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

– My friend, Mike Henderson, says that in The Beatitudes, when Jesus speaks about being blessed it includes the joy we feel when we are in the right place, at the right time, doing the right thing. I like that.

– Lord, I want to see you. See you in all, in every one, everything. Help me see you in those with two legs, four legs, many legs, no legs, and wings.

I want to praise you with the wind, water, earth, fire, and all that breathes.

I want to know you. Know your desire, intention, hope, and plan.

And, I want to represent you. Quietly, confidently, faithfully, humbly, and with love.

– Some days my anxiety is strong. I feel like something of a failure, many things weigh heavy, and worry gets loud.

Spirit, remind me to slow down, walk, trust, be grateful, and just do today.

– Some days I do good. I accomplish stuff, serve, pray, put a check by everything on the list. On those days I am no more loved, accepted, cheered for, or worthy than I was the day before.

And finally,

– I am never as right as I’m sure I am, and I am never as lost as I thought.

Somewhere along the way someone told me that the past is dead and gone. Regrettably, I believed them.

Because I bought into that, I’ve spent a great deal of my life pushing forward, planning, waiting for the next thing, anticipating. There is some value in those things, but leaning too far in that direction comes with the price tag of not properly honoring memories that deserve to be lingered over and cherished.

I think I have been afraid I’d get stuck. Perhaps it felt like I was wasting time dwelling on the past. Maybe I was worried I’d be the old guy that starts way too many sentences with, “I remember when…”

I am now reconsidering all that.

I still don’t want to be that guy. I don’t enjoy watching folks glaze over when I’m talking any more than the next fellow, but I am going to spend a little more time visiting precious memories.

Mary Oliver calls this,

“The kingdom we call remembrance

with its thousand iron doors

through which I pass easily.” (Winter At Herring Cove)

I am going to spend more evenings on the porch, mornings with coffee, and perhaps some afternoons with my feet up, letting my heart pass through iron doors into treasure rooms full of things that make gold ridiculously disposable.

-The room where I watch a beautiful bride walk toward me as I nervously stand at the front of the church.

-Another where I hear the doctor say, “It’s a girl!”

-There’s the one where my grandson reaches for my hand as we walk together through a parking lot.

-Of course there’s that sacred room where my brother and I weep as we keep watch over our father in his closing moments this side of the veil.

-I am going to visit the room where I realize my daughter is woman, true, wise, and strong.

-Rooms where we laugh, cry, catch one another’s eye and smile, say good-bye, try hard to do good, get back up after failing, pray and know we are heard.

-I am going to hold some babies, get licked by a couple of puppies from across the bridge, feel accomplishment for finishing a few races, metaphorical and the kind with kilometers.

Rooms that deserve to be revisited, yes cherished.

There are many rooms packed with wonder-filled memories in this house/life God gave me. They are not dead and gone by a long shot.

One morning at my desk, as the sun peeked over the hills to the right of my window, the hymn, “This My Father’s World” was playing in my head. I hummed its line, “God speaks to me everywhere” more than a few times.

After lighting a candle and praying for a moment, I read a bit in Ephesians. Paul was very excited to tell the Gentiles they were in God’s circle. He talked about it being made known to him by revelation. He said he hoped they too were enabled to perceive the broadness of God’s love, and how God delights in variety. I found it noteworthy that he must have forgotten that one is supposed to throw in a couple strong Bible verses when one starts including people formally excluded.

I then read some Mary Oliver. She broke my heart. Said she did it on purpose, hoping it would never close again to the rest of the world.

Then it was time to sit and ponder. To help me slow down I chose some meditative music called “Tibetan Sunrise.”

According to the rules, my eyes were supposed to be closed, but I opened them just in time to see Brother Sun put a new filter over his lantern. The color of things got a bit richer. Orange? Yellow? Red? You know how the sun is when he’s close to the horizon, can’t make up his mind what he wants to wear.

Things slowed down indeed. I saw my candle burning, and the binoculars I keep on the window sill in case I want to zoom in on a squirrel or a crow. Outside I noticed light on the right side of my tree, shadow on the left. The rhododendron leaves, the fresh lilies, and the poplar limbs still winter bare, were being gently stroked by the wind. I thought about unseen grubs, under the large stones on the hill keeping house. For some reason, I thought about how someone seeing all this from a different point would have a different view.

God speaking to me everywhere indeed. Heart open to the rest of the world: rocks, wind, trees, Gentiles, grubs, Christ. Like the disciples on the Mount of Transfiguration, I wanted to linger.

One morning at my desk.

Toward the end of the first chapter of John, there is a scene on the banks of the Jordan River that my imagination easily enters. Come with me.

John the Baptist and two of his followers are looking over the crowd when Jesus walks by. John points to Jesus, and says words along the lines of, “That’s the one,” and without so much as a goodbye, they leave John to follow Jesus.

When Jesus notices the newbies he asks, “What are you looking for?”

Apparently they take that to mean more than a casual, “Can I help you?” because their answer was not only them inviting themselves to dinner, it’s letting him know they have just enrolled in the University of Jesus, “Teacher, where are you staying?”

I find it easy to picture Jesus looking into their faces, smiling and saying, “Come and see.”

What are you looking for?
Where are you staying?
Come and see.
Three phrases worthy of ponder.

What are you looking for? Christ asked them long ago, asks us today, perhaps in this moment.
I want to have a good answer. It deserves to come from my heart, to be true, to be my best answer.

I think I’ll go with the other two guys. Lord, I want to be where you are. Can I join the team? Where do you stay? Where can I find you when I need you? Teach me.

Here’s where I kind of envy the folks in the Gospels. They went to the house where Jesus was staying. They sat at the table with him. They took long walks with him. They saw his physical body, heard his voice, smelled his robe, and felt his embrace.

Our “where are you staying?” gets the same answer, “Come and see,” but it’s different.

Maybe the answer is actually, “Pay attention, and you will see.”

Pay attention to teachers, like John, who point to Christ and not themselves. Pay attention the heavens that declare God’s glory. Pay attention to creation that groans for a converted world. Pay attention to the cries of the needy. Pay attention to the deep and true desires of your heart. Pay attention to the movement of the Spirit in sacred words. Pay attention to the miracles all around. Pay attention and ponder the vast universe. Pay attention and see the wonder in the tiniest cell.

Sounds like a lot, but we don’t do it all at once. We just do it in only place and time we can do it, the here and now.

Come and see.

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

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

– Funny how the phrase, “All things pass” sometimes makes my heart heavy, and sometimes gives it hope.

– Lord, I believe that it is a good thing to have a designated prayer time. I look forward to reading, asking, pondering, and sitting quietly with the Spirit almost every morning.

It would be good to walk a little closer to you throughout the day as well.

– “We do one thing or another; we stay the same, or we change.

Congratulations, if

you’ve changed.” (Mary Oliver)

– I often wonder what I am supposed to do in all this turmoil. Perhaps for now, I am simply called to be converted, and to live a life that reflects that.

– Read Genesis this month. Seems obvious that scripture is way more mirror than crystal ball.

– I actually, honestly, truly, from deep in my soul, with all my senses, had a wonderful conversation with a waterfall yesterday.

– “When you are lost, stay where you are and I will find you.” (Holy Spirit)

– It is my intention to embrace diversity, for the human race is oh, so diverse.

I will walk in a spirit of equality, for I am not better than anyone, and everyone is worthy of my respect.

I will lean into inclusion, for the Spirit calls me to welcome and include.

– During quiet time this morning, I believe I drifted as far as I ever have in unrelated thoughts. When I came to myself, Spirit laughed and said, “Now, where were we?”

I invited a dear friend and guide that I never got to meet to make a guest post on my blog.

OF THE EMPIRE

We will be known as a culture that feared death

and adored power, that tried to vanquish insecurity

for the few and cared little for the penury of the

many. We will be known as a culture that taught

and rewarded the amassing of things, that spoke

little if at all about the quality of life for

people (other people), for dogs, for rivers. All

the world, in our eyes, they will say, was a

commodity. And they will say that this structure

was held together politically, which it was, and

they will say also that our politics was no more

than an apparatus to accommodate the feelings of

the heart, and that the heart, in those days,

was small, and hard, and full of meanness.

Mary Oliver (1935-2019)

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

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

_________________________________________________________________________

– The Spirit leads us like a mother’s hand on our heart.

– Lord, the simple truth is that I have no idea how to offer thanks, but I am so very thankful.

I hope and trust that you do see my small offerings and occasional showings of gratitude.

I pray that you will keep your hand on my heart, and help me follow. Perhaps pleasing you a tiny bit along the way.

-We are right with God through God’s love for us.

We are right with others through our love for them.

We show our love for all by walking mercifully, justly, and humbly.

We show our love for the one in front of us by recognizing Christ in them.

-There’s no getting around the fact that it hurts and distresses me when people I love say that I am not following God.

-Lord, I do so want to walk with you, but I feel I know how to do that about as well as I knew how to play the fiddle when I took those few lessons.

I needed the frets marked, I had a clumsy touch, and a scratchy rendition of “Mary Had a Little Lamb” was my strongest number.

Teach me Lord. Help me keep walking. Help me make music with my life that is pleasing to you.

– “Birds can fly because they own nothing.” (Mary Oliver)

– “Why am I always going anywhere instead of somewhere?” (Mary Oliver)

-Some days it feels like the world is out of control. To say it’s raging doesn’t come close. There are too many frightening weather events. There are way too many folks drunk on power, using humans as if we are a commodity.

I would give anything to find the switch that calms the storm and to flip it.

That isn’t my role.

It seems my role is pretty simple: Husband/Father/Granddaddy/brother/friend, man servant for three dogs, a little gardening, loving my neighbors, learning to pray, an occasional act of kindness, seeking the truth, trying to stay in my lane on the path of life.

“Queers say ‘huh.’” I could barely hear him.

“Huh?”

“Ha! Jimmy’s a queer!”

Que the laughter. He got me. My face grew hot and red, and the reddening face served as a “get louder” prompt to the others. I was in my early teens, and the recipient of the worst insult of all. That’s where I started.

Well, that’s where I started if you don’t count childhood innocence when I thought that we actually believed Jesus loves all the children of the world.

Fast forward a few years. I’m a freshman at a small Christian college in western North Carolina. One of my classmates is John.

I was an administration favorite. An example of what the school was there for. I had been what was later called “at risk.” An awful student with an acute authority problem. I made a U turn the first month of first semester, and declared for team Jesus. I started making good grades, was a regular at Bible study, and was occasionally asked to travel with the school’s chorus to churches around Tennessee and the Carolinas in order to give my testimony.

The administration didn’t know what to do with John. He was not an administration favorite, and certainly not asked to travel with the chorus. Fluffy shirts, hot pants, prissy as prissy gets. Truth is, I kinda admired his willingness to fly his flag in such an environment.

John heard that I was a Christian, something of leader on the God squad, and he asked me if we could talk. I figured that’s what Christians did, so we met one evening in a room in the library.

I don’t remember that conversation verbatim, but pretty quickly John starting weeping. He said he wished he was like me, said he was sure God hated him, said he would give anything to change, and asked me to pray for him. My heart broke for him. I told him I was convinced God loved him. That was good but, I’m afraid that I probably also threw in that maybe should try a little harder if he really wanted to change. It was 1971. I was eighteen. A rookie.

A couple nights later I was walking past John’s room in our dorm, and I saw that someone, using shaving cream, had drawn a big heart with “John loves Larry” in the middle on John’s door. I didn’t think it was funny, but I did think it wasn’t my business either, so I kept walking. Only for a few steps. Then I remembered John’s tears and desperate cries.

I went to the janitor’s closet, filled a bucket with water, got a mop, and went back to wash the shaving cream off the door before John saw it.

Three comedians came out of the room across the hall. They asked me what I was doing and I told them. They told me to leave it there, and implied something of a threat. I turned toward them, told them it wasn’t funny, and it was coming off.

They must have sensed that the Spirit’s fruit of gentleness hadn’t firmly taken root in my heart yet, so after calling me a “queer lover,” they went back to their room. I remember thinking that attempted slur didn’t hurt a bit. It actually felt good. I think I was feeling something like a born again version of “you bet your ass I am.”

John never knew about the shaving cream. He didn’t come back for spring semester, and the rumors as to why weren’t good. I don’t know what became of him.

Fast forward a few years. It’s the mid eighties, and I am the associate minister for a church in small-town South Carolina. One day the phone rings.

The voice on the other end sounded afraid, and was choked with tears. He got out that he was dying from AIDS and wanted to receive communion. Oddly enough, his name was John too.

John was about my age and over the next few months we became friends. I met his partner who was loving and faithful till the end. I almost overcame my fear of touching him. And we did communion.

It was just him and me, per his request. He was afraid if he came to a regular worship service it would make his father the object of small-town drama, and John’s partner wasn’t big on Christianity, so the two of us met in the sanctuary on a weekday afternoon.

I pulled out all the stops. I put on my pulpit robe, used the acolyte’s lighter to light the candles, and we did high church liturgy. Afterward, we sat in the front pew and talked theology, but not Christology eschatology, or about the Trinity. We talked about life with Christ, being loved, forgiveness, and hope.

He wanted to share what he believed, and he wanted to know what I thought about it. I wish I had recorded that conversation. It was perfect. John believed he was loved, and that somehow he would be welcomed home. When he asked me if I thought what he believed was Christian, I answered, “If that ain’t Christian, there’s no such thing.”

John died. I believe with all my heart he was welcomed home. His last few months were a gift to me.

Which brings us to these days. Over the years, it’s my hope that I’ve grown into the role of ally. I know I have people in my life that represent every letter in the LGBTQ community that make my heart grin when I think about them. And, let me be crystal clear, while not all my queer friends and family identify as Christian, many of them do, and they have blessed me, inspired me, and helped me to love more dearly.

I started this little written journey with “queers say, ‘huh.’” I think that word was on my mind because the other night I went to a Christian, queer, country, folk, rock concert at a nearby church. It was headlined by Flamy Grant and Spencer LaJoye. Check them out. I was blessed, inspired, and experienced love a little more dearly.

On the way home I wondered what would make someone that had been told all their life that they weren’t quite in God’s circle keep writing and singing songs of love.

I’m thinking it must be something real, something transformative, something I think we could all use a little more of.

Huh?

The other day, I was having a very nice walk with an old friend. It was a beautiful day, conversation was good, and then he ruined it. He asked the question I’ve grown to hate.

“So, what you doing with your time since you retired?” Hate it.

I don’t hate it is because I don’t know. I do know. I’m a list guy. I keep track. More like I keep score, but I’ll get back to that in a minute.

He didn’t want an accounting of my time anyway. He’s my friend, and was interested in what’s going on in my life. That should’ve made me feel loved and affirmed, but it didn’t.

For some reason, I felt pressure from within to say something impressive. Something big. Something that would make him think, “Wow, wait till I tell the others!” Certainly something bigger than what I’m actually doing.

What I’m actually doing is living a quiet life. I’m simply enjoying family, friends, and dogs. I volunteer a little, read stuff that attracts me, take walks, and try to listen and be kind in conversations. Oh, and I watch a western now and then.

I’m not sure what I think is wrong with that, and why I feel embarrassed that it’s my life now days. It certainly can’t be healthy to feel like that.

I wish I was more like another friend. One who I actually find quite impressive. She’s been known to say, “I’m just an average person, having an average day.” That feels healthy.

My spiritual director is one of the wisest people I know. Early on in our journey, I shared these feelings with her. I told her that I keep track of my days. I make lists. I keep score. I strive to do something significant every week. Some weeks I even give myself a grade. She sat quietly for a few seconds, smiled with a twinkle in her wise blue eyes, and said, “I think I’m going to help you become a slug.”

Again, that was my spiritual director. Hear it. Her plan to help me along the path of becoming the person I am meant to be was to help me become a slug.

“Just an average person, having an average day.” What’s wrong with that? Do we (Okay I) push back on that because average is a C, and we were (It’s not just me. You were too.) raised to chase A’s and B’s?

And, you know what A’s and B’s get us don’t you? Atta-boys. The Dean’s List. Recognition. Folks are impressed.

Jesus spoke a good bit about the perils of seeking recognition. He said it’s pretty hard to trust God and walk in the way when we are seeking praise from others.

That makes me think that my calling it “recognition” is too nice. Isn’t it really seeking to be worthy, maybe even more worthy than others? Certainly not average.

Try that on, and tell me if it feels Christlike.

I think the next time someone asks me what I’m doing with my time I’m going to try to be brave enough to say, “Living a quiet life. Enjoying family, friends, and dogs. Volunteering a little. Reading stuff that attracts me. Taking walks. Trying to be kind. Nothing spectacular.”

Maybe if I’m really brave I’ll say, “Working on my slug badge.”

I’m not sure it’s a great idea to put all this out there, but here goes.

It stems from my wrestling with Jesus saying, “you shall be my witnesses” (Acts 1:8). Often, I feel like I’m coming up short.

Somehow along the way I got the idea that good witnesses were saintlike, paragons of virtue. Don’t think I’ve ever been described in those terms.

I like to play poker, drink beer, and the other night I said, “shit” when I lost a large pot. And, apparently I do that often. No one seemed surprised.

In some circles this would be more than enough to disqualify me. And for the record, my father would be very disappointed that I typed out and posted one of the above words.

Of course, I haven’t always been so earthy.

Long, long ago, I often checked the witness box. I handed out gospel tracks on busy corners, did a little street preaching, and even did a stint answering phones for a well known televangelist. As in, “call now for prayer, and maybe make a pledge.” I often asked folks if they wanted to pray a prayer that would get them in heaven. (Didn’t use those words, but that was the gist)

More recently, I’ve helped lead retreats on basic Christianity, prayed a good bit with folks who have trouble believing God can love them, and preached more than a few sermons on walking in The Way.

Now days, I am not planning my next street sermon, but I do love to talk with folks, especially doubters. Heavy on listening. And, if they want, I am blessed to pray with them. But I don’t push decisions.

I’ve come to believe it’s a journey, not a plunge. This makes me something of a disappointment to folks who excitedly tell me, “Betsy gave her heart to the Lord last night!”

I think that’s a good thing, sacred even. I just hope Betsy knows that it’s just one step in a long journey. I hope she knows her next step needs to be in a good direction. Even folks that ask Jesus into their heart can wind up in a place where it would have been better if they had remained a free agent. (see the a fore mentioned well known televangelist)

So, I guess I haven’t retired from witnessing. I try to be of service to folks needing a hand, I seek to be a peacemaker, and I don’t hide my love for creation, others, and Spirit. I try my best to walk in the way of Jesus, who loved, lived, and died to show us God.

All that felt like enough till I heard a sermon by a good pastor that made me feel like I may not be cutting it. He said that we are called to not only embrace the way “of” Jesus, but also the gospel “about” Jesus. In other words, who he was and is. The creedal stuff.

I’m going to give myself a passing grade on the way “of.” Not an A, but passing. That’s serving, making peace, and loving. The part about “about” makes me a little nervous.

I’m pretty sure I could still hand in a passing term paper on it. I actually have many, many times, and I often got an A. But, to tell the truth, I’m not sure the Jesus I see in the Gospels would sign off on it.

He talked a good bit more about doing than believing. In other words, walking in the way “of.” When he did talk about the “about” part, the part about who he was, he was clear that part didn’t mean a thing if not accompanied by doing, the way “of.”

Anyway, here’s my question. Is enjoying hanging out with folks, especially those that don’t see it like I do, being a part of their life, loving, serving, seeking peace, and not hiding my commitment to The Way enough? Is that witnessing?

Even if I keep playing poker, drinking beer, and cussing (though not as much out loud as I do in my head.)