Thoughts and Musings

Made to meet your Maker

I am standing beside a tiny creek that runs parallel to Hwy. 103, about a mile outside of Mount Airy.  I'm in that area where the ground becomes less firm, and I can feel my black Sunday dress shoes giving in to the soft earth.  I am there with a dozen or so folks, including the family who invited me to be here with them after their loved one died in late spring; invited me to join them behind the small structure on the side of the road that used to house the family store. We've come to this place to spread the ashes of their beloved wife and mother in the creek behind the old store; a space that has deep meaning for them.  Sacred spaces can be hallowed sanctuaries of brick and mortar and stained glass, but they can also be a small creek off a remote highway.  And that is where we are now.

I am standing there with the full realization that I've never done anything like this before.  Funerals and memorial services, graveside committals, even the burying of ashes - I've done plenty of those in my nearly 17 years of ministry.  But spreading ashes in a creek?  This is something new.

They are looking at me to tell me they're ready to begin.  I've planned out a few things to say - but I've also left a lot of space, because I've done this sort of thing long enough to know when I need to script it out and when I need to step aside and get out of the way.  And so I begin by acknowledging the beautiful day, by reading a few scriptures about rivers and water, and by telling them how rivers are a metaphor for life: they flow constantly, and they only flow one way.  There's no reversing the course of the river, and there's no way to stop the water from running the way it goes.  Life, it turns out, acts much the same way.  And so as we commit these ashes to the waters, knowing they will be taken somewhere, I tell them that we commit our loved one to the journey that we are not yet able to go on ourselves.  But one day it'll be our time to take a trip down the river, where we will meet our God and the loved one who went on before us.

I've said all I need to say.  I motion to the widower and his middle-aged daughters, and together the three remove their shoes and step out into the creek, where the water's flow is strongest.  Those standing on the bank are tossing small flowers in, and it is a beautiful scene.

And that is when Mumford & Sons' "Awake My Soul" starts playing.

I'd almost forgotten that they told me they were going to do this - a song they said she loved.  With us unaware, the son-in-law had pulled the car up behind the small gathering and opened its windows, and now the space is filled with that familiar, flowing octave-D intro.  Small flowers continue to fill the air and water as the words come....

        How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes
        I struggle to find any truth in your lies
        And now I am certain of things I don't know
        My weakness I feel I must finally show.

It is never easy to let go of our loved ones when it is their time.  We are created to live; and while dying is a part of life, it's that part further down the river that we can't see.  So we are afraid of it, for ourselves and for others.  And yet, in order to let go, we have to go into our weakness - just as these three were doing, stepping into the chilly water and onto the rocky uneven creek bed, holding each other's hands for both physical and emotional stability.... 

        Lend me your hand and I'll conquer them all
        But lend me your heart and I'll just let you fall
        Lend me your eyes, I can change what you see
        But your soul you must keep totally free

They open the plastic bag and tip the end down so the ashes begin their descent into the flowing waters. The journey has begun.  And as the water turns a smoky white, the descant fills the air around us like a musical benediction:

        Awake, my soul
        Awake, my soul

Yes, we are on holy ground, the likes of which I've never been on before.  

        In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die
        Where you invest your love, you invest your life.

Memories of this person flow through my mind as her ashes now flow through the waters.  Her love for music and the people who shared that love.  Her passion for basketball - which reminds me of the last conversation I had with her at the Hospice home days before her death, when she snapped out of her cancer-driven fog long enough to describe in great detail the ball she was passing to me on some distant court.   Her amazing ability to get along with everyone and smile perpetually, even as her body failed her.  This woman had invested her love in so many places with so many people, and because of that her life would live on long after her remains made their way through the water into the woods.

The bag is now empty, and all the ashes have been sent on their way.  And so the three step out of the water and back on to the marshy land.  Tears fill their eyes, as they are filling the eyes of the rest of us.  A flowing water of a different kind.  The song is now picking up its tempo; the soft-flowing melody making way for the pulsing celebration as the creek begins to return to its normal color...

        Awake my soul
        Awake my soul
        Awake my soul
        You were made to meet your maker

Fifty years later, we still have a dream...

Let's keep dreaming.

 

Full text for MLK's "I Have A Dream" speech HERE).

Standing In The Surf: Substance Trumps Style

(Note: this post is part of an informal series I began a few weeks ago about the future of the church.  You can read my two previous posts HERE and HERE).

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Somewhere out there right now -  I feel pretty certain in this - there's a church having a very hard conversation.  It is talking about change.  It's a conversation they probably wouldn't have had on their own, but they've been forced into it.  Membership is shrinking, giving is down, and the facility is getting older and needs repair.  They have a nice traditional worship service and all the standard church programs and ministries, but the people aren't coming.  So they know they need to change.  And the change they are talking about pains them.  That's because they are talking about ditching their traditional worship for contemporary.  They're talking about giving the organ a long winter's nap and making space up front for a praise band.  They're talking about hiring a pastor or youth minister whose reputation is more "cutting edge" than ministerial.  They're looking at building a coffee shop in the narthex.

They are pained just talking about this change.  Worse yet, they will be even more pained when the change they feel they have to make does not bring the people and sustained energy they think it will.  Because it won't.

There's a powerful blog post making the social media rounds these days about why millennials are leaving the church  (a millennial, in case you don't know, is someone born in the last twenty years of the 20th century - so, roughly your current teenagers through thirties).    I read it and loved it.  So did a lot of people.  It's popped up multiple times in my Facebook feed.  Within a few minutes of sharing it on my timeline it had nearly three dozen likes.  And interestingly, it wasn't just the millennials who liked it.  It was people in their 40s, 50s, even 60s and 70s.  It was church members of mine, other Presbyterians, and people from all different denominations.  And - not surprisingly - it was people who don't attend church.  It was men and women, straight and gay; all races, all backgrounds.  A fairly eclectic swath of American humanity.

Why did this article resonate with so many different folks?  I believe it's because of quotes like this:

The assumption among Christian leaders... is that the key to drawing twenty-somethings back to church is simply to make a few style updates – edgier music, more casual services, a coffee shop in the fellowship hall…  What millennials really want from the church is not a change in style but a change in substance.

Yes.  Can I get an Amen.
 
We know the church needs to change, but we're getting the change all wrong.  And it messes things up for both the church and those who aren't here yet.  It messes it up for the church because, when we focus simply on style, we unintentionally sabotage some of the best of what we have to offer.  And it messes it up for those who aren't here yet because we aren't making the kind of change they need us to.  So, once again, the church "just doesn't get it."  And they're right - we don't.

Take worship and music, since this gets a lot of attention in church change conversations. For years, we in the church have operated under the assumption of a false dichotomy: older people want the pipe organ; younger people want a band and a screen. Older people want hymns, younger people want praise rock songs. 

Maybe it's just me (I suspect not), but I haven't found this to be the case.  The older folks I know are happy to sing new songs, provided they're "singable" and have a message they can connect with (which, if you think about it, are two pretty reasonable critieria).  On the other end, when I lead music for youth conferences, I always get fantastic response from the classic, old-school hymns.  At the Montreat Middle School Conference I was part of last month, we sang one tune that took on a life of its own - and I've done this sort of thing long enough to know that, when this happens, you sing it some more.  Which we did.  It wound up being the very last song at the closing worship and provided one of the more spiritually moving experiences of the week.

You know what song it was?  Come Thou Fount Of Every Blessing. Not exactly a recent entry into the praise music genre. Did I mention the part about 600 11-13 year-olds belting it out with conviction and passion?

There is good news for the church, and it is this: we don't have to sell out to get people to come.  In  fact, that's exactly what society-at-large is begging us not to do.  We don't have to compromise aspects of our core identity in a cheap attempt to fill the pews on Sunday morning. 

The bad news: changing substance is a lot harder than changing style.  Anyone can install a screen at the front of the sanctuary or fashion a little coffee shop in the narthex.  Changes in substance, though, involve deep, meaningful, honest conversations among pastors, church workers, church leaders, and the entire congregation about it's sense of identity and mission; and then "daring greatly" and thinking outside of the box to bring about substantive change that pushes the church toward being better representatives of Christ in the world - toward greater authenticity.

You've probably noticed I use the word "authenticity" and "authentic" a lot.  There's a reason for that.  Young people today can pick out a fake in a heartbeat - someone who is simply going through the motions or trying to be someone or something they're not.  And they hate that.  They hate that because, in a plastic, counterfeit, forged, processed, imitation world, people are longing for something real.  And as the blog post highlights, they're telling the church loud and clear:

We want an end to the culture wars. We want to be known for what we stand for, not what we are against. We want to ask questions that don’t have predetermined answers. We want churches that emphasize an allegiance to the kingdom of God over an allegiance to a single political party or a single nation.

I read this and can't help but think: this is precisely what the church is NOT known for these days.  Society hears ad nauseum about the Westboro Baptists of the world protesting another funeral, or congregations throwing their full weight behind radical political ideology, or churches that mistaken a strong sense of personal conviction with arrogant theological certitude where they are always on the winning side.  It is almost as if we're living in some crazy parallel universe where this is the norm.  Where else does a successful organization describe itself by who and what it is not?  Where else does a group grow  by clinging to inflexibility and rigidity?  We're fooling ourselves if we think people see this and go, "Yeah, I wanna be part of that."  They don't want to be part of that kind of church, because even they know it's not being faithful.  Even they know it's not what Jesus wants us to be.

The church does not have to sell out to change.  We can present a more authentic form of Christianity by doing the things Jesus did: loving all people; being comfortably present with others in the uncertain gray of life; aligning ourselves not with a Republican or Democratic agenda but with the kingdom of God agenda; telling and showing people who we are rather than who we are not.  Those substantive changes - and not the stylistic ones - will be what pulls the church back from the precipice toward greater relevance and presence in the world.  And I believe the people will come - because in my conversations with these folks, they really want the church to be the church.  They're rooting for us to get it right so they can come on board and be part of something we should've been all along.

That's what I'd tell that church out there that's contemplating painful changes - not whether it needs to change, but what kind of change it needs.  It sounds terribly cliche; but the change we need to make is to be more like Jesus.  After all, if there ever was an example of substance trumping style, it was that guy.

Grateful on July 4th

Grateful to be an American today, and every day:

Grateful for freedom FROM tyranny and oppression;
Grateful for freedom FOR all people;
Grateful for freedom TO pursue these things, and to do it together, rather than simply acting in my own self-interest.

We're still very much a work in progress. But I'm still grateful today to be an American.

Leadership is...

Recently I've been absorbing various books on leadership - religious and secular.  Of course, these books are a dime a dozen out there and the vast majority of them say the same sort of thing.  But every now and then I come upon one that sticks out from the rest.  Seth Rogen's Tribes is one of those books, recommended to me by my good friend Ed.  Not only is it written in a very different style (short, quick vignettes; no chapters), but Rogen's philosophy is not heavily nuanced and systematic.  It's more straightforward.  And it resonates with much of what I'm experiencing to be the kind of pastoral leadership that churches need in our day and age, especially with all the good stuff NEXT Church is doing.

After reading the book (146 very short pages), I made a list of "Leadership is/Leaders are...." quotes. I'm holding on to this for present and future reference. Lots of good stuff to ponder here.

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Leaders use every technique possible to communicate their passion, connect people and create change.

Leaders believe. Leaders have faith.

Leadership is not management.

Leadership is about creating change that you and others can believe in.

Leaders use passion and ideas to lead people, as opposed to using threats and bureaucracy to manage people.

Leaders empower the tribe to communicate.

Leaders take risks and welcome the criticism that may come because it means they did something worth criticizing.

Leaders are heretics because they change the status quo.

Leaders don't want attention, but they use it to unite other and reinforce a sense of purpose.

Leaders figure out how to step into the vacuums where nothing is happening and create motion.

Leaders are curious because they can't wait to find out what the group is going to do next.

Leaders are effective when they tighten the group by facilitating communication among its members.

Leaders are curious because they can't wait to find out what the group is going to do next.

Leaders who set out to give are more productive that leaders who seek to get.

Leaders understand what they can and cannot compromise on.

Leaders understand that faith leads to hope, and hope overcomes fear.

Leaders go first.

Leaders pubish a manifesto and make it easy for followers to connect with them and with one another.

Leaders aren't afraid to be wrong.

Leaders do what they believe in, paint a picture of the future, and then go there.

Leaders turn donors into patrons and participants.

Leaders really listen.

Leaders stick with a dream for the long haul.

Leaders give people stories they can tell themselves and tell others.  These stories are about the future and about change.

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So, what do you think? What are some others that you would add to the list?

Thank God for Switchbacks

It's 9am on a crisp Memorial Day weekend, and my oldest son and I are sitting on the aluminum bleachers of our town's lone high school.  It's Graduation Saturday, and for all the years I've lived in Mayberry and have received graduation "announcements" from our church's youth, I'm embarassed to say that I never realized those things were actual invitations (note to self: make sure sons' graduation invitations have the phrase "You're Invited" in them).  It's one of those small-town idiosyncrasies that non-natives have to learn on the fly.  It took me ten years, but at least I'm finally here.

Sitting there as the last of the seniors assembled in the south end zone, I knew I'd get to see five of my church's youth flip their tassels.  I knew I'd hear hoots and hollers as folks strolled across the stage to receive diplomas.  I didn't know I'd see the entire senior class interrupt the middle of the ceremony with a nifty dance routine that was obviously the result of some serious rehearsing.  Nor did I anticipate the bellowing horn from the mac truck parked in the parking lot across the way when one student's name was called.

But the biggest surprise of the whole affair came from the words of the class Salutitorian, Elizabeth Dinkins.  Her speech begin innocently enough with the anticipated words about what has been achieved and what promise awaits.

And then, out of nowhere, she says this:

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I grew up in a family of avid backpackers, and at an early age I learned about switchbacks. A mountain trail does not travel from base to summit in a straight line. Instead, the path up a mountain is marked by switchbacks, or one hundred and eighty degree turns in the path that make the slope more gradual and the climb more manageable. As a child, this rather roundabout path infuriated me. I asked my dad why the people who blazed the trail didn’t go in a straight line from bottom to top. Dad explained that such a path would be too steep to climb without injury.

In a long hike, gradual switchbacks characterize the first few miles, typically through wooded terrain with a less than spectacular view. When you break the tree line for the first time, you are struck with your first glimpse of the view that you have been climbing for hours to see. You think that you are almost to the summit. You are wrong. Above the tree line, the view is indeed beautiful, but it is there that the hard work truly begins. The wind whips faster. The air grows thinner. The boulder field lies between you and the summit, and the intensity of your climb only increases. The path is less distinctive and your footing is less sure. It is hard work. It is slow work. The summit is close, but the final steps are a rock scramble, and the most challenging part of your trek.

So it is with life. Each of us will experience personal setbacks and obstacles, some of which will appear insurmountable. These personal challenges are not failures; they are switchbacks. They make our journey towards our goal less direct, but, in the end, more manageable. These switchbacks work to develop our character. It is character rather than accomplishments or knowledge that will shape the way we live our lives.

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It's now around 9:45am, and I am floored.  What an amazingly beautiful thing to say to a group of 138 high school graduates who, in a sense, have successfully climbed one mountain but now stand at the base of yet another.  They need to know that it won't be all smooth-sailing.  They need to know that there will be challenges along the way, setbacks; all the while looking at the peak and wondering why in the world they're walking to the side of it instead of straight up.  They need to know that this is the way life works, that you don't always achieve your goals and fulfill your calling the first time around. 

It's exactly what those eighteen-year olds need to her.  But you know what?  It's what we all need to hear, every last one of us.  I know it's what I need to hear.

Later that weekend I would seek out Elizabeth to congratulate her and thank her for her message, asking if I could get a copy of her speech and use it in this blog.  She seemed genuinely surprised and pleased that her words had touched the heart of someone besides those navy blue robed and capped classmates right in front of her; that it had reached all the way into the upper left corner of the aluminum bleachers.  That's the beautiful thing about words from the heart - they take on a life of their own, carrying far beyond the audience we intended them for.

So now I'm a fan of switchbacks.  See that picture above?  It's the new background on my cell phone, so I see it all the time. I'm even going to try and think in switchbacks now.  If I'm walking from the church to the coffee shop up the street for a quick cup of jo, I might just take a less-than-straight path through a side street or two.  If I've got a task before me, I may refrain from plunging head-first into it with wreckless abandon and instead take a more introspective, roundabout approach.  And when I hit a snag and things don't go like I hoped they would, I'm going to do my best amidst the disappointment to heed Elizabeth's wisdom: it's not failure.  It's just a switchback. Make the 180-degree turn after a brief stop to take in the scenery and keep going.

In case you're wondering, this is not my typical M.O.  I'm a perpetual list-crosser-offer.  I'm a straight line kinda guy.  I'm a classic child of the Western world: set a goal, take the steps necessary, and you'll achieve it. Face it: switchbacks are not in our DNA.

But the journey of life is not all about us.  It's about the journey itself; and the thing is, that journey is more winding and bending than we give it credit for.  And like Elizabeth said so eloquently, switchbacks develop our character; and in the end it's character that truly defines us and not the various mountain peaks we conquer.  If we're in the midst of a switchback, that's the time when we're showing people who we are and what we're made of.  Not when we get to the top.

It's 11am, and the graduation service is over.  I'm seeking out my church youth, dispensing congratulatory hugs and taking pictures. I'm so incredibly proud of them.  I'm thinking about the fact that the son of mine at my side will be doing this himself before his mother and I know it.

But I'm not going to lie: I'm also thinking about switchbacks. A lot.  Who knows, I may be in one right now. If so, it's good to know that's where I am.  At least I'm still on the journey, moving forward.  And even when it doesn't always feel like it, upward.

You Are Loved

This morning I was asked to give the invocation at our local high school for their National Honor Society assembly.  As with my invocation last year, I wanted to try and say something of substance, avoiding the vanilla invocations I suffered through at my high school assemblies back in the day.  If I were seventeen years old and sitting in those seats, what would I want/need to hear? Events of the past few weeks, and especially news that a freshman at a nearby university committed suicide just yesterday, were on my mind as I put paper to pen (well, fingertip to keyboard) and wrote this:

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Would you invocate with me, please...

God, I want to congratulate those who, in a few minutes, will hear their names called and make their way to this stage.  I want them to know how proud we are of them for all their hard work and dedication; and that because we are all inextricably bound to each other as a family of sorts – sharing in each other’s joys and sorrows, celebrations and struggles – in a way their success today is everyone’s success.

But if “invocation” means “calling something out”, then perhaps there’s an important truth that needs to be acknowledged: that the underlying message we are gathering here to lift up today is not “You Are Smart.”  Scholarship, Service, Leadership, Character – these four benchmarks of the National Honor Society stand apart from one another, and can only be united, can only be threaded together in the life of a person by one singular twine, one overarching truth.  And that truth is love.

So as strange as it may sound, the message for today is not “You are Smart,” but "You Are Loved.”  You are loved if your name is called, and you are loved if you name is never spoken.  You are loved if you are first string, second string, or no string.  You are loved if you are in the majority or in the minority; you are loved if you fit in perfectly or if you don’t fit in anywhere.  You are loved if you think you know exactly who you are and where your life is heading, and you are loved if you’ve never been more confused and terrified. You are loved if the words you hear from the adults in your life are affirming, empowering, compassionate, caring; and you are loved if the words you hear from the adults in your life are critical, judgmental, spiteful, even abusive.  You are loved.

And that love is always, always greater than fear.  Greater than the fear that drives some to blow up bombs at marathon finish lines; greater than the hate that incessantly seeks to divide us over stark fault lines, where the “other” is always wrong and at fault; greater than the shame we feel when we are told we’re not good enough or that our worth is fully dependent on being more than enough.  Love is greater than all of that.

So that’s the message I want these fine folks to hear today – those who will be inducted and those who won’t leave their seats.  That you love them no matter what.  And if they let that love carry them forward into the wonderful life ahead of them, then maybe, just maybe, they will not only learn to love you and love all of your people.  Maybe they’ll learn the most basic and most difficult kind of love: to love themselves.

We invocate all of this in your name, AMEN.

(on a side note, five of our church's youth were inducted, joining the three already there. Yep, I'm proud.)

Love you! Learn stuff!

Every weekday morning, depending on my wife's substitute teaching schedule, I engage in one of my favorite morning rituals: dropping the boys off at school.  My ten year-old son goes to one school, and he's long past the days of his Dad walking him in.  So we pull up in the circle; he opens the door and steps out, and I tell him the same thing every single morning: Love you! Learn stuff!

I take my eight year-old son to school next because his is closer to the church. Thankfully, he still enjoys his Dad walking him in.  So I park the car and we get out, and he grabs my hand before I reach for his.  I know this will change some day, but you can bet I'm enjoying it now.  I walk him into the lobby area - we used to go all the way to the classroom, but that was years ago.  For this second grader, the lobby is the established point of departure.  The handshake transforms into a brief hug and I say what I've always said to him since his very first day of preschool: Love you! Learn stuff!

A slight change-up this morning.  As we get to the lobby, I ask if I can take him all the way to his class.  Without hesitation he says yes.  But he lets go of my hand - an unspoken compromise, I'm guessing, for my special request.  That is fine.  We walk down the hallway and I playfully grab for his head, and he jukes me in the same way he's accustomed to doing with me on the basketball court at home.  When we get to his classroom, I give him a quick hug, I say my thing, and watch him take his seat before turning and heading to the parking lot.

Maybe he knows the reason I asked to walk him to his class was because somewhere in Boston today, there is a father who wasn't able to do the same thing with his eight year-old son.  Maybe he doesn't.  If I had to guess, I imagine he's aware at some level; because kids are much more perceptive than we give them credit for, and because my wife and I made the decision after Newtown that our boys were old enough to know, that trying to shield them from stuff like what happened in Boston yesterday was futile in an age when our kids are almost as electronically-plugged in as we are.  As long as they know we can talk about our fears and concerns as a family, and that we're all in this together.

God, I'm tired of the sick, numbing ritual our society seems to be engaging in more and more these days: the sudden, out-of-nowhere "breaking news," the multi-tasking of watching cable news and scanning Facebook and Twitter feeds, trying to piece together a puzzle whose final picture we already know we won't want to see; the increasing injury and death counts, the names and pictures and faces and personal stories of ended lives, and the inevitable movie/music star benefit concert televised live on a Friday night with the 888 number scrolling at the bottom of the screen.  I'm tired of the ritual of having one more location stripped of its innocence, a mental checklist we keep and remember: elementary schools, movie theaters, houses of worship, college campuses, summer youth camps, and now marathon finish lines.  I'm tired of the thought that runs circles in my head after the initial shock wears off, when I can momentarily pull my thoughts away from the television screen and the website: Here we go again.  It's a ritual that I hate and despise; and sadly, one that is feeling more and more familiar.

Which is why I so desperately need the other rituals.  The ritual of going to work, of dinner with my family, of running three miles in the morning, of listening to and performing music, of checking in on a homebound church member, of writing a sermon, of a lunch date with my wife, of gathering with the body of Christ on Sunday mornings, of dropping my sons off at school and saying Love you! Learn stuff!  These rituals are the important ones, if for no other reason than they're the very ones those who planted the bombs in Boston want most to disrupt.  They want me to be afraid of going to schools and movie theaters and houses of worship and college campuses and summer youth camps and marathon finish lines and the next unknown place where some unspeakable tragedy will happen.  They want me to live in fear.

I'm not going to give them that pleasure.  It's nerve-racking dropping my boys off at school where they will be somewhere I am not, but I am going to refuse to cave in to the fear they so desperately want me to drown in.  I'm just not going to do it.  I'm going to refuse for me and my family, for my church and community, for a father in Boston who will never be able to drop his son off at school again.  I'm going to keep doing what I do, and I'm going to do it out of love. Which is always greater than fear. Always.

And you better believe I'm going to hold his hand as long as he'll let me.

Thirty seconds of gratitude

When I was in middle school, my aunt spent the night at our house in Raleigh in the middle of some travels. She had a friend with her; another woman about her age whose name I can't remember. I do remember that she was nice and had a warm smile, and that she had a really cool Bible.  I know, just what a minister would say, right?  Bear with me.  The Bible was actually in comic book form, thus having immediate appeal to a 12-year old boy.  I "read" nearly half of it that night before going to bed.

When I woke up the next morning, my aunt and her friend had already left to get an early start on the rest of their trip.  But there was one thing of hers that didn't accompany them.  I found the comic book Bible at my place at the kitchen table when I came down for breakfast.  Inside was a long inscription from its former owner.  She talked about how she enjoyed meeting me and how she was pleased with my interest in her comic book Bible.  Which is why she was giving it to me, since her joy at knowing I'd get a lot out of it exceeded any joy she'd have in keeping it.  She wished me the best and said she'd look forward to our paths crossing again someday.

I haven't crossed paths with that woman since - at least not yet.  But the Bible is still with me.  It sits on the shelf in my office, as it did in the office of my previous church, as it will in every office I ever have.  And the thing is, it's not really there because it's a Bible.  It's there to remind me that God's word can be a heartfelt inscription on the inside flap, and that sometimes the greatest gifts come from those who make a conscious choice to express gratitude in the simplest of ways.

I was reminded of that comic book Bible last night when a link to this article showed up in my Twitter feed, about a note left at a ramen restaurant in Austin, TX.  Scrawled on a napkin to not only the waitress but to the entire restaurant, thanking them for the good food and service and the way both provided a much-needed lift in the person's day.  The result of some pretty awesome ramen?  It's possible.  Slightly over-the-top?  You could argue that.   But I think you'd be selling the author short in either case.  Much like my aunt's traveling companion, this person chose to do something they certainly weren't obligated to do: take thirty seconds to express gratitude.

Of course, those thirty seconds could've been used for something entirely different.  Case in point: the infamous "I give God 10% why do you get 18" receipt left at an Applebees restaurant earlier this year.  You can choose not to leave a tip if you so desire (although that's pretty crappy of you if you do).  But why leave a note about it - and why oh why bring God into the mix?  I digress.

There is yet a third option we have with those thirty seconds, and it's one you and I consistently choose nearly all the time: doing nothing.  We're not overly vindictive or thoughtless along the lines of the non-tipping pastor person.  Nor are we exceedingly gracious or reflective like ramen-napkin guy.  We just....are.  So there are no notes, no inscriptions; we simply move along with the course of things. All things being equal, we're not going to do anything extra with that receipt or napkin because it's not that big of a deal to us.  Because we're in a hurry and don't have time to bother with it.  Because it doesn't even register on our radar.  Because doing nothing is safe.

You and I, our inclination in life is to play it safe.  Self-preservation is built into our DNA, and it charts the course of our daily walk and our lifelong journey.  And this isn't a bad thing - it's a big reason why our species has survived as long as it has.

But there's another reason humanity has thrived, and ironically it's because we don't always play it safe.  We have those wonderful moments where we choose to take risks, step outside our comfort zone, chart new courses, veer off-script and write our own ending. And just between you and me, I wish I were better at recognizing those moments when they came around. I wish I were like my aunt's friend, who rather than instinctively pack that comic book Bible in her travel bag like the nights before, chose instead to veer off-script and write something in it and leave it on someone else's kitchen table.  And to think - thirty seconds is all it took. 

I mean, what would happen - what would seriously happen - if we made a point of going out of our way to be gracious to someone else?  Leave a note on a napkin, shoot a quick text to someone, shake a hand and offer a smile.  Something simple; something unexpected and unprovoked.  This is not some kind of "pay it forward" thing.  This isn't about karma or balancing the universe.  This is simply about taking time to express gratitude for no other reason than the expression itself. 

With our actions - or our inaction - we have the potential to enrich the life of another person, or shame that person, or do nothing at all for that person.  All things being equal, which would you prefer to choose?

Chew on that while I take thirty seconds to write a quick note to the coffee house I'm hanging out in right now.

...And it ended with clean feet

Sometimes, ministry can be pretty monotonous.  Not boring, mind you, but indistinguisable from the day before, or the day after.  They kind of blend together.

And then there are days like today:

• I hunkered down at our local coffee house with four wonderful folks for my bi-monthly Thursday morning Bible study, where we compared the four gospel accounts of the Resurrection. I was reminded by one particularly insightful participant of the importance of women in the resurrection story, and that the men only came after the women told them about it.  I thought this was awesome.
• I put the finishing touches on my Easter sermon and Maundy Thursday meditation. This was an occasion when I appreciated my neurotic tendency, developed in college, to have a paper done a day or two before it was actually due.
• I talked with a family in crisis who once again is thrust into unchartered waters; and the god-awful tug-of-war between wanting to do anything to ease the pain of a loved one and realizing that them experiencing that pain may be exactly what's needed.
• I had a little bit of a pity party. I won't go into the details, but suffice to say that ministry can be a lonely business sometimes, and a pastor's toughest times are when he or she feels like they're out there all by themselves (the comfort, incidentally, is knowing that there are others who totally understand this, including a certain carpenter from Nazareth).
• I visited someone who was taken to our local hospice home just this morning. It is a beautiful and frightening transition; emotions all over the map.  The family asked themselves if there was anything else they could have done, and I knew they had done more than enough.
• I conversed with a friend who is struggling with what church means to them, and how to deal with change.  The conversation ended with them feeling better, as did I (actually, come to think of it, I had two of those conversations today. How about that.)
• I walked on holy ground with someone facing the harsh reality of cancer and the precious gift of every second.  I was reminded of how much I love this person and how much I hate cancer.
• I served communion to the 20+ people who came to our Maundy Thursday service. I admired the way this group tore off huge chunks of bread to dip into the cup, not afraid to take too much, because there always seems to be enough. The body and blood of Christ for you, I said to Emily.  And to you too! she instinctively replied.  That made me smile.
• I washed seven pairs of feet, young and old, using an old stole I wore in the service to dry their feet.  I noticed something that, for obvious reasons, I've never noticed before: how people's feet are different and unique, just as they are.
• When I was done washing the feet of others, Brian came up to me: Is it okay if I wash yours?  Absolutely it was.  And so he did:

There are certainly monotonous days in ministry, where the emotional spectrum remains pretty constant.  Today, my friends, was not one of those days. And you know what?  I'm so incredibly thankful for that.  And for my clean feet.