Learning to Be a Patient Pastor

Whenever someone shares an observation about the struggles or whatever in their congregation, I always tend to think: “Well, maybe the people in your congregation feel that way…but not the ones in mine.”

I can be sooo obnoxious like that (My sister, Leslie, if she is reading this, has just ejected milk – or water, or whatever she is drinking – out of her nose!)!

 

This past Sunday’s gospel lesson was Matthew’s version of the Beatitudes (Matt. 5.1-12). In the sermon, I spent some time talking about blessings (shameless plug…you can always listen to the sermons at stlukeselca.org). Then I tried something I had never done – I took the time to stand in the center aisle and just kind of turn from one area to another and look at people and say “You are blessed.” I just said it over and over and over. Slowly and deliberately. I don’t know how many times – but I looked people in the eye and just said those three words. And I pretty much ended the sermon that way.

I really didn’t think all that much about it – and wouldn’t have done it, if I hadn’t read one commentator (David Lose) who said that people have no idea that they are blessed…and he “challenged” preachers to do it...to tell them. I thought: “Maybe people in your congregation don’t know they are blessed…but mine know.” Then, just to prove my point, I did it.

 

My business administrator (who is an active member of the church and was in church on Sunday) came into my office on Monday and said: “We need to change the sign out front to say: You Are Blessed.” I said, “Really, Pete?” He said, “Yes, that was great.” He started to walk out of my office, turned and said, “Thank you.”

 

There is so much I take for granted…So much I assume people already “get.”

 

I think I need to back up. Not make so many assumptions.

 

My preaching professor is constantly saying (present tense…he STILL says it when we have lunch together), “People need a clear and unapologetic proclamation of God’s love (and blessing) for them…NO MATTER WHAT!” I smile and nod and say, “I do that.” Apparently, I do not do it enough. I assume people already know those things…So, let’s move on.

But, here’s the thing…They don’t know them…Maybe you don’t, either.

So, I’m going to work harder at telling you. And you can tell me.

 

The late Henry Nouwen, in his book Letters to Marc About Jesus, says: “The most important thing you can say about God’s love is that God loves us not because of anything we’ve done to earn that love, but because God, in total freedom, has decided to love us. At first sight, this doesn’t seem to be very inspiring; but if you reflect on it more deeply this thought can affect and influence your life greatly. We’re inclined to see our whole existence in terms of quid pro quo…I think it’s this mentality that lies behind a lot of anxiety, unrest, and agitation (italics mine). It’s as though we’re forever on the go trying to prove to each other that we deserve to be loved. The doubt we harbor within us drives us on to ever-greater activity…in order to not drown in our ever-increasing lack of self-respect. The enormous propensity to seek recognition, admiration, popularity, and renown is rooted in the fear that without all this we are worthless…If we had a firm faith in God’s unconditional love for us, it would no longer be necessary to be always on the lookout for ways and means of being admired by people; and we would need, even less, to obtain from people by force what God desires to give us freely and so abundantly.”

 

On the white board in my office I have these words (I think they are from Eugene Peterson – not sure): “Be a patient pastor.”

I need to work on that, too.

 

My problem is, I see so many people working so hard to be loved…spending so much energy trying to appear cool or whatever (more adults than kids!)…and I just want to say, “Get over it!” “You are loved, already!!!” “Stop working so hard!”

I am not patient.

I see so many other things we could be spending our energy on (for example: This coming Sunday’s Old Testament reading is from Isaiah 58. Verse 9b says – my paraphrase – “Stop pointing fingers at one another, and saying mean things, so that you feel better about yourself…There are hungry people to be fed and afflicted people to be cared for!”), it is easy for me to forget, that we need to spend energy on ourselves first.

 

I guess that is what Jesus was getting at when he said, ”As the Father has loved me, so I have loved you; abide in my love” (John 15:9).

I wish “abiding” looked more productive…And I wish God worked on my timetable!

The Body of Christ in Our Basement

I don’t think we are completely crazy! But, maybe.

 

We are in the midst of a Great Experiment!

 

This Wednesday we will – for the third week – host midweek worship at our house.

 

I keep thinking that it will get “smoother,” or that we’ll get the hang of it. But, I’m beginning to think that this is just the way it is going to be...chaotic, noisy, crowded, up close.

 

We used to meet at the church, in the Fellowship Hall. It was a cavernous setting for what, in reality, is more of a small group. So, in complete selfishness, we moved to our house; where we don’t have to pack up the kids, after school and homework, and rush from home to church and back home by bedtime (if we’re all going to participate…Otherwise, Cliff and the kids stay home and don’t participate, which is no fun!).

 

Cliff makes a couple pots of soup and some grilled cheese.

We mop the floor downstairs (Okay – for purposes of full-disclosure, Cliff is the one who mops it!)…He waits to do this until Wed. afternoon because, inevitably, sometime during the week, one of our dogs has pee-ed down there…And they are Saint Bernards…The result is nothing short of a lake. And the best we can do the rest of the week, is to pile some towels on the wetness. Not particularly hospitable! So, Cliff mops while the soup cooks.

 

The first week, we met in our living room (big, cushy furniture, nice coffee table – perfect spot to set up communion). At 22 people, we were too many. And the stairs to the entry made it difficult for some folks to make it in, easily.

 

So, last week, we moved to the bottom floor (where the basement would be, if we had one)…bought some pea gravel to re-mark the walkway from the drive that enters on that level (no stairs to negotiate), and flood lights to light the way. Moved the empty bags of dog food from the patio area, so no one tripped on the way in. Scrubbed the dog drool off of the glass doors.  Got some folding chairs from the church. Set up the space heater (it can be a little cool downstairs). Moved some pillows to the fireplace hearth for more seating. Cleaned off Lucy’s craft table, so we could put some food there. And cleared off the Lego table – new communion set-up spot.

We tell folks that food will be ready at 5:45. When the first person showed up at 5:00 (while Cliff was outside blowing off the driveway and I was chiseling the drool from the door), we asked if they wouldn’t mind taking a walk around the neighborhood for a few minutes. When the second person showed up 10 minutes later, we just gave up and had them help set up.

 

This week, we’ll have to move the Lego table out of the way to create more space (which means that the communion will be set up on a TV tray…I’m sure there’s a sermon in there, somewhere).

 

In the middle of the crazy-ness last week, I just laughed out loud and said, “What a beautiful gathering of the Body we have here!”

A retired bank executive; a man who lives in a homeless shelter; another who takes the bus to get to our home; two high school students, their single mother and her father and step-mother; a woman who has been a member of the church for 70 years; a retired pastor and his wife; a young African American woman; a former Baptist (or two); a Vietnam Veteran; our kids – who make intermittent appearances throughout the evening; and about 10 others. Not a lot. And while there are a couple of “regulars” (who used to come when we met at the church) who seem to have dropped out, we have added several who never came to the church for the midweek service.

So, for this season at least (during Lent we will move back to church…after that, who knows?), it a Great and Glorious Experiment in and Experience of hospitality (and a study of worship in the early church).

 

We are looking together at  Acts 2.42: “They (those brave folks who gathered together to learn how to do this “Christian-life-in-the-world” thing) devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers.”

 

We straggle in, find a place to sit, get some soup, a sandwich, some sweet tea or water. Whoever happens to be up, gets re-fills. We talk and laugh and ask after each other’s health, and at about 6:15, Linda (who eats her soup from the piano bench) starts the music. Last week, we started with “I’ll Fly Away.” Cliff heard the music, hurried downstairs (he was upstairs in the kitchen, flipping some more grilled cheese sandwiches), grabbed his guitar, took up his position beside Ethan (who also brings his guitar to play), Linda hollers out “We’re in the key of G,” and off we go.

 

When we put the kids to bed later, they are still humming: “I’ll fly away, Oh Glory.”

 

 

Seeking Signs of Life

"What are you looking for?"

That's the question Jesus asks the two disciples who are following him (John 1.38). It is, in my opinion, one of the most provocative questions a person can ask, or be asked.

What are you looking for?

I'm not sure that any of us can answer that...not for ourselves, and certainly not for anybody else.

What are you looking for?

Love? In all the wrong places?

Answers?

Meaning? 

Significance?

Purpose?

Confidence?

Forgiveness?

For me...right now, at this moment (tomorrow, I may answer differently), I am looking for signs of life. 

I know, right? Such a little thing!

It seems like it has just been building...

It all started about 2 years ago, December 29 (my husband's birthday!) when our dog, Tendai died. We were visiting my in-laws, in Charleston, when it happened (which ended up being a great blessing, as they could keep the kids while we were at the vet's). We had to have him put to sleep. Telling the kids was so hard. Lucy wailed. Henry wept.

Before too long, not only did we have another dog, we also had the first of four new furry friends...all in the form of hamsters. We only had one at a time. That's right...if we've only had one at a time, that means that we have "gone through" three. Over the course of two years, we have managed to let three hamsters die (I prefer to say we "let them die." To say that we killed them sounds even worse!). They survived anywhere from 2 weeks to 308 days (Lucy, our daughter, has kept track). The fourth, and the one who is still living, is named "Hope," for obvious reasons. 

The summer after Tendai died, my mother was diagnosed with Stage IV adenocarcinoma. 

In the middle of cancer diagnoses and dying hamsters, one of whom we are fairly certain died as a result of a brain trauma suffered after Cliff, my husband, "flung" him off of his finger into the bottom of the cage (to be fair, the hamster had bitten Cliff), we got our son, Henry, a bearded dragon, because we were not going to have another furry friend in the house. Henry's bearded dragon is named Mr. Fluffypants! 

When we acquired Mr. Fluffypants, our friend, Beth, suggested that we try "growing" our own meal worms (bearded dragons love meal worms). One of her kids' teachers "grows" them in the classroom. How hard can it be? asked the family who has seen the demise of three hamsters (amazing that Petsmart keeps selling them to us!). We set up a terrarium, and her son's teacher supplied all we would need. Who knew we weren't supposed to feed the beetles to Mr. Fluffypants? He enjoyed them. Within two weeks, there was no sign of life in the terrarium.

Somewhere, in the middle of all of this, my mother has a scan that reveals, what the oncologist calls, an "angry tumor" on her thigh...it's causing a lot of pain. Probably some kind of sarcoma (that's not good). She is treated with radiation...miraculous results. No pain...apparently "dead" tumor.

Back to the mealworms...Since we seem to have fed the "life-source" beetles to the lizard, we put about a half-dozen "store bought" meal worms in the terrarium and didn't touch them, hoped, and prayed. 

Before too long, I could see that three of the store-bought meal worms seemed lifeless...fat...unmoving...stuck in a corner. "You have got to be kidding me! Why cant we keep anything alive?!" 

Back to my mother.

Six weeks ago, my mom had another "scan." It showed a new "growth" in her lung (the one that was - before then - tumor-free). "Are you serious?!" This among the dying mealworms!

"Let's not panic," said her oncologist, whom we adore (Kathryn Mileham). "We'll do another scan in 6 weeks...keep a close eye on it." 

I go home and look in the terrarium...I should really get those three lifeless mealworms out of the there...bad mojo, you know? But who wants to dig them out? Not me.

Mom has her "follow up" scan this past Thurs. 

The cancer seems to have "taken off." Most likely, the "angry tumor" come back to life.

She is in the hospital for two days. At the end of each, tired and weary, I go home and look at the dying mealworms. Even fatter...turning brown, at this point. Little "nubs" protruding out of their sides.

I look closer...they are "resurrecting"...they are becoming beetles...life-sources. They are brown and moving and the "nubs" are becoming legs. We will not feed them to Mr. Fluffypants. They will "birth" mealworms. 

"What are you looking for?" Jesus asks. I am looking for signs of life.

Who knew such simple things as mealworms could remind me that "life wins!"?

May your eyes be quicker to see signs of life than mine have been...And may all of us be quick to point out signs of life to our sisters and brothers who feel bombarded by death.

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Someone Cue the Baritone

I am not preaching this Sunday – The choir is offering Vivaldi’s Gloria, and we are building the rest of worship around that.

I am singing with them, but have only rehearsed with them in bits and pieces…And I haven’t even heard all of the pieces yet.

So, I was surprised, and quite honestly disappointed, when I saw the bulletin yesterday and noticed that our cantor does not have a solo (actually, there are no male solos in the Gloria. You probably already knew that. I didn’t.).

Jan (boy-Jan), our cantor, is an incredible musician…a very accomplished pianist and organist and an outstanding choir director. He also happens to have been the Baritone soloist for Opera Carolina as well as for the Charlotte Oratorio singers for a period of time. And, oh my word, I cannot describe how it is to hear him sing. In fact, I am holding my breath for the next couple weeks, until he sings “Some Children See Him” for the children’s Christmas Eve Service.

Anyhow – so I was quite disappointed when I realized that he wasn’t/isn’t singing a solo on Sunday…BUT I will get to hear him on Saturday. He will sing the Lord’s Prayer (Malotte’s version) at a wedding for which I am presiding and he is music-ing. When he gets to “…for thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glo-ry…for-ever” someone will just have to pick me up off of the floor; because it is usually at that point (in whatever service I am blessed to hear him), that I come face to face with the reality that I haven’t been worshiping very well, at all – and have got all caught up in the choreography and “what not” of making the service “work.” But, when he sings – I have not one thing to do but listen. And, listening, my ears that had been “stopped” by the busy-ness of “running” the service, suddenly are un-stopped and I can hear. And oh my word, what a blessing as waves of beauty and comfort and peace wash over me.

 

Like I said, I am not preaching on Sunday – so, I haven’t done a lot of studying on the Isaiah text for this week (Isaiah 35.1-10). But, it talks about a remarkable home-coming, where the people who had been in exile (and, let’s be honest – that is an easy one to preach to folks today, right? I mean, we all are experiencing, or have experienced exile from time to time…Periods of disconnection – real or imagined, and hopelessness, barrenness and futility, anger and fear, and desperation, and too much choreography…All those things that keep our eyes blind and ears stopped-up)…And here, Isaiah talks about how the exiled-ones now rejoice and parade home strengthened and full of shalom-peace; that is, not just the absence of violence, but the presence of fullness and plenty and beauty and gentleness and comfort for ALL (kind of a Mandela-esque vision of peace). The kind of shalom-peace-parade where we are confronted with the ways that we stop our own ears from hearing the music that surrounds us – and then almost celebrate the confrontation, as our ears are un-stopped (sometimes by a tragedy…and sometimes by something so overwhelmingly beautiful that we cannot ignore it any longer, like the baritone soloist – as it were singing - “for Thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory, forever”) and we are washed in the beauty of the sounds and sights and shalom of those parading near us…Make sense?

 

An interesting thing – the wedding that Jan and I are music-ing and presiding for this weekend, is for a deaf couple. A first for me…But one of the most enjoyable pre-marital counseling journeys that I have ever had as a pastor…Truth is, they have so much helped me hear better…Their physically “stopped” ears have helped open my perfectly good ears (“perfectly good” according to the audiologist, anyhow).

 

May we each be blessed with those moments when we can stop worrying about the busy-ness of the choreography, those times that we have absolutely not one thing to do but listen (with our perfectly good ears, or with the ears of our hearts)…And listening, may we be washed in shalom-peace, our ears un-stopped and our eyes opened as we peace-parade our way, side by side, through the world.

Death, Lock-downs, and Fuzzy Blankets

For, perhaps,only the second time in my entire life, I, this afternoon, went into a fabric store and purchased some fabric and thread. I was driven to this endeavor by my daughter, Lucy, who could not stand to see and hear her brother crying so mournfully last night. His loss, admittedly minimal in the grand scheme of things, was the third and final "tragedy" of the day...and the only one that I had any power to address. 

At bedtime last night, the reality became clear...Henry's "blankie" was gone, lost, probably thrown away by whomever likely found it (and, understandably,  mistook it for a rag) in the parking lot of Harris Teeter.

To a seven year-old, a tragedy is a tragedy. And for Henry, this was tragic (He has never slept without it, since his birth...and has been carrying it, concealed, in his is backpack to school ever since he's gone to school)...and it was the third tragedy of the day.

On Wednesday of last week (the day before Thanksgiving) we received word that Grier, a boy in Lucy's third grade class, had died after a 7-year battle with neuroblastoma. Giving her that news was hard. 

Even though he had only come to school a few times this year, Lucy came immediately to love and care for him. We cried and hugged, and she told my husband and I that she was sure that Grier is the champion at fighting cancer. 

Over the next few days of the Thanksgiving break, she would bring Grier up in conversation from time to time, but life took up its more usual rhythm...until Sunday night, when the thought of returning to school knowing that Grier was dead overtook her. 

Her biggest concern was for her teacher (Mrs. McDonald), whom, Lucy was sure, would cry as she talked about Grier (Lucy is a natural "comfort giver," and this was a little too big for her). She got to sleep and headed out to school Monday morning full of resolve and courage. 

That was yesterday's first tragedy.

Then, last night, I didn't answer my cell phone when it rang during a Personnel Committee meeting...but did notice that the call was from the kids' school. After the meeting, I listened to the automated message from the principal. 

He was calling to let the parents know that the school had gone into "lock-down" during the day...and it was not a drill. A "strange man" had been reported on campus. He assured parents, in his is message, that within minutes the school was completely locked-down and the CMPD was quick to arrive. 

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I started shaking and getting angry, having come face to face with the reality that such "real" lock-downs are part of my children's lives (It ended up that it was just an electrician working behind the school, who had failed to sign in at the office when he arrived.). 

When I got home, Cliff had received the same message on his phone. We asked the kids about it. "Yeah...I got over in the corner, on the floor like this. Then there were too many of us in one place, so we crawled with Mrs. McDonald to another corner and kept our heads covered (poor teacher, a death and then a threat to her students...this is not why she went into teaching.). 

That was the second tragedy.

So, when it came time for the kids to go to bed last night, and blankie was nowhere to be found (the third tragedy), we were all just stunned. Yes, Henry is old enough to not carry his blanket everywhere...but, why, on this day, with all of the other hard things, did he have to lose it?! 

Too much reality in one day. Too many endings.

So, last night, just before she closed her eyes Lucy (the comfort-giver) came up with a plan...If I would go buy some fabric today, she'll make Henry a new blankie. And right now, even as I type, dear reader, the baby blue fuzzy fabric and backing are spinning in the washing machine, soon to be moved to the dryer, so that it will be ready to be cut out and sewn together when the rest of the Ilderton brood return home from karate. 

It will not be a pretty blanket...I assure you. 

But it will be beautiful, and will return some sense of control to the reality that such control is only an illusion. 

Someday, the level of comfort will be beyond Lucy's ability to give it...but not today.

For the Sundays of Advent, I'm preaching on the assigned passages from Isaiah. This coming Sunday's (Isaiah 11:1-10), is about life springing up in surprising places (like from an old dead tree stump). 

Don't get me wrong. I do not live under the illusion that a homemade blanket will bring life where there is none...but following the death of a classmate and the reality of elementary school lock-downs, a fuzzy love blanket, is pretty life-bringing. 

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Would Somebody Please Put Me Back Together?!

“Then [the thief] said, ‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.’”

 

Jesus, remember me.

 

“Remember language” always makes me think of the story of Noah and the flood – more precisely, God’s words regarding the rainbow (Genesis 9:13-17). Whenever God sees the bow in the clouds, God remembers the covenant…More precisely, God re-members it…Whenever God sees the bow, God puts the covenant back together; even though we continue to tear it apart.

 

Jesus, re-member me.

 

Jesus, put me back together.

 

It’s interesting to me that on this Christ the King Sunday – the last Sunday in the church year, we get this story of Jesus hanging on the cross, promising to put this thief back together (Luke 23.40-43: “Then the other [thief said…] ‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.’ Jesus replied, ‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.’”). Another equally valid translation of that last part is, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in God’s garden.” It’s an end-time vision of new creation. I think that is what Paradise is about. I think it’s about creation – or, Creation…And I think it necessitates re-membering. Because we have been dis-membered. We have been torn apart.

 

This is what I’m trying to get at. The biblical witness is very clear that we have been created in the image of God (Gen.2)…the VERY IMAGE of God! But that image has been torn and marred and beaten and buried under mounds and mounds of hurt and anger and fear and self-doubt and greed and war on and on and on.

 

The very image of God is one of creation and peace, not destruction and war. The image of God is love and compassion and forgiveness, not hate and indifference and grudges. The image of God is plenty and inclusion and grace, not poverty and exclusion and pay-back.

 

The image of God in us has been dis-membered, and we can feel it. To be re-membered is to be all that God created us to be. Does that make sense?

 

The second lesson assigned for Sunday is from the book of  Colossians. The author has this to say, that I think is instructive (Colossians 1.16-18): “…for in [Jesus] all things in heaven and on earth were created, things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers – all things have been created through him and for him…and in him all things hold together (I suppose one could say, “In him all things are ‘membered.’” – but that’s playing pretty “loose” with the text.). Instructive, because it is painfully obvious that thrones and dominions and rulers all around us do not behave (in any apparent way) as though they were created for this Jesus, the very image of God (Col. 1.15) – who, as we just agreed is about creation and peace and love and compassion and forgiveness and plenty and inclusion and grace.

 

I think the thief’s dis-memberment (and mine too, for that matter) has precisely to do with the fact that the kingdom of this world (which – now I’m just being redundant – was created for and through the God of love) has lost its way (My friend Hutch, who makes up an excuse to drop by my office every 3-5 weeks – he has the heart and training of a Spiritual Director – and I suspect, that he shows up when he can feel that my spirit needs a little boost – Anyhow, he  just left my office. He says that we are living in Exile from our true selves…in exile from the Paradise God intends for us.).

 

I get asked fairly often, “if God is all-powerful, then why can’t God make us behave?”

The question of God’s all-powerfulness aside (which is a question which necessitates a glass of wine – or, at least, a cup of coffee), I believe that to force someone – or a whole creation’s-worth of “someones” to behave a certain way is a form of abuse. And God refuses to be abusive…Therefore God allows us to make really lousy choices; as evidenced by our lost-ness and the exilic nature of the kingdom of this world as opposed to the Kingdom of Jesus – where even thieves are re-membered and made whole to live and love and be what and who God created them (Us??? Me???) to be.

 

Jesus, re-member me – that I may glimpse Paradise now, and show it to others, as we move toward creation and peace and love and compassion and forgiveness and plenty and inclusion and grace.

 

Stand Up and Raise Your Heads

Part of the gospel lesson assigned for Sunday, November 17, (Luke 21.5-19) has this to say: “…there will be great earthquakes, and in various places famines and plagues, and there will be dreadful portents and great signs from heaven.” Then a few verses after the assigned reading concludes there is this (21.25-28): “There will be signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars, and on the earth distress among nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will faint from fear and foreboding of what is coming upon the world, for the powers of the heavens will be shaken.”

 

I cannot read that without thinking about our sisters and brothers in the Philippines…signs in the sun, the moon, and the stars and confusion caused by the roaring of the sea and the waves.

 

And I cannot read the first part of the lesson (21.5-6) where Jesus talks about the great and seeming permanence of things (in this case the temple in Jerusalem) being revealed as an illusion, without seeing images of the buildings in that island nation lying in ruins: homes and churches and shops destroyed by the confusion of the roaring sea.

 

Then I read this: “Then they will see ‘the Son of Man coming in a cloud’ with power and great glory. Now when these things begin to take place, stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near” (21.28), and I think of the faces of those I see on the evening news coverage…Faces of people standing up, with heads raised, in the midst of the disaster. And I am left wondering just what it is they are looking at. Or maybe, they are not looking at anything – they are rather (perhaps)  looking for. For what? Signs of life, to be sure…signs which may promise food, help, clothing, water…signs of sanity in a world rocked by confusion and chaos? I imagine them (if by any chance they are familiar with this particular bit of scripture), shaking their fists at God, flailing their arms toward heaven and demanding to know “Where is the promised redemption that is supposedly drawing near?! Because this looks only like hell!”

 

A pastor friend of mine, here in Charlotte, serves a congregation whose membership is made up of quite a number of Montagnard refuges from Vietnam. Two grown men in her congregation, brothers, came to Charlotte just before their father was arrested and imprisoned (about three years ago) for refusing to bow down to an image of the president and instead professing his allegiance to Jesus. No trial, no term of sentence no specified length of imprisonment.

No one had heard from him in quite a while.

Several weeks ago, the brothers were contacted by their sister, still living in Vietnam.

Out of the blue, their father had called her from the prison.

Speaking Vietnamese, he told her that he was “doing fine and will be okay.”

She hung up the phone, thinking it odd that he did not speak the language of his Montagnard tribe.

She concluded that her father must have been forced to call and speak the language that the prison guards could understand.

Just as she came to this conclusion, the phone rang again. This time one of the guards spoke, telling her that her father had just died.

Most likely he was killed for refusing, still, to bow to another’s image.

 

It is hard for me to wrap my mind around the kind of suffering I hear about. “Confusion caused by the roaring seas and waves.”

“Being hated or put to death because of the name of Jesus” (21.16-17).

It is hard for me to fully appreciate how it is that folks keep on standing up, over and over again, despite the complete lack of evidence that any redemption is drawing near.

 

The closest I can come to grasping it, is when I am paying close enough attention to notice that the arms that flail, flail toward heaven…despite all evidence to the contrary, calling out – as if by instinct – to something bigger than this pain, before they slump to the flailer’s side and absent-mindedly clasp the hand of the child beside them, urging them on...helping that smaller one to stand nonetheless.

 

The closest I can come to grasping it, is when I see the eyes of my pastor friend fill with tears of frustration – shaking her head and saying among the safety of other pastor friends – “I swear that I’m going to smack the next person who comes up to me and complains that American Christians are persecuted for their faith!” just as she asks if any of us can serve at the soup kitchen in her congregation’s fellowship hall.

 

These are models of faith, whose model most will never see nor know about…

Those who hold hands and not only continue to stand up – but who reach out to others to help them stand as well…And who, standing, embody the reality of the coming redemption, in their presence that is persistent even in the face of death.