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.