A Prayer for Graduates

“Though I speak in the tongues of humans and of angels and have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith so as to remove mountains but have not love, I am nothing. And if I give away all that I have and even turn over my body so that I may boast, but have not love, I gain nothing.” (1 Corinthians 13:1-3).

God of love, we thank you for these, your beloved. We thank you for their accomplishment of graduation, their achievement of finding their way to this milestone. We thank you, God, for all those who helped them make it this far. For mothers and fathers, for grandmothers and grandfathers, for teachers and coaches and counselors, for friends and parents of friends. We thank you that somewhere along the way, they have known love, been touched by love, and continue on the lifelong journey of learning how to love.

We ask for you to encamp your angels around your beloved. Protect them from evil. Keep them wise in their decision-making. Teach them to be kind to themselves and to others. Be near to them when they call.

As they say goodbye to what they have known for so long and move into new places or at least new circumstances, help them to care about the world and its creatures. Create within them the desire to care for the stranger across the street and the stranger across the border. Remind them to care for their family especially the old ones who will desire their tenderness and the very young ones who will need their friendship. Teach them to care about the things that matter and teach them NOT to care about those things of little consequence.

Give them courage to speak out against injustice, strength to make it through difficulties, wisdom to know what is required by and needed of them, and joy that sustains them through sorrow. But mostly, O God, keep them in love. Keep them in love with you and the world. Keep them in love with truth and seeking righteousness. Keep them in love with the earth and sky with their rainbows and full moons, flowering trees and running streams. Keep them in love with birds of the air and animals that creep and crawl upon our sacred lands and swim in our beloved waters. Keep them in love with the laughter of children and dancing and holding hands.

Open their hearts wider and deeper so that this will be the generation that teaches the rest of us what it means truly to love.

In the name of love, we pray, Amen.

Wishing for World Peace

There’s a wish list on the refrigerator at the church where I serve. People working in the kitchen write down the items that run out and that are needed for fellowship hour and potlucks. This list is written on a narrow pad of white paper and as the top page fills up, items get marked off, the page is torn away, and another one takes its place. No one told me about the list. No one has explained who takes care of handling the requests. I’m not sure exactly who is in charge of supplying the items; I just know that for my past seven months of service here what is asked for is received, what is empty gets filled, and what is missing is replaced.

One day, I walked into the kitchen and noticed a new item had been added to the list. Just beneath the requests for measuring cups, sugar, and a white tablecloth, someone had written, World Peace. I suppose it was just a joke. I must say it brought a smile to my face. How amusing that someone wants world peace AND a tablecloth. And yet, after thinking about it, maybe it wasn’t meant to be funny at all. Maybe someone had noticed that when trash bags and plastic spoons are listed on these pieces of paper attached to the refrigerator, the items suddenly appear and maybe that someone decided that if crackers and salt, tea and creamer can magically happen, peace can too.

Finding peace, creating peace, is of course, nothing like shopping for kitchen items. You don’t just order up peace for the universe in the same way we pick up grape juice and cookies. But as I’ve considered the listed item and decided it was probably a joke, it concerns me that people of faith don’t even hope for it any more. Maybe we have decided it is no longer a prayer worth praying. With our own young men and women fighting on two battlefields for over a decade, stories of civil strife and tensions rising across borders, with the history of the world numbered by wars, maybe we’ve decided it isn’t even worth our wishes, even isn’t worth a petition for grace.

“It’s just human nature,” I’ve heard folks say. “As long as there are people and greed, people and religious differences, there will be battles fought.” Maybe. But maybe not. At the very least it seems to me we ought to keep asking for peace. We ought to keep working for justice, finding solutions to poverty and hunger to help ease the tensions, create new ways to deal with the strife. It seems to me at least that people of faith should once again imagine that love is stronger than hatred and peace can overcome chaos. People of faith should at least pray for world peace.
But maybe that’s just a naive and silly request. Perhaps I should imagine only teaspoons and paper napkins, communion cups and Kool-aid will appear at church and in the world. Maybe we should keep our expectations low and our lists manageable. After all, when it comes to kitchen supplies, there is somebody making that happen. Somebody can handle those needs.

Still, I walk in the church kitchen, take a look at the refrigerator and notice the one item not marked off the list and I say a pastor can dream and there’s no danger in asking. There’s nothing wrong with claiming what we need and requesting a little help. Sugar and world peace, I’d say we could use a little of both.

The Seeds We Plant

The Seeds We Plant

We moved into the church parsonage here in eastern Washington late October of last year. It’s about fifty years old but an adequate house situated only about three blocks from the church where I am serving as interim pastor. The front and back yards are small, with landscaped flower beds wrapping around the house and garage. No one told us what was planted in the beds. No one told us what to expect once winter ended. In the last few weeks at least a hundred bulbs have broken through the thawed ground and although there has been no bloom, I am confident that soon this house we call home for a few more months will be surrounded by color, bathed in the hues of spring. We live in a beauty imagined and created by the hearts and hands of others.
In this season of birth and new growth and in a place gardened by others, I am reminded of the power of planting seeds. I am reminded of the hope that emerges in the hearts of planters, how diligently farmers and gardeners rake and plow and dig and make way for life. Every year lovers of the earth go to nurseries and stores, purchase the seeds or bulbs that offer possibilities, and in faith, with care and hope, drop them into the earth in joyful anticipation. Most plant gardens for themselves but some folks, like the anonymous members of this church, hearty ones who love to landscape and care for church properties, plant their bulbs and seeds for others.
It is the same in spiritual gardens. We plant seeds of kindness, faith, hope, joy, love, peace, and patience in our own hearts, hoping to enjoy the bounty of our work and desire. We plant seeds within our souls, toiling with tools to grow spiritual gifts that we look forward to see come to fruition. We pray and study and meditate and practice for us to become patient, to become kind, to become people of peace and love. It is the harvest of our work for our own souls. But we also plant seeds in the hearts of others, in temporary places, in organizations, places of worship, in souls of those who may or may not ever know our names. We plant seeds without having to reap the bounty. We plant seeds without needing to watch the garden grow. We plant seeds letting the hope of what might come, the power of what may spring forth, the joy we expect for someone else, to be reason enough to keep planting.
I’m sure I could ask the church membership who planted these bulbs that grow in perfectly-spaced rows, filling the beds in the front and back yards of the parsonage and someone would give me names; but likely, I will not. Instead as they pop and bloom I will think of the people in my life who planted seeds within my soul and never saw what grew. I will think of grandmothers and teachers, the parents of my adolescent friends, the authors of books that shaped me, the countless words of wisdom from others that fell like seeds in my soul and have finally begun to bloom. I will think of planting my own seeds, being kind to strangers, writing words of hope, working for justice and peace, and learn how to be content with just the planting. It takes faith to grow a garden you don’t get to harvest. It takes faith to plant a seed. I know because I live this season in the center of someone else’s hopes for spring.

Finding What Was Lost

It is Easter and I have been thinking about resurrection and finding life where there has been death. I have been thinking about heaven and what it might be like when we pass from this world to the next.

I remember reading once that heaven was the place where things that are lost would be found. I like that thought because throughout my life I have lost a lot of things. Some of those things were able to be replaced, keys and books, for instance, articles of clothing, pieces of jewelry, poems or photographs. Others were not. I may have bought something new to take the place of the thing that is missing, but somehow it never fully satisfied me in the way the first thing, the lost thing, had done. Other things could never be replaced. Friends, for example, people I cared about who wandered in and then one day out of my life, leaving without a forwarding address. Moments of unfettered grace in which I can’t exactly call up the circumstances any more but I still know they happened. My innocence that fell away in pieces and my naïveté about the intentions and motivations of some people that seemed to have been lost in one fell swoop. I have lost, and regret having done so, the way loved ones, dead now, looked when they were content and what it was that used to make me laugh so hard that my face hurt.

I lost my fearlessness when I fell off the back of a motorcycle and I lost my need to be the best or win first place when I discovered that not everything in life is about winning. I lost the knowledge and anticipation that my plans will turn out as I expect and the notion that bad things won’t happen to good people. Not all of the things I lost, therefore, are missed or necessary or important. But sometimes I would just like to see them again just to remember what it was that I used to think was so wonderful about them. I don’t know if I’ll ever get that chance, of course because even though I believe in heaven, I don’t really know what it will be like. And if I’m honest, even in this season of Easter, I don’t know if Jesus physically rose from the dead either. I guess somewhere along the way I lost the need for that kind of certainty too. If pushed I would say I like the thought of heaven as a grand place of love and sweet reunions and I like the thought of Jesus, up from the grave, skipping down the street holding hands with a friend who didn’t go anywhere and laughing about what he had missed in the three days he was gone.

Truthfully, part of the reason I’m a pastor, a bearer of good news, is because I’d like to be the one to tell him, “don’t worry, one day soon, you’ll get it all back.”

The Calm Waters

One of the rules for whitewater rafting reads, “Rest when you get to a calm place because there is going to be more whitewater.” I have found this rule to be relevant not just for rafting but also in life. I have not, however, always paid attention to this bit of wisdom. In my younger days, I misused the calm places by worrying about what I assumed was likely downstream. I spent my calm and uneventful days waiting for the other shoe to drop, anxious about what failure or trouble was around the bend. I never fully enjoyed the calm places because I could only think about the next spot of whirling waters and how easily it would be to drown.

The older I get, however, the easier I have found resting to be. Maybe it’s just because I’m old and I find I have less energy for being anxious about tomorrow or about what may or may not be coming my way. Sometimes yesterday’s paddling wears me out so much, I need today just to recuperate. Maybe I am just old and tired but at least I finally know how to enjoy a good rest when I’m given one.

The truth is, I have never really loved the whitewaters of life. Even though I know there are times when I have made my own turbulence, created my own undertows and dangerous currents, I have always preferred an easier ride downstream. I’m not one of those people who always seem to swim against the tide or who doesn’t feel alive unless they’re paddling against crashing waves and dodging rocks or maneuvering long drops. I know folks like that but their lifestyle and their dramas always make me weary.

Yet and still, there’s no way to avoid the swirling torrents. Life is after all, full of whitewater. There is always a crisis we had not expected, trouble we hadn’t planned for, waves of grief and disappointment that seem to emerge from nowhere. Whitewater is ahead but that doesn’t mean we need to be afraid or worried, although, it certainly helps if we are prepared. Wearing a life vest is wise. Having faith can keep a person from becoming lost to the trouble. Learning a few skills, correct paddling, how to hold and set the oars, can keep the raft from flipping. Understanding how to navigate trouble, knowing healthy responses, where to go for help, will keep you afloat. And how we look at whitewater can make a difference too. Trouble can actually be a time of great learning, an opportunity to grow. Whitewater can make us strong.

I’m able to rest in calm waters because I don’t fight what I know is coming anymore. I accept the whitewater and am confident that what I have on the raft, what I have learned over the years, all my resources and experience is enough, and the fact that I trust the direction of the river, keeps me from too much anxiety. The calm places are a blessing, a gift, and I am glad that I know how to rest in them. It has taken a long time but at least I finally recognize a good thing when I see it. I lay back, let the current carry me, close my eyes and let the sun warm me, and I don’t worry too much. Whitewater is coming but for the first time in my life I trust that I’ll be ready.

Finding the Sign We Need

There is a hand-painted sign in the desert where my dog and I walk every day. It’s large, a 4 x 4 weathered piece of plywood and the letters, about six inches high, are block shaped, cobalt blue, and easily noticed in the dull brown landscape of New Mexico.

“Please don’t give up on me,” it reads and it is propped against a small Russian olive tree, the only tree in the small walking area off Tramway Road. The patch of land is owned by the city and is protected by the Flood Authority Office of Albuquerque. It’s situated between a housing division and an apartment complex and there are trails and loops used by joggers, dogs and walkers, mountain bikers, and horses with their riders. It is a wonderful place to be outside and enjoy the high desert atmosphere.

I saw the sign for the first time about a month ago. I don’t know who made it or who placed it near the tree along one of the trails. Perhaps it is the same person who put stones around the trunk of the Russian olive or the same one who strategically places large boulders along the path to discourage drivers from operating their motor vehicles across the desert. I suppose the sign refers to the tree, a message to anyone who would run over it or destroy it in some way. Seeing something, especially a tree, survive in the desert can make the most cynical of people become a little sentimental.

I have also considered that the sign hasn’t anything at all to do with the tree but is instead a re quest about a relationship, a plea begging a lover not to leave. I think of some young man, desperate not to lose his sweetheart, making a sign, leaning it against a tree on a trail where he knows she’s bound to walk. It is a message from his heart asking her for one more chance at love.
I don’t know what the sign means, who is asking for what. I only know that it touches me, reminds me of the frailty of love, the unpredictability of relationships, and the delicate balance we always seek of knowing when to hold on and when to let go, when to fight and when to quit, when to say, “I’ve done all I can do,” and when to say, “I will not give up.” I imagine learning that balance takes more than a lifetime and probably more than a few signs to guide us.
Yesterday, I stopped by the tree on my early morning walk. I studied the sign and then poured the water from my bottle all along the narrow, spindly trunk. Carmella, my dog, sat, respectfully observing my small blessing. She sniffed the air, her long golden snout lifted slightly, and turned again to me. I nodded and she stood and we finished our walk and went home.

I’m not sure of the significance of my gift. I’m not sure that it benefits the tree or that it addresses the concern posted on the piece of plywood. It just seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Water in the desert, after all, is always a blessing and maybe that’s all the maker of the placard wanted. Somebody, somewhere, honoring their plea, somebody not giving up. I suppose, when it comes right down to it, that’s really the sign most of us are longing to find.

A New Beginning

Texan journalist Browning Ware tells the story of a school boy who was having an awful time with his classroom assignment. Each time he went to the teacher to ask for help he had to mark through his work and begin again. By the time he had finally finished with the assignment, his paper was a mess. Filled with answers scratched through, notes written on the margins, small holes where he had erased too many times, he was ashamed of the work he had to turn in. The teacher, noticing his embarrassment and his untidy assignment, called him to her desk. As he stood before her, his work held in his hands behind his back, she reached in the drawer beside her. “Here,” she whispered and handed him a sheet of paper from her own pack. “Why don’t you use a clean piece of paper? Why don’t you start over?”
I love January because it is the month when we get a clean piece of paper. It’s the month when we get to begin again, get our do-over. It is the first month, the beginning of another year. Having noted that, however, we must understand of course, that there’s not anything wrong with having a messy paper or a messy life. Messiness is, after all, a sign of humanity and honesty; it’s what life is really all about. But I just think when we get a clean piece of paper, have a new beginning, especially when we have an answer, it’s nice to feel that feeling of being able to start over, try once more, leave behind our mistakes and wrongdoings from the past and begin again.
I am rarely able to keep my resolutions, which is probably why I have the same ones every year. I resolve to drink more water and not talk as much but I always seem to manage the same results. By March I’m back to the diet sodas and unceasing chatter. I also resolve every year to be more patient and a better friend. Unfortunately, just like the lack of water and silence, I fail miserably every time I make the effort. But I love the knowledge that I get another chance to try again, try and do better, try to be better. And even though my growth may appear minimal, I do think I manage at least one more right answer a year. And somehow, the starting over helps. Even if I begin the new year knowing that I’ll mess up this page too, that my mistakes will likely outnumber the right answers, I still like the sense of being able to have a fresh start.
The school boy in Ware’s story took a long time, making a lot of mistakes, filling up an entire page with his errors before he finally got to the answer; but he got there. And when he had his right answer, he got to begin again. My life is filled with stumbles and falls and long periods of heading in the wrong direction; but once a year I get a new piece of paper. I get to begin again. And even as the year ends and my paper is filled with mistakes and holes, I look to January, an answer in hand and a fresh start, and I think, maybe this year I’ll get it just right.