"When I moved in here I gave you five thousand dollars!" These were the indignant words of my father in response to my request that he replace a deeply sentimental gift to my wife I had made. I gave the gift on the occasion of my wife's gift to me of her kidney after mine had failed from diabetic complications. The gift was a replica of the statue called The Kiss. It is a famous sculpture of a man and woman locked in a nude embrace, passionately kissing. My wife and I called it The Kidney. When my grandson first saw it he was 6 years old. He looked at it studiously and looked up at me with his eyes fixed on mine. He looked at the statue again and circled it in wide eyed amazement, He said; "Pop Pop, why is this in the house?" I laughed and explained to him the reason I purchased it. I asked him if he thought it was a bad thing and he said he didn't know. Despite my grandson's reservations the artwork was a symbol of love, fidelity and sacrifice for my wife and I. It was prominently displayed in our entry way, fittingly so.
In an act of carelessness my father broke the statue and attempted to glue it together in a crude and haphazard manner. When I saw it I was shocked and disappointed. He didn't mention the broken piece of sentimentality. He waited for me to say something to him about it. When I asked him how it was broken he gave an answer that caused me more disappointment and disgust. He had broken a clear house rule and the result was the destruction of a piece of art that held emotional and historical significance for Lynette and I. He quickly told me he would replace the broken sculpture. Okay, it won't truly replace it but, well, okay. It took me a few weeks to determine how much the replacement cost would be.
When I informed my father of the cost he became visibly angered. It was at this point that he mentioned the alleged five thousand dollars he gave me. It was actually two thousand dollars and that was not unreasonable considering he got a large heated room, kitchen privileges and off street parking. He would have to pay that for a lesser living quarters almost anywhere in the city. My first response to his indignation was anger. How dare he mention what he gave me when he moved into my home? He never paid a dime in child support, rarely even saw me as a child nor did he ever inquire as to my well being! I very briefly contemplated telling him that whatever he gave me was 45 years late and still insufficient! I controlled my temper and told him his attitude was obnoxious and intolerable. A yelling match ensued. Though I didn't tell him that he needed to relocate. I knew he knew it was time to go. It was a relief. For three years he had disregarded house rules, privacy, courtesy and general respect, repeatedly and unrepentantly. I was tired and so was my wife. When he finally told me he had found a place to go relief morphed into exultation. I would have my life and home back.
The relationship with my father was always difficult for me. Before it was difficult it was hardly existent. Though a big personality and hugely popular character in Boston and Cambridge, to me he was a ghost. A figure that quickly appeared and disappeared at different stages of my life. He never knew my birthday. When I was a child he honored the day once. He gave me his white 10 speed white racing bike for my 13th birthday. I had already been given a emerald green, chopper bike with a mile high sissy bar earlier in the week. We never really clicked or bonded. We never had father and son time alone when I was a kid, or teen. I always shared him with his woman or girlfriend for the day or the weekend. I never really got to know him and he certainly never really got to know me; his son. When I was married I asked him to be my "best man" as an act of respect and generosity. The relationship remained strained and distant.
At the time he moved into our home he was at a low point in his life. His health and circumstances had taken a nose dive. I felt sorry for him. I felt guilt about knowing he needed a place to stay and not wanting to offer him to share my space. Though he wasn't much of a father figure to me he was funny and could be fun to be around. I considered him a friend. I truly felt that the time for us as father and son was long gone. There had been too much time, too little regard for his absences and far too many hurts to be repaired. The only hope I held was one of forgiveness and friendship. He immediately became a member of my church and set about to helping me grow the church numerically. He worked tirelessly as a bus driver and unofficial evangelist. He introduce many people to the church and ultimately to the gospel through his charitable acts. At one time he collected food that would have been discarded by a renowned eatery and distributed it to homeless and needy people in the street.
In retrospect the way my father handled the broken statue is the way he handled many issues in his life. He attempted to make things right by his version of glue; humor, money, favors and half hearted apologies. Somewhere deep inside, in a place I don't think he ever really visited, he was in a lot of emotional pain. Whatever or whomever had created whom he was had left a very wounded boy who had grown into a wounded man who created his own wounds on his son. He was never able to have a transparent and real conversation with me about what his absence in my life had cost me. All I ever really wanted from him was acceptance of responsibility for his actions. Because he couldn't do it a gulf existed between us. It was cordial. It was friendly. It was loving but it was a gulf. I tried hard to maintain an attitude of forgiveness about it but it took a lot of prayer and acceptance. Forgiveness is not often a one time event when dealing with family issues or people. We are flawed. We make mistakes. We have good intentions but we so often miss the mark in our attempts. My very difficult relationship with my father did teach me that forgiveness is not merely a principle but a commitment to a truth that can challenge your rhetoric and your faith. I didn't experience much change in the relationship but there was some change in me. I had never intended to forgive my father for his abandonment of me. In some ways my anger around that issue fueled my desire to do what he didn't do but that is really negative in it's impetus. Living with my father forced me to deal with my anger on a daily basis. Would I live with the bitter attitude or would I live out my faith and just accept who he was. It was easier to do the latter and more to the point it was right and righteous.
My father is now dead and gone to his eternal reward. Living with forgiveness while he was living made his passing an easier transition for me. I didn't have all the regret, anger, and angst that can accompany a death without forgiveness and resignation. The years and experiences that I did not have with my father will never be. I don't think there is a healing for that. I think there is redemption for it. GOD is able to make all things work out for the good of them that love Him. I have a compassion and connection for others who have similar pain. I work for the betterment of children who also have missing parents; especially fathers. Therein is the good from out of the bad. By the way, he never replaced the statue. All that remains where the object once stood is a scarred wall with bits of glue. Someday I will repair and patch the wall; paint it. Redeem the site.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
THE OTHER DAY I CRIED
I cried the other day. I was at a planned work appointment. The appointment was arranged to be on a ship on the historic waterfront of Boston. The Charlestown Shipyard is a beautiful place. The weather was very hot; in the 90's. I thought the breeze would be a welcomed reprieve from the heat. I arrived early. I did so for two reasons. I am notorious for running behind the appointed time for a meeting and I did not want to be one of the minority Negroes who kept the boat waiting. The second reason and the most important one is this: I have a disability. My ambulation has been compromised by the long term side effect of diabetes. I have nerve damage in my feet and severe arthritis stemming from another diabetic condition. I have to be planful about walking. I arrived early to check out the area and to give myself enough time to negotiate the terrain. Charlestown is full of cobblestone walks and streets. Cobblestone is beautiful and quaint but it is hard to walk on.
Proud of the fact that I was the first to arrive I stationed myself under a shelter and awaited the arrival of my co-workers. Eventually they arrived in a festive mood. I, on the other hand, was apprehensive. I wanted to know how far the walk to the ship was. I had already struggled with the walk from the parking garage to the meeting place and as I've already explained it was hot. After a few moments of chit-chat and formalities we all began the trek to the ship. I lagged behind. I am used to moving a little more slowly these days. I've adjusted. What is hard for me is to take the gentle kindnesses of people willing to assist me. I guess it's a pride thing and probably a man thing too. I am both. A very gracious woman and friendly colleague sidled up to me and said quietly; "Let me take your bag". I insisted that I had it all under control and gently refused her offer. My colleague said in a firm and determined voice just above a whisper (in a voice I have heard many women of African descent use so many times before); "Give me the bag". I acquiesced and she carried the bag for me to the ship. I struggled to keep a pace that was relatively swift while others occasionally asked me about my progress and well being. I waved them on and said I'd catch up. I felt old. I felt embarrassed. I was uncomfortable.
An office mate of mine stayed behind with me to ensure that I was not left alone in the oppressive heat with my feet struggling to carry my load over the uneven sidewalk. I misstepped a couple of times and I prayed that I would not fall. I finally arrived at the gate to the plank like ramp that would lead to the deck that would lead to the ship. I braved the ramp. It is no small feat to walk a ramp at a 45 degree angle with a cane. I did it, walking on my heels because my feet cannot grip as they once did. Once on the narrow and floating deck I was even more uncomfortable. The deck wavered with the water and I panicked. I did not want to fall over in the water on either side of the deck. Another co-worker had just pointed out that the water was filled with jelly fish. I peered over the left side to see more jelly fish than I had ever seen in my life at one time! Nervous, embarrassed, I continued on cautiously. I was offered a wheel chair to assist me (get away from me with a wheel chair!). What I needed was a deck that didn't waiver.....or a meeting that was closer to the shore...or a new pair of feet; but none of these were immediate options. I continued on the deck until a small wave moved the deck for the third time. I temporarily lost my balance, quickly regained it and stopped walking altogether. I determined that I was through trying to navigate this walk of horrors and decided to return to my vehicle and go back to my office. I announced my intention and turned around to make the trek back. I asked for someone to get my briefcase and I made it back to the parking lot. I was driven to my car by the co-worker who lagged behind with me. She was sweet to do that.
When I finally paid my parking fee which was $9.00 for 90 minutes. I sat in my car and wept. I cried because I was embarrassed, I cried because I was angry. I cried because I felt humiliated and defeated. I cried because I felt sorry for myself. I cried because I felt that my needs were not considered in the planning of the meeting. I cried because I was mad at myself for not following my instinct the night before to cancel my appearance at the meeting believing the walk would be prohibitive. I was mad at the doctors who didn't catch the diabetic syndrome happening in my feet and discharged me from the hospital with a broken foot that collapsed two days later, (That's a whole 'nuther story boys and girls). I was even a little mad at GOD for a minute. I don't know why, really. I guess I needed someone to blame and HE seemed convenient. I quickly repented and asked HIM what I could learn from the incident. I am not sure. I am thinking about it. I know that my own disability has made me much more aware of other people's struggles with architecture; stairs, hallways, the lack of seating in public places, etcetera. It has made me a more compassionate person. Isn't that what our troubles are designed to do in a sense? 2 Corinthians 1:4 says that we comfort others with the same comfort with which we ourselves are comforted; That comfort comes from GOD. Some experiences are not for us. They happen to us but they are not specifically for us. Is is possible that my disability has a greater reason than diabetic complications or an arrogant doctor's error? I think so. I never paid much attention to the fact that so many churches with the sign "ALL ARE WELCOME" under the church name have made no provision for the elderly, the sick or the disabled to enter those buildings. I am now acutely aware. I am more patient as people cross the street while I wait at a light. I notice high curbs and have assisted others in managing them. I once saw a man struggling to get his wife from her wheelchair into their car. My heart was touched and I (along with my cane) assisted the elderly gentleman in his task. I was his hero that day. It reminded me of how GOD's grace works in us. We are not perfect; no not at all, but what HE has deposited can be a blessing to someone else.
For the Christian our troubles work within us a work that is far greater than the immediate happening of trouble or disaster or disability. If we are wise we will allow the work of the Holy Spirit to transform us on the inside. I am indeed different on the outside but I am much more transformed on the inside because of the lessons I've learned through the adversity I've experienced over the past 10 years or so. Like the old saints used to say; "I wouldn't take nothin' for my journey."
I've stopped feeling sorry for myself and I am in a more reflective mood. In my refection I can see the hand of GOD at work on my behalf in the two women who assisted me. They were like goodness and mercy that morning. I thank GOD for them and today they are in my prayers of thanksgiving. I feel blessed. It's my turn to comfort someone else. Thanks for listening.
Proud of the fact that I was the first to arrive I stationed myself under a shelter and awaited the arrival of my co-workers. Eventually they arrived in a festive mood. I, on the other hand, was apprehensive. I wanted to know how far the walk to the ship was. I had already struggled with the walk from the parking garage to the meeting place and as I've already explained it was hot. After a few moments of chit-chat and formalities we all began the trek to the ship. I lagged behind. I am used to moving a little more slowly these days. I've adjusted. What is hard for me is to take the gentle kindnesses of people willing to assist me. I guess it's a pride thing and probably a man thing too. I am both. A very gracious woman and friendly colleague sidled up to me and said quietly; "Let me take your bag". I insisted that I had it all under control and gently refused her offer. My colleague said in a firm and determined voice just above a whisper (in a voice I have heard many women of African descent use so many times before); "Give me the bag". I acquiesced and she carried the bag for me to the ship. I struggled to keep a pace that was relatively swift while others occasionally asked me about my progress and well being. I waved them on and said I'd catch up. I felt old. I felt embarrassed. I was uncomfortable.
An office mate of mine stayed behind with me to ensure that I was not left alone in the oppressive heat with my feet struggling to carry my load over the uneven sidewalk. I misstepped a couple of times and I prayed that I would not fall. I finally arrived at the gate to the plank like ramp that would lead to the deck that would lead to the ship. I braved the ramp. It is no small feat to walk a ramp at a 45 degree angle with a cane. I did it, walking on my heels because my feet cannot grip as they once did. Once on the narrow and floating deck I was even more uncomfortable. The deck wavered with the water and I panicked. I did not want to fall over in the water on either side of the deck. Another co-worker had just pointed out that the water was filled with jelly fish. I peered over the left side to see more jelly fish than I had ever seen in my life at one time! Nervous, embarrassed, I continued on cautiously. I was offered a wheel chair to assist me (get away from me with a wheel chair!). What I needed was a deck that didn't waiver.....or a meeting that was closer to the shore...or a new pair of feet; but none of these were immediate options. I continued on the deck until a small wave moved the deck for the third time. I temporarily lost my balance, quickly regained it and stopped walking altogether. I determined that I was through trying to navigate this walk of horrors and decided to return to my vehicle and go back to my office. I announced my intention and turned around to make the trek back. I asked for someone to get my briefcase and I made it back to the parking lot. I was driven to my car by the co-worker who lagged behind with me. She was sweet to do that.
When I finally paid my parking fee which was $9.00 for 90 minutes. I sat in my car and wept. I cried because I was embarrassed, I cried because I was angry. I cried because I felt humiliated and defeated. I cried because I felt sorry for myself. I cried because I felt that my needs were not considered in the planning of the meeting. I cried because I was mad at myself for not following my instinct the night before to cancel my appearance at the meeting believing the walk would be prohibitive. I was mad at the doctors who didn't catch the diabetic syndrome happening in my feet and discharged me from the hospital with a broken foot that collapsed two days later, (That's a whole 'nuther story boys and girls). I was even a little mad at GOD for a minute. I don't know why, really. I guess I needed someone to blame and HE seemed convenient. I quickly repented and asked HIM what I could learn from the incident. I am not sure. I am thinking about it. I know that my own disability has made me much more aware of other people's struggles with architecture; stairs, hallways, the lack of seating in public places, etcetera. It has made me a more compassionate person. Isn't that what our troubles are designed to do in a sense? 2 Corinthians 1:4 says that we comfort others with the same comfort with which we ourselves are comforted; That comfort comes from GOD. Some experiences are not for us. They happen to us but they are not specifically for us. Is is possible that my disability has a greater reason than diabetic complications or an arrogant doctor's error? I think so. I never paid much attention to the fact that so many churches with the sign "ALL ARE WELCOME" under the church name have made no provision for the elderly, the sick or the disabled to enter those buildings. I am now acutely aware. I am more patient as people cross the street while I wait at a light. I notice high curbs and have assisted others in managing them. I once saw a man struggling to get his wife from her wheelchair into their car. My heart was touched and I (along with my cane) assisted the elderly gentleman in his task. I was his hero that day. It reminded me of how GOD's grace works in us. We are not perfect; no not at all, but what HE has deposited can be a blessing to someone else.
For the Christian our troubles work within us a work that is far greater than the immediate happening of trouble or disaster or disability. If we are wise we will allow the work of the Holy Spirit to transform us on the inside. I am indeed different on the outside but I am much more transformed on the inside because of the lessons I've learned through the adversity I've experienced over the past 10 years or so. Like the old saints used to say; "I wouldn't take nothin' for my journey."
I've stopped feeling sorry for myself and I am in a more reflective mood. In my refection I can see the hand of GOD at work on my behalf in the two women who assisted me. They were like goodness and mercy that morning. I thank GOD for them and today they are in my prayers of thanksgiving. I feel blessed. It's my turn to comfort someone else. Thanks for listening.
Monday, March 31, 2008
House Dresses and Cigarettes....Confessions of a well meaning, religious bigot
As a very young pastor I attended a national pastor's conference designed to support pastors whose churches are located in the inner city. I was expectant, excited and full of zeal. The first year was a life changing event for me. I was able to meet and hear a message from a pastor that I greatly admired. Pastor E.V. Hill whose approach to preaching had deeply influenced my own was a guest speaker. The entire weekend was a magnificent experience for me. I wept the entire time as the LORD did so many wonderful things in my heart and life.
What a difference a year makes. The following year I attended the same conference. This time a discouraged, depressed, tired and sick pastor attended the conference. I declined to attend with friends this time; preferring to travel alone so I could think, meditate and pray. I could also be there without the distraction of my friend's desire to shop, sight see or visit friends.
I kept asking GOD to please make sure someone was there to minister to me. I needed support. At the time my denomination had no routine means to support, train or counsel pastors or ministers on the local level. There was an annual conference but you could die of spiritual thirst waiting on that yearly meeting. My whole prayer was for the LORD to arrange for someone to minister to me.
I arrived at the first meeting on time but not in time to get a preferable seat. As I stood surveying the building an usher approached me and escorted me to the front of the congregation; first row; right side of the church. As I took my seat, I noticed a rubenesque, woman with a pleasant demeanor and a perm that needed a touch up desperately. The most remarkable thing about this woman was the fact that she was wearing a shift. For those of you too young to know, a shift was a house dress with no sleeves and a simple wrap-style or plain buttoned down front. These dresses were typically worn around the house as one cleaned, cooked or enjoyed leisure time. I immediately thought; "Who is this lady in this great big ol' meeting in a house dress?" She smiled as I took my seat directly in front of her. At some point during the service I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder and heard indiscernible words in a clear pattern of fervent prayer. Someone was praying for me. I turned to see it was the lady in the house dress. After the service this lady made a point of speaking to me and asked my name. That evening in my hotel room, I prayed with tears for the LORD to send someone to me to encourage me, give me a "word" or some sign that He was still with me in this role of pastor. I suppose I wanted one of the internationally famous pastors to recognize my need and say something that would transform my life and ministry. Didn't happen.
The next day I was again led to my seat by an usher. I was seated this time directly in back of the lady with the bad perm. She was wearing another house dress. In this morning session. The speaker encouraged the people to share prayer needs with those around them. Immediately the house dress lady turned to me and she took my hands and asked what I would like to pray about. I couldn't even speak. I closed my eyes and just froze. The tears seeped through my closed lids as I tried to formulate words that could explain my needs to this stranger. She began to pray. Her prayer addressed the needs of my life. Her prayer was a balm for my pain and disillusionment. I also prayed for her and we embraced. The following day I was seated before her and she sought me out. As we began to talk, I realized that it was through this very different lady (at least from my perspective) that GOD has answered my prayer for someone to minister to me. My expectation was entirely different; foolish, limited and bigoted. In my interactions with that lady and her very real compassion for me that I saw very clearly the beauty of Jesus. Through this woman of GOD my soul was lifted and I was hopeful and refreshed in the Holy Spirit. GOD used this white woman from New York to bless a black man from Boston. In doing so he addressed a bias I had regarding clothing and judging the value of people based on appearance. Through this experience He also revealed the limited view I had of the sources of the grace of GOD.
Another instance of GOD correcting biases and false expectations was my reluctant attendance to a three day conference at a catholic conference site by a beautiful lake in Massachusetts. I initially resisted the invitation because, well.... they were catholic. I had visions of statues, Mary veneration, smoke and rosary beads. My friend assured me that the meeting was multi-denominational and was not strictly catholic but I didn't want to take the risk. I never really made up my mind to go until I was actually in the car heading towards the southern part of Massachusetts with the friend that invited and eventually demanded that I attend. Too late to change my mind, I wondered as I peered over my sunglasses peripherally at my excited friend. Yeah, too late came the response from my conscience and we careened on to the "reluctant weekend".
The first hour of this new experience was extremely uncomfortable. No one there looked like me. I was the speck in the cup of milk as we say in my collective community. A colloquial reference to being the only Black/African American in a roomful of White folk. Some of the songs that were sung I knew, the scripture references were familiar, of course. I was surprised to see that during free time that was allotted for the prisoners, oops, I mean, participants to get to know one another there were more than a couple of people who were smoking cigarettes. I thought: "Don't these heathens know they are in a church function on a church site for a spiritual retreat?"
As soon as my thought was complete one of this ill-informed people walked up to me with cigarette in mouth uttering a greeting. I pretended not to understand what I had heard in order to signal to him that he should remove the offensive sign of his spiritual immaturity. We then introduced ourselves. During this little get-to-know-you attempt the man claims that he has a "word from the LORD" for me. My mind immediately put up a barrier! "You ain't got no word for me with that cigarette hanging out of your mouth brother!, was my initial thought. He immediately began to speak of things that he could certainly not know about me from a very brief introduction. It soon became clear to me that the LORD was using this man to encourage me abut the weekend. The unlikely prophet also foretold some things that came to pass in my life. Hmmmmm.
I believe Elijah, the prophet also had a similar experience as recorded in scripture . He is running from the death threat issued to him by Jezebel the Queen and wife of Ahab the wicked king of Israel. He eventually ends up depressed, hiding in a cave with a warped perception of his ministry and whom the LORD was using. Elijah's ministry was one that was accompanied by signs and wonders. Just before the death threat he called down fire from Heaven in a battle between the Priests of Baal and the Prophets of the LORD. We find Elijah in the cave having an expectation of GOD's presence in his life to be like it always was. There was a lightening storm, an earth quake and a hurricane while Elijah was in the cave. The Bible says each time one of those great events happened Elijah went to the mouth of the cave and expected to hear GOD's voice; like he always did, in the great wonders. GOD was not in any of those experiences. It wasn't until a gentle breeze came by the cave that Elijah finally heard the LORD's voice. When he heard the voice of GOD it put in perspective his misperception of who was being used by GOD. ("I alone am left as a servant of Jehovah! 1 Kings 18:22, 19:10"). I think also, it must have broadened the vision of Elijah's ministry. He found out there were 7 thousand other faithful people still serving the LORD! In the direction recieved he was given instruction concerning his nation, another nation and the next generation; his mentor, Elisha.
Being open to the Sovereignty of GOD is somethimes a hard thing to do. He keeps switching things up. Just when you think you 've got HIM in a box he breaks the box and your perceptions. He does this so you can trust in HIM and not methods, and what worked "the last time." Our relationship with the LORD keeps unfolding. Sometimes that is very uncomfortable. It continues to be revelatory and expanding to our hearts and experiences. I continue to try to be open to the way the LORD wants me to take. I try to learn from the people he places in my path; though sometimes I feel like some of them are just in my way. (Smile) The experiences I had with the lady in the house dress and the smoking prophet enlarged my understanding of the Body of Christ. They also opened my heart to those who were not like me. I'm also learning HIS ways are not my ways! I'm in a learning mode and the lesson is making me exactly who my Heavenly Father wants me to be and with that I am comfortable.
What a difference a year makes. The following year I attended the same conference. This time a discouraged, depressed, tired and sick pastor attended the conference. I declined to attend with friends this time; preferring to travel alone so I could think, meditate and pray. I could also be there without the distraction of my friend's desire to shop, sight see or visit friends.
I kept asking GOD to please make sure someone was there to minister to me. I needed support. At the time my denomination had no routine means to support, train or counsel pastors or ministers on the local level. There was an annual conference but you could die of spiritual thirst waiting on that yearly meeting. My whole prayer was for the LORD to arrange for someone to minister to me.
I arrived at the first meeting on time but not in time to get a preferable seat. As I stood surveying the building an usher approached me and escorted me to the front of the congregation; first row; right side of the church. As I took my seat, I noticed a rubenesque, woman with a pleasant demeanor and a perm that needed a touch up desperately. The most remarkable thing about this woman was the fact that she was wearing a shift. For those of you too young to know, a shift was a house dress with no sleeves and a simple wrap-style or plain buttoned down front. These dresses were typically worn around the house as one cleaned, cooked or enjoyed leisure time. I immediately thought; "Who is this lady in this great big ol' meeting in a house dress?" She smiled as I took my seat directly in front of her. At some point during the service I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder and heard indiscernible words in a clear pattern of fervent prayer. Someone was praying for me. I turned to see it was the lady in the house dress. After the service this lady made a point of speaking to me and asked my name. That evening in my hotel room, I prayed with tears for the LORD to send someone to me to encourage me, give me a "word" or some sign that He was still with me in this role of pastor. I suppose I wanted one of the internationally famous pastors to recognize my need and say something that would transform my life and ministry. Didn't happen.
The next day I was again led to my seat by an usher. I was seated this time directly in back of the lady with the bad perm. She was wearing another house dress. In this morning session. The speaker encouraged the people to share prayer needs with those around them. Immediately the house dress lady turned to me and she took my hands and asked what I would like to pray about. I couldn't even speak. I closed my eyes and just froze. The tears seeped through my closed lids as I tried to formulate words that could explain my needs to this stranger. She began to pray. Her prayer addressed the needs of my life. Her prayer was a balm for my pain and disillusionment. I also prayed for her and we embraced. The following day I was seated before her and she sought me out. As we began to talk, I realized that it was through this very different lady (at least from my perspective) that GOD has answered my prayer for someone to minister to me. My expectation was entirely different; foolish, limited and bigoted. In my interactions with that lady and her very real compassion for me that I saw very clearly the beauty of Jesus. Through this woman of GOD my soul was lifted and I was hopeful and refreshed in the Holy Spirit. GOD used this white woman from New York to bless a black man from Boston. In doing so he addressed a bias I had regarding clothing and judging the value of people based on appearance. Through this experience He also revealed the limited view I had of the sources of the grace of GOD.
Another instance of GOD correcting biases and false expectations was my reluctant attendance to a three day conference at a catholic conference site by a beautiful lake in Massachusetts. I initially resisted the invitation because, well.... they were catholic. I had visions of statues, Mary veneration, smoke and rosary beads. My friend assured me that the meeting was multi-denominational and was not strictly catholic but I didn't want to take the risk. I never really made up my mind to go until I was actually in the car heading towards the southern part of Massachusetts with the friend that invited and eventually demanded that I attend. Too late to change my mind, I wondered as I peered over my sunglasses peripherally at my excited friend. Yeah, too late came the response from my conscience and we careened on to the "reluctant weekend".
The first hour of this new experience was extremely uncomfortable. No one there looked like me. I was the speck in the cup of milk as we say in my collective community. A colloquial reference to being the only Black/African American in a roomful of White folk. Some of the songs that were sung I knew, the scripture references were familiar, of course. I was surprised to see that during free time that was allotted for the prisoners, oops, I mean, participants to get to know one another there were more than a couple of people who were smoking cigarettes. I thought: "Don't these heathens know they are in a church function on a church site for a spiritual retreat?"
As soon as my thought was complete one of this ill-informed people walked up to me with cigarette in mouth uttering a greeting. I pretended not to understand what I had heard in order to signal to him that he should remove the offensive sign of his spiritual immaturity. We then introduced ourselves. During this little get-to-know-you attempt the man claims that he has a "word from the LORD" for me. My mind immediately put up a barrier! "You ain't got no word for me with that cigarette hanging out of your mouth brother!, was my initial thought. He immediately began to speak of things that he could certainly not know about me from a very brief introduction. It soon became clear to me that the LORD was using this man to encourage me abut the weekend. The unlikely prophet also foretold some things that came to pass in my life. Hmmmmm.
I believe Elijah, the prophet also had a similar experience as recorded in scripture . He is running from the death threat issued to him by Jezebel the Queen and wife of Ahab the wicked king of Israel. He eventually ends up depressed, hiding in a cave with a warped perception of his ministry and whom the LORD was using. Elijah's ministry was one that was accompanied by signs and wonders. Just before the death threat he called down fire from Heaven in a battle between the Priests of Baal and the Prophets of the LORD. We find Elijah in the cave having an expectation of GOD's presence in his life to be like it always was. There was a lightening storm, an earth quake and a hurricane while Elijah was in the cave. The Bible says each time one of those great events happened Elijah went to the mouth of the cave and expected to hear GOD's voice; like he always did, in the great wonders. GOD was not in any of those experiences. It wasn't until a gentle breeze came by the cave that Elijah finally heard the LORD's voice. When he heard the voice of GOD it put in perspective his misperception of who was being used by GOD. ("I alone am left as a servant of Jehovah! 1 Kings 18:22, 19:10"). I think also, it must have broadened the vision of Elijah's ministry. He found out there were 7 thousand other faithful people still serving the LORD! In the direction recieved he was given instruction concerning his nation, another nation and the next generation; his mentor, Elisha.
Being open to the Sovereignty of GOD is somethimes a hard thing to do. He keeps switching things up. Just when you think you 've got HIM in a box he breaks the box and your perceptions. He does this so you can trust in HIM and not methods, and what worked "the last time." Our relationship with the LORD keeps unfolding. Sometimes that is very uncomfortable. It continues to be revelatory and expanding to our hearts and experiences. I continue to try to be open to the way the LORD wants me to take. I try to learn from the people he places in my path; though sometimes I feel like some of them are just in my way. (Smile) The experiences I had with the lady in the house dress and the smoking prophet enlarged my understanding of the Body of Christ. They also opened my heart to those who were not like me. I'm also learning HIS ways are not my ways! I'm in a learning mode and the lesson is making me exactly who my Heavenly Father wants me to be and with that I am comfortable.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
I MISS YOU CLARICE
I Miss my friend Clarice. Clarice Winbush Thousand. I can see her now. Tall, stately, a mess of silver hair worn as a crown, mouth open, smiling, or talking or fussing or praying or getting somebody told. Clarice was my friend. In many ways a role model, a mentor and a confidante. She was a mother and a big sister to me. I met Clarice Thousand 21 years ago. I was introduced to her on the phone. We spoke briefly and made a time and date to meet and visit a church in Western, Massachusetts. I didn't know what I was in for. Clarice was funny and comfortable to be around. She immediately started calling me Jim. I hate that nickname. I never allow anyone to call me that.....ever. I can't explain why but I allowed my new friend to call me......"Jim", ugh!
Clarice was, er... um, how can I say this...? Oh, okay, she was bossy; with a capital B. Initially, this proved volatile. I can be quite ah, um, directive, myself and not at all inclined to be told what to do. In the early stages of the development of our friendship we had many arguments. We argued about scripture, people we knew in common, social issues, religious beliefs and the time of the day. It was a part of our dynamic. She liked to argue and so did I. The hard part was that neither one of us wanted to be wrong. This eventuated several phone call hang ups and mutual bad tastes in respective mouths. Funny thing though we always came back to each other in love and mutual respect. I respected Clarice and she respected me.
Clarice and I were not close in age. Clarice was the same age as my deceased mother. In fact, My mother, Mary and Clarice had a similar vocal cadence. It felt familiar. Clarice had a habit of talking so long when she was making her point that she ran out of breath on the last few words and had to force them out. She and I had a simpatico that I am sure few understood. I started calling her "Motherfriend" and she started calling me her son. She also embraced my family. She became friends with Lynette. They had many tearful conversations about life as women in the ministry. Clarice was a great encourager to Lynette or "Annette" as she sometimes called her. She always inquired about my children and I inquired about her son, Jason.
Clarice was a real evangelist. I know this. Clarice never went anywhere without telling somebody that Jesus loved them. She did it by showing love. Clarice loved the people on the street. As she told me, one of the great frustrations of her life was her belief that the church had failed to reach out to the common person on the street. I had visited Clarice's home many times and observed her interactions with the residents of her very large apartment building. Clarice appeared to be the building chaplain and minister-at-large. She was the resource lady, the sunshine lady, the building counselor and the building mother and grandmother.
I had several hospitalizations over the years when she visited me and took over the care of her son by giving directions to the nurses and several doctors. If questioned, she replied with haught and clipped speech; "I am a retired nurse...when will you have this done?" It was too funny to watch her in action. Once while in the rehabilitation hospital in Cambridge, the city of Clarice's residence, I was on heavy pain medication. I tried all morning to pray but kept falling asleep. I couldn't gather my thoughts to pray. Lying flat on my back, the tears of frustration and pain ran down the sides of my face and disappeared into wet spots behind my ears. "LORD, I'm trying to pray and I can't. I'm trying to get to you and I can't , please help me." I drifted off to sleep. I was awakened by Clarice coming in to my room with gifts. She brought books, diabetic candy, tapes, and a portable communion set. She told me that she had planned to come and see me the following day but that GOD spoke to her and told her to come that day. Clarice was my intercessor that day. She prayed in my stead and then prayed for me. She served me communion and chastised the nurses for leaving me on my back for so long. Just what I needed.
When Clarice was hospitalized with a very serious block in her carotid artery I visited her the evening before the surgery. I brought her a book by her favorite author, Max Lucado, a card and some flowers. We talked and prayed and sang praise songs in her hospital room. I asked her if she was scared and she acknowledged some fear. We prayed together again. Clarice sent me home with , "I'll see you in the morning!" I worried all night whether she meant that in the literal sense or in the sense that so many faithful believers in Christ have used that phrase. I worried that I may have seen Clarice for the last time. I prayed for her and I cried at the thought of losing my close friend. Clarice pulled through and recovered. I later told her of my concern over her final words to me. We laughed and breathed a sigh of release that GOD had answered both of our prayers and the prayers of so many more her knew and loved Reverend Thousand, as she was known.
Clarice loved crafts. She loved to decorate and make things for people. She made baskets for special days and got joy out of making people happy. The year before she died I made a commitment to give Clarice money for gasoline for her car. Gas was expensive and she loved to drive and she deeply valued her independence. Clarice chastised me by telling me I didn't need to give her money so often. I told Clarice she was not in charge of my benevolence choices and to shut up and take the money. She smiled and we embraced, laughed and caught on on things, advised and encouraged one another. In her later years Clarice became a true source of encouragement. She visited my church, preached in my stead during illness, gave me her observations, and advised me wisely.
In the last few months of her life I became very aware that Clarice was not well. She was again hospitalized for retention of fluid. I questioned her about her kidney function since we were both diabetic. Clarice down played the correlation between her hospitalization and her kidney function to me. Deep in my heart I knew something was wrong but I wanted to believe otherwise; so I did. Soon after that, I saw Motherfriend in my office at my work place. Her countenance was very dark, her gait was unsteady and she seemed to struggle for breath. Again, I asked Clarice if she was really alright. She proclaimed her belief in GOD as a healer and tried to allay my concerns. She was not successful. I presented to Clarice the gift I had called her to receive. It was a large basket of items I had handmade especially for her. Much of it was in her favorite scent; Lavender. Clarice was so excited to receive the gift and the other little surprises tucked inside. Again, we talked for a very long time and we parted as always; embracing and professing our mutual love. Before she left she told me I needed to lose some weight. "I'm gonna tell Lynette not to even mess with you until you lose that belly!" She fell out laughing and walked down the hallway. That was the last time I saw Clarice. Lynette and I called her on her birthday and sang to her but I never heard from her again. I saw her again at her funeral but it really wasn't her. No animation, no humorous commentary. Even though it was Clarice's service. She was not in there; except in the hearts of those not as as those without hope. I am confident that I will see her again.
Clarice brought many things to my life and I hope I did the same. She once said to me, "Jim, that's why I like talking to you, I can be real with you and I know you won't judge me". Clarice gave me the same thing. Unconditional friendship. Love. In several conversations I had with people who with with Clarice in the final moments of her life I was told that in her semi-conscious state Clarice repeated these words: "Love is a verb, it's an action word. " I smiled at the recollection of these words. I'd heard Clarice say these words many times befoire. I recognized them as her own.
'Bye, Clarice..... I miss you Motherfriend. I'll see you in the morning.
Love,
Jim
Clarice was, er... um, how can I say this...? Oh, okay, she was bossy; with a capital B. Initially, this proved volatile. I can be quite ah, um, directive, myself and not at all inclined to be told what to do. In the early stages of the development of our friendship we had many arguments. We argued about scripture, people we knew in common, social issues, religious beliefs and the time of the day. It was a part of our dynamic. She liked to argue and so did I. The hard part was that neither one of us wanted to be wrong. This eventuated several phone call hang ups and mutual bad tastes in respective mouths. Funny thing though we always came back to each other in love and mutual respect. I respected Clarice and she respected me.
Clarice and I were not close in age. Clarice was the same age as my deceased mother. In fact, My mother, Mary and Clarice had a similar vocal cadence. It felt familiar. Clarice had a habit of talking so long when she was making her point that she ran out of breath on the last few words and had to force them out. She and I had a simpatico that I am sure few understood. I started calling her "Motherfriend" and she started calling me her son. She also embraced my family. She became friends with Lynette. They had many tearful conversations about life as women in the ministry. Clarice was a great encourager to Lynette or "Annette" as she sometimes called her. She always inquired about my children and I inquired about her son, Jason.
Clarice was a real evangelist. I know this. Clarice never went anywhere without telling somebody that Jesus loved them. She did it by showing love. Clarice loved the people on the street. As she told me, one of the great frustrations of her life was her belief that the church had failed to reach out to the common person on the street. I had visited Clarice's home many times and observed her interactions with the residents of her very large apartment building. Clarice appeared to be the building chaplain and minister-at-large. She was the resource lady, the sunshine lady, the building counselor and the building mother and grandmother.
I had several hospitalizations over the years when she visited me and took over the care of her son by giving directions to the nurses and several doctors. If questioned, she replied with haught and clipped speech; "I am a retired nurse...when will you have this done?" It was too funny to watch her in action. Once while in the rehabilitation hospital in Cambridge, the city of Clarice's residence, I was on heavy pain medication. I tried all morning to pray but kept falling asleep. I couldn't gather my thoughts to pray. Lying flat on my back, the tears of frustration and pain ran down the sides of my face and disappeared into wet spots behind my ears. "LORD, I'm trying to pray and I can't. I'm trying to get to you and I can't , please help me." I drifted off to sleep. I was awakened by Clarice coming in to my room with gifts. She brought books, diabetic candy, tapes, and a portable communion set. She told me that she had planned to come and see me the following day but that GOD spoke to her and told her to come that day. Clarice was my intercessor that day. She prayed in my stead and then prayed for me. She served me communion and chastised the nurses for leaving me on my back for so long. Just what I needed.
When Clarice was hospitalized with a very serious block in her carotid artery I visited her the evening before the surgery. I brought her a book by her favorite author, Max Lucado, a card and some flowers. We talked and prayed and sang praise songs in her hospital room. I asked her if she was scared and she acknowledged some fear. We prayed together again. Clarice sent me home with , "I'll see you in the morning!" I worried all night whether she meant that in the literal sense or in the sense that so many faithful believers in Christ have used that phrase. I worried that I may have seen Clarice for the last time. I prayed for her and I cried at the thought of losing my close friend. Clarice pulled through and recovered. I later told her of my concern over her final words to me. We laughed and breathed a sigh of release that GOD had answered both of our prayers and the prayers of so many more her knew and loved Reverend Thousand, as she was known.
Clarice loved crafts. She loved to decorate and make things for people. She made baskets for special days and got joy out of making people happy. The year before she died I made a commitment to give Clarice money for gasoline for her car. Gas was expensive and she loved to drive and she deeply valued her independence. Clarice chastised me by telling me I didn't need to give her money so often. I told Clarice she was not in charge of my benevolence choices and to shut up and take the money. She smiled and we embraced, laughed and caught on on things, advised and encouraged one another. In her later years Clarice became a true source of encouragement. She visited my church, preached in my stead during illness, gave me her observations, and advised me wisely.
In the last few months of her life I became very aware that Clarice was not well. She was again hospitalized for retention of fluid. I questioned her about her kidney function since we were both diabetic. Clarice down played the correlation between her hospitalization and her kidney function to me. Deep in my heart I knew something was wrong but I wanted to believe otherwise; so I did. Soon after that, I saw Motherfriend in my office at my work place. Her countenance was very dark, her gait was unsteady and she seemed to struggle for breath. Again, I asked Clarice if she was really alright. She proclaimed her belief in GOD as a healer and tried to allay my concerns. She was not successful. I presented to Clarice the gift I had called her to receive. It was a large basket of items I had handmade especially for her. Much of it was in her favorite scent; Lavender. Clarice was so excited to receive the gift and the other little surprises tucked inside. Again, we talked for a very long time and we parted as always; embracing and professing our mutual love. Before she left she told me I needed to lose some weight. "I'm gonna tell Lynette not to even mess with you until you lose that belly!" She fell out laughing and walked down the hallway. That was the last time I saw Clarice. Lynette and I called her on her birthday and sang to her but I never heard from her again. I saw her again at her funeral but it really wasn't her. No animation, no humorous commentary. Even though it was Clarice's service. She was not in there; except in the hearts of those not as as those without hope. I am confident that I will see her again.
Clarice brought many things to my life and I hope I did the same. She once said to me, "Jim, that's why I like talking to you, I can be real with you and I know you won't judge me". Clarice gave me the same thing. Unconditional friendship. Love. In several conversations I had with people who with with Clarice in the final moments of her life I was told that in her semi-conscious state Clarice repeated these words: "Love is a verb, it's an action word. " I smiled at the recollection of these words. I'd heard Clarice say these words many times befoire. I recognized them as her own.
'Bye, Clarice..... I miss you Motherfriend. I'll see you in the morning.
Love,
Jim
Sunday, December 16, 2007
MISSIONS OR MARKETING?
Oh Boy! Our fathers and mothers in the gospel would hardly recognize the church they knew and loved today. How I can remember sitting in the missionary meetings on the appointed Lord's Day to hear the scripture read and the songs of Zion that pointed us toward the mission of the church. GO YE! We were blessed more than many pentecostal churches I knew of because we actually knew of real missionaries. With no disrespect to the wonderful women from many other churches who dressed in white and acted as agents of mercy and compassion in the city's hospitals, nursing homes, and avenues, we actually knew some real, live missionaries. I can recall the passion with which the returned missionaries from Monrovia, Liberia in West Africa and other islands spoke of the LORD' s work. These were missionaries with passports! The fantastic stories of GOD's provision and protection instilled in many of us a real zeal to want to be a part of what was happening in the church overseas. Two of my former Sunday School teachers actually left the United States to become a missionaries in Liberia. We were repeatedly reminded of the great commission on Mission Sundays, Missionary Days, conventions and Rally Days. An offering for mission work was a constant in our services. There was a local church emphasis as well as a denominational focus on missions in our church.
When my wife and I planted our first little mission church we believed that it would grow as we took the gospel to the streets, housing developments, nursing homes, senior citizen complexes, parks and bars. That's exactly what we did. We did the work of evangelists, making full proof of our ministry. We along with several faith-filled and faithful friends and members did this type of mission work. We saw some pretty marvelous things. Some lives were changed. Some lives were saved. Some families were healed and some souls were added to the church and the kingdom of GOD. It was hard work that took a lot of sacrifice of time and spare time but it was always worth it to see someone come to know Christ in a real and life relevant way. It still is.
I'll be open with you. I read The Purpose Driven Church, by Rick Warren. I heard his testimony and was drawn to his story because of the confident presentation of the growth of his church. There were some real practical information there. Some of it I incorporated into the church I pastor today. I was impressed with the systematic approach to church growth that he presented in the book. As a pastor of a small church I was really looking for a way to increase the congregation's sense of mission and a means to increase the membership. I recommended the book to the leadership group and we read it and discussed its theories. We decided to organize what Warren referred to as a "Seeker Service and followed his guidelines as closely as we could, including the practice Sunday. Well....., That was the driest, most uninspired and stilted worship service I can ever remember. It was awkward, uncomfortable and as dry as Melba Toast! Approximately midway through the "practice" I put and end to it and declared we'll never do this again. We haven't. That unfortunate experience taught me that I am not Rick Warren and this is NOT Saddleback Community Church! I must tell y'all that rehearsing a church service that was marketed, er, um, I meant designed for people who do not yet know Christ was a culturally different for me; religious culture, that is.
There are some things that are better left to the spontaneity of the Holy Spirit as opposed to the well organized and rehearsed efforts of well intentioned people.
I have been to several church conferences over the years which purported to assist smaller churches experience exponential growth if certain techniques were adopted. My conclusion was these methods were clearly marketing techniques from business plans. Much of the information could be found in books and on-line. What these geniuses of church growth had done was add scripture to a good business plan and charged a $200.00 fee for their plagiarized plans. I have had conversations with two pastors of very large churches about the growth of their churches. What I have concluded is that the realm of their ministry and the growth of it was a sovereign move of GOD. These men made some decisions that were clearly beneficial to the growth of their ministries. In the explanation of their church's growth there was no clear indication that they knew why their churches expanded the way they did. God has appointed some over a few, some are appointed over more and some over the mega ministry. That is not to say that there are not methods and biblical principles to follow that bring growth BUT as the apostle said "GOD gives the increase". What I have discovered is that people in the community want and need face to face, real contact with those claiming to be Christians. They don't want billboards or glossy cards to announce the church's programs and personalities. The church has a public relations issue in the communities in which many churches exist. They are suspicious of churches that seem to want to add them to the number who tithe and work to increase the coffers of the church.
What I think some of the mega churches have to acknowledge is that the influx of new people in many cases are changing membership or reentering a church experience after a membership or attendance lapse elsewhere. If my strong suspicion is true (Barna Research Institute says it is) then the expansive growth of the mega church is doing little to change the sinful landscapes in most American cities. That is not to say that there haven't been conversions or changes in neighborhoods and society where these churches are; I do mean to question the additional number of believers added to the roll of the Kingdom of Heaven in the seats and cell groups of mega ministries.
One way some of these mega churches can encourage smaller church pastors is to stop identifying themselves by the size of their congregations. They seem to be constantly reminding people of how large their church is. Perhaps I am sensitized to this because I feel relatively insignificant next to someone who claims a membership into the thousands. If you really want to help other pastors to grow their churches remind them of the long term benefits of faithfulness to the call of GOD. Encourage them to be good shepherds of the flock of GOD. Pour some time and money into their ministries before you ask them for a commitment of a tithe or yearly membership fee. Come and be a blessing to the church's program and attach no cost prohibitive honorarium to your attendance. Validate the daily, weekly, monthly and yearly difficulties associated with being a pastor of a small church. Try to understand the unique set of circumstances that accompany that particular ministry without holding up your church as the chief ministry model.
The average small church is not able to afford a marketing consultant, automatic letter writing campaigns, glossy welcome packets or television exposure. Most of them have to follow the tried and true commandment of Jesus to "GO YE, into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature.......", the old fashioned way; preaching repentance from sins in bars, hospitals, nursing homes, housing developments.... winning souls and adding them daily to the church such as should be saved. The work of missions must continue whether home missions or missions on foreign soil. Believe me, I have nothing against using technology to preach the message but it should never be presented as a key component to a church's success. If it is, I would wonder if it was really the work of the HOLY SPIRIT or of the skilled technique of a marketing consultant.
I suppose what I'm trying to say is this: Be who GOD called you to be. Stop worrying whether or not you're keeping up with the big boys out there with their multiplied thousands. I love the contact I have with the LORD's flock weekly, daily or as the opportunity affords. I touch them and they can touch me. They are enriched by have an actual relationship with the senior minister in the church. In fact I have several people in the church where I am the minister who left a larger church for the smaller, friendlier setting. Don't feel the pressure of having to measure up to the media's expectation of what a significant or relevant church is. Be faithful over the ones GOD has entrusted to your care and HE will reward you accordingly.
When my wife and I planted our first little mission church we believed that it would grow as we took the gospel to the streets, housing developments, nursing homes, senior citizen complexes, parks and bars. That's exactly what we did. We did the work of evangelists, making full proof of our ministry. We along with several faith-filled and faithful friends and members did this type of mission work. We saw some pretty marvelous things. Some lives were changed. Some lives were saved. Some families were healed and some souls were added to the church and the kingdom of GOD. It was hard work that took a lot of sacrifice of time and spare time but it was always worth it to see someone come to know Christ in a real and life relevant way. It still is.
I'll be open with you. I read The Purpose Driven Church, by Rick Warren. I heard his testimony and was drawn to his story because of the confident presentation of the growth of his church. There were some real practical information there. Some of it I incorporated into the church I pastor today. I was impressed with the systematic approach to church growth that he presented in the book. As a pastor of a small church I was really looking for a way to increase the congregation's sense of mission and a means to increase the membership. I recommended the book to the leadership group and we read it and discussed its theories. We decided to organize what Warren referred to as a "Seeker Service and followed his guidelines as closely as we could, including the practice Sunday. Well....., That was the driest, most uninspired and stilted worship service I can ever remember. It was awkward, uncomfortable and as dry as Melba Toast! Approximately midway through the "practice" I put and end to it and declared we'll never do this again. We haven't. That unfortunate experience taught me that I am not Rick Warren and this is NOT Saddleback Community Church! I must tell y'all that rehearsing a church service that was marketed, er, um, I meant designed for people who do not yet know Christ was a culturally different for me; religious culture, that is.
There are some things that are better left to the spontaneity of the Holy Spirit as opposed to the well organized and rehearsed efforts of well intentioned people.
I have been to several church conferences over the years which purported to assist smaller churches experience exponential growth if certain techniques were adopted. My conclusion was these methods were clearly marketing techniques from business plans. Much of the information could be found in books and on-line. What these geniuses of church growth had done was add scripture to a good business plan and charged a $200.00 fee for their plagiarized plans. I have had conversations with two pastors of very large churches about the growth of their churches. What I have concluded is that the realm of their ministry and the growth of it was a sovereign move of GOD. These men made some decisions that were clearly beneficial to the growth of their ministries. In the explanation of their church's growth there was no clear indication that they knew why their churches expanded the way they did. God has appointed some over a few, some are appointed over more and some over the mega ministry. That is not to say that there are not methods and biblical principles to follow that bring growth BUT as the apostle said "GOD gives the increase". What I have discovered is that people in the community want and need face to face, real contact with those claiming to be Christians. They don't want billboards or glossy cards to announce the church's programs and personalities. The church has a public relations issue in the communities in which many churches exist. They are suspicious of churches that seem to want to add them to the number who tithe and work to increase the coffers of the church.
What I think some of the mega churches have to acknowledge is that the influx of new people in many cases are changing membership or reentering a church experience after a membership or attendance lapse elsewhere. If my strong suspicion is true (Barna Research Institute says it is) then the expansive growth of the mega church is doing little to change the sinful landscapes in most American cities. That is not to say that there haven't been conversions or changes in neighborhoods and society where these churches are; I do mean to question the additional number of believers added to the roll of the Kingdom of Heaven in the seats and cell groups of mega ministries.
One way some of these mega churches can encourage smaller church pastors is to stop identifying themselves by the size of their congregations. They seem to be constantly reminding people of how large their church is. Perhaps I am sensitized to this because I feel relatively insignificant next to someone who claims a membership into the thousands. If you really want to help other pastors to grow their churches remind them of the long term benefits of faithfulness to the call of GOD. Encourage them to be good shepherds of the flock of GOD. Pour some time and money into their ministries before you ask them for a commitment of a tithe or yearly membership fee. Come and be a blessing to the church's program and attach no cost prohibitive honorarium to your attendance. Validate the daily, weekly, monthly and yearly difficulties associated with being a pastor of a small church. Try to understand the unique set of circumstances that accompany that particular ministry without holding up your church as the chief ministry model.
The average small church is not able to afford a marketing consultant, automatic letter writing campaigns, glossy welcome packets or television exposure. Most of them have to follow the tried and true commandment of Jesus to "GO YE, into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature.......", the old fashioned way; preaching repentance from sins in bars, hospitals, nursing homes, housing developments.... winning souls and adding them daily to the church such as should be saved. The work of missions must continue whether home missions or missions on foreign soil. Believe me, I have nothing against using technology to preach the message but it should never be presented as a key component to a church's success. If it is, I would wonder if it was really the work of the HOLY SPIRIT or of the skilled technique of a marketing consultant.
I suppose what I'm trying to say is this: Be who GOD called you to be. Stop worrying whether or not you're keeping up with the big boys out there with their multiplied thousands. I love the contact I have with the LORD's flock weekly, daily or as the opportunity affords. I touch them and they can touch me. They are enriched by have an actual relationship with the senior minister in the church. In fact I have several people in the church where I am the minister who left a larger church for the smaller, friendlier setting. Don't feel the pressure of having to measure up to the media's expectation of what a significant or relevant church is. Be faithful over the ones GOD has entrusted to your care and HE will reward you accordingly.
Monday, December 10, 2007
WHY I HATE THE WORD FAGGOT... and why you should too
FAGGOT. Oh Lord, how I have learned to hate that word! I can remember being called that by very many of my male peers all throughout junior high school If anyone saw me today one would never guess that I used to be a slight built boy with a handsome, almost pretty face (as I have been told), large expressive eyes with very long lashes and a high pitched speaking and singing voice. I was not effeminate but I was very particular about my appearance. My mother told me a story about how I cried on the first day of kindergarten because my socks did not match the purple shirt I was wearing. I was aware! The original metrosexual. Well, maybe my father was the original.
When I was about 7 years old I was molested by a family friend. I had no words to describe what happened nor did I know what to do about it. It felt wrong and it made me afraid and confused. I never told anyone at all about it. I put the incident somewhere in the back of a seven year old mind and kept on living. This was long before the days when parents had talks about good touch and bad touch There was no forum for a discussion so I lived with what happened in my own mind. I knew what happened to me made me different in a bad way, therefore I was different in a bad way. A little while later an older boy led me to the back of the house next door and again I was assaulted. I didn't want to go outside and play again until that boy moved away.
I loved music and spent many hours alone in my room listening to my portable record player as they played the cast off 45's my mother gave me. I also loved to read, and smell the empty Avon sachet jars that my mother and grandmother emptied. I collected them until the pretty fragrance was gone. I played outside with my cousins and the few and select friends I had but nothing compared to my books and my music. I loved Sunday School and the choir at my home church. I lived for the musical programs the church sponsored. There I could hear music that was alive, exciting and sung with great passion. It was like heaven to me. I longed to sing and be like them. In school, I took exdtra music classes and voice lessons., As a teen I started a gospel group and sang in several community choirs, The All City Chorus, church choirs and the regional choir for the church denomination.
In junior high school the lines are clearly drawn for what boys do and what girls do. I did not excel at sports, I did not want to play basketball, or football or take a shop class either but that was mandatory. So, I took woodworking one year, printing the next and then finally sheet metal class, ALL of which I tolerated. I could not wait for the three days we had music and the glee club rehearsals (yes, glee club). While there, I was in my element, singing, learning the parts, experiencing new music. It was in those classes I was exposed to classical music, folk songs, negro spirituals and pop songs. The majority of the other boys in class acted like they hated being in the classes; sitting bored, agitating the teacher and refusing to sing as Mrs. Hunter, the music teacher, cajoled and complimented them into compliance. None of that was needed for me. James was in front, eagerly absorbing the lyrics, the notes and the melody This did not go unnoticed by my male peers who observing my eager participation said: "Look at that faggot up there with them girls, that faggot!" My ears burned with shame. I pretended I didn't hear them. My eyes fixed on the teacher as my ears felt hot and my face flushed. The rejection I felt was almost crippling. I avoided eye contact with those boys and tried to ignore their taunts;"Sing you little faggot!" or "Look at James up there with the girls singing, little faggot." Because I didn't know what to say in retort or how to make them stop. I endured the verbal abuse which was often observed by teachers but never directly addressed. Eventually, the verbal abuse and bullying turned into physical abuse. I was pushed, threatened, put in headlocks, and had things taken from me; everything from lunch to money was fair game for my tormentors. I was chased home from school repeatedly. By 7th grade some of the girls joined in: "James wears mascara, James wears mascara!", they'd say as I passed them in my homeroom. Of course, I never wore mascara, I had those eyelashes.... To stop the teasing about them I took a pair of scissors and cut them off right to my eyelids. I carried on despite a sense of inferiority and daily embarrassment. I came to believe these kids knew what happened to me when I was 7. Why else would they be so mean and call me such a horrible name? They knew I was different. They could see it. I lived in fear of exposure and public shame.
One day I decided no one was going to take another thing from me or put me in a headlock again. This kid named Joseph decided he and his cousins were going to beat me up after school. There was no conflict between us; just another opportunity to beat up that faggot, James . That day, the faggot chasers got a big surprise! I whipped Joseph's behind. When his cousins intervened I ran and got a large board with some rusty nails it and started swinging it at anyone who came near. Eventually, a teacher leaving the building dispersed the crowd and I went home. The constant name calling ended somewhat but the damage from that word was deeply ingrained in my psyche.
I had no close healthy male role models. My father was absent; I saw him on average once a year and we never had a substantive conversation until I was a grown man with children. My two stepfathers were unsavory and nefarious men who epitomized abusive and insensitive masculinity. The sensitive and creative side of my nature was treated as suspect and was not understood by those men and one of them called my brother and I faggots. More pain and more damage. I was a deeply wounded boy who retreated even more into my world of music and books. My distrust of males (especially adults) increased when several adult males attempted to seduce and or touch me. One of which was a teacher, the other was a minister who wanted to record my voice. I thought my dreams had come true until the minister began to ask questions of me that seemed entirely inappropriate for a musical relationship.
The church became a safe place for me. In church my musical inclinations were appreciated and encouraged. I was given the opportunity to be creative and expressive musically. One day, I heard a man in the church whom I admired, call a man who was not present a faggot. Those who heard him laughed as he posed in an effeminate way and "broke his wrist" and batted his eyes. This increased the laughter. What this brother didn't know was my experience with that word. I had just begun to think about revealing my sexual abuse history to the church people with the hopes that they could help me deal with the emotional pain I was in. I had internalized that word and wondered if I may have been homosexual because of what happened. I always had girlfriends but lived in fear of my secret being exposed. I decided to keep my secret and keep my mouth closed. I lived my life full of pain from my rejections: real and practical rejection by my biological father, rejection by both stepfathers one of which used the word faggot to degrade my brother and I. Rejection by my peers in middle school was also accompanied by that word. Now I see and hear this church brother also using a word that caused me a great deal of fear, pain and isolation. It was many years later that I finally experienced the healing and the freedom to share my testimony and help others find their way to wholeness from abuse and rejection. That's another story for another day, or blog.
I share this part of myself and my experience to make several points. You never know the impact of your words on those who hear you. The old adage; "Sticks and stones may bruise my bones but names will never hurt me", was likely coined by someone who had not lived with the awful legacy of name calling. Names hurt. The pain of them lasts much longer than a bruise acquired by a stick or stone. When someone who is supposed to care for you is the source of the name calling, it deeply compunds the pain. When those people are ministers, or the people who purport to represent the church of GOD the fallout can be immeasurable.
Faggot is a word rooted in hate. Its use is derived from the practice of burning alive of witches (also assumed to be homosexual) at the stake. The fire was started by using a bundle of sticks or twigs. In fact, a slang word for a cigarette in Great Britain is a fag. In Great Britain, the word faggot has several meanings: 1. A meddlesome confused old woman. 2. A faggot is a younger boy who is made to be a servant of an older boy. Despite the origin of the use of the word, it's meaning in The United States is clear. It's used to attack, denegrate and harm.
The use of the word Faggot whether as an actual epithet directed at a homosexual or to humiliate a heterosexual man is not in keeping with the biblical admonition regarding our behavior toward people outside of the church. "Walk in wisdom towards those who are outside, redeeming the time. Let your speech always be with grace, seasoned with salt, that you may know how to answer each one.", Colossians 4:5-6. No one who claims to be a Christian should use a word so filled with invective and hate. I have seen men and women in ministry use the word faggot from the pulpit. It's use does not represent Jesus nor the attitude with which he dealt with people who were caught in sexual sin. It limits your ability to preach the gospel rather than enhance it. You will wound those whom you are trying to heal and shut up the doors to the kingdom for those whom Christ died. The word faggot and all of it's cousins; punk, sissy, dyke, lesbo, bull dagger, and many more should be eradicated from the lexicons of Christians.
Today I am free from the wounds of my past. I no longer live with the tyranny of the word faggot. The sensitive nature that was mine at birth is of value to GOD and His people in the ministry. The difficult experiences I had in my childhood and adolescence have been redeemed. The LORD has given me a great compassion for those with sexual brokenness. I try to ensure that the climate of the church I pastor is a hate speech free zone. I never use the pulpit to abuse or bully those who are in sexual sin of any kind. We must also be careful not to judge others based on the limited and superficial stereotypes of what is masculine or feminine as it relates to hobbies, interests, occupations, and preferences.
In closing: "Now all things are of GOD who has reconciled us to Himself through Jesus Christ and has given us the ministry of reconciliation, that is, that GOD was in Christ reconciling the world to himself not imputing their trespasses (sins) to them and has committed to us the word (message) of reconciliation.
Now then, we are ambassadors for Christ as though GOD were pleading through us we implore you on Christ's behalf, be Reconciled to GOD........ We give no offense in anything that our ministry may not be blamed." 2 Corinthians 5: 18-20; 2 Corinthians 6:3a.
When I was about 7 years old I was molested by a family friend. I had no words to describe what happened nor did I know what to do about it. It felt wrong and it made me afraid and confused. I never told anyone at all about it. I put the incident somewhere in the back of a seven year old mind and kept on living. This was long before the days when parents had talks about good touch and bad touch There was no forum for a discussion so I lived with what happened in my own mind. I knew what happened to me made me different in a bad way, therefore I was different in a bad way. A little while later an older boy led me to the back of the house next door and again I was assaulted. I didn't want to go outside and play again until that boy moved away.
I loved music and spent many hours alone in my room listening to my portable record player as they played the cast off 45's my mother gave me. I also loved to read, and smell the empty Avon sachet jars that my mother and grandmother emptied. I collected them until the pretty fragrance was gone. I played outside with my cousins and the few and select friends I had but nothing compared to my books and my music. I loved Sunday School and the choir at my home church. I lived for the musical programs the church sponsored. There I could hear music that was alive, exciting and sung with great passion. It was like heaven to me. I longed to sing and be like them. In school, I took exdtra music classes and voice lessons., As a teen I started a gospel group and sang in several community choirs, The All City Chorus, church choirs and the regional choir for the church denomination.
In junior high school the lines are clearly drawn for what boys do and what girls do. I did not excel at sports, I did not want to play basketball, or football or take a shop class either but that was mandatory. So, I took woodworking one year, printing the next and then finally sheet metal class, ALL of which I tolerated. I could not wait for the three days we had music and the glee club rehearsals (yes, glee club). While there, I was in my element, singing, learning the parts, experiencing new music. It was in those classes I was exposed to classical music, folk songs, negro spirituals and pop songs. The majority of the other boys in class acted like they hated being in the classes; sitting bored, agitating the teacher and refusing to sing as Mrs. Hunter, the music teacher, cajoled and complimented them into compliance. None of that was needed for me. James was in front, eagerly absorbing the lyrics, the notes and the melody This did not go unnoticed by my male peers who observing my eager participation said: "Look at that faggot up there with them girls, that faggot!" My ears burned with shame. I pretended I didn't hear them. My eyes fixed on the teacher as my ears felt hot and my face flushed. The rejection I felt was almost crippling. I avoided eye contact with those boys and tried to ignore their taunts;"Sing you little faggot!" or "Look at James up there with the girls singing, little faggot." Because I didn't know what to say in retort or how to make them stop. I endured the verbal abuse which was often observed by teachers but never directly addressed. Eventually, the verbal abuse and bullying turned into physical abuse. I was pushed, threatened, put in headlocks, and had things taken from me; everything from lunch to money was fair game for my tormentors. I was chased home from school repeatedly. By 7th grade some of the girls joined in: "James wears mascara, James wears mascara!", they'd say as I passed them in my homeroom. Of course, I never wore mascara, I had those eyelashes.... To stop the teasing about them I took a pair of scissors and cut them off right to my eyelids. I carried on despite a sense of inferiority and daily embarrassment. I came to believe these kids knew what happened to me when I was 7. Why else would they be so mean and call me such a horrible name? They knew I was different. They could see it. I lived in fear of exposure and public shame.
One day I decided no one was going to take another thing from me or put me in a headlock again. This kid named Joseph decided he and his cousins were going to beat me up after school. There was no conflict between us; just another opportunity to beat up that faggot, James . That day, the faggot chasers got a big surprise! I whipped Joseph's behind. When his cousins intervened I ran and got a large board with some rusty nails it and started swinging it at anyone who came near. Eventually, a teacher leaving the building dispersed the crowd and I went home. The constant name calling ended somewhat but the damage from that word was deeply ingrained in my psyche.
I had no close healthy male role models. My father was absent; I saw him on average once a year and we never had a substantive conversation until I was a grown man with children. My two stepfathers were unsavory and nefarious men who epitomized abusive and insensitive masculinity. The sensitive and creative side of my nature was treated as suspect and was not understood by those men and one of them called my brother and I faggots. More pain and more damage. I was a deeply wounded boy who retreated even more into my world of music and books. My distrust of males (especially adults) increased when several adult males attempted to seduce and or touch me. One of which was a teacher, the other was a minister who wanted to record my voice. I thought my dreams had come true until the minister began to ask questions of me that seemed entirely inappropriate for a musical relationship.
The church became a safe place for me. In church my musical inclinations were appreciated and encouraged. I was given the opportunity to be creative and expressive musically. One day, I heard a man in the church whom I admired, call a man who was not present a faggot. Those who heard him laughed as he posed in an effeminate way and "broke his wrist" and batted his eyes. This increased the laughter. What this brother didn't know was my experience with that word. I had just begun to think about revealing my sexual abuse history to the church people with the hopes that they could help me deal with the emotional pain I was in. I had internalized that word and wondered if I may have been homosexual because of what happened. I always had girlfriends but lived in fear of my secret being exposed. I decided to keep my secret and keep my mouth closed. I lived my life full of pain from my rejections: real and practical rejection by my biological father, rejection by both stepfathers one of which used the word faggot to degrade my brother and I. Rejection by my peers in middle school was also accompanied by that word. Now I see and hear this church brother also using a word that caused me a great deal of fear, pain and isolation. It was many years later that I finally experienced the healing and the freedom to share my testimony and help others find their way to wholeness from abuse and rejection. That's another story for another day, or blog.
I share this part of myself and my experience to make several points. You never know the impact of your words on those who hear you. The old adage; "Sticks and stones may bruise my bones but names will never hurt me", was likely coined by someone who had not lived with the awful legacy of name calling. Names hurt. The pain of them lasts much longer than a bruise acquired by a stick or stone. When someone who is supposed to care for you is the source of the name calling, it deeply compunds the pain. When those people are ministers, or the people who purport to represent the church of GOD the fallout can be immeasurable.
Faggot is a word rooted in hate. Its use is derived from the practice of burning alive of witches (also assumed to be homosexual) at the stake. The fire was started by using a bundle of sticks or twigs. In fact, a slang word for a cigarette in Great Britain is a fag. In Great Britain, the word faggot has several meanings: 1. A meddlesome confused old woman. 2. A faggot is a younger boy who is made to be a servant of an older boy. Despite the origin of the use of the word, it's meaning in The United States is clear. It's used to attack, denegrate and harm.
The use of the word Faggot whether as an actual epithet directed at a homosexual or to humiliate a heterosexual man is not in keeping with the biblical admonition regarding our behavior toward people outside of the church. "Walk in wisdom towards those who are outside, redeeming the time. Let your speech always be with grace, seasoned with salt, that you may know how to answer each one.", Colossians 4:5-6. No one who claims to be a Christian should use a word so filled with invective and hate. I have seen men and women in ministry use the word faggot from the pulpit. It's use does not represent Jesus nor the attitude with which he dealt with people who were caught in sexual sin. It limits your ability to preach the gospel rather than enhance it. You will wound those whom you are trying to heal and shut up the doors to the kingdom for those whom Christ died. The word faggot and all of it's cousins; punk, sissy, dyke, lesbo, bull dagger, and many more should be eradicated from the lexicons of Christians.
Today I am free from the wounds of my past. I no longer live with the tyranny of the word faggot. The sensitive nature that was mine at birth is of value to GOD and His people in the ministry. The difficult experiences I had in my childhood and adolescence have been redeemed. The LORD has given me a great compassion for those with sexual brokenness. I try to ensure that the climate of the church I pastor is a hate speech free zone. I never use the pulpit to abuse or bully those who are in sexual sin of any kind. We must also be careful not to judge others based on the limited and superficial stereotypes of what is masculine or feminine as it relates to hobbies, interests, occupations, and preferences.
In closing: "Now all things are of GOD who has reconciled us to Himself through Jesus Christ and has given us the ministry of reconciliation, that is, that GOD was in Christ reconciling the world to himself not imputing their trespasses (sins) to them and has committed to us the word (message) of reconciliation.
Now then, we are ambassadors for Christ as though GOD were pleading through us we implore you on Christ's behalf, be Reconciled to GOD........ We give no offense in anything that our ministry may not be blamed." 2 Corinthians 5: 18-20; 2 Corinthians 6:3a.
P.S. I finally learned to appreciate my eyelashes. They helped to draw my wife to me. She loves them! Oh, and the passion for the Avon sachet jars? I now make scents fro men and women and make money doing it. I thank GOD for how he made me.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
BAH HUMBUG! A Better Way To Celebrate Christmas
I wish for all this Christmas a celebration devoid of unnecessary tinsel and pomp.
Silver Bells, Jingle Bells, Frosty The Snow Man, The Abominable Snowman, The Grinch, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, The Grinch, Roasting Chestnuts , Christmases of White, Santa Claus, Sugarplums, Piggy Pudding, Stockings, Trees, Flocked or Not, Tinsel, Angel Hair, Christmas lights, bulbs, mantels, boughs of Holly, wreaths, mistletoe, sleighs and sleds, gifts and wrapping, wassail punch, egg nog, mulled cider, Christmas cards, cookies, candy, candy canes, Christmas geese, turkeys, hams, Secret Santa, Yankee Swaps, Dirty Santa, Christmas sales, bazaars, 34th Street Miracle, Ebeneezer Scrooge, A Wonderful Life..... on and on it goes. Considering the cultural importance we attach to the supposed celebration of the birth of Christ, I must ask the same question as the Magi in Matthew 2:2, "Where is He born the King of the Jews?"
There really must be a better way to celebrate CHRISTMAS. 2006 was my last year of being involved in all the extra. As I get older I really appreciate the simplicity of celebration. Celebration is an acknowledgement of the significance of the day. I think when we add all the cultural amenities and the exorbitant expense that the American culture dictates, we lose something in the acknowledgement of the day. I have found that the major thing gets obscured in the tinsel. I am reminded of the late Rev. E. V. Hill, former pastor of the Mount Zion Baptist Church in South Central, Los Angelos, California. He encopuraged his congregants to take the names of families that he had acquired from the welfare office, folk in the hospital and others in difficult situations to bring the gift of Christmas to them. He claimed a richer and more fulfilling celebration of the day in his church and his own life following that effort.
The LORD announced the birth of the Christ with an angelic host praising GOD and saying: "Glory to God in the Highest! Peace on earth and goodwill towards men." Luke 2:10-14 I don't think it is without significance that the glorious birth announcement of Christ was initially delivered to the lowly, despised and disregarded shepherds. Shepherds were so poorly thought of that they were considered unsuitable as a witness in the court of law; so ireputable was their honor. They were considered dirty, prone to theft, resolute liars and generally unreliable as employees. It was to them that the initial witness of the birth of the Savior of the World was given. In GOD the Father's celebration of the birth of His Son he made His grace known to men of ill repute. I like that. I choose now to celebrate the day by being a blessing to the Merrimack Mission in Boston. They are known as Kingston House, 39 Kingston Street, Boston, MA. For one hundred years they have done the work of the LORD by taking in the homeless, feeding the hungry, preaching the gospel to those who need the good news. This they do without great pomp. They don't have exorbitant salaries, private jets, 50,000.00 marble toilets nor do they charge the people they help a fee for the service. Lives are changed and daily souls are added to the church. Kingston House simply announces the birth of Christ daily by being available to those in the city who are desperately in need. I like that. I think its in keeping with the day and it is also in line with Christ's announcement of His Kingdom, Isaiah 61 and Luke 4:18; "The Spirit of the LORD God is upon me to preach good tidings to the meek...bind up the broken hearted."
Where is Jesus in all of this excess, indebtedness, commercialism, mammon worship, greed and banqueting? I find it harder and harder every year to discern His face in all of the busy-ness. Jesus is very near when we show love to someone who is in need. Feeding the hungry is a work of the LORD. Helping someone to find the savior is certainly the LORD's work. I don't mean to imply that while you are running from Lord and Taylor to Macy's to Nordstrom's to Sacks, to Neiman's looking for the perfect gift for Uncle Luther or Cousin Addie that you are not doing a loving thing. I think the birth of the Savior is worth doing something that will count for all eternity. It's worth doing something that can be directed to the Savior's very mission.
The very fact that we have to remind ourselves and others with, "Jesus is the Reason for the Season" speaks to how lost He is in a lot of the season's traditions. I am changing the way I celebrate. My focus has shifted. It's my choice and my soul is happy about it.... I don't know about my family and circle of friends..........Pray for me.
"Thanks be unto GOD for His unspeakable gift." 2 Corinthians 9:15
Silver Bells, Jingle Bells, Frosty The Snow Man, The Abominable Snowman, The Grinch, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, The Grinch, Roasting Chestnuts , Christmases of White, Santa Claus, Sugarplums, Piggy Pudding, Stockings, Trees, Flocked or Not, Tinsel, Angel Hair, Christmas lights, bulbs, mantels, boughs of Holly, wreaths, mistletoe, sleighs and sleds, gifts and wrapping, wassail punch, egg nog, mulled cider, Christmas cards, cookies, candy, candy canes, Christmas geese, turkeys, hams, Secret Santa, Yankee Swaps, Dirty Santa, Christmas sales, bazaars, 34th Street Miracle, Ebeneezer Scrooge, A Wonderful Life..... on and on it goes. Considering the cultural importance we attach to the supposed celebration of the birth of Christ, I must ask the same question as the Magi in Matthew 2:2, "Where is He born the King of the Jews?"
There really must be a better way to celebrate CHRISTMAS. 2006 was my last year of being involved in all the extra. As I get older I really appreciate the simplicity of celebration. Celebration is an acknowledgement of the significance of the day. I think when we add all the cultural amenities and the exorbitant expense that the American culture dictates, we lose something in the acknowledgement of the day. I have found that the major thing gets obscured in the tinsel. I am reminded of the late Rev. E. V. Hill, former pastor of the Mount Zion Baptist Church in South Central, Los Angelos, California. He encopuraged his congregants to take the names of families that he had acquired from the welfare office, folk in the hospital and others in difficult situations to bring the gift of Christmas to them. He claimed a richer and more fulfilling celebration of the day in his church and his own life following that effort.
The LORD announced the birth of the Christ with an angelic host praising GOD and saying: "Glory to God in the Highest! Peace on earth and goodwill towards men." Luke 2:10-14 I don't think it is without significance that the glorious birth announcement of Christ was initially delivered to the lowly, despised and disregarded shepherds. Shepherds were so poorly thought of that they were considered unsuitable as a witness in the court of law; so ireputable was their honor. They were considered dirty, prone to theft, resolute liars and generally unreliable as employees. It was to them that the initial witness of the birth of the Savior of the World was given. In GOD the Father's celebration of the birth of His Son he made His grace known to men of ill repute. I like that. I choose now to celebrate the day by being a blessing to the Merrimack Mission in Boston. They are known as Kingston House, 39 Kingston Street, Boston, MA. For one hundred years they have done the work of the LORD by taking in the homeless, feeding the hungry, preaching the gospel to those who need the good news. This they do without great pomp. They don't have exorbitant salaries, private jets, 50,000.00 marble toilets nor do they charge the people they help a fee for the service. Lives are changed and daily souls are added to the church. Kingston House simply announces the birth of Christ daily by being available to those in the city who are desperately in need. I like that. I think its in keeping with the day and it is also in line with Christ's announcement of His Kingdom, Isaiah 61 and Luke 4:18; "The Spirit of the LORD God is upon me to preach good tidings to the meek...bind up the broken hearted."
Where is Jesus in all of this excess, indebtedness, commercialism, mammon worship, greed and banqueting? I find it harder and harder every year to discern His face in all of the busy-ness. Jesus is very near when we show love to someone who is in need. Feeding the hungry is a work of the LORD. Helping someone to find the savior is certainly the LORD's work. I don't mean to imply that while you are running from Lord and Taylor to Macy's to Nordstrom's to Sacks, to Neiman's looking for the perfect gift for Uncle Luther or Cousin Addie that you are not doing a loving thing. I think the birth of the Savior is worth doing something that will count for all eternity. It's worth doing something that can be directed to the Savior's very mission.
The very fact that we have to remind ourselves and others with, "Jesus is the Reason for the Season" speaks to how lost He is in a lot of the season's traditions. I am changing the way I celebrate. My focus has shifted. It's my choice and my soul is happy about it.... I don't know about my family and circle of friends..........Pray for me.
"Thanks be unto GOD for His unspeakable gift." 2 Corinthians 9:15
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