Greatness

{faith, hope, love}

Leading us to holiness

I have these wee “picture lesson” cards. They were stowaways of an inheritance–treasures tucked away in a stack of books that once belonged to my grandmother’s mother. Publications of the American Baptist Society of Philadelphia, they have a photo and bible verse on one side…

A lesson on the other–complete with story, questions, prayer, and “memory thought.” In case you would have never guessed, they’re old. This one, for example, was Volume 30, 3rd Quarter, August 28, 1910.

Their age is evidenced in the lessons. Nearly all include a poem of sorts–an admonishment in rhyme. It usually has nothing at all to do with the story, excepting of course, the one on temperance: ‘If God’s own children we would be, doing his holy will, we must not touch nor even see, the wine that makes us ill.’ *snicker*

Apparently, they forgot the first miracle Jesus performed; or the fact that riding into Jerusalem for Passover, He was heading to a feast where wine was sure to flow.

Speaking of Passover, I often think of the crowd that gathered that day. They had heard the stories … tales of signs and wonders … of Jesus raising the dead, giving sight to the blind, and movement to the lame. He even forgave the likes of tax collectors and harlots. Many saw his works with their own eyes; some felt His touch themselves. The Messiah, the one they had waited for, had finally arrived. There He was, riding in on the back of donkey, not as a king of war, but as the Prince of Peace. They gave him reverence, making a carpet of garments and palm branches. Yet they had no idea what was to come. They could not fathom the price He would pay.

I dare say, we still don’t.

Oh sure, we know the the story, but I’m not sure we truly grasp the sacrifice.

But I guess that’s all part of it, isn’t it?

If we had it all together, there would be no need for a manger. If we knew how to convey the gospel, there would be no need for an example. If we were blameless, there would be no need for a cross.

Yet here we are, heading toward Passover Sunday that leads to holy week.

So it is my prayer for you, dear readers: whether it’s just another weekend, or you intend to wave a palm branch or two, take the time to ponder the true meaning of the holiday … to consider the gift … to prepare to celebrate with a grateful heart …

Parties and prayers

In case you haven’t looked at a calendar, or noticed the splattering of green on this here blog, tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day.

We don’t know a lot about Saint Patrick. Legend aside, it seems his work spanned sixty years–and while it aimed for heaven, it lived here on earth. He did not require the clergy of his monasteries to take vows or forgo marriage.  How could they possibly encourage others, if they, themselves, could not understand?  Instead, he had them focus on the work before them–transcribing scripture, studying the sciences, and training others for spiritual labors, both at home and abroad.

Saint Patrick founded 365 churches and 365 schools. He lived through good times and bad; he lived in slavery and freedom.  He encouraged others to do the same.  He was a man dedicated to prayer–and those in his care.

So it is the Irish celebrate their saint with revelry and prayer.  And you know what they say, on St. Paddy’s Day, everyone is Irish.

Let us celebrate in full–with prayers and rejoicing.

Like you, I can’t get the people of Japan off my mind.  As with any sorrow, it probably seems as if the world should stop for a moment.  But life goes on.  So yes, break out the green, dance an Irish  jig, feast on Irish fare–laugh along with those you love.  But don’t forget those who have little more than tears.  Keep them wrapped in your prayers, give if you can.  For it’s not that pot of gold that makes us the luckiest–it’s standing side-by-side, and sharing our burdens.

In the footstep of children

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On a typical Sunday morning, after worship and the sermon, the people of our wee congregation tend to do their thing and, you know, congregate.  Unlike days of old where you attended Sunday morning, Sunday evening, Wednesday evening, and—on good weeks—revival meeting Thursday, Friday and Saturday evenings … we have but one day a week to see one another and catch up.  It takes time, don’t you know.

But not yesterday.  Yesterday was an exodus like none other.  After all, we had to make it downstairs for Hannah and Sasha’s Super Sale, where, as Hannah so aptly put it, “People [were] going crazy!”

Could you blame us?  There was handmade jewelry, flower magnets, notecards—there was a raffle—there were chocolate chip cookies and pies.  Oh, the pies!  You know that wedding banquet of which the Bible speaks? That pie is bound to be on the menu.  Pretty sure.

It was a grand time—and all because one Little Miss got together with another Little Miss, and decided they wanted to raise money for those in need.  If it weren’t for them, us adults would have done as we do each week.  We would have chatted a bit—then promptly took our quarters and dollar bills home.  After all, what good could chump change do?

I dare say, we’ll never find out if we don’t have the faith of a child.

You see, sometimes the smallest shoes make the biggest prints … sometimes breaking bread comes in the form of chatter over a slice of chocolate cream pie … sometimes all we have to give is a pittance and sometimes that’s more than enough.

The color of our skin

Growing up, I knew one black family.  It’s not that they were the only ones I wished to befriend, they were  literally the only black family I knew.  But the color of their skin was a moot point; it never crossed my mind … until they would turn the conversation toward racism.  They would speak of injustice, continued inequality–of blatant abuse.  And I would inwardly roll my eyes.   We were, after all, living in the 20th century.  Sure, there were bigots–there were skinheads living in them there hills.  But certainly they were the exception to the rule.    

Then I moved to Dallas. 

I attended school in Oak Cliff.  Just to give you an idea, I worked one semester at a bagel shop in a wealthy suburb.  There was a guy who came in to flirt with me and a fellow student nearly everyday.  Week upon week he put up with long lines and horrible coffee (we had just got an espresso machine and no one had a clue how to work it), just to chat.  One day he asked, “So, where do you live?”  “Oak Cliff,” I responded.  He laughed hysterically–good one–then realized we were not laughing.  He never came back.  

Oak Cliff, you see, was not the place for a pasty white person such as myself to be; in Oak Cliff, I was a minority.  In Oak Cliff I was glared at, cursed upon, and accused of killing a small boy’s great-great grandfather.  In Oak Cliff, there were those who held their children close and walked to the other side of the street at the mere sight of me.  In Oak Cliff I finally saw what my friends had talked about. 

While I’m thankful for the experience, it actually set me back.  For the first time I saw the road to equality remained rocky and uphill; for the first time, there was an issue of color.  I didn’t at all know what to do with that …  

Race, you see, is not a simple matter. 

I’m sure Martin Luther King, Jr. would have agreed.  To this day he gets it from all sides.  He wasn’t a saint, he raised a ruckus–he gave in too easily, he didn’t stay dedicated to the cause.   Perhaps it’s true.  Or perhaps he was simply human.  Perhaps he wasn’t giving in so much as admonishing the fact that only in focusing on our commonality will we ever overcome our differences. 

In The Color of Water: A Black Man’s Tribute to His White Mother, James McBride speaks of constantly trying to bate his mother into an argument on race.  She wouldn’t budge.  Finally, thinking he was ever-so clever, he asked the color of God.  Her response: “God is the color of water.”  

And there lies the key.

As this day reminds us, we still have a ways to go.  We must continue the fight–we must be willing to speak out, and to listen.  We must learn to celebrate our differences, and focus on what we share.  And we must do so until the color of our skin is no longer a point … until the only thing worth fighting for is the fact that we’re all–red, yellow, black and white–created in God’s image.   

It’s as simple and as difficult as that.

A merry little Christmas

{The Nativity, by Gerard van Honthorst (1590-1656)}

Another Christmas is upon us.  There are gifts to give and those to unwrap, meals to prepare and share.  As we celebrate, let us not forget to find a quiet moment or two to remember the true meaning of Christmas… 

Let us fall in line with the shepherds and wise men, following that great and shining star; let us smell the dusty road, hear their tales of wonder, and see the angels sing; let us join this odd gathering as they tiptoe through the straw, kneel at a musty manager, and offer precious gifts to a newborn king.  What will we give?  What will we take away?  These things let us treasure, and ponder them in our hearts.       

Merry Christmas, my friends.

xoxo