Banana Peels or Bonanzas

 

You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good . . . (Genesis 50:20)

 

       I once had in my file a cartoon someone had sent me from The Wall Street Journal showing two thieves coming out of a bank, loot in hand, heading toward their getaway car. It was sitting on blocks, having been stripped by local hoodlums while the thieves were robbing the bank. Whoops! Our best laid plans often go astray. We can’t arrange our lives perfectly.

       The Bible tells the story of Joseph, sold into slavery by his jealous brothers. He worked hard and became head of his master’s household. Soon his abilities brought him to the attention of the king, and he was made administrator of the national food bank in a time of famine. One day his brothers showed up, wanting food. Their lives had been imperfect too. Joseph chose the high road and provided them the help they needed. The evil they had intended—and the hard times he had endured as a result—had nonetheless been converted into something good.

       There are surprises throughout our lives that we can’t possibly foresee—flukes and pitfalls, blue skies and earthquakes, flowers and tidal waves. Doors close and then swing open, and we don’t know why. My e-mail today may contain a beautiful poem from a friend or a destructive virus from a stranger. We do well to take Joseph’s path, to look for the best and highest purpose open to us, whatever may occur.

God doesn’t lay banana peels on the sidewalk or cause the accidents resulting from our stepping on them. Neither does God cause us to scratch off the right numbers on the lottery ticket. Those things just happen. What God does do, however, is to fill our lives with his Spirit, enabling us to meet whatever comes with grace and good will. To do so is to practice the presence of God who intends good for us—and through us—whatever circumstances may come our way.

 

 Another Road

 

So he took another road and did not return by the way he had come to Bethel. (1 Kings 13:10)

            Deep in the pages of the Old Testament is a fascinating little story about an unnamed prophet who traveled to Israel in a period of great difficulty and delivered a strong message. He was a foreigner, and his harsh words were vexing to the cruel king. Being no fool, the prophet had a sense that danger awaited him on his journey home. “So,” we are told, “he took another road and did not return by the way he had come.”

            Our subdivision is located near a major east-west artery, the only means of access to or from our house. Watching the busy traffic on that road prompts me occasionally to ask what other means of escape we might have in a time of crisis. What alternate routes are available to us? We can’t go more than one block before we must get on the highway that everyone else uses too. While there’s no immediate threat to our calm little neighborhood, still it’s discomfiting to think there’s only one exit.

            Several years ago on a day off I drove from Raleigh, North Carolina into South Carolina. I could have used the interstate but chose instead to take old Highway 1. It was a slower but far more interesting route, and I enjoyed wending my way through smaller cities that I might otherwise never have seen: Apex, Sanford, Southern Pines, Rockingham. “Another road” provided a pleasant day of sightseeing on my journey.

Alternate routes are good for life’s journey too. Bob, a recent acquaintance, having been laid off in his mid-fifties from his accounting job, decided this was an opportunity to take another road and pursue a lifelong dream of a career in music. I’ve had clients and parishioners too who would like to try something new but who, unlike Bob, were afraid to leave the highway on which they were coasting along. They stayed in cruise control for too long and let the lease expire on their motivation, technical know-how, ambition or curiosity. Inertia took over. They stayed on the familiar road and could no longer imagine any other. 

The story of the foreign prophet does not end happily, for he changed his mind and returned to the common highway, and then—well, something about a lion and a tomb. When his crisis arose, this man chose familiarity over risk, abandoning his newly chosen road home.

 

It's okay to try another road. Find your alternatives....Check the map....Recalculate the GPS....Refresh the resume....Make the plan....And trust God to go with you.

 

 

Copies of Mike's book, You Are Rich: Discovering Faith in Everyday Moments, a collection of 60 faith-related reflections, is available through Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

Stiff-Necked

 

And the Lord said to me, “I have seen this people, and they are a stiff-necked people indeed!” (Deuteronomy 9:13)

 

        I have a theory as to why American auto makers fell so far behind their foreign competition in the 1970s and 80s. Detroit (I lived there at the time) was an isolated island of American car companies. Its residents were mostly company employees with incentives to buy the cars they had made. As company executives drove to work every morning, they saw no problem. They had heard of thousands of imports arriving in California ports but saw only Fords and Chevys around them, so things must be okay. Everything on the roads they traveled had been made by them.

         The Bible uses the wonderful expression “stiff-necked” to describe a refusal to see beyond one’s nose, to interpret reality only in terms that make one comfortable. It is to be set in our ways, stubbornly to deny that we might have more to learn or that change might be necessary and beneficial. We tense up our shoulders, tighten our jaw and dig in our heels. We retreat deeper into our island of denial while the competition—or new opportunity—runs by us.

        We clergy can be stiff-necked. We follow, each of us, the counsel of voices with which we are familiar or comfortable. The hottest trend in ministry or the current book from the latest expert becomes our focus. “This is the way,” we say. “Growth in the church will surely follow this pattern,” we convince ourselves. So desperate are we to be a “difference-maker” (a term currently fashionable in ministerial ranks) that we tune out other voices, resist possibilities peripheral to our vision. I encountered such a colleague recently…stiff-necked, certain that his plans for his congregation are the only way to save its future. In fact, his stubborn resistance to any alternative may be the cause of its demise.

 

    Sir Francis Bacon (1561-1626), the great English philosopher, said, “If a man will begin with certainties, he will end with doubt. But if he will begin with doubt, it is certain that he will end with certainties.” I’ve been discovering that. As I sit loose in the saddle…as I regard the questions of life to be more important than the answers…as I stay open to the possibility that I may be wrong—in matters both great and small—I find a growing faith and a deepening sense of assurance.

        The healthy soul will listen to new ideas without feeling insecure. The winning spirit is open to what’s next without becoming defensive. Effective persons don’t suffer stiff necks.


Copies of Mike's book, You Are Rich: Discovering Faith in Everyday Moments, a collection of faith related reflections, are available through Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

Bruce’s Day

 

(Eli said) “If a man sins against another man, God may mediate for him; but if a man sins against the Lord, who will intercede for him?” (1 Samuel 2:25)

 

        I love the story my friend Mark tells about his brother, Bruce. They were sons of a preacher in New Sweden, Maine. Full of life and occasionally prone to take it too far, Bruce acted up one day in his sixth-grade classroom and talked back to the teacher—who happened to be his father. New Sweden had no more than five or six hundred inhabitants at the time but too many small churches, so Bruce’s dad had to supplement his income by teaching school. “Bruce,” he said, “please report to the principal’s office after lunch.”

        Bruce’s dad, however, was also serving as principal of the school, so when the boy arrived at the appointed hour, he found his father waiting.  “Tell me what happened, Bruce, and why you did it.” At the close of their session, the principal said, “This is a serious problem, too serious for me to deal with. You’ll have to tell this to your pastor.”

        Later that afternoon Bruce trudged across the yard from the parsonage to the church office where he again found his father behind the pastor’s desk. After the boy’s confession, the pastor said, “Bruce, your father needs to hear about this. You must talk to him tonight at the dinner table.” This was hard penance, for it was a large family with many siblings around that table listening.

        At dinner Bruce dutifully recounted his sin one more time, admitting to his father and family that he had talked back to the teacher that day in school. His father said, “We don’t have time to deal with this now because it’s almost time for your baseball game.  But you’ll have to tell your coach what happened.”

        Bruce’s Little League coach was, of course, his father. The coach listened to the story, wrapped his arms around the boy and assured him everything was going to be fine. Then he benched him. “You’ll be sitting this one out tonight,” he said. And the coach sat down next to Bruce—benched himself too, shared his penalty.

        A thousand years before the time of Christ, Eli, the priest of Israel, chastised his sons for their disregard for God’s law.  What Eli did not yet understand—but what a Maine preacher had come to know—was that the God we offend is also the one who mediates in our behalf. Creator, Advocate and Redeemer are one. It is a mercy beyond measure.

 

 

Copies of Mike's book You Are Rich: Discovering Faith in Everyday Moments, a collection of sixty faith-related reflections, are available through Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

 

 

Finding God

I lift up my eyes to the hills—where does my help come from?  My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth. (Psalm 121:1, 2)

Brad and I were barely acquainted until that summer we went to a high school camp in the boundary waters of northern Minnesota. There we were paired up, sharing a tent and a canoe for eight days of paddling across lakes, hiking portage trails while toting overloaded backpacks, and eating ersatz food from little envelopes.

And there was rain—merciless, cold, unremitting rain. Nothing ever got dry…clothes, sleeping bags, tents, food…everything was constantly wet and cold. It was a miserable time for me, and I’ve not been camping since. I adopted the approach of a local radio personality who said for him roughing it meant staying in a ten-year old Holiday Inn.

Brad had the opposite response. The week of tramping through that northern rain forest was the start of a lifelong love of the outdoors. He left college after a year to become a guide in that same boundary waters area and later used weekends and vacations as opportunities to paddle and portage and pitch tents some more. Reminiscing about that first summer camp, Brad told me he “finds God” in the north woods. There he experiences peace in his soul that he can find nowhere else.

The people of Bible times struggled with the question of where to find God. Those unfamiliar with the message of one God worshipped Baal, believed to be the god of thunder and rain, of vegetation and fertility, who was thought to live in the hills of the land of Canaan. When people were waiting for the seasonal rains that would assure the success of their annual crops, they looked to the hills where the rainclouds formed—that is, they sought the help of Baal.

The psalm writer was tempted to look for God where his neighbors did.  But he paused and reflected: “Where does my help come from?” It wasn’t from those gods others worship, but from the Lord, Creator of the hills and Savior of the earth.

The renewal of our spirits doesn’t depend on the place where we may seek it. Brad goes north to rugged trails, I to the Adirondack chair by our lake, to the stories of faithful hearts and noble souls. It’s all good. God is here, God is there. What matters is that we trust the One who made it all—who made us all—and who alone is our source of strength and hope.

 

 

Copies of Mike's book, You Are Rich: Discovering Faith in Everyday Moments, a collection of sixty faith-related reflections, is available through Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

Downwind from Flowers

 

Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life. (Psalm 23:6)

 

        I read that people in certain eastern cultures seek healing from physical and emotional wounds by sitting downwind from flowers. It’s a therapy that’s been carried on for centuries in the belief that downwind from flowers one can be dusted with pollen from new blossoms, pollen that carries healing qualities.

        Linda Ross Swanson tells the story of a 52-year-old Tibetan refugee named Tenzin who lived in Seattle. Diagnosed with lymphoma and unwilling to undergo the usual chemotherapy treatment because it brought back memories of having been tortured as a political prisoner in China, he was brought to a hospice. There he told workers of the downwind method, and one of them was willing to help.

On a sunny afternoon the hospice worker picked up Tenzin and his wife, packed some provisions traditional to Tibetans: black tea, yak butter, salt and cookies, and dropped the couple off at a nursery. They found a suitable spot, sat downwind from the flowers and, under the watchful eye of curious nursery employees, enjoyed their afternoon tea. They did the same the following week at another nursery.

        Soon word got around, and nurseries all over Seattle were vying for Tenzin’s presence. Nursery workers called him when new plants arrived, placed chairs to match the wind direction and provided tea. Customers filled flats with flowers and put them carefully around the couple, and some began calling nurseries to ask how he was doing. Day after day through an entire summer Tenzin and his wife sat downwind from flowers at nurseries around the city.

That fall, Tenzin returned to his doctor for a follow-up CT scan. There was no trace of cancer. The doctor confessed he was astounded and could not explain the miraculous change. The patient had his own explanation: “The cancer left because it can’t live in a body filled with love. When I began to feel all the compassion from the hospice team, from the nursery employees, from all the people who wanted to know about me, I began to change inside.”

        Love cures. Love restores. When searching for a way to heal--if not cancer, at least a wounded heart--sit downwind from flowers. Allow yourself to touch and be touched by goodness and love. There’s healing there.

 

Copies of Mike's book You Are Rich: Discovering Faith in Everyday Moments, a collection of sixty faith-related reflections, are available through Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

Growing a Quartet

 

We know that we all possess knowledge. Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up. (1 Corinthians 8:1)

 

        Years ago I was occasionally invited to speak at a shelter for homeless men at the edge of downtown Minneapolis where residents were expected to listen to a gospel message in return for a free night’s lodging. It was a tough crowd, sullen and unresponsive. Many were hung over. No one seemed eager to hear the message, and I often wondered what good my suburban, over-educated thoughts could do. I had no idea how to speak to these men.

        One night the meeting was particularly unruly. My subject was love—love as action, kindness, caring—the kind of love being shown by those who made this shelter available. Members of the staff moved through the scattered crowd, encouraging bored men to listen, or at least to talk quietly in their casual, more relevant conversations, but with little success. One man in a dirty brown coat stood and muttered something about my not knowing what I was talking about, that there was no love in this world. In a moment, one of the staff members—I knew him only as Gene—was next to the man with an arm around his shoulder, gently steering him off toward a side room. I quickly concluded my talk and, mercifully, the director took over.

        Following a series of “housekeeping” items, the meeting was to conclude with a men’s quartet. Gene was part of the group and led the way to the front of the room as the piano music began. The four—no, five—singers lined up behind the small podium. The man in the brown coat was there too, beside Gene who had befriended him. Love had indeed been in action. Kindness had been shown; caring had been demonstrated. Quartet had become quintet.

        Russell Spittler tells of visiting a new baby ward as part of his role as hospital chaplain. His experience had taught him the meaning of many abbreviations that medical people use: TIA, SVT, CHF. But when he saw the label FTT at the foot of one infant’s bassinette, he was stumped and inquired about its meaning. “Failure to thrive,” the charge nurse told him. He asked about treatment, and she spoke of diet regimens, then pointed to a rocking chair nearby. “And we have volunteer grandmothers who come in and rock the baby for hours.”

        Love works where all else fails. Knowledge is good, but love builds up.

 

Copies of Mike’s book You Are Rich: Discovering Faith in Everyday Moments, a collection of sixty faith-related reflections, is available through Amazon or Barnes & Noble.