The Hands of God 

Because I am a covenant child, I believe
that God carved my name on His palms
Long before the nails did their damage.
But I’d like to see that for myself one day--
My name protected by mangling nail scars.
Astonishing!

I’ve thought about His hands a lot.
Over time I have discovered
that I would receive everything
I needed to live from those hands, and yet,
many, many times I have also
desperately prayed that those hands
were filtering out the particular
"worst case scenarios" which happened to be
tormenting my imagination at the moment
before they could rain down like shrapnel knives
to shred my hopes.

I’ve felt I could heap things there too.
Fears, dreams, longings, trust,
rejections, anger , confusion, questions,
thankfulness.

Regularly, although sometimes reluctantly,
I have also entrusted those I love into His hands.
Gingerly, like I would hand over
pure crystal glass,
fragile and precious.
Eager to caution and anxiously remind Him--
yes, even remind God
whose breath shaped their lives from the beginning--
to "handle with care."
I hold my breath, almost afraid to let go
until I’m assured that he has a good grasp.
You know?
Astonishingly He puts up with that from me.

And then,
I have let those hands take my own,
forged at the time into determined fists,
to express my personal, immutable assessment--
my own signature "grip on reality"--
and massage some grace back into them.

I know I’m supposed to be living
somewhere past Thomas.
but to tell the truth,
one day I, too, want to see the hands of God.

                                Rev. Shirley Heeg

Dear Shirley...

I suspected that my Sunday School teacher had lined up the small, plaster statues on the windowsill while we were singing in the big room.  This was the last session of the year so they would be her parting gifts to us, her 4th grade students.  I can’t remember all of them, but I do remember the one that would become mine — a polar bear.  Even as I balanced it gingerly on my lap during the car ride home, I wondered what this had to do with the Bible.  Maybe Noah’s ark?  Hmm…I was skeptical.  Nothing to do with Jesus.  Or Mary or Joseph.  Or Father Abraham.  Or Moses.  A polar bear made me think of snow – but in June?  Looking closely, I could see that he had sculptured fur as chalky white as my teacher’s hair.  Maybe it was a reminder of her?  

Or was he more like me?  What I remember most about my bear is that he didn’t fit in.  He was an unfinished ceramic piece, neither painted nor kiln-dried.  His pudgy body was an awkward shape to carry around.  Nevertheless, he moved in with me and spent the next few years gazing out from my bookshelf as if trying to see into the distance, into the future.  I liked him.  I have no idea what became of him, but the incongruities still fascinate me.  I guess it's hard to predict what you might take away from Sunday School.  



I did all the regular Sunday School things.  I memorized bible verses to earn my bookmark.  (The bible was a gift, like Grace.)  I was Mary in the Christmas pageant one year.  (Mom told me to sit still and definitely not to scratch anywhere!)  I liked to sing.  I paid attention.  I wondered about a lot of things, most of which were eventually explained to me.  But one of the best things that happened in Sunday School was taking home a weekly magazine called Junior Life.  When I was ten, I sent in my name and address with some information about myself, and — wonder of wonders — it was published!  From that time on, I had penpals!



What follows may seem as unlikely an outcome from attending Sunday School as coming home with a polar bear.  One by one, penpal letters also moved in with me, crammed into a letter rack on the wall or the drawer in my bed stand.  They came from boys as well as girls and from far away as well as close to home.  My little red spiral notebook held addresses from Endwell, New York; Dallas, Texas; Mayville, New York; Woodston, New Jersey; Ashville, New York; Firestone, Colorado; Milford, Illinois; Busselton, West Australia; Fort Smith, Arkansas; Essie, Kentucky; Taranaki, New Zealand; Detroit, Michigan; Frandon, Illinois; Oil City, Pennsylvania; Perkin, Illinois; Ventura, California; Rouseville, Pennsylvania; Soldiers Grove, Wisconsin; Fort Pierre, South Dakota; Fort Smith, Arkansas; Woodstown, New Jersey; Lamar, Missouri; Longmont, Colorado; and a couple from Accra, Ghana.    



Because of these letters, I saved my allowance for stamps; I put stationery on my birthday wish list; I spun the globe on my desk tilting my head to hunt for place names on colored shapes; I curled up on the porch swing with friends I’d never meet; I improved my handwriting; I decorated envelopes with slogans like “Friends-4-Ever” or “2good 2be 4gotten.”  And I joined the world, so loved by God.  



Some correspondences were short-term.  I don’t remember how they ended, much the same way I don’t remember the last time I played with my Terri-Lee doll or put a cassette in the tape deck.  Yet, Sherry and I corresponded for fifty years.  I met her only once when my family was traveling through her area on vacation and her mom and dad invited us for supper.  We were thirteen, I think.  I’d recognize her anywhere though because I have her school photos stashed away in a box along with newspaper clippings she sent me of the Beatles' first visit to the USA.  As we grew up together, our letters grew up with us.  Topics changed from “What have you been doing?” to “What do you think about…?” or, “Have you ever…?”  We got to the heart of things.  We both became teachers, she in elementary, me in secondary, and we exchanged notes about that – literally.  And about the boys we dated, the men we married, the uncertainties that came with pregnancy, parenting, relocating, celebrations, and sadness.  Surprisingly perhaps, we were able to be there for each other without physically being with each other.  I wondered if maybe Jesus felt the same closeness when sending the Holy Spirit to keep in touch.

Penpals have each other’s full attention simply because you can’t read a letter with your eyes wandering.  Sometimes you can’t read a letter from a friend without them tearing up either.  When she knew she was dying of cancer, Sherry sent me one last email: “Meet you in paradise.” She didn’t have to say anything more.  



You probably don’t want to get me started on Sunday School gifts.  (But I’m glad someone did!)

Make something of this.

"Make something of this."  Where I come from, those words could sound like a challenge, preceded by “Oh, yeah?”  Or, perhaps, a despondent muttering, preceded by “How am I ever supposed to…?”  Or well-intended words of encouragement, preceded by “I’m sure you can…” and a patronizing smile.  And all of the above would be wrong because I am not the maker.  

Make the most of it.
Make the best of it.
Make what you will of it.

These are the unspoken assumptions behind the prayers I’ve said morning, noon, and night, tumbling out from my shaky life, as a child, young woman, adult.

Make the most of it.  Such are the prayers we wrap around newborns and pat on the heads of children, aren't they?  Please God, make the most of this child’s life as it plays out, day by growing day.  Where will this lead?  What’s out there?  Let tomorrow be good, God.  May this timid choice become confident.  These first steps lead somewhere grand.  Make the most of this potential.  Let it lead somewhere bright.

And when life compromises our ideal hopes, when I have examined boundaries too closely or picked at sores, when I've careened around dangerously with my inflated air-head, rescue me.  Please.  I've prayed such desperate prayers for damage control in the midst.  Fix my mess.  Help me never to go there again!  Give me another chance.  Incredibly, even then, I dare ask -- no, I dare grasp -- for the best.  We say, "I guess you'll just have to make the best of it," with a tone of resignation. But I’ve heard, God, that you don’t just patch together a semblance and send me out to try again, but rather that you can remake the whole kit and caboodle into a new best.  Oh, do your reversal thing the way you do, God.   Then, as I wait and hold my own breath, a whisper awakens my inner ear.  Perhaps what I want, others might need too.

And now that I’m old?  No one told me this, but I’ve seen it dozens of times:  a faithful light shines in the eyes of a wrinkled, age-speckled face.  Famous last words form a prayer, "Make what you will of it all."  Of what I accomplished, what I left undone, where I hurried, where I lingered.  Of my dreams.  Of my words.  Of my intent.  Of what this all means, of where it’s headed.  I ask not for legacy, nor for reputation, rather, to wrap it up as I turn in my keys.  It’s the prayer of someone who trusts God enough to loosen her grip and let go.  It’s the amazing conclusion that Jesus came to on that last night: make what you will of it, of it all.

These three prayers are the dialogue that has enabled me to go on when I was scared.  These are the captions beneath the photos I snapped, the postscripts scrawled on the backside of the cards I dropped in the mail to my lifelong pen-pal Jesus along the way.  They form my final answer to why. 

They are not words of advice or provocation.  They are not purpose statements or encouraging slogans.  Please, don’t paint them on a board to hang in the den or tattoo them on your wrist.  They are not directions for your life.  

They are prayers.  

They are what blessings are made of.  

Because God is the maker. 

Lord, make the most of it.
Lord, make the best of it.
Lord, make what you will of it.  

SH

Luke 17:11–19  Jesus heals those who have Leprosy

He probably had one of those strange-sounding Samaritan names and once that would have mattered, but it didn't any more.  By now, they had all come to accept that the disease they had in common outweighed anything else placed on the balance.  To be truthful, everything else piled together on the scale could not budge the heaviness of their condition and the lifestyle it imposed upon them.  Besides, by now, no one could tell he was a Samaritan from his features or the color of his skin.  Leprosy had effectively destroyed all of those barriers.  

They were outcasts together, required by law to live in designated areas away from the community (Numbers 5:2-3), to warn people that the were coming whenever they went out for something (Leviticus 13: 45-46).  Being unclean meant no contact with loved ones, no participation with God's people in worship and prayer.  Consequently, they had formed their own group, moved together, spoke together, acted as one unit.  It wasn't much, but it was all they had, these men without nationality, without family, without friends, without faces.  

Until that day when the healer came.  They were fortunate that he came that direction at all, really, traveling the borderland between Judea and Samaria, going to the Passover in Jerusalem.  He might have gone another way, but he didn't.  They didn't dare approach him, but called out very loudly from an appropriate distance, as with one voice, sharing one hope,  Mercy! Pity us! Help us!  Called out those familiar words, words that others usually ignored, but this one turned and saw them. 

He didn’t see them like most people did, though.  If they weren’t being shunned or avoided, they got the look.  You know, ‘I’m keeping an eye on you.’  Not ‘I see you, I value you, I’m drawn to you because of your pain and struggle.’  Jesus sees them and responds differently.  

And then… he sends them to the priests,  Go….  Says it with such a tone that they all go.  All of them, obey him despite that their situation was still impossible; they were not healed, so what could the priest do but turn them away?  Still… and on the way, they were cured, cleansed!  All 10 received the miracle they had longed for.  So they went on, straight to the priest, just as he had told them to.  Glad day!  

In all their gladness and all the commotion, I wonder if anyone noticed that the Samaritan had turned back.  He who had grown accustomed to speaking in unison with them now was speaking in his own voice.  Although still calling out loudly, he had new words.  Words of praise.  He eagerly closed the distance between himself and the healer.  He fell at his feet.  His feet. That close!  The Samaritan differentiated himself from the old group and made the personal choice to show himself to the healer as if the healer were the only priest he needed, the one who restored him to God and others.   

The disappointing part of this story is that 9 were evidently satisfied with their physical cure.  Realistically, all they had wanted was their lives back.  To pick up where they left off.  To get back on their feet again.  

They may have been ecstatic at the moment when it dawned on them.  Amazed to look at each other, to look down at the skin on their arms and legs and see the change!  They may have whooped it up!  Ran to the priests to make it official, ran to their homes and loved ones waving those arms.  Look at this!  They may have made a big deal over the gift they received; we don’t know.  But they definitely did not make a big deal over the Giver.  

This Samaritan had been an outsider long before he got leprosy.  The other 9 had once belonged in this community.  They were going back to the sweet content of acceptance.  The 9 were thankful for, not thankful to.  

But the bible calls us to another level, to be thankful TO.  To see through the gifts to the giver of all good things.  To marvel at the beauty and precision of creation and be grateful to such an amazing creator.
 
It’s the difference between: “I’m glad I got my life back” and “I owe you my life!”  It’s tricky.  We all make lists of things we’re thankful for.  Sincerely.  And that’s good and right.  But if all of those things were suddenly gone, would we still be thankful? That’s the question Satan poses at the beginning of the book of Job, you know:  “Does Job fear God for nothing?” 

Maybe we think we don’t know anyone who has leprosy.  I recently learned a new term.  “Othering.”  It’s about seeing the world as us-versus-them.  It’s a social illness in our world today.  

And I’m not borrowing that word “illness” just to connect with the text.  A few months ago, in an 81 page research document, US Surgeon General, Vivek Murthy declared “widespread loneliness in the United States the latest public health pandemic…According to Murthy, healthcare experts have concrete proof that loneliness impacts a significant part of the U.S. population, causing sensations akin to hunger and thirst.  He defines loneliness as ‘The feeling the body sends us when something we need for survival is missing.’… And we will continue to splinter and divide until we can no longer stand as a community or a country. Instead of coming together to take on the great challenges, we will retreat to our corners – angry, sick, and alone.’” (https://jacksonadvocateonline.com/u-s-surgeon-general-warns-of-high-cost-of-loneliness/)  

Othering.  It’s about fitting in at the expense of labeling others as outsiders.  Othering is one way to meet our need to belong.  
11 The Pharisee stood by himself and prayed: ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other people—robbers, evildoers, adulterers—or even like this tax collector.  (Luke 18:11)
But it’s not the only way.  When a woman who is routinely cast out, finds hope in Jesus and washes his feet in gratitude, he honors her choice.  
47 Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven; hence she has shown great love. But the one to whom little is forgiven loves little.”  (Luke 7:47)

That’s the key.  Remembering what it feels like to be an outsider clears the way for a different choice, to live in gratitude.  The difference between the 9 and this one is that when he sees that he is healed, he exclaims, “God!”

This is about all the things we say we believe in, you know: worship, expressing our gratitude for forgiveness by loving others.  That’s the best part about being seen and included.  It’s such a relief and you feel so grateful to God.  
 So, how are we doing? It’s a familiar passage.  Predictable.  So perhaps as we heard it again, we immediately saw them, the 9, as those “ungrateful ones.”  If so, then we’ve still got some distance to go on that road with Jesus yet.  Because we’ve read that label into the text.  It’s not there.  

In fact, the text points us in the other direction.  We are told that Jesus travels to Jerusalem along the border between Judea and Samaria.  He didn’t have to go that way.  Most Jews who made the pilgrimage avoided it, going through the Jordan Valley instead and they would have taken note of this.    (https://www.biblewhere.com/jesus-travels-routes/)

In other words, Jesus walks along the dividing line between them and their neighbors.  Along the lines that divide us.  Jesus reclaims the word “other.”  He doesn’t condemn the 9.  There are no words of judgment here.  To Jesus, while there’s time, “others” are those who have not come back yet.  And he stands there on the border between them and us, looking down the road for them.

Where are the others?  Love God, Love others.

     I've recently collated some newsletter articles that I wrote to the first church I served after seminary and self-published them into a paperback book.  But I'm not quite sure what to do with it.  

When I started pulling this together, I wanted to make sure those writings existed.  I had some hard copies, but no digital files.  I wanted to revisit some record of that time, those efforts.  I wondered if I still agreed with myself, if my expressed hopes had been durable.  

I also wondered what my grandchildren would imagine that I believed.  Or their children.  Childhood impressions can stick or change.  I wanted to nudge those to grow as they grew, to evolve from a silly, loving and, hopefully, lovable grandma to some semblance of a woman who thought about how life was going on around her, who spoke about it, and who encouraged and urged others.   And I wanted them to give a fair hearing to the lived faith I knew, not the stereotype version that was emerging as a prototype to be sold to future generations.  Or becoming obsolete. 

Last night I dreamed that I was somewhere high enough to get a bird's eye view of a mid-sized city.  Not one of those skyline views from a plane or drone or superhero.  A place between the earth and the bright horizon.  A bird's eye, looking down with a bird's intent, for something.  For a place to land?  To eat?  To join in a birds-of-a-feather chorus?  Maybe. 

I have this book in hand.  I'm just going to lay it down here.  Perhaps someone will spot it.  

Encountering: the handiwork of faith 

SH

I'm taking one deep breath before beginning to type this.  Christmas morning comes on the heels of Christmas Eve, promising a bright dawn after an evening of sacred candlelight services.  But tonight, I don't know if the church where I'm scheduled to preach will gather in the morning or not.  So, I'm back at the computer, reading up on posting a video here.  For them.  For any of you who comes by.  Will start with this advent poem I wrote years ago.  It's about time.   If my sermon video attaches, you may have to search for the link like a shepherd looking for a sign.  God bless us all. 

Thirteen more days
'til Christmas --

We know beforehand
just when to celebrate
the nativity.  We
count shopping days,
penciling activities
on December's blocks,
organizing his birth.

Yet in that first moment
the words
must have been whispered
as they have been
many thousands of times
before and since,
in surprise and surety –

"It's time, Joseph. It's time."
 
Lord, awaken us this Christmas
sharply, suddenly,
that we might gasp
with Mary's joy,
"He's come!"

What-if prayer were like this?

“No running or jumping.”  I am prefacing this entry with those directions, which I’ve heard often (and said myself on occasions), because I’m stammering for words here at my keyboard and I can imagine quick-thinking others speed reading ahead of me, getting what I’m not saying.

Here’s my idea:  what if on my birthdays I were to re-pray the prayers of my life?  What if I were to bow my head over the dinner meal and list my ten year old worries in the hopeful entrusting way I did back then, the way I learned in Sunday School?  “God is good.  I’ve been selfish.  I shouldn’t have taken that.  I don’t want to be punished.  Please.  Don’t be angry with me.  Bless this food.  Amen.”  

Or, the prayer I ran upstairs with, in a rush to get to my bedroom and kneel at the side of my twin bed, the one where I asked God to take care of my dad who was in trouble.  I was scared he would die.  I begged God to take me instead, a less-significant loss.  We needed my dad.  The neighborhood needed my dad.  His work place needed my dad.  His brothers and sister, his Dutch “Ma” who had lost two other children, she needed my dad.  His stoic “Pa.”  And my sweet-faced, mischievous sister with her soft blonde curls, who, I thought, was his favorite, she needed him.  And, especially, my  mom.  I cried.  She would be heartbroken either way, but I’d have to give her up to him, for him.  That’s the painful prayer that taught me about the blessed relief of being spared.  

Or the let-me-slip-unnoticed-past-the-bully-crossing-guard-today elementary school prayer I prayed as I climbed Havana Street hill with heavy steps not entirely due to my clunky boots.   

What if I shook a little today, like I did when I made confession of faith as a sixteen year old girl standing in the front pew of an impressive church in the presence of a large number of powerfully faithful adults and none less than God’s own self?  What if I said here today, not what I recited aloud then, but what whispered under my breath at that moment?  “Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief.  I believe in you Father God, but I’m not so sure I’m as close to Jesus as I should be.  I really hope it’s OK to profess publicly a so-far/so-good faith.  I promise to keep working on it.  To be a learner.”   

Or my absolutely stupid prayers, for our team to win just this once, for him to be at his locker when I walk past, for enough time to make it home before curfew.

Do people in sunshiny states pray while driving?  Nothing fair-weather-friendly about the prayers I’ve prayed with my hands gripping the steering wheel during a blizzard, instead of politely folded in peaceful rest.  I remember those desperate prayers followed by my weak, breaking voice singing “Lead me gently home, Father.  Lead me gently home, Father.  Lest I fall upon the wayside.  Lead me gently home.”  “Fall” rises to a wailing high note in that refrain.  I think it was composed that way on purpose.  I’ve sung it by heart.  I do even when I'm not on the road.  

I remember unbelievable prayer situations.  Timing that is too coincidental to be coincidental.  Surgeons’ untiring and unerring skill.  The sound of the garage door opening, finally.  Decisions that were irreversible, and yet, somehow survivable.  A time when I just knew.    

I have a big file of prayers.  
Sometimes I think, what if, instead of a manual on how-to-pray, some church study group members publicly swapped old, used prayers?  What if our kids overheard us?  What if they heard us say that’s how this works?  

Here’s where I am guessing I’ll catch up with objections or corrections.  Not closeted enough, I suppose.  Yet, on occasion doesn’t Jesus himself pray with eaves droppers in mind?  He even says that right out loud. (John 11:42).   And when asked how to pray, he doesn’t explain different styles or outline parts.  He gives an example. “When you pray, say: Our Father…”  (Luke 11:2).  Maybe we hesitate because putting our prayers “out there” seems radical, attention-seeking, embarrassing, or needy.  Yet, when our claims of God’s help are disconnected from pulse, muscle, skin, and bone, how are our beliefs anything more than lofty ideas, debatable, or selectively dismissible as opinions or theories?

And some will take and run with this next critique, I’m afraid.  Once when a friend dropped off a canning jar full of get-well-from-cancer-soup, she told my husband who met her at the door that she was praying for me although she knew my prayer practices were unusual.  She was alluding to my lack of warriors.  Caring prayers welcome, of course, but I don’t honestly get the quota system.  I didn’t have time then to introduce myself to a new squadron and I didn’t want to put words into months that didn’t come from their hearts.  I have a few friends on speed dial.  They also have my number.  We keep confidential files on each other’s concerns, crumpled pages with lots of margin notes including multiple exclamation points alongside of God’s answers.  And then there’s a church (or two) who have chatted me up enough on my good days to get to know me inside and out and who legitimately want to hold me up as well as hold me close and hold me together.  

If you’re nodding at this point, I’m afraid you might be reading this over God’s shoulder.  Prayer is meeting up.  One of us —God or I—always seems to be waiting for the other.  I’ve muttered to God as I waited in miserable places and murmured with hushed awe in quiet, beautiful places.  But I don’t appreciate unsolicited breezy explanations of where God’s been or what God’s doing.  I can’t hear through that well-intentioned, cheery noise.  It doesn't take away the pain.  Or allow me to discover marvels myself.   

So, cautioning me to remain cautious and reserved, or to go all-out public, or to take consolation in God’s great reputation, that flies like a banner ahead of him — those weary me.  I simply want to pray and remember when and why.    

Maybe my friend spoke truth.  
Maybe my praying practice is unusual.
But I don’t think so. 

Prayer is God’s gift.  
Recalling our talks and remembering is my thank you card.  

SH

Thoroughly

Lately I've been thoroughly washing my hands which leads to washing surfaces which leads to...well, in my case, to sorting and deleting computer files. I know. The connection isn't obvious, but I guess COVID-cleaning and compulsive-cleaning aren't that far apart in my brain's alphabetical filing system. While sorting computer files, I came across this sermon that I'd written in 2011. It begins with an ordinary trip to the store. Maybe nostalgia for that old normal drew me in. Or maybe this is the way normal was supposed to look all along? What do you think? Here's my retro word on the Word of God. 

On Deuteronomy 30:9-14; Luke 10:25-37

'These passages offer us so much to talk about; how to pull it all together?'  Those were my thoughts as I was finishing this sermon yesterday. So when I saw the orange light flashing on my printer and since I didn’t have any more paper to add to the tray, I decided to go to Staples. I also stopped at Target, despite the fact that I knew John would be home soon and we hadn’t eaten supper yet. Wasting time, my mother would have said. I was lecturing myself with her words so I only stayed long enough to pick up one item and hurried to the Express Lane. The cart ahead of me looked suspiciously like it held more than 20 items, but I told myself that I should be patient with others and so I passed the time by concentrating on not sighing out loud and trying not to look as impatient as I felt. And not blaming the person ahead of me for making me late. I couldn’t help but notice, though, that the line started getting longer behind me as well as in the next lane. Meanwhile my clerk was very carefully folding about a zillion pieces of children’s clothing. I sighed before I remembered not to, but – thank heavens - not obviously enough to attract attention to myself. 

     Then the worst case scenario happened in the next aisle. You know what that is, don’t you? A baby started to cry, one of those really wound-up cries. I glanced over, but the mother was answering questions thrown at her by two girls, about this height, 8 or 10 years old, I suspect. They were whining because she was refusing to buy candy. No one was attending to the baby in the cart. I thought, 'why doesn’t that mother pick up that child?'  I thought, 'why doesn’t that mother ask one of those perfectly healthy, strong, young girls to pick up that child, or to rock his car seat gently, or give him his pacifier?'  The mother was getting cranky with the girls; they both gave her sullen looks. The baby cried harder. Everyone was looking at them...even my clerk who obviously should have been paying attention to what she was doing because she had to check the screen a second time to see if she had accounted for everything before ringing up a total. Not much longer, I told myself. But now the clerk was talking with the woman ahead of me about opening a charge account. I re-positioned my single item on the conveyor belt and shifted my weight from one leg to the other. 

And then a funny thing happened. A song started playing in my mind. 'Lullaby and good night, dah, da, dah, da, da da da….' Oh, I know that must have been a very, very old reflex reaction. I haven’t sung a lullaby to a baby in many years. But there it was, loud and clear in my brain. And also in my brain— because of all the times I had read them this week, because of all the information about them that I had stuffed into my head— also in my brain were today's verses from the gospel of Luke, especially, "Which of these do you think was a neighbor?" 

         I was startled. I looked around. Everyone was uncomfortable. Many were sighing and shifting their weight. No doubt, several were thinking judgmental thoughts about this hassled mother and her three children. It was written all over their faces. All over my face, I thought. But I was also still thinking, 'Lullaby and good night…' so I started singing out loud right there in the Express Lane at Target. 

         I am not the sort of person who has ever even pretended to love musicals. Frankly, I have always thought it was pretty hokey that in the middle of the plot, just when everything was getting all complicated and a good solution was needed, someone would pick that moment to burst out in song. But secretly, I guess, I also thought that if, I say IF, that ever were to occur in real life, when one person burst out in song, others would be sure to chime in. Especially when someone was singing a song that everyone knows by heart, let’s say, something as familiar as “Lullaby and good night…”  But, that wasn't the case.  Maybe that explains why “Ooooooklahoma” isn’t entitled “Minnnnnnesota,” you think? 

         By now, my item was checked out and since I had started something by singing, I figured I might as well go all the way. So, still singing, I stepped to the side of the cart that held a very distressed little baby boy only a few months old, and when the mother looked up at me a little confused, I stopped to  ask, “Would you mind if I stand here and rock the baby carrier while you finish?” Do you know what relief looks like? As I rocked the baby’s car seat, I caught the eye of one of the older girls, so I said, “He’s having a hard night.” She replied, sarcastically, “He’s having a hard summer. See, he scratched me.” She showed me two Band-Aids on her arm. The other girl added timidly, “He really likes his Binky.”  I saw the pacifier lying where it had fallen down on his blanket and tested that a moment on his lips. It popped in place almost instantly and there was silence, except for a middle-aged woman still humming. The mother thanked me, really thanked me.  The baby was quiet, and I slipped away while she was gathering up her bags.

         I have helped others before, as you have. But this time, was different because it would have been far less embarrassing to mind my own business. This time I wasn’t completely sure how what I offered might be received before I offered it. To be sure, this time was only a small thing, a baby in the supermarket, d’rein, as the French say when someone thanks them -- nothing. This time, as small as it was, was far less safe than other times I’d offered to help in the past. And this time I was also in a hurry to get home. You see, I had to finish a sermon about the Good Samaritan. And, I had been studying God’s word which says, what I am commanding you today is not too difficult for you or beyond your reach…no, the word is very near you; it is in your mouth and in your heart so you may obey it.

         That’s the illustration, here’s the sermon:  did you happen to notice in the text that Jesus never called the Samaritan “Good”? Neither does he call the priest and the Levite, “Bad.” They all could justify NOT stopping, if they had wanted to, whether for legal, religious, or cultural reasons, let alone, just being late. But the end of the matter is that the first two simply did not act in a neighborly way. They chose to respond with their heads— their better judgment— not with compassionate hearts. 

        We often have compassion for ourselves. We harbor hurt feelings and want others to love and accept us. But a Samaritan while traveling came near him; and when he saw him, he was moved with pity, (v. 33). A heart like that applies the same awareness to the other person’s situation. When we study this passage, we often analyze the different ethnicity and job descriptions of these passersby, but the only difference that Jesus takes into account is their ability or inability to "be moved with pity".

How do we look at the world?  Have I received from my Lord a compassion that overrides logic, ego, and inconvenience?  The right question for us is not "Who is my neighbor?", but rather "How will I be a neighbor?"

 

Photo by Eduardo Soares on Unsplash

It takes me a long time to solve a problem that I don't think I have.

This morning I put on one of my oldest, heaviest sweaters.  It’s a name brand.  It was too pricey years ago when I bought it, but I was on vacation with the girls in Seattle, so I justified the cost as a once-in-a-lifetime purchase, a practical souvenir.  Then too, I often think pricey translates into good quality; in sweater language, that means warmth.  And this brand name is widely acknowledged as synonymous with style.  On a lovely summer day, the off-the-shoulder sleeves, draping hood, and buttonless, open front seemed unique and unusual in a good sort of way, but on more than one cold winter morning since, I’ve muttered to myself, “what-were-they-thinking?”  Or maybe, ‘what-was-I-thinking?’ when I bought this thing.  It’s loose and blanket like.  It’s more of a wrap than a cardigan.  It’s impossible to wear under a jacket.  I can’t add enough pins to keep it closed against a draft.  And yet, this morning, when the temps were dropping like the stock market and the winds were swirling like controversy, I put it on again and tried to pull it tight.

I told myself that it’s warm, stylish, and it matches the new socks I just got for Christmas.  All good.  Then I swiped my fingers back and forth in a tin of old brooches hoping to find a particularly large pin I remember seeing one time.  In luck.  Found it.  Looking in the bathroom mirror, I began the puzzle of where to place it.  I could feel the shoulder seams pressing on my forearms.  I wished they didn’t do that, but pulling the shoulders in place would leave gobs of knitted material in front.  I knew because I had done that a qua-zillion times before.  I glanced up to see the look on my face, like, ‘this is never going to work. Why do I bother?’ And then, the next moment, for no reason, I simply pulled one side across the other.  I didn’t try to make the edges meet, like I had done a qua-zillion times before.  I simply pulled the right front over top of the left front and, with inspired excitement, pinned it there!  Shoulders were in place.  Front was smooth and covered.  The hood rested lightly on the back of my neck.  It may have even sighed.  I think I heard it whisper, “finally.”  Years.  Seriously, for years I have been struggling with this sweater.  I grappled with the push and pull of it, a sweater that reminded me of good times with my grown girls, and yet, that I paid too much for, and isn’t even my color — did I mention that earlier?  And now, here I am sitting on my couch in my cozy home in the wintry woods, drinking hot coffee, and feeling smug in my well-fitting sweater.   

Did I say smug?  I meant snug.  I should not be smug.  Far from smug, way far out, where smug borders on ridiculous.  Not fun territory, but, unfortunately, rather familiar to me.  Sipping my strong coffee, I think this is what I’ve learned:  it takes me a long time to solve a problem I don’t think I have.  Oh, I had a problem with the sweater, but all along, for a long, long time, I assumed the problem was the designer’s stretch for something novel to present, or that it was the grandiose attitude of the retail brand that they could put their name on anything and it would sell, or there was an outside chance that, perhaps, I had made a rash decision, but surely one that was understandable because, hey, I was on a sentimental vacation with my daughters.  All of the above are the real answers to ‘what was I thinking?’  Now, I’m wondering what other problems I assume are someone else’s fault that maybe I can fix by making an adjustment myself. 

          When preparing to preach recently, I came across some well-meaning followers of our Lord responding to critical situations in inappropriate ways, ways that required correction.  When Jesus is arrested, Peter brandishes a sword in defense, slashing off Malcus’ ear.  Perhaps his first instinct was to open up a window of opportunity for Jesus to escape into the darkness?  I don’t know.  That would be a swift-thinking, logical reaction, however.  But it would not take into account Jesus’ own descriptions of what he must face.  It would not be informed by what we know of Jesus’ character, that he is not one to hide in darkness, but rather that he boldly brings light.  So while it seemed good at the moment, perhaps, to Peter, it wasn’t connected to Christ.  Amazingly, in the midst of the scuffle, in the high stakes of that moment, Jesus takes the time to rebuke Peter and set him straight. This must be important. 

Likewise, Paul, a converted and convinced follower of our Lord, stops in Caesarea on his way to Jerusalem.  There, Agabus, God’s prophet whose credibility has already been established earlier, demonstrates how Paul will be taken and bound when he arrives at his destination.  On the basis of this prophecy, faithful Caesareans urge Paul not to go a step further.  Again, this sounds both logical and responsible.  But Paul corrects them despite their heart-felt arguments: “Why are you weeping and breaking my heart?  I am ready not only to be bound, but also to die in Jerusalem for the name of the Lord Jesus,” (Acts 21: 11).  It’s a conversation-stopper, but more than that, it’s a perspective-righter. 

God has given some persons very acute minds, minds that research, analyze, formulate, and articulate statements that are both persuasive and impressive.  He has called some of these to leadership in the church.  Many persons are inclined to nod as they listen to such arguments, following their logic and resonating with the issue they address.  The persuaders.  The persuaded.  I've met these persons often and I find both  difficult to talk with. 

I read one such persuasive argument in a recent blog written by a colleague who claims we are not able to find the unity we long for and pray for because we do not agree on the essential elements on which unity is to be based.  It was a persuasive argument and, to my mind, quite airtight.  Yet, I do not believe it is true.  I have no debate.  I offer no anecdotal evidence otherwise.  My concern is that the argument wields fear instead of the two-edged sword I am more familiar with.     

As Christians we need to be careful that we advise on the basis of God’s will, humbly as we understand it from God’s Word, and that we follow advisers that we recognize to be following Christ.  That we do not follow those who counsel us on the basis of sharp, even brilliant, analysis if it capitalizes on fear, any more than we would follow those who offer tender encouragement if it requires a naïve view of security on our part.   Survival on this earth is not an ultimate Christian goal.  Seeking God’s will is.

In the midst of complicated decisions and in the malaise of troubling times, I am all the more earnest about listening for, watching for, waiting for the wisdom of the mature Christian person of faith. I long to hear that perspective in every small group, every board meeting, every spoken prayer, every sermon.  It’s that essential.

Jesus says:  “Shall I not drink the cup the Father has given me?” (John 18:11).  It’s a rhetorical statement, for what possible faithful answer could be considered as an alternative?  Yet, it  requires time spent with God and a willingness to act on what we trust to be true.

And – one more thing --sometimes it requires us to stop in the middle of what we’re doing or where we’re headed, to explain to those around us that, when we are following Christ, our choices don’t have to look good to everyone and they don’t have to feel good either.  The way is good simply because it leads where God calls us to go.

God’s will, God’s redemptive plan, God’s future of hope – these still unite us.  Our failure to get the details organized to the point of consensus does not diminish any of the above.    

When I first moved to Shelby in my 20's, I had a few brief conversations with one of my neighbors, Mrs. Barnum. (Yes, like the circus, but then again, not, as she explained.) One simple statement she made has stayed with me all these years. How likely is that? I think it made a lasting impression because she said it in passing, not trying to make a big point. It may have stuck because she was mentioning something she did, not something she believed or something she was trying to convince me to believe. Or maybe it's because I thought she had chosen a really improbable challenge and I felt a little sorry for her. Mrs. Barnum said, "Every day I walk to church and pray for an end to the Vietnam War." 

She was elderly. She took care of her elderly husband. My only mental picture is seeing the two of them seated on lawn chairs under a shade tree near their front stoop from which they could see traffic on two intersecting streets. And occasionally chat with passersby. Like me. 

Even now, I have to break up that simple sentence in order to take it in fully. Every day? No breaks for inclement weather? No excused absence for an achey back? I couldn't imagine her walking half a mile to the Catholic church every morning. Perhaps I heard that wrong. Perhaps someone picked her up. But she could have accomplished the same thing while sitting on her sofa with a cup of tea, right? Pray? I understood praying. I prayed, although my prayers were probably accompanied by fewer candles and I'm very sure they encompassed a much smaller radius. Prayers for the end of the Vietnam War? Honestly? That might not seem far fetched today, but it startled me. I'd come from MSU where demonstrators were protesting. I saw pictures of the war zone headlining the TV evening newscasts. And in between those two impressions, in the center, was an elderly woman who straightened herself out to her full height and put considerable effort behind her concern with no guarantees, no end in sight. 

Since then, I've led bible studies on prayer, I've organized prayer chains, I've asked for prayers. I've been to seminary. I've sat in small circles and prayed sincerely and deeply. Yet, my image of faithful prayer is still that soft-spoken, persistent, unassuming, powerless woman with a name like a circus, but then again, not at all like the circus we all live in. 

Prayers for peace this morning.

Signatures

I can recognize my Grandmother’s handwriting whenever I see it, although she is no longer with us.  She wrote with a dipping pen and naturally tended toward the old-fashioned meanings of words.  For example, once I remember her stretching across the kitchen counter to look out the window, studying the sky and saying, “It’s commencing to rain.”  (Well, actually, if she were to describe herself at that moment, she probably would say she was “peering” out the window.)  However, even if none of that were true, I would still recognize her handwriting because it always was beautifully distinctive; it still is.  Bits of her handwriting are preserved on postcards and letters, inscribed inside the cover of handed-down books, or neatly penned on faded recipe cards.  In that way, she left part of herself for the rest of us.   

I understand that penmanship seems to be going out of style today.  I’m typing this on Word for Mac 14.4.2 and it looks like anyone else’s version of Word.   But there’s still something about my hand-written signature that is unique enough to serve as verification of my intention on contracts and other official documents.  Everyone I know – my children, my sister, my husband my friends – everyone writes with an unmistakable signature.  

And that’s what struck me this morning when I read John 21: 15-19.  Jesus asks Peter, “Do you love me?”  Three times asked.  Three times answered.  Tracing each layer makes the question more prominent until the answer becomes, finally, undeniable.   Then the direction, “Feed my sheep.”  It's as if Jesus were saying, OK then, here’s how to make your answer truly emphatic, here's how to press down so that your signature will show on many copies: feed my sheep.  

An aging cement sidewalk 
 with unsightly veins.

And lest Peter think post-resurrection life would be all lilies and roses, Jesus adds this prediction: “Very truly I tell you, when you were younger you dressed yourself and went where you wanted; but when you are old you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you do not want to go.”  Yes, we nod in agreement.  No surprises here as we look back across history from our point in time.  Peter will be humbled by age, of course.  Aren't we all?  But Peter will undoubtedly also suffer many things as he preaches and teaches.  Surely, his life will dependent on the will and agenda of others, for good or evil.  We will be spectators as well as beneficiaries of that.  

At this point John steps in with an explanation.  John, the writer, has a tendency to do this, I think, so we don’t get all dreamy eyed or sad in poignant moments like this and miss the point.  He has already done much the same thing just a chapter earlier when describing the encounter between Jesus and Thomas. There he concludes, “Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.” (John 20: 30-31)  This is John’s signature.  John underscores the lesson he doesn’t want us to miss. 

So, recognizing John’s style, I’m expecting some sort of insight and perhaps even a take-away to apply to my own life.  Here it comes:  “Jesus said this to indicate the kind of death by which Peter would …”  Now, I have to stop myself here and confess that sometimes I read too fast.  In fact, I read so fast that I even tend to fill-in the blanks, jumping to conclusions about where the author is going.  Do you do that?  Did you anticipate John’s next word was going to be “die”?  Did you guess this ending:  “Jesus said this to indicate the kind of death by which Peter would die”?

Sounds likely, sounds accurate, given all we know about the Roman culture of the time and the events that the early church would endure.  But my conclusion doesn’t sound much like Jesus, does it?  Whereas, John's conclusion does: “Jesus said this to indicate the kind of death by which Peter would glorify God.” 

I ought to know by now, I think.  Surely I ought to recognize the signature of God who raised Jesus from the dead!  God’s signature is always large and always ends with a flourish.  Oh, God does seem to press down firmly on every necessary line, but then, God always finishes with a glorious up-swing.  Always.  From First Testament onward, "Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good, in order to preserve a numerous people, as he is doing today." (Genesis 50:20)

After interrupting the flow of the conversation to insert that critical reminder for me, John returns to the scene and, in case I’m still stunned by the direction that this is going, he concludes with Jesus’ deeply-personal, ever-familiar, signature invitation for all of us, “Follow me!”  

Much Grace, 

PS