Amber Waves Of Grain

Last year on the Fourth of July, we were in Denver and decided to drive up to Cheyenne, Wyoming for the day.  There is an historic railroad station on the town square, a huge Western apparel store, and lots of little shops.  We took the trolley bus tour of Cheyenne, which is the state capital, and saw local landmarks and homes of prominent citizens from the town history.  A claim to fame of Wyoming is being the first territory to allow women to vote, a necessary maneuver in the evolution toward statehood.  We even passed by a Disciples church there.

On the way back to Denver we stopped off at the Terry Bison Ranch, which spanned almost 30,000 acres, including across state lines into Colorado.  While it is a working ranch, they also have campsites, a store, and restaurant.  We watched a few of the ranch hands as they worked on breaking a horse, then we took the ranch tour, seeing camels, horses, ostriches, and a variety of other animals along the way.  The highlight of the tour was ending up alongside a herd of bison (with a few Longhorns and yaks thrown in for good measure).  Our visit was rounded off with a meal of bison ribs and other barbecued delights.

We have a vast and diverse country, and it’s a pleasure to explore different parts of it, meet the people, and see how they live.  I never in my life thought I would see a place like Wyoming, but now I have.  It was a nice way to celebrate the birthday of the United States.

When we got back to Denver that evening, there was a furious thunderstorm, so we watched fireworks on television – from the Mall in Washington, DC.

Keep Your Hands On The Wheel, And Your Eyes On The Road

Golf legend Arnold Palmer once told of a lesson learned:  “It was the final hole of the 1961 Masters tournament, and I had a one-stroke lead and had just hit a very satisfying tee shot. I felt I was in pretty good shape. As I approached my ball, I saw an old friend standing at the edge of the gallery. He motioned me over, stuck out his hand and said, ‘Congratulations.’ I took his hand and shook it, but as soon as I did, I knew I had lost my focus. On my next two shots, I hit the ball into a sand trap, then put it over the edge of the green. I missed a putt and lost the Masters. You don't forget a mistake like that.”

According to Arnold Palmer, he felt he pretty much had it made, as far as that golf tournament was concerned.  He was going to win.  But rather than focus on what needed to be done, he let his concentration slip, and his victory got away from him.

Churches typically are established with the mission of providing a Christian witness in a new way or new location.  Energy and excitement run high.  People share a vision and common purpose.  Nothing seems impossible, despite the challenges ahead.  God has called the congregation to an important ministry, and God’s spirit will see them through.

Time has a way of tempting us away from our focus on a vision.  As churches become settled, programs are designed, organizational structures are formed to administer the programs, power and authority for decision-making become important, and before long, the steep slide toward irrelevance begins.  Focus is diffused, and the vision that inspired the founding of the church dissipates.

Vision is vital to the health of a congregation.  It’s a vision nurtured through worship, prayer, study, service, giving, and other spiritual disciplines.  It’s a vision given by God. 

Looking away is a costly mistake.

Once More -- With Feeling

This is a free site, so I have to put up with factors beyond my control.  The hosts of the site apparently changed some of the settings, eliminating the counter I had and the links I displayed with images.

I have placed a new counter at the top of the page, and added a guestbook (please sign in!) and poll to make it all more interactive.   The poll is at the bottom.  I couldn't figure out a way to put it higher, unless it was at the very top, pushing everything down further.  So, as the title of the page says, "Here you go!"

With my tail between my legs, I added the links under the calendar, so they are smaller and less attractive than before.  I'm trying to comply with the site rules, as I do appreciate the opportunity to do this blog without paying for it.

 I hope it's not too awkward and stone-age in appearance, but I think we can proceed from here.

 Again, I appreciate your interest, and I will endeavor to post entries of interest to you.

To Be Continued
I am taking a brief break from the blog, but will resume soon. Thanks for your interest.

Long Overdue

The Disciples in the region known as the Capital Area (D.C., Maryland, Northern Virginia, and Delaware) own a campground near Antietam, Maryland.  I always was amused by the name of a church we drove past on our way to take our sons to church camp.  Sitting maybe seventy-five yards off the road, surrounded by a lot of open space was the Battlefield Bible Church.  Maybe the name reflected the location, or perhaps, they just were honest about who they were.

There were times we drove by the church when there was a chain across the end of the driveway leading to the parking lot -- just two little poles and a chain.  No fence or other barrier interfered with the possibility of simply driving around the poles and the chain onto church property.  But still, the message was clear:  Keep out!

According to news reports, today two factions referring to themselves as part of  "America's other Baptists" "will worship together for the first time."  "It is an effort to celebrate our common heritages as Baptist Christians and to affirm our commitment to work together more collaboratively," said the Rev. Daniel Vestal, national coordinator of the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship. "The Baptist witness is much richer and more nuanced than is characterized so often in the public square now."

It's been a long time coming.  Issues of theology, doctrine, race, and politics have been allowed to keep these Christians from fellowship within a common faith tradition and heritage.  Despite our penchant for seeking Christian unity, we Disciples are in no position to cast aspersions.  Our original American frontier Restoration Movement has broken into at least three distinct groups.  Who are we to disparage Baptists for their divisions?

The separation and alienation of Christians surely weaken our witness to the love of Christ.  We may laugh at the irony of a church name like Battlefield Bible Church, but it is laughter we hope will disguise our embarrassment, shame and spiritual pain.

"Where Your Treasure Is..."
All that we possess truly belongs to God, and as stewards of the abundant blessings provided by God, we are called even to recognize the spiritual nature of money and its use. Christians seek God’s leading and direction for all aspects of life, through worship, study of the scriptures, and prayer. Other spiritual disciplines also help us discern God’s will. The ways we use our money, including the offerings we make to God, provide a testimony to our faithfulness.

Steve Johnson, Executive Director of the Ecumenical Stewardship Center, in which the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) participates, relays in the 2007Giving magazine a philosophy known as “Rambam’s Ladder,” developed by a 12th century rabbi. As Johnson describes it, the ladder illustrates “eight levels of tzedakah, which translates roughly as ‘charity’ or ‘justice.’ Each rung represents a higher level of virtue.

1. Giving begrudgingly and making the recipient feel disgraced or embarrassed.
2. Giving cheerfully, but giving too little.
3. Giving cheerfully and adequately, but only after being asked.
4. Giving before being asked.
5. Giving when you do not know who is benefiting, but the recipient knows your identity.
6. Giving when you know who is benefiting, and the recipient does not know your identity.
7. Giving when neither the donor nor the recipient is aware of the other’s identity.
8. Giving money, a loan, your time, or whatever else it takes to enable someone to be self-reliant.”

Ascending a ladder enables us to reach higher than normally we can reach, and it becomes more difficult to climb, the closer we step to the top.

But, the top is where we endeavor to be, for it’s at the top of the ladder where we’re able to do what needs to be done.

Break Thou The Bread Of Life
Having the conviction they were called to restore the New Testament faith and practice of the church, the early leaders of the movement that became the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) discerned that the Lord’s Supper, or communion, should be central to every worship service. So, we in the Disciples tradition have communion on a weekly basis.

Some of our sisters and brothers from other churches who do not observe such a rigorous discipline often suggest that the repetition would lessen the significance of the sacrament. Disciples never say that. In fact, if Disciples happen to attend worship at another church, and communion is not part of the service on that particular Sunday, they commonly say, “It was a nice service, and I liked this or that, but I missed having communion.”

As a worship leader, I can attest to the fact that Disciples embrace the regularity of communion, and that it holds great meaning for them. I know this because during the service I am in position to look out at their faces. Not that everyone approaches communion in the same manner.

I remember someone talking about the method of sharing in communion from a common loaf, noting that often folks pinched off a tiny, tiny smidgen of the bread. She remarked, “This is my Lord’s body, given for me, and I want a big piece!” Churches use loaves, wafers, little flat circles that have the consistency of Styrofoam and stick to the roof of your mouth, crackers, matzos, and other representations of bread.

One pastor I know is a bit of a germaphobe, and I’m told that each Sunday he has a separate pre-packaged, sealed unit of a wafer and cup of grape juice, while the congregation passes the trays. There may still be some churches that pass the cup around from which everyone drinks.

There was a woman in one of my congregations that attended the church’s early service at which people came forward to get a piece of pre-cut bread to dip in the cup, then eat. Every single time, she very carefully took the bread morsel and barely touched the surface of the juice in the chalice I held for her. After eating it, she looked at me and gave me a huge grin. It got so I looked forward to her coming forward each Sunday.

However it’s done, and whether folks gulp it down, take their time, eat large portions or small, the Lord’s Supper – communion – shows our kinship with one another, under the authority and grace of the one who grants us new life, and who said, “When you do this, remember me.”

Sign This!
In one of his many books, Frederick Buechner mentioned that his father, who was a young man in the early part of the 20th Century, bore a striking resemblance to a British actor. On numerous occasions, strangers approached the elder Buechner, thinking he was the actor, and asked for his autograph. According to Frederick, his father always happily complied – except he signed his own name.

Once, on a family summer vacation at Chautauqua, New York, when I was maybe 17 years old, my brother and I were throwing a baseball back and forth. He had a catcher’s mitt, and I wound up like a pitcher when I made my throws. I guess I was popping it pretty good, because after a while, some kids gathered to watch.

My brother told them I was Jay Franklin, a pitcher from our home area who was drafted number two in the country the prior summer and signed a big contract with the San Diego Padres. They got all excited, and when I ran into some of them later they asked their father for a pen so they could get my autograph. I heard the father ask, “What’s he doing here?” Indeed. When they came to me, I told them I wasn’t Jay Franklin and refused to sign their paper. They acted as if they didn’t believe me.

A case of mistaken identity can lead to misunderstandings. I’m sure the people who obtained the autograph of Frederick Buechner’s father were confused when they read what he wrote for them. Those kids at Chautauqua seemed to think I just was being uncooperative and unfriendly when I denied being the person my brother told them I was.

People sometimes are not able to correctly identify church folks, based on our words and behaviors. It turns out our witness to the depth and nature of our faith is made daily, whether or not that is our intention.

Consider The Source
During my tenure as Executive Director of William Penn House in Washington, Civil Rights was a popular seminar subject. A time or two, I took visiting groups to visit Rep. John Lewis (D-GA) in his office. I read a lot about John Lewis over the years in numerous accounts of the Civil Rights Movement, as he was a significant leader. His courage was unquestioned during those very tense days in our nation’s history.

He was the leader of SNCC, the Student Non-violent Coordinating Committee, spoke at the 1963 March on Washington, made famous by Martin Luther King’s “I Have A Dream” speech, played a huge role in the Freedom Rides, and was front and center during the 1965 march from Selma to Montgomery that became known as “Bloody Sunday.” He suffered incredible, life-threatening violence that day and others, was arrested more times than I can count, and in my mind, is a true American hero. Probably no one imagined that this “dangerous person” one day would become one of the most-respected members of the House of Representatives, referred to by some as the “conscience of Congress.”

A memorable visit to his office occurred when a dozen or so high-schoolers from across the U.S., attending the annual WPH-sponsored Quaker Youth Seminar, were treated to Lewis’ personal recollections from Bloody Sunday. He displayed enlarged photos showing the Alabama state troopers on horses running through the peaceful marchers. One picture showed Lewis himself being beaten senseless by a law enforcement officer. Lewis, of course, carried no weapon and made no threats against the officer. He was leading a march.

Congressman Lewis betrayed no bitterness or anger at the memory. Granted, it was nearly thirty years after the attack occurred, but he and others I met who experienced so much hatred directed against them during those nightmarish years didn’t have time for negativity. Their purpose was not to divide, but to unite, and unity doesn’t happen through anger, hatred or bitterness.

At some point along the way, I read John Lewis’ memoir, Walking With The Wind, and as I said before, I found his story inspirational. Surely, it seemed, his sense of faith and the related connectedness to others who shared that faith fed and sustained him through the many challenges, difficulties, dangers and violent times he knew. It’s a message for the ages and applicable to anyone who hears it, even though most never face the severity of trouble with which he contended.

Since, as a member of Congress he was nearby, I decided to seek his personal inscription on my copy of his book. So, one day there I was, bouncing up the Metro escalator on my way to Lewis’s office, having dropped off the book a couple of weeks before.

The receptionist went through the door behind her and retrieved my book. As I turned to the title page and read what John Lewis wrote, the door opened again and Lewis himself emerged.

I waved the book as I said, “Thanks for signing it.” He came to me and shook my hand. Unlike so many politicians I have met and observed, Congressman Lewis looked directly into my eyes as he said a word of greeting, and once again I was in awe of this small man who continues to contribute in large ways to the greater good of our society and the world.

I keep John Lewis’s book on my desk at work, and sometimes when I feel discouraged or frustrated by the church, or when I question my calling and my commitment to it, I’ll pick it up and read what he wrote “To Greg Howell” on the title page.

Above his signature, along with his “Best Wishes,” John Lewis wrote, “Keep the faith.”

Go Jump In The Lake!
A memorable person in my life was my college roommate at East Carolina University. Jeff was from Raleigh, a year behind me in school, and had an infectious laugh. He also had cerebral palsy. The effect of CP on him was forming his legs into a pronounced “lock-kneed” position, affecting his walking. Even though Jeff wasn’t a tall or large person, he was very strong and walked without benefit of leg braces or other apparatus. He was an adventurous fellow, always wanting to test the range of his physical ability.

Jeff and I had a lot of laughs during our two years as roommates. One evening there was a heavy downpour, and we, like many others in our dorm stood in the walkway outside our room and watched it for a bit. Our room was on the first floor of the dorm, which had four-room suites, each with a door opening to the outside. As we stood watching the rain, I noticed a huge puddle forming in the middle of the courtyard.

Taking note of the widening pool and of all the people looking down on it, I said to Jeff, “I’ll give you five bucks if you go jump in that puddle.” Much to my surprise, he immediately went into our room and soon returned barefoot, wearing a white t-shirt and white boxer shorts. Without a word he handed me his glasses and headed for the stairs at the end of the walkway.

As I watched in disbelief, Jeff shuffled out into the courtyard and the watery torrent. Four floors of college students anticipated what they were about to witness, and a roar started to build. Jeff paused momentarily at the end of the courtyard, and then took off in a rush. As he reached the edge of the puddle he hurtled himself face-first and did a belly flop into the water. The noise from above was deafening. When Jeff hit the ground and slid forward, two splashing walls engulfed him, completely hiding him from view. It looked like a 1950’s Hollywood version of the parting of the Red Sea. As they say, the crowd went nuts!

I stood there astounded. Jeff was soaked almost beyond recognition, covered with mud, small twigs and pieces of leaves plastered to his skin and clothes. He calmly, amid great acclaim, walked back to me and held out his hand, palm upward. I gave him a five-dollar bill and his glasses. He once again had successfully stretched his physical abilities, and we both were proud, although five dollars was a lot for a college student to hand over in those days.