seeing the Grand Canyon off. What kind of year does it have to be to forget that?

1/12 Finished reading the book of Judges this morning. Probably won’t do that again for a while.

1/15 Pandemic, day… actually one of those biblical days, ballpark a thousand years? Dentist appointment today. Frankly, it feels good to have something scheduled that requires a shower.

1/17 I’m not lost, I’m just entering unfamiliar territory. So, I will pay attention, enjoy the trip, notice, trust, love, listen, embrace the pilgrim’s way.

1/19 Watched, not saw, the sun rise today.

1/20 A new day

1/26 In the Presence, on the Path, I am there; doing all that needs to be done, going where I need to be.

I don’t ponder the Trinity every morning but when I do it sometimes takes me to a place I wasn’t expecting.

What If?

What if the One who created the galaxies, the mountains, oceans, chickadees, tadpoles, daffodils, raindrops, and life;

And the One who welcomed children, gladly ate with sinners, lived compassion, and died trying to convince us that we are loved;

And the One who persistently calls us and inspires us to live in love;

Were One? One.

And what if that One contains us, and we are a part of that One? And what if we aren’t islands, alone, opposed, or separated but One?

Oh, and what if “love your neighbor as yourself” doesn’t mean to love yourself and then love your neighbor like you love yourself? What if it means that your neighbor and you are a part of one another, One?

On the lower part of our property there is a waterfall. Okay, it’s not really a waterfall. It’s where the small creek that runs along our western side takes a steep drop and in one place the water falls almost two feet. Not exactly a tourist attraction but it’s my property and I’ll call it what I want. Waterfall.

I’m not sure where the creek starts but it is too consistent to simply be run off so I’m guessing that if I followed it upstream far enough there would be a spring involved. As to where it goes, considering the general slope of the territory, which is always a good thing to consider when wondering where water is going, I am confident that it eventually connects with the Catawba River.

Recently I cleared a path to a small sitting area on one side of my waterfall so people, and perhaps forest creatures, could sit and ponder there.

It feels like a mini pilgrimage when I walk down the hill from our house, into the woods, and follow the path to this spot. On sunny days, the southern exposure makes it easy to find a warm spot to sit and listen, and look, and feel, and smell, and even taste the stuff of the forest.

Sitting there brings an illusion of solitude until my thoughts turn to the activity below the earth’s surface, or the lives lived in the trees that surround me, and the salamanders who hide under the rocks and perhaps on some level wonder if that little boy that captures them and holds them captive until I make him return them to the creek is with me.

The beauty of this little spot, a tiny spot on this crazy beautiful planet, is more than I can take in. The extravagance of the Creator never ceases to overwhelm. One would think that I would sit there all day simply breathing the forest filtered, mountain air just like Thoreau, Emerson, or Oliver.

I do that a little, but then I notice that bush that could be cut back a little more to improve the visual, maybe those leaves should be swept off that stone, and the water would be prettier if I removed those sticks. Also, I wonder how far our property goes on the other side of the creek. That pole to the south marks one corner but I can’t see the marker to the north from here or remember the angle the line takes. I wonder if twenty minutes is long enough to say that I spent some time meditating at the falls of if I need to go for thirty to give myself full credit…

Dear Jim, stop.

During the first week of every month I spend some time reading over the previous month’s journal entries.
Here are some thoughts from November that jumped out at me.

– Nov. 2: Being still before God doesn’t mean extending a lot of effort to be still. Just. Be. Still. Nothing. Not waiting, not concentrating, not trying to reach some state of consciousness. Just. Be. Still. Not even worrying about listening. God will get your attention if there is something you need to hear.

-Nov. 3: Picked up Fisher two years ago today. Only dog I ever had that wasn’t submissive or aggressive toward other dogs. Who knew dogs can be a non-anxious presence?

-Nov. 6: Noticing that when stressed or fearful I am tempted to hide in magical thinking (“Lord, give me a sign” and such). Need to take a breath and act with wisdom, competence, and practical action.

-Nov. 10: Sometimes I sit outside and think how wonderful it is to own seven beautiful, wooded acres in the NC mountains, to be able to call it mine. Then I notice that the squirrels don’t mind me and the stones that were here when these hills were being pushed up are chuckling at me.

– Nov. 27: Watched a leaf fall this morning; a big yellow one, one of the very last from the tulip poplar outside my window. It banged into a couple of branches on its way down and came to a rest to the right of a stone I had placed there a while back. The entire summer on the tree, breathing and taking in light. Just a few seconds from limb to earth.

A chickadee perched above it and pooped, missing it to the left, but not on the stone. Close one.

This leaf came from a tree that I have watched grow for over ten years. A tree I will, regrettably, most likely have to take down one day as it’s on a hill and too close to the house.

Maybe I saw this leaf, without really seeing it, in the spring when it budded and announced, along with its fellow leaves, the changing season. It was certainly a part of the foliage that blocked my view of the road I will be able to see clearly through the winter.

Now it lies in the sun, awaiting rain, snow, colder days, and its decomposing. Most likely the wind will move it to another spot or two before it finally rests and becomes becomes a part of the soil, then a part of another plant, perhaps a leaf that will bud, bring shade, then fall.

I watched a leaf fall this morning. Not leaves, a leaf.