A Pentecost Story

You just never know. I dabble at being an artist. More than 30 years ago I had a creative spurt and produced several oils. I think I have the first ever in the attic; my younger son has a pair. A few years later, I painted a couple of more: one of Moses which I think eventually I threw away and a head of an old fisherman which I gave to a friend. Then nothing for years.

Somewhere around 2002 or 2003, our parish sponsored a charity auction of arts and crafts and I decided to try my hand again after more than 25 years of nothing. Surprisingly, my simple little works sold. Same thing next year with the same outcome. Then a dry spell again. It’s not that I don’t enjoy painting, I do, but like lots of other things I enjoy that have no sense of urgency about them, taking the time to create seems to always be a low priority. Plus, I don’t really think I’m very good so it’s easy to avoid doing something that doesn’t produce much. I’m always surprised when someone likes what I do, especially enough to spend money on it. Candidly, I thought at first it was just the novelty of one of the clergy painting—that plus the good cause the cost went toward.

A few weeks ago our current parish had a silent auction to raise money for my favorite charity—our mission work in Haiti. I decided it was time to dust off the paint box and knock out some stuff. I painted another in a series I had painted before, Tuscan landscape impressions. I’m really taken by the flame shaped poplar trees that are instant reminders of Italy. I also did a couple of others in acrylics. We were asked to set values for the work along with minimum bids. I set two of them at $150 values with $75 minimums. Frankly, I didn’t think they would sell plus I liked them enough that I was willing to take them home.

But today’s story isn’t about any of the paintings. I did a small pencil and pen drawing of a pair of doors set in a wall and intersected by another wall. The attention was on the doors with the stone walls only suggested by a few pencil lines. I probably spent more time on it than the others combined. Like the others, someone bought it. Today I learned who and why.
Her name is Linda. As she walked down the rows of art work, she saw a painting of a closed door. She told me how that seemed to really distress her. She knows about closed doors from a number of painful personal experiences, some of very recent origin. As she walked along with her husband, she kept mentioning the closed door. Then she came to my drawing. “Look!” She said to her husband, “The doors are open! That’s how doors should be!” She fell in love immediately and placed a bid. See, even though she knows about closed doors, she knows about open ones as well.

But before the bids closed they had to leave, so she didn’t know if her bid was the winner or not. Several days later, she received a phone call. Her bid won. In fact, her’s was the only bid. She was thrilled and sent a check for almost three times the bid price she was so happy to have the piece. As she told me the story, I not only felt pleased something I created had impacted somebody so much, but I felt something akin to wonder. Here’s why. When she finished sharing, I said, “Let me tell you the back story to the drawing. When I first sketched it, the doors were closed. But I decided I didn’t like that—didn’t think it had enough visual interest and it seemed lifeless. So I erased the doors and redrew them open.” The look on her face said it all. She was clearly stunned.

“Did you notice the name of the piece?” I asked. She hadn’t. “It’s ‘Come’ I said.” What I didn’t say but thought was, “I named it that because the hope is not found in the closed door or the knocking, but in the open door.” And that’s my Pentecost story—a story of the Spirit reaching into the lives of the unsuspecting and unwitting and using them to touch others.

Peace,

Jerry+

Dream Dreams

Next Sunday is Pentecost Sunday. Peter is reported in the reading from Acts appointed for that day to quote Joel to help the amazed people understand what is happening as the cosmopolitan crowd each hears the message in their own language. A part of that quote reads, “…I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams.” I love that quotation!

I’ve been one of those “young men” who saw visions, not as literally as the passage seems to suggest, but visions nonetheless. Though I’ve always had a streak of the cynic in me, what many failed to see was the idealism that was there as well. More than once I saw a vision of how a group of fellow Christians, or even fellow humans, could be more than they had been. And once, a long time ago at a slightly rundown campus center, others could see that vision as well. I will go to heaven proud of what the Interfaith Center became—at least for a time. Lives were shaped forever as that vision was realized.

Now I’m at the other end of God’s promise, “old men shall dream dreams.” My father didn’t live much past the age I am now. And as much as I loved and admired him, I don’t think as an old man he had any dreams left. My older brother seemed not to have dreams either once he reached my age. They are the old men with whom I have most personal history and experience. But I find my imagination still outpaces my actual opportunities. I mentioned to a friend just yesterday that, out to pasture I may be, but I find I still feel as if I have more to do and to give for the sake of a better world. Alas, and I don’t mean for this to seem as if I’m feeling sorry for myself, I don’t see situations in which I could give as much as I feel I have to give. Not that I can do nothing—I still teach and train. But it doesn’t feel the same.

So, if this is not a blog about frustrated I feel, what is it? I mean for it to be a blog about visions and dreams. I have the dreams and I hope to find a way. You have visions and dreams, too. Find you opportunities and pursue them for the Kingdom’s sake.

Peace,

Jerry+

You Never Know

Today is my day for leading worship at the Parkview Retirement Community. Among other things, it means it's a day I wear a clerical collar. It feels a bit strange since its only twice a month when it used to be almost every day. Just as it felt strange to not wear it when I retired after so many years of doing so. But that's not what this blog is about.

When worship and conversation were over and I started home, I decided to grab a burger at Wendy's. I ordered and rolled up to the window to pay and get my food. Completely uneventful. Behind the person at the window was another woman. She saw me and said, "The Lord sent you to me. I need a prayer!" I first thought she was joking, but realized her expression said, "This is real." She came over to the window and she said, "I need a prayer." I asked, "Can you tell me what you need to pray for?" "My mother. My mother's just a mess."

I asked her name and her mother's name, reached out my hand and took hers and said a prayer for Lisa and her mom. "Did the other girl already get your money," Lisa asked? "I'm going to give this to you free." I'd already paid. "Then how about a drink? I can give you a drink." I said, "No thank you; I'm on the way home. Besides, God doesn't charge for hearing prayers."

It was a strange and moving moment. In the "old days" of collar wearing, things like this happened now and then. Always caught me off guard. But always reminded me of how much pain there is in the world and how hungry people are to be in touch with God. It reminded me, too, of how much clergy were once viewed pretty widely: having a hot line to God. Maybe there is still more of that than I believe. I don't know. I do know this, Lisa and I connected over the gulf of our genders, age, race and occupation. God brought us together for that minute or so and I want to believe she and I will always be a little bit different because of it.

You never know.

Peace,

Jerry+

A Good Game

It's the end of a long day and I'm tired. I've just completed an all day workshop for the Navy Personnel Command on Mentoring. The evaluations were full of "excellents" and I had a good time; who could ask for more. Plus, I get paid.

The Navpercom [get it?] had decreed that every military person in the command (about 1000) be required to take this training. Every civilian employee (3000 or so) may if they wish. The training covers certain skills that I determined Mentors and Proteges should have to have a successful relationship. So far in the two sessions I've done, about 3 military and about 15 civilians have participated.

I believe that mentoring someone is a highly desirable thing--if you're any good at it. And I believe that being a protege is a highly desirable thing if you want to get a leg up in your chosen field. A lot of mentoring goes on informally in Navpercom and in business anyway, but the Navy, believing it is a good thing, has institutionalized the idea.

Good for them. Unfortunately, there are no teeth in the mandate, that is, there are no consequences for non-participation. The three military were not high ranking officers who could see that others they command participate. In fact, the Cmdr who's in charge wasn't there--which I find a little odd. So why am I writing about this? Well, not to tell you how your tax dollars are being spent.

I'm writing because what's happening here is so typical of the "real world" in general and perhaps the Church in particular. Lots of agreement about what's highly desirable: peace, justice, mercy, security, opportunity, just to name a few things. But not much going on to promote the actual accomplishment of these things. If you look at a typical parish budget, you'll be hard pressed to find 10% of the budget dedicated to outreach. Almost all the bucks just keep the doors open. And, as you probably know, most of what good is done by the parishioners is done by less than 20% of those, while the other 80% get to bask in the glow of a "caring community."

End of rant, but here's hoping you consider the validity of what I've said and see what you can do to change the way things are.

Peace,

Jerry+

50-1

The TV was on and the preshow of the Kentucky Derby playing. I happened to look up as I walked through the room and noticed the line up and the odds. One popped out. There was a horse with 50-1 odds.

Carol, my wife, was in the room sort of watching and I pointed out the 50-1 horse and said, "Why even bother?"

Well now we know. Against all odds, the dog in the race won, going away!

I couldn't help thinking about this the next day as I worked on a sermon. Against all odds, an strange assortment of Jews decided the resurrection of Jesus needed to be remembered and it needed to be shared with others. The world changed because of that decision.

More reflection brought more examples of "against all odds" in my own life. While not every long shot has worked out well, far more did than didn't. Perhaps for those of us who still struggle with problems in our lives and in our communities, we can remember that just because the odds are against us doesn't mean we don't give the important things in life a shot. Who knows? We could achieve what we wish for and believe in "going away."

Peace,

Jerry+