Maundy Thursday

The lighting in the worship center was dim. The gentle flicker of prayer candles on the small table at the back cast dancing shadows along the wall behind the altar. There was no sound other than the soft murmurs of prayer spoken by others who had already arrived. He reached down and lowered the kneeler in front of him sliding forward until he had come to rest leaning against the pew in front of him. As the slow gentle breaths of meditation began their seductive call to lose the chaos of the day he realized he didn’t really want to be here, hadn’t planned on coming, and had many other things he needed to do.

“Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the feet of the disciples, drying them with his apron.”

The scabs of a hundred pains itched and burned as he tried to blot out the noise in his head. “Perhaps I’ll pray for a bit and then leave just before the service starts.” he thought to himself. Besides he had never been to a foot washing service. Oh he knew there were some who did it, Primitive Baptists and a few other groups but it seemed so foreign, so anachronistic, so…exposing.

He had ugly feet, in fact one woman had told him she could never date anyone with toes as ugly as his. A scab burned deeper. How could he remove his shoes and socks and place his feet before someone he knew. Let them see his imperfection, his abnormality, his grotesqueness. No, better to leave them on than to risk another humiliation as he witnessed the revulsion in a “friend’s” face. He had enough scabs already.

Imitating the quiet of the space the pastor and the bishop walked in and silently knelt to pray. “Time to go while I have a chance.” But then someone sat between him and the aisle, their feet already bared. The ministers rose and one washed the other’s feet drying them delicately with the sash around his waist. The gift was repeated as the two exchanged places. The pastor faced the gathering and invited those who wished to have their feet washed come forward.

The only thing the man wished was that he could leave. But then one of those moments of Holy Presence began to overwhelm him. There in the silence broken only by the soft chords played by the musician. He looked and one scab began to fall away. Then another and yet another. As he looked each wounded place disappeared replace by soft, supple, flesh that looked as new as birth.

Without intention or even desire he reached down and began to unlace his shoes and then to tug away his socks. With the same absence of purpose he found himself drawn to stand and move toward the center aisle turning to walk toward those in front asking to be his servant. He didn’t know why but he felt his lower lip begin to tremble and felt the sting of salt gathering in his eyes.

“When he got to Simon Peter, Peter said, ‘Master, you wash my feet?’
Jesus answered, "You don't understand now what I'm doing, but it will be clear enough to you later."

He looked down at his feet. Those same misshapen toes padded onto the floor. Those same distorted nails flashed back at him. Those same feelings of never being good enough, of being less than, of not being wanted rushed him like a pack of starved jackals. “Please God, let me run away. I can come back for my shoes later.”

“Peter persisted, ‘You're not going to wash my feet—ever!’

He looked up at the pastor and then to the bishop, their eyes inviting him, seeming to know every feeling and thought of inadequacy he possessed. They sat on small stools looking up as if pleading to be permitted to do such a lowly task.

Jesus said, "If I don't wash you, you can't be part of what I'm doing."

The dam burst. The tears flooded down the man’s face. He felt his breath short and unsteady. His chest quivered as he tried to hold some semblance of dignified composure. It would not work. The emotion was too strong, too overwhelming, too needed. No, he could nothing but sit and feel the warm water flood across his feet and feel the gentle brush of the towel soothing away a thousand thousand heartaches.

"Master!" said Peter. "Not only my feet, then. Wash my hands! Wash my head!"

It was only a moment. A flash so brief it might never be able to be recorded… but he saw it. He saw in the pastor’s eyes a glint of a tear. And as the minister took a quick breath to regain himself the tear dissolved into a smile. A smile that knew, it knew! what had been washed away was more than lint from a sock, more than the heat of feet unable to breathe.

“Jesus said, ‘If you've had a bath in the morning, you only need your feet washed now and you're clean from head to toe.’

Scriptures from John 13:4-10 © The Message

Pastor I need to talk

People come in my office and sit down to talk. It’s part of the pastor gig. It’s just what happens. My secretary says, “So and so is here to talk to you.” And then someone one walks in, sits down, and starts to talk.

It doesn’t matter what I am doing at the time; trying to craft together words that I can speak the next Sunday explaining the whole of theology in twelve minutes, struggling to find a way to assure a woman that she is worthy and loved despite having been abused by a friend, or, once agian, lost in prayer. I stop, grind the gears of my mental transmission, and grab for the road map that will help me navigate the circuitous path of thought the person starts going down.

Don’t get me wrong. I actually don’t mind the interruptions. This is what I do. What I am called to do. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of new thoughts or behaviours that just might have been initiated by something I said in a class or sermon. Sometimes I get to hear exciting news. Sometimes I am permitted to simply be a listening ear, a tool used to pry into the atmosphere words that must be spoken so they can by heard by the speakers own ears. There isn’t a lot that I do in a day that absolutely cannot take a few minutes longer to complete. If a few minutes of time helps someone, I am happy for them to be used.

There are days like today when I become so very jealous of the people who come into my office. Days like today I want to be able to walk in, sit down, and start to talk. I want to be one more person who can come in and talk to Pastor. That’s one of the loneliest things about being a pastor. Who is my pastor?

Actually, I am blessed. I serve in a denomination with a developed hierarchy. When the wheels absolutely come off the cart I can talk to the Bishop. And I am doubly blessed. My Bishop has a pastoral nature and loving concern for professional church workers in our area. I have friends whose Bishop doesn't know they exist and doesn't care to know. Other friends serve in denominations that don’t have any hierarchy to go to for support. I hurt for them. It must be so very lonely.

I feel a certain amount of guilt in taking my Bishop’s time. He has a large number of congregations to care for and even more workers and he has his own office and its work to oversee. When there have been major crises or when I need to make certain things are being done in proper order under our denominational guidelines I have talked to him. [I have never actually plopped down in his office. His office is one city and mine in another.] He always returns my voice messages and e mails. But there is something about the physicality of sitting down and looking across a desk that I miss.

As professional church workers we are told over and over in seminars, workshops and conferences to find another pastor or worker to talk to. Someone who can be our pastor. But I don’t know any pastor who isn’t just as busy as I am. I can’t bring myself to usurp time they are so desperate to give to their own flock. Like so many great ideas offered in seminars, workshops, and conferences this one too goes the way of, “Yeah, well it works great on paper.”

For some reason I feel better having written this. In some ways I have come in, sat down, and started talking…if only to myself. Maybe I’m a better pastor than I think myself to be. Tomorrow there will still be a gaping hole in the worship centre wall. The rotting support beam will still not be replaced. I will still be worried that worker here at the church will return from vacation and have decided that they are unable to continue working here. Somehow though, it’s okay. I think I will open my office door again, take the phone off do not disturb and go ask my secretary if anyone is wanting to see me.

And they will come in, sit down, and start to talk.

Ashes ashes we all fall down

Maybe it is because I grew up in one of those non-creedal, non-liturgical denominations and I was always secretly jealous of my Roman Catholic friend who would come to school with a bold black cross drawn across his forehead. Somehow, I just knew there was some secret mystery being kept from me by my parents, the preacher, and all other significant authority figures.

Perhaps, if I could come to school emblazoned with ashes everything in life would be revealed. The shroud hiding God from my pre-adolescent gnosis would be torn away and finally I could be certain of the love preached at me three, four, five times a week. Maybe nothing more would happen than the mark would slowly fade away in the youthful play of elementary students, just as my friend’s cross would disappear bit at a time.

It didn’t matter. I wanted one of those dark crosses pressed into my skin.

Freed from the weight of burdensome piety I found my way to a creedal, liturgical group of believers and for several years have stood in tearful silence as an oily blackness was smeared above my eyes. Jarred into reality hearing the promise that I am and will return to dust. The secrets of life have not been shown to me. Love is more real but still obscured by my own inability to grasp. Even so, I move away from the reality of my own frailty, refreshed and strengthened by a smudge of ashes and one short sentence.

Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday. Once more I will wear a dark cross visible to others, and beyond my own sight. This year I will not be surprised when the layperson who is assisting, turns and walks back to their seat, oblivious they have forgotten to impose ashes upon their pastor. As I have before, I will dip my thumb into a dark pile of soot, scribe the Greek letter Chi upon myself and speak those words of mortal finality. And I will once again be freed…for a moment at least.

Turning to the altar I will set down the small cup of ashes, wash my fingers with a damp towel and turn to face the people I have been called to love, guide, protect, teach, bless, encourage. My arms will raise up, the sleeves of my gown sliding gently toward my elbows as three fingers instinctively come together to tell again the story of a three person God who lives as one. My lungs will expand as I draw a breath preparing to speak to those I love that, "as a called and ordained servant of the Word, I forgive you all your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit."

Then again as it does every year the mallet of pain will pound into my chest forcing out the blessed oxygen that sustains life. I will gasp as if even the smallest bit of energy has been released from every cell in my body. Looking back at me will be eyes longing to hear they are loved, cared about, forgiven; and between each pair will be a black abscess telling me these children of mine whom I love, will each in their own time and way, die.

My throat will thicken, my eyes burn with the salinity of forced back tears, my body will shiver with the involuntary terror of such loss. For a moment of eternity I will stand frozen, unable to perform the ritual.Then with a forced swallow, air will again flow into my lungs. I will lift my head and the words will come strong and confident promising my children they have again be set free to live.

Anything but that

Anything but that! How many times have I heard someone say those words. How many times have I said them. I'm saying them right now. It's that time of year I most hate. Yeah...preparing for "Stewardship Emphasis".

Don't get me wrong I believe strongly that we are to give back to God what is His. Down deep I mean ALL of it. I also believe that as Pastor (shepherd/father) to my congregation I have the right and the obligation to call my parishioners to give of their money, their time, their abilities, their love, their _______ (you fill in the blank). I have never been embarrased to tell the congregations I have served that we need money to keep the lights on and the a/c running. Personally I think if you a pastor can't do that they need to find some other career.

With all of that said, I repeat, I hate this time of year. Mainly because so many people see it as "nuts and bolts". "We got to have this much money so that...." Oh, and there is always that preponderence of Law talk and guilt talk that gets wrapped up into it. "God demands that you give. You have so much and the church asks so little of you. What if we weren't here? Who would do God's work?"

First I rather think God is quite capable of doing His own work, thank you very much. Second, I want people to be like little children who scribble a crayon masterpiece and gift it to their parent with no motive but to say, "I love you." Somewhere in all of that is Gospel stuff.

So instead of sitting here writing the letter to be mailed to all members letting them know that next month is Stewardship Emphasis (Why, oh why, can't it be this life is Stewardship Emphasis?) I am writing about how much I hate this time of year. Sort of doing "Anything but that!".

I'll get the letter written and e-mailed over to my secretary, complete with pledge card format, logo design for the emphasis, suggested letter for the Discipleship team leader to use, and all the other crap that has to be part of the program. I'll even get it done today. For now I'm doing anything but that!

Preface Number Two

I am going to try again to be more consistent in my blogging. I haven't posted anything in a very long time. I was far too emotionally and spiritually tired and bruised to write.

I'll write about that in a few weeks. Distance, time, and loving people are helping me reflect on a difficult period and gain new perspectives and most of all hope.

Now I am in a new place. A suburban congregation that admittedly has some challenges ahead but that is willing to work toward finding solutions and implementing them. It is good. It is inspiring. It is just a bit scary. At least I haven't been accused of heresy...yet.

It is a good place for my family as well. My wife has a teaching position paying double what she was making before. (My rant about the inequities of funding for public education in Texas will come later.) The nicest thing is she is teaching the subject area she best knows and most wants to teach.

Our children have new adventures and opportunities placed before them and they can get to Starbucks in a matter of minutes. Finally they can go to a movie theatre "with real seats." These things are important.

I may post again today. Maybe I won't. But I know I will post again and more frequently. Let's see there can be "Parish from Hell", "Son of Parish from Hell", "Even a Blind Hog Finds an Acorn". See I am feeling better already.

You Don't Know Me

There are times when the words do not come. No matter how much I cry and pray and beg for them to appear nothing happens. At those times I look to what others have written and hope for inspiration. Sometimes that works. Today it didn’t. I did find something that moved me, so I borrow, (steal?) from David Klass' book "You Don't Know Me". It reminded me of my own feelings as a young boy. Some of the details are different but the pain is the same.

Maybe tomorrow the muses will smile on me.

You Don’t Know Me
David Klass

You don’t know me at all. You don’t know the first thing about me. You don’t know where I’m writing this from. You don’t know what I look like. You have no power over me.

What do you think I look like? Skinny? Freckles? Wire-rimmed glasses over brown eyes? No, I don’t think so. Better look again. Deeper. It’s like a kaleidoscope, isn’t it? One minute I’m short, the next minute tall, one minute I’m geeky, one minute studly, my shape constantly changes, and the only thing that stays constant is my brown eyes. Watching you.

That’s right, I’m watching you right now sitting on the couch next to the man who is not my father, pretending to read a book that is not a book, waiting for him to pet you like a dog or stroke you like a cat. Let’s be real, the man who is not my father isn’t a very nice man. Not just because he’s not my father but because he hits me when you’re not around, and he says if I tell you he’ll really take care of me.

Those are his words. “I’ll really take care of you, John. Don’t rat on me or you’ll regret it.” Nice guy.

But I’m telling you now. Can’t you hear me? He’s petting the top of your head like he would pet a dog, with his right hand, which just happens to be the hand he hits me with. When he hits me he doesn’t curl his fingers into a fist because that would leave a mark. He slaps me with the flat of his hand. WHAP. And now I’m watching him stroke your cheek with those same fingers. He holds me tight with his left hand when he hits me so hard I can’t run away. And now he’s holding you tenderly with his left hand. And I’m telling you this as I watch through the window, but your eyes are closed and you could care less, because he’s stroking you the way he would stroke a cat and I bet your purring.

You don’t know me at all.

You Don't Know Me by David Klass (c) 2001 Thorndike Press

Harvester Ants and Therapy

A friend reminded me I needed to update my blog. She was right. The problem is I haven’t felt very inspired to write lately. Maybe it was the flurry of Advent and Christmas. Maybe it was my dogged insistence that, “Dammit, it’s my vacation from Boxing Day until January 8 and no one can make me do anything.” Maybe it is just that I am lazy and any excuse will do.

I did think about the essay I have been working on about Harvester Ants. It isn’t finished and needs some work. But I did go out to watch the Harvester Ants again.

You have to understand Harvester Ants are these big honking ants that are almost fire engine red. When I was a kid we just used to call them “Big Reds”. They appear as ferocious as anything you might see in one of those old black and white Japanese horror movies. Most of the time they are quite content to leave alone and be left alone. If you irritate one of the workers enough they will bite and the pain is excruciating and will travel along your lymph system. Many of my friends and I learned this as kids.

For the most part Harvester Ants seem contented to scurry about gathering grass seeds and dead insects. I think I was once told they will travel 200 feet from their nest which looks like a hole big enough to put a Magic Marker into and smack in the middle of a six foot bare spot.

There is a Harvester Ant nest in the field behind the church. Although some members have wanted to put out poison I have insisted the ants be left alone. They are the only food source for the Texas Horned Lizard and I am hoping maybe one day a “Horny Toad” finds its way to our ant nest.

The ant nest is also a place of therapy. Mental and emotional therapy for me, that is. When I am frustrated with my parishioner’s behaviour or my own inability to craft together a sermon I walk out to the ant nest and stare at the ground watching the Harvester Ants scurry about. There is something soothing about watching the ants move around in an ordered chaos. It is not like the sonorous ticking of the clock on my office wall but there is a rhythm to their movement. It somehow connects me to that cosmic heartbeat that ties us to each other.

I needed to watch the ants the other day. It wasn’t a good day and my brain refused to cooperate with the coping skills learned to manage ADD. It was cold outside, which for the area I live in means not hot. But it was cool enough that the ants were moving more slowly than usual. Although there was the usual deliberateness in their actions they moved at a different pace. Less frantic. Less hurried. Almost as if to say, “It is between Boxing Day and January 8 and it is cold outside. We will do what we must but no more and we won’t do it more quickly than we have to.”

I stood there for a very long time, shivering now and again as the wind whipped through my thin tee shirt. Some therapy sessions go quickly others take a long time. This one took a very long time. I had goose bumps up and down my arms when the head therapist ant said, “Well our time is up. Please see my secretary to schedule our next session. Oh and I am going to the Caymans for a seminar next week so I won’t be available.”

I turned and walked away from the ant nest. It had been a good session. I was cold and needed to get some hot tea. I let go of fighting the million thoughts a second racing around in my brain. I took the keys to my office out of my pocket, looked at them for a moment and reminded myself. I am on vacation from Boxing Day until January 8. I do not need to go in and do any work today. Oh look, a rabbit!

This post is for you Spideygirl. Thanks for the encouragement.


Here is link for some basic information about Harvester Ants:
insects.tamu.edu/extension/bulletins/l-5314.html