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.

 

 

Obeying God

 

“Love the Lord your God with all your heart…and your neighbor as yourself.” (Matthew 22:37, 39).

 

        “It bothers me,” someone said to me following my Sunday morning message, “that in this church we don’t wash each other’s feet like Jesus told us to. Are we being disobedient to God?”

In fact, of course, there are many directives in the Bible which we no longer observe. We don’t often think about why; we just know that it’s no longer necessary to conform to a literal understanding of the words. Jesus did tell us to wash one another’s feet (John 13:14), but we understand that it’s the principle behind the action that matters. So serving one another in humility and hospitality—the principle—remains, but it’s up to us to find appropriate ways to do so in our time.

“Give to the one who asks you,” Jesus said (Matthew 5:42). Yet I routinely refuse to give to those who come to the church door seeking money because I know that their needs are better met by the social service agencies to which I direct them. The principle is to provide help to those who need it, and when that help can be more consistent and far-reaching, love urges us in that direction.

        The Apostle Paul told women to avoid elaborate hairstyles and fancy jewelry (1 Timothy 2:8-10). The principle was modesty, and we promote the guideline not in its first-century specifics but in those relevant to our culture. In the same passage he spoke of men praying by “lifting up holy hands.” For us reverence in prayer may be expressed in other ways—folded hands, bowed heads, quiet hearts.

        Obedience to God is a matter of observing principles God provides. Love (acting in a way that is kind and truthful) offered in faith is the issue. What that love looks like is determined by local circumstances. “According to your faith it will be done to you,” Jesus said to two blind men as he healed them (Matthew 9:29). Faith was what mattered, not the particulars of the healing procedure. According to their faith, it was done.

Life happens for us in proportion to what we offer. Love people, we get people to love. Give much, we receive much. Focus on the good, we find the good coming to us. Have big faith, and we discover, as Carl Sandburg said of Lincoln, “far lights and tall rainbows to live by.” And that is obedience to the will of God.

 

Copies of Mike’s book You Are Rich: Discovering Faith in Everyday Moments, a collection of 60 faith-related reflections, can be ordered from Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

 

 

Blessed Mediocrity

 

Moses said to God, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh…?” God said, “I will be with you.” (Exodus 3:11, 12)

 

        In Peter Shaffer’s Amadeus, a fictionalized account of the death of Mozart, a bitter Antonio Salieri sarcastically compares his ordinary talents as a composer to that of the genius whose star so totally eclipsed his own. “Mediocrities everywhere,” he cries, “I am your champion! I am your patron saint!”

         Muriel was a mediocre talent as a painter—too stiff, trying too hard to tell a story. But she knew some basic rules of painting (start the horizon one-third of the way up the canvas, paint the darker parts of the sky first, etc.), and she was willing to teach them to others for a small fee to help her eke out a living. So loyal students more average than Muriel carried brush and canvas into her borrowed studio week after week and gladly received her modest instruction. There they also found consistent encouragement. “Just try,” she would say. “Let’s see what happens!”

        Muriel was only mediocre too as a ventriloquist, a second career to try to keep life and limb together. Her beloved puppets, Candy and Andy, fooled no one, for she could neither throw her voice consistently nor keep her lips from moving. Yet somehow she found a way to get in front of thousands of kids over nearly forty years. In her eighties Muriel was still making children smile with her puppets’ corny jokes and old stories.

        She was, frankly, less than mediocre as a writer—too wordy, too saccharine. Yet she persisted in her search for a publisher, despite rejection after rejection. Along the way, she met other aspiring authors, praised their efforts, affirmed their work. More talented writers than she were published in part because Muriel insisted that they keep trying, keep submitting.

        Muriel died several years ago. At her memorial service, artists and writers and ventriloquism audiences rose up en masse to call her blessed. The encouragement and opportunities she had provided, the sweet optimism she had displayed toward life—and toward her modest talents—came back upon her in a rush of gratitude. She had become a kind of patron saint of ordinary people.

Humble like Moses, Muriel knew that her abilities were ordinary. Wiser than Salieri, she cherished her gifts, accepting their limitations. She knew it was not the degree of her talent but the commitment and love with which she exercised it which alone mattered. She knew that to ordinary people—to mediocrities—God says, “Just try. I’ll be with you.”

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

Faith in Bronze

 

When Shishak king of Egypt attacked Jerusalem, he carried off the treasures of the temple of the Lord... He took everything, including the gold shields Solomon had made.  So King Rehoboam made bronze shields to replace them… (2 Chronicles 12:9, 10)

 

        King Reheboam, his resources depleted and under pressure from powerful nations around him, could not afford the luxury of replacing his stolen gold shields. They were only ornamental, after all, a symbol of royal status. Bronze was the answer. It was something, at least, to offer hope to his people that their nation would someday know again the glory of olden times.

         Russian friends have told me that in the summer of 1941, as Nazi forces were approaching Leningrad, the staff of the Hermitage Museum packed up tens of thousands of art objects and shipped them east. There was safety in the vast expanses of the Russian land. But they left the frames hanging on the walls. Pedestals that had held sculptures remained in place.  It was an act of hope, a trust that someday it would all be returned. The museum staff gave up priceless art, but they did not give up hope.

        The German army besieged the city for two years. Employees of the Hermitage moved into the basement to try to preserve museum buildings. Citizens of the city helped clean up damage from artillery shells and cover broken windows to keep out the snow. To say thanks, the staff conducted tours of the museum for these good people, though the art was not there. Photographs from the time show docents conducting tours among piles of snow on parquet floors. Small groups of visitors stand in front of empty frames, listening to descriptions of Rembrandts and Van Goghs that once hung there. The guides remembered every detail of that which had been lost, filling in the blank spaces of their magnificent museum with their own memories, commitment and love.

        Faith is being certain of what we cannot yet see. Like Reheboam with his bronze shields, these Russian curators made do with something—where there had been nothing—to demonstrate their assurance that there was a future for art, for their beloved Hermitage and for themselves.

Bronze is not gold, and an empty frame is not a Picasso, but faith fills in the blanks. When opportunity goes lacking and fulfillment is missing, when joy hides its face, faith believes they will surely one day return. Meanwhile it acts—every moment—as if they were still around.

 

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

 

What’s in a Name?

 

I summon you by name and bestow on you a title of honor, though you do not acknowledge me. (Isaiah 45:4)

 

        These words were spoken for the benefit of Cyrus, king of Persia, who conquered Babylon in the 6th century B.C. and then permitted Israelite families who had been captive there for fifty years to return to their homeland. Cyrus was not a believer in the God of Israel and had only political and economic reasons for his acts. Nonetheless, the prophet and people saw him as a hero, an unwitting servant of God, and gave him a title of honor: Cyrus the Liberator.

        Titles used to mean something, but today informality rules. Hardly anyone uses even simple titles like “Mr.” or “Mrs.” anymore. New acquaintances are immediately addressed on a first-name basis. So a telemarketer was taken aback the other day when I stopped her from calling me by my first name.  “We don’t know each other that well yet,” I said.

Titles still have significance to me. In the old Swedish immigrant community that was my heritage, titles were added to names just to distinguish one Olson from another. There seemed to be a shortage of surnames, and one didn’t want to confuse Model T Anderson (who drove Fords) with Packard Anderson (who wouldn’t be caught dead in one—though his wife rode to choir practice with Mrs. Model T). My grandfather was known as Texas Johnson because of where he had lived as a boy, and it distinguished him from Seventeen-Years-in-Alaska Johnson who obviously boasted too much about his missionary experience. Curtain-stretcher Swanson took out a loan with Big Money Swanson (both did well on the deal), and of course Gravestone Peterson sold you his wares after Gravedigger Peterson had finished his work.

        I doubt that we’ll be returning to a more civil approach to names anytime soon, but how about at least adding some of that color as these old-timers did? I’m thinking of you, Tiger Johnson (red hair), Slapshot Schultz (hockey player), and Earlybird Livingstone (never late). How could a woman with the name of Sojourner Truth have anything but a meaningful life? How could a man called Possibility Brown find anything but hope, even in unfortunate circumstances and unlikely people.

        Cyrus the Liberator was a modest figure at best in world history. Yet twenty-five hundred years later he is remembered while a thousand other rulers more powerful than he have been forgotten. Whether or not our names live on after us, the effects of the encouragement we offer and the love we give surely will.

What title identifies you? Hopeful Jones…Faithful Smith…Craig the Peacemaker…Sharon the Befriender? There is something in a name.

 

 

 

Copies of Mike's book You Are Rich: Discovering Faith in Everyday Moments, a collection of sixty faith-related  meditations, can be ordered from Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

Kin to the Cupbearer

 

The chief cupbearer, however, did not remember Joseph; he forgot him. (Genesis 40:23)

 

        Steve was a high school classmate who shared pre-law classes with me when we were university undergraduates. We spent hours in the Great Hall of the library, helping each other memorize names and dates for upcoming tests upon which we imagined our futures to depend. I dropped out of pre-law, but he went on, ultimately becoming a respected judge. At a class reunion I asked if he remembered studying together. He did not. Steve, the cupbearer’s kin, barely even remembered my name.

        Ron was my study partner when I went from pre-law into education. He too was going to be an English teacher, so we sat in that same Great Hall helping each other identify rhyme schemes in Romantic poetry and character development in Russian novels. Ron spent the better part of that year trying to persuade me to join his fraternity. He went on to become a radio news writer and producer. I called to congratulate him when I read of his retirement. He didn’t remember me at all. Ron, the cupbearer’s kin, never heard of me.

         Jon stood in the back hall of his home on a Saturday morning and gently tapped his finger against my chest. “If you want to teach,” he said, “why don’t you teach something that you know is the most important thing in the whole world?” The words struck home with the force of a hammer. It seemed God was speaking out loud to me. About to graduate and embark on a career in education, I knew at that moment that I was going to be a minister—and that I wanted to be a minister. Thirty years later Jon stood in the door of my office in a church in California. I reminded him of that Saturday and his words that had had such a profound effect on me. He passed by them with a shrug. “Sorry, but I don’t remember,” he said. “You were in my home?” Jon too was kin to the cupbearer.

        The same moment is often significant in the memory of one, utterly forgettable to another. God’s whisper can be a shout to one ear, a dull buzz to another. That seems to be for the best. God can use any of us as cupbearers when we are not aware of the impact we have. When self-consciousness is erased from the equation, pride has no footing.

So Katherine called a few weeks ago, recalling some important conversations and occasions we shared while returning from Europe as exchange students long ago. I too am kin to the cupbearer. I had forgotten them. I had forgotten her.

 

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

Our Shepherd

 

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. (Psalm 23:1)

 

        My knowledge of shepherding is almost nothing. I’ve watched a sheep-shearing exhibition at the state fair and once helped a friend feed a handful of sheep at his hobby farm in North Carolina. But that’s about it. I’m one of that large group of people who, not being part of a rural-based society, know little about tending sheep and for whom it’s hard to connect much meaning to the image of God as Shepherd.

         For us the Shepherd has slipped into the background.  I heard someone describe this disconnect in terms of a stained glass window portraying the Good Shepherd in his home church—not front and center but “in the back, under the balcony, behind the stairs.” That’s in fact where we’re likely to remember him today, not at the center of our faith and proclamation but at the fringes, in the margins—hospital bedsides, emergency rooms, deathbeds, funerals.

         When we talk to the Shepherd, we usually ask him for miracles, for healing or escape or power to overcome. I’ve found, however, that most of the miracles that sustain us there, walking through our valley of shadows, turn out to be less grand than those prayed for. They’re no less profound, just less dramatic. She wasn’t fully healed, but she found the true affection of a friend. The relationship wasn’t totally restored, but he received heartfelt forgiveness from one he had wronged. The pain was still there, but we found assurance that we were loved in the smiles of those dearest to us. These are shepherding miracles, filling us with hope, giving us confidence that we are not alone.

         Alvin was a middle-aged man of limited mental capacity who attended my first church as a young pastor. His father had cared for him all his life, and when the father was forced to enter a nursing home because of the frailties of old age, he insisted that Alvin should remain in the house they had shared. “He can do it alone,” he said.

         And it seemed to be true. Alvin showed up at church nearly every week. He certainly was getting enough to eat and was dressed well enough. I mentioned to one of the church’s deacons one day how well Alvin seemed to be doing on his own. He smiled and told me what was going on. A neighbor took Alvin grocery shopping twice a week. A teller at the bank helped him pay his bills and keep his checkbook straight. Men from the church kept up Alvin’s yard, and one of the women in the church did his laundry every week. Alvin was content, well-fed, healthy enough—and blissfully unaware that a whole village was bolstering up his illusion of being independent.

         Remembering Alvin reminds me how God’s love is holding and watching and following me, guiding me gently, even allowing me to believe at times that I’m self-sufficient. Remembering Alvin reminds me that a Shepherd tends to my needs in ways of which I’m entirely unaware. Remembering Alvin reminds me that there is a force of love following me—following us—along this pathway of life, and that is good comfort for me.

        We know that the Shepherd does not protect us from all harm. But I believe that at the heart of the universe is a force—we call it God—that loves us and will see us through all manner of difficulties with tenderness and hope. The unseen Shepherd, our Shepherd—the Lord God himself—attends us with goodness and mercy all the days of our lives.

 

 

 

Copies of Mike’s book You Are Rich: Finding Faith in Everyday Moments, a collection of 60 faith-related reflections, can be ordered from Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

 

On Weddings: The Minister

 

…Set them an example by doing what is good…Show integrity, seriousness and soundness of speech that cannot be condemned…. (Titus 2:7-8)

    

           I attended a formal wedding not long ago in which the minister, obviously treading on the close familiarity he had with them, referred to the bride and groom as “you knuckleheads.” It was tacky at best, inappropriate for sure and far from the Apostle’s counsel about soundness of speech. But it got me thinking.

 It’s certainly true that what’s considered acceptable in weddings has changed in recent years. The informality of our times (ministers in shorts and flip-flops, grooms with shirts open halfway to the waist, brides dancing down the aisle, etc.) has opened us to new definitions of wedding decorum. So anything I—or anyone—may suggest about “appropriate” runs the risk of being immediately out of date.

 But that “knuckleheads” comment encourages me to take that risk. Here are some suggestions for a minister (or anyone) officiating at a wedding that I think many couples and guests will appreciate being followed.

·        Be thoughtful about what you say.

Do not under any circumstance talk about divorce during the homily or at any other time. Quoting the awful statistics of marriage break-ups these days adds nothing to—but detracts badly from—the joy of the occasion.

·        Be modest about your role.

No one comes to a wedding to hear a preacher preach. So keep the homily positive, friendly and—above all—brief. Have no expectation that the couple or people in the audience will remember what you say. And this is most assuredly not an opportunity to win converts to the faith.

·        Fit in with the tone of the event.

If the men are wearing tuxedos, the minister ought to wear a robe. The person officiating should not be dressed less formally than the bridal party. (I loved George Gobel’s question: “Have you ever felt like the whole world’s a tuxedo and you’re a pair of brown shoes?”)

·        Be the leader.

Quietly provide directions to the wedding couple throughout the service—where to stand, when to face one another, etc.—even though it’s been rehearsed. A bride and groom can’t be expected to remember little details of choreography in the tension of those moments. Everyone appreciates it when there’s a leader in charge who knows what’s next.

·        Save teaching moments for another occasion.

Allow the words of the service to stand on their own and to flow naturally. Avoid editorial comments (”Now this is very important”…“Think carefully about these vows before you say them”). The words always say more than we can fulfill, even with our best intentions.

       More to come, perhaps, in later posts—for grooms, brides, attendants, ushers—even guests.

       But for now, what counsel would you give to those officiating at weddings?

 

Copies of Mike’s book You Are Rich: Finding Faith in Everyday Moments, a collection of sixty faith-related reflections, can be ordered from Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

Bridges

  

Love the Lord your God with all your heart…; and, Love your neighbor as yourself….Do this and you will live. (Luke 10:27, 28)

 

        The Washington Avenue bridge is long gone. It once spanned the Mississippi River, connecting the University of Minnesota’s main campus with the edge of downtown Minneapolis. For four years (well, nearly five) I parked daily on the west bank and walked across that bridge to and from my classes. The sidewalks on each side of the roadway were wooden planks bolted to a frame. I counted those planks many times, as I did the steel rods that made up the railing.

         Occasionally I would stop in the middle of the bridge just to look at the river, busy with barge traffic or filled with ice, each in its season. Often the howling winds, however, kept me moving, neither counting nor gazing but wanting only to get out of the cold. It was a good old bridge, leading me to a place of discovery and growth and later affording me access to the comforts of home.

        Bridges make it possible for me to get where I want—or need—to be. A plane is a bridge that gets me to Chicago in one hour or to Moscow in twelve. My car is the bridge that gets me to my daughter’s home in twenty minutes or to the grocery store in three. And my phone is a bridge to almost anywhere in the world in a few seconds. Discovery is a bridge to knowledge, language to communication, insight to understanding, and experience (hopefully) to wisdom.

        So bridges are great things…when they work. Just a half-mile north of where the old Washington Avenue bridge once stood, an eight-lane Interstate highway bridge fell into the river several years ago. Thirteen people died. We need our bridges to be strong enough to bear the burden we place upon them.

        The Norwegian Vikings understood the rainbow to be a bridge by which people could pass over to the land of the gods and talk to them. It was a risky passage, however; if an unworthy person tried to cross, they believed, the bridge would give way and that soul be lost forever. No, we need our bridges to be made of sterner stuff. We expect them to carry us safely and without risk.

Jesus taught that love for God and love for neighbor is the bridge to a satisfying life of faith. Love for God is a matter of humble obedience to God’s will, unrelated to our feelings. Likewise, love for neighbors is seen in our actions toward them. To love is to be kind and truthful toward those who come within the circle of our experience; it has nothing to do with whether or not we like them. Love is a strong bridge and a dependable one. It leads even us, unworthy people though we be, home.

        We’re not guaranteed comfort in the crossing, to be sure. Winds of criticism and the chill of rejection may cause us to wish for an easier way. But our passage is safe, our destination sure.

        Love God, love neighbor; take this bridge, Jesus said, and you will live.


Copies of Mike's book, You Are Rich: Finding Faith in Everyday Moments, a collection of 60 similar reflections, can be ordered from Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

The Wedge

 

"Then the peoples around them set out to discourage the people of Judah and make them afraid to go on building." (Ezra 4:4)

(Mikey’s Funnies recently reprinted this article of mine that I published several years ago, and I thought, Hey, that’s pretty good. Let’s blog it.)

         An old story says that the Devil once held a sale of all the tools of his trade. Everything was displayed—keen-edged daggers of jealousy, sledge-hammers of anger, manacles of greed, arrows of covetousness and spears of deception—all available at bargain prices. Nearby was a table holding the more subtle weapons of vanity, fear, envy and pride.

But in a place of honor, framed and set apart from all the others, was a small wedge, marked and dented from frequent use. The name on this wedge was Discouragement, and its price was higher by far than any other tool being sold. Asked the reason for this surprising difference, the Devil explained, "It's because this is the tool I use when all the others fail. Let me get that little wedge into a person's consciousness and it opens the way for everything else! It's provided more opportunities for me than any other!"

The people of Judah, freed from exile in Babylon late in the 6th Century B.C., returned to their land to rebuild the city of Jerusalem and its great Temple. But those who had been living in the land during the interim were not happy with the new arrangement and did whatever they could to discourage the rebuilding. Official letters of accusation, appeals, threats, intimidation, sabotage of the work in progress—and more—all served to slow down the work and even brought it to a complete halt for some sixteen years.

The wedge of discouragement is still as effective a weapon as any the Enemy has in his arsenal. There are shields, however, that offer protection:

~ Patience. God's delays are not necessarily God's denials.
~ Responsibility. Don't blame your lack of progress on others. We are where we are through our choices alone.
~ Courage. Be willing to do what you fear.
~ Wisdom. Be open to reconsidering your goals and revising your plans.
~ A quiet heart. Be at peace. Put the burden down and rest until your heart is still.
~ Faithfulness. Look up. Hold simply to God and to the journey God has set you on.

For the people of Judah 26 centuries ago, the shields held. Work resumed, and the city and its Temple were rebuilt. Strong leadership prevailed. Persistence won the day. Goals were reached, victories won. The wedge of discouragement can slow — but need not stop — the progress of the people of God.

Which shield would help you the most right now?

 

 

Copies of Mike's book You Are Rich: Finding Faith in Everyday Moments, a collection of 60 brief faith-related reflections, can be ordered through Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

Adam’s Other Son

 

Adam lay with his wife again, and she gave birth to a son and named him Seth… (Genesis 4:25)

 

        Why is it that our stars fade so quickly? Political and business leaders disappoint us not just with failed promises but with failed integrity. Heroes of sport lose their luster and move from champion to bum in a moment. Celebrities we idolize are taken down by drugs or scandal. Disgrace claims them long before the grave.

Many years ago I heard Ernest Campbell, then just retired from the pastorate of New York City’s Riverside Church, preach a sermon entitled “Adam’s Other Son.” Its focus was on Seth, third son of Adam and Eve. Abel was dead, slain by his jealous brother. Cain, the murderer, had been banished and was wandering east of Eden. Their parents, Adam and Eve, according to the ancient story, had no one remaining. The human family and the well-laid plan of creation were in jeopardy…until there was born this third child—Adam and Eve’s other son.

        It’s a good bet that not one person in five that you might ask could give you this other son’s name. They might know Cain, might even be fascinated by him—the nomad, the fugitive, free of restraints, wandering the earth. Abel also is known and admired—the patron saint of victims, the good brother who did it right, a decent soul who paid a terrible price for his innocence.

        But they won’t know Seth. And there’s not much to know. All that is said of him is that he married, fathered children and died. Still, the story of faith, of humanity itself, continued because of him. The plan, that grand design that was to follow the road through Ur and Egypt and Sinai and Jordan and Babylon and Bethlehem, was still workable because of him. Seth, the almost anonymous one, became the carrier of the promise, the link to the future.

        Perhaps our stars twinkle only briefly because ultimately every age, every era, belongs to Seth. Perhaps it’s always to be this way, that we depend on the Seths of this world to carry on. Our hope and our future are in the hands of the ordinary person, the obscure, the unknown—and they are the right hands.

        So who are the Seths today?

·         Seth is the one who reads the news but never makes it.

·         Seth struggles with budgets and bills but always finds a way when someone asks for help.

·         Seth is usually home in the evenings, except when volunteering in the community or attending a committee meeting at church.

·         Seth is unfashionably loyal to his wife.

·         Seth is the neighbor who minds her own business but is always willing to lend a hand.

·         Seth seldom rides in limousines.

·         Seth is lost in a gourmet restaurant but gets excited about a fried chicken picnic with the grandkids.

·         Seth’s clothes are undistinguished and his travels are limited, but when they pass the hat for a sick employee or retiring colleague, he always has a twenty to spare.

When Seth passes from the scene, few will notice. A name may be written down, a memory shared, but in a hundred years no one other than God will know. And yet—as Ernest Campbell noted at the conclusion of his sermon—when he enters on the other side, it will be to the sound of trumpets and the shouts of the angels. For it is through Seth—Adam’s other son—that God holds this world together.

Who are the Seths you know? What do they look like to you?

Copies of Mike's book You Are Rich: Finding Faith in Everyday Moments, a collection of 60 similar reflections, can be ordered through Amazon or Barnes and Noble.