I am sitting in front of my computer, watching the sun come up, streaks of golden yellow brightening the skyline. I hear the whines from the basement floating up the stairway and go open the door to let the dogs come up. Phoebe is the oldest. A basset, she became a part of our family many years ago on an Easter Sunday morning. She walked up our driveway and stole our hearts. Alison wanted to keep her because she looked like she was wearing a headband and eyeliner. Her family had moved recently and she had been given to a neighbor. She ran away so much the neighbor was happy to find her a new home. Ezekiel, a.k.a. Zeke, should have been named Bob Barker because he does that all the time. He is an ardent conversationalist and does his best work riding in the mule. His first family did not appreciate his communication skills and he came to live with us. Barney wandered on to the farm one day. Shy and reclusive, scared to death, he hid out in the high barn venturing out only to eat the food we left. Each day we moved the food closer to the house until he was eating at the edge of our yard. He was young still but bore the unmistakable marks of abuse. He looked like a concentration camp survivor. For weeks he circled us, never letting anyone touch him. Men in baseball hats terrified him and the sight of a camera would send him into a barking orbit. The UPS man, beloved by the bassets because he always has doggie treats for them, could not get out of the truck. After a year or so, Barney now knows him and tolerates his occasional visits. He still cannot respond to face forward approaches even with us, but will circle around and slip his muzzle into your hand and wait for a pat. His hurt runs deep and is just now beginning to heal. Amazingly tender and protective of children and women, he can morph into a snarling beast if anyone he loves is threatened. All three dogs are lying on the rug by my chair and it smells comfortingly doggy.
Dogs have been a part of my life for as far back as I can remember. Mama and I like to play the game Remember about dogs we have known and loved. Our mailbox had an invisible red S (for Suckers) on it that only strays could see so we have always had strays for pets. There was Tubby, a Spitz mix, who smelled awful but let Gayle and me dress him up. There was Jake the hound who sang along when I practiced the piano. Maggie was a stray from the paper mill where daddy worked. And then there was poor Benji. If you saw Benji from a distance he bore a faint resemblance to the T.V. and movie star dog of the same name. His wiry hair stood up and ran away at all angles. He would smile at you, wag his tail and body, so happy to be noticed. As you got closer, you could see most of his teeth had rotted out and his body odor reminded us of Tubby. Daddy kept saying we can’t keep him but Mama ignored him and fed him. Starving animals are not a part of the proper order of creation for my mama. Benji loved my mother fiercely and Daddy, who loved my mama, too, gave in and gave up. Benji became a part of the family. Mama saw that he had his shots, his teeth fixed and loved that old Velveteen Rabbit of a dog. When Benji saw mama come out the back door, he became a beautiful dog. You didn’t even see his raggedy self. All you saw was his love for mama, transforming him into what mama saw in him, a beloved companion. It took your breath away.
The transforming power of love... I become what my beloved sees. I see the ones I love as they are and as they can be. I love them not because of their "potential" but just because they are. That is the love offered to me through Jesus as I search for God. Jesus’ face, his flesh and blood presence in this world of mine, sees me as I am, loves me as I am, and calls me without harsh judgement to transformation, a resurrection, a new becoming. I can become who God saw I could be when I was born because I am beloved. Beloved and becoming... Beloved, we are God’s children now; it does not yet appear what we shall be , but we know that when he appears we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is. 1 John 3:2 May it be so, Lord. Peggy Hester
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Jesus Calls Us... and Mrs. Davis, Mr. Thompson and Mrs. Tyre
When I was twelve, Mrs. Davis asked me if I would lead the Sunbeam Choir. I knew all the children’s songs by heart. I had been singing them all my life... Jesus Loves Me, Jesus Loves the Little Children, Climb, Climb Up Sunshine Mountain, I Will Make You Fishers of Men. Many of the songs children sang had motions, little dances, that accompanied the words. Being Baptist we didn’t call them dances since we were forbidden to dance or drink alcoholic beverages, go to movies on Sunday and in some churches, card playing was frowned upon. I jumped at the chance to lead a choir of three and four year olds. My musical values included singing with joy and making a joyful noise was more important than hitting the notes. We had great fun and the congregation looked forward to seeing and hearing the little ones in worship.
That was one of my first calls to discipleship. Clayattville Baptist Church took many chances with me, asking me to do and be what I had neither years nor experience for. They believed in me and called me out to use what they perceived to be my unique gifts. When I failed, or blew it, I never heard words of judgement or shame. I was one of their children and they wanted me to have a chance to stretch my wings and fly for God’s sake. They were willing to listen to my mistakes as I played the piano in Sunday night worship. They believed I had a special gift and gave me the two essential requirements for growing as a disciple.
The first gift was the gift of presence. Every Sunday I knew Mrs. Tyre would be teaching my Sunday School class, Mr. Thompson would be leading our Training Union group, Mrs. Morris would be leading choir, Mr. Bland would be a greeter and take up the offering, Mrs. Bennet would be the nursery lady, Brother Kannon would be preaching and they all knew my name. They knew who I was and what I could do. They watched me grow, taught me, hugged me, included me in the life of the larger church and did not keep me confined to the children’s section. My commitment to intergenerational church began there in the family of God at Clyattville Baptist. I was important to these adults and they showed their faith in me by asking me to work with them in church. How I wish all children could feel as important and included in the life of the congregation as I did. Children have so much to offer the kingdom of God and are not often included in the working life of the church. We lose a great deal by not including them, teaching them, calling them out, affirming their gifts and letting them practice discipleship with us.
The second gift was the gift of discernment. Because I was known, had been known since I was very young, they were able to name some gifts I did not know I had. My first experiences with the creative happened at church... Vacation Bible School crafts ( gilded cigar boxes and macaroni covered creations of all kinds), arranging flowers with my mother for the communion table, singing, learning the patterns for directing music. My introverted self, unsure of my place in this world, was given a front row place to stand and shine as I tried out some of these things they thought I could do. Mrs. Tyre thought I could speak to the whole church so she helped me craft my testimony. One Sunday in worship, I stood and said what I believed about God. Mr. Thompson thought I could accompany him when he sang a solo even though I had been taking piano lessons for only nine months. I did. He sang over my mistakes, brushed them away and asked me to play for him again. Those adults trusted me, trusted God had something special for me to do. They were willing to call me out, help me find my gifts, put my feet on the path of discipleship and showed me how to walk and run and stumble and get up and go again.
I wonder if Peter, Andrew, James and John felt that same sense of "specialness" when Jesus called their names? Called them to come with him, to learn from him, to become like him...I wonder if they had any idea what they were getting into? Probably not. I had no idea where I was going all those years ago when Mrs. Davis called me out. I am grateful for all those grown-ups, some long gone now, who called my name and called me out, set my feet dancing on the paths of righteousness with their belief in my talents. I am grateful Peter, Andrew, James and John came when they were called, bringing their unique gifts to be shared with the early Christian church. I still hear my name being called every now and then. And like my old basset Phoebe, I raise my head and listen, wag a little, get up and try something new all over again. I am grateful to be called and grateful for the different kinds of call that include us all. I pray that my hearing will not fade and that I will hear God’s voice, God’s call until I lie down for my final rest. Peggy Hester
That was one of my first calls to discipleship. Clayattville Baptist Church took many chances with me, asking me to do and be what I had neither years nor experience for. They believed in me and called me out to use what they perceived to be my unique gifts. When I failed, or blew it, I never heard words of judgement or shame. I was one of their children and they wanted me to have a chance to stretch my wings and fly for God’s sake. They were willing to listen to my mistakes as I played the piano in Sunday night worship. They believed I had a special gift and gave me the two essential requirements for growing as a disciple.
The first gift was the gift of presence. Every Sunday I knew Mrs. Tyre would be teaching my Sunday School class, Mr. Thompson would be leading our Training Union group, Mrs. Morris would be leading choir, Mr. Bland would be a greeter and take up the offering, Mrs. Bennet would be the nursery lady, Brother Kannon would be preaching and they all knew my name. They knew who I was and what I could do. They watched me grow, taught me, hugged me, included me in the life of the larger church and did not keep me confined to the children’s section. My commitment to intergenerational church began there in the family of God at Clyattville Baptist. I was important to these adults and they showed their faith in me by asking me to work with them in church. How I wish all children could feel as important and included in the life of the congregation as I did. Children have so much to offer the kingdom of God and are not often included in the working life of the church. We lose a great deal by not including them, teaching them, calling them out, affirming their gifts and letting them practice discipleship with us.
The second gift was the gift of discernment. Because I was known, had been known since I was very young, they were able to name some gifts I did not know I had. My first experiences with the creative happened at church... Vacation Bible School crafts ( gilded cigar boxes and macaroni covered creations of all kinds), arranging flowers with my mother for the communion table, singing, learning the patterns for directing music. My introverted self, unsure of my place in this world, was given a front row place to stand and shine as I tried out some of these things they thought I could do. Mrs. Tyre thought I could speak to the whole church so she helped me craft my testimony. One Sunday in worship, I stood and said what I believed about God. Mr. Thompson thought I could accompany him when he sang a solo even though I had been taking piano lessons for only nine months. I did. He sang over my mistakes, brushed them away and asked me to play for him again. Those adults trusted me, trusted God had something special for me to do. They were willing to call me out, help me find my gifts, put my feet on the path of discipleship and showed me how to walk and run and stumble and get up and go again.
I wonder if Peter, Andrew, James and John felt that same sense of "specialness" when Jesus called their names? Called them to come with him, to learn from him, to become like him...I wonder if they had any idea what they were getting into? Probably not. I had no idea where I was going all those years ago when Mrs. Davis called me out. I am grateful for all those grown-ups, some long gone now, who called my name and called me out, set my feet dancing on the paths of righteousness with their belief in my talents. I am grateful Peter, Andrew, James and John came when they were called, bringing their unique gifts to be shared with the early Christian church. I still hear my name being called every now and then. And like my old basset Phoebe, I raise my head and listen, wag a little, get up and try something new all over again. I am grateful to be called and grateful for the different kinds of call that include us all. I pray that my hearing will not fade and that I will hear God’s voice, God’s call until I lie down for my final rest. Peggy Hester
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Moonlight Magic
Moonlight Magic
Feeding the livestock is an unending chore and a never ending pleasure. When I went downstairs yesterday morning to go feed, the mule wouldn’t start. With the temperature at 6 degrees, the cows and Junie B needed hay to eat so waiting until evening was not an option. I trudged out to the car in my coverall that is way too large, cuffs rolled up, crotch hanging down to my knees (it was on sale cheap at our local Rose’s), stocking cap pushed down on my head, wearing my muck boots covered in dry and frozen muck, praying the car would start. It did. So I drove down the hill with my head hanging out the window (heavy frost on the windshield) with Barney dog bouncing around in front, on my way to feed everybody.
The first stop was the old chicken barn. It is a two story remnant of the farm’s former days of glory. Now it serves as storage with a leaky roof and home to Patches, the black and white old lady cat, BudCat and Gray Boy. I climb the stairs to the second level where Patches waits, sitting on the edge of the feed hopper. Eye to eye, we have a one sided conversation as I put out the cat food and pick up the cans. Down the steps, carefully replacing the barrier to keep the dogs out, and I am in the car, now warm, and going to the leaning barn.
The leaning barn does just that... leans a little... as a souvenir of a long ago storm that ripped the barn in half. The remaining half serves as our hay barn on the upper level and provides shelter and feeding stations for stock underneath. The lower level manger is still full of hay. The cows slept outside last night so I do not have to throw hay down. Only Helen the cat is there for breakfast. Hattie the Horrible and her son are no where to be seen. The old yellow tom that was here when we bought the farm is an occasional visitor for food but not conversation. I load four bales of hay on the trunk of my car, open the gate and drive down the lane to the pasture.
Normally the lane during the winter is muddy and squishy but today it is frozen hard (six degrees, remember?)so I am able to drive easily back to the cows and Junie B. They are waiting, hungry and huddled around the manger. I stop in front of the old tack shed, open the door, feed Junie B her oats and carry a bucket of sweet feed to the feeder for the cows. They rush me as I pour the feed out, anxious not to miss a morsel of this treat. I cut the baling twine on the hay and spread the flakes out. It seems wasteful but daddy always felt they actually wasted less of it this way, didn’t step on it as much and everyone could have their own plate of hay. The balancing act in winter feeding is giving them enough to eat to keep them warm without giving them too much to eat. That causes problems of another kind. I put Junie B.’s hay next to her feed bucket and jump in the car, headed up the hill. I repeat this same process again in the afternoon at four o’clock.
When Michael comes home, I tell him about the dead mule and my problem feeding today. After supper, we go downstairs to the garage and he puts in a new battery. Since I had not been able to put out enough hay to last through the night, we bundle up and go for a moonlight mule ride to the barn. The cows still have not come to the barn to eat so we load up six bales and drive to the back. A full moon, wreathed in mist, lights our way and we drive without headlights, savoring the crisp cold clean breath of winter night. As we round the curve, we see Ferdinand the bull lying in front of the manger on a bed of straw surrounded by the other cows bedded down. Junie B, wearing her blanket, is bedded down with them. Heads lift and turn towards us, a novelty visit in the night. Cows are always curious about people. We seem to be their entertainment.
As I am raking out the leftover sticks and straw from the manger on my knees, I feel a head resting gently on my shoulder. It is Junie B. My cheek rests on her cheek and we lean into each other, content. Her horsey smell surrounds me and I close my eyes, feeling the pleasure of communion and the sweetness of trust freely given between the two of us. I reach up to scratch her ears and she nickers. I get the message... Where is the hay?
Moonlight magic... It is beautiful. Quiet and peaceful, frosted with moonglow, snow in the shade, the smell of hay, the sound of the creek, shadows from the bright moonlight dapple the hillside and I am happy. Joy not only comes in the morning, but also on moonstruck nights full of hope and longing. An epiphany...what has been an ordinary chore done hundreds of times before has been transformed into an act of grace and redemption, communion. Communion moonlight can transform us all, show us the hidden beauty that surrounds us in our ordinary lives and lift us up to a higher ground. Biscuits and mayhaw jelly, pita bread and wine, crackers and juice, woman and horse... it matters not. What matters is the transforming moment that comes when we lean into one another, cheek to cheek, and rest in the magic of the moment, grateful for all we have been given. Light for the journey, food for the body and companions to show us the way... All I have needed has been provided and I am made new in the moonlight moment. Thanks be to God.
Feeding the livestock is an unending chore and a never ending pleasure. When I went downstairs yesterday morning to go feed, the mule wouldn’t start. With the temperature at 6 degrees, the cows and Junie B needed hay to eat so waiting until evening was not an option. I trudged out to the car in my coverall that is way too large, cuffs rolled up, crotch hanging down to my knees (it was on sale cheap at our local Rose’s), stocking cap pushed down on my head, wearing my muck boots covered in dry and frozen muck, praying the car would start. It did. So I drove down the hill with my head hanging out the window (heavy frost on the windshield) with Barney dog bouncing around in front, on my way to feed everybody.
The first stop was the old chicken barn. It is a two story remnant of the farm’s former days of glory. Now it serves as storage with a leaky roof and home to Patches, the black and white old lady cat, BudCat and Gray Boy. I climb the stairs to the second level where Patches waits, sitting on the edge of the feed hopper. Eye to eye, we have a one sided conversation as I put out the cat food and pick up the cans. Down the steps, carefully replacing the barrier to keep the dogs out, and I am in the car, now warm, and going to the leaning barn.
The leaning barn does just that... leans a little... as a souvenir of a long ago storm that ripped the barn in half. The remaining half serves as our hay barn on the upper level and provides shelter and feeding stations for stock underneath. The lower level manger is still full of hay. The cows slept outside last night so I do not have to throw hay down. Only Helen the cat is there for breakfast. Hattie the Horrible and her son are no where to be seen. The old yellow tom that was here when we bought the farm is an occasional visitor for food but not conversation. I load four bales of hay on the trunk of my car, open the gate and drive down the lane to the pasture.
Normally the lane during the winter is muddy and squishy but today it is frozen hard (six degrees, remember?)so I am able to drive easily back to the cows and Junie B. They are waiting, hungry and huddled around the manger. I stop in front of the old tack shed, open the door, feed Junie B her oats and carry a bucket of sweet feed to the feeder for the cows. They rush me as I pour the feed out, anxious not to miss a morsel of this treat. I cut the baling twine on the hay and spread the flakes out. It seems wasteful but daddy always felt they actually wasted less of it this way, didn’t step on it as much and everyone could have their own plate of hay. The balancing act in winter feeding is giving them enough to eat to keep them warm without giving them too much to eat. That causes problems of another kind. I put Junie B.’s hay next to her feed bucket and jump in the car, headed up the hill. I repeat this same process again in the afternoon at four o’clock.
When Michael comes home, I tell him about the dead mule and my problem feeding today. After supper, we go downstairs to the garage and he puts in a new battery. Since I had not been able to put out enough hay to last through the night, we bundle up and go for a moonlight mule ride to the barn. The cows still have not come to the barn to eat so we load up six bales and drive to the back. A full moon, wreathed in mist, lights our way and we drive without headlights, savoring the crisp cold clean breath of winter night. As we round the curve, we see Ferdinand the bull lying in front of the manger on a bed of straw surrounded by the other cows bedded down. Junie B, wearing her blanket, is bedded down with them. Heads lift and turn towards us, a novelty visit in the night. Cows are always curious about people. We seem to be their entertainment.
As I am raking out the leftover sticks and straw from the manger on my knees, I feel a head resting gently on my shoulder. It is Junie B. My cheek rests on her cheek and we lean into each other, content. Her horsey smell surrounds me and I close my eyes, feeling the pleasure of communion and the sweetness of trust freely given between the two of us. I reach up to scratch her ears and she nickers. I get the message... Where is the hay?
Moonlight magic... It is beautiful. Quiet and peaceful, frosted with moonglow, snow in the shade, the smell of hay, the sound of the creek, shadows from the bright moonlight dapple the hillside and I am happy. Joy not only comes in the morning, but also on moonstruck nights full of hope and longing. An epiphany...what has been an ordinary chore done hundreds of times before has been transformed into an act of grace and redemption, communion. Communion moonlight can transform us all, show us the hidden beauty that surrounds us in our ordinary lives and lift us up to a higher ground. Biscuits and mayhaw jelly, pita bread and wine, crackers and juice, woman and horse... it matters not. What matters is the transforming moment that comes when we lean into one another, cheek to cheek, and rest in the magic of the moment, grateful for all we have been given. Light for the journey, food for the body and companions to show us the way... All I have needed has been provided and I am made new in the moonlight moment. Thanks be to God.
Monday, January 21, 2008
keep my lamp trimmed and burning...
We were without power for a month in the aftermath of the April tornados that roared through Kentucky. National Guard kept watch on our corner with a campfire for warmth and light
in a neighborhood cloaked in complete darkness. The only light available for those of us who elected to stay in our homes was lamp light, the old fashioned oil lamps with wicks and glass chimneys. The soft light just barely illuminated one room with circles of light ever dimmer radiating to the outer edges. We would cook and eat early, in keeping with the outside light so our evening tasks could be completed before total darkness. After bathing Megan and tucking her in, I would move about the house with the lamp held high. Michael would go to the basement office with the camping lantern to work on his master’s thesis until his bedtime. Light became a precious commodity and one that required tending daily. Oil needed to be replenished, chimneys needed to be washed and wicks needed to be trimmed. If you ran out of oil, the chimney covered in soot, or the wick mostly burnt fabric, the light would be inferior, dim. Light in evening darkness was not available at the flick of a switch.
As our choir sang "Keep Your Lamps Trimmed and Burnin’" in worship this morning, I time traveled back to Louisville, Kentucky and remembered/felt the presence of cold darkness and the absence of warm light. The fragrance and warmth of my grandmother’s old oil lamp linger in my memories of that time, the soft edges of objects lit by a gentle glow of light that warmed body and soul. I learned to trim the wick, smoothing away the black sooty edges, and adjusting the height of the wick so the flame would burn brighter. I began transferring the image of trimmed lamp wicks to my own soul work as worship moved on around me.
Our church is not much on the eschatology of the last days, so making ready for the end of time is not on our liturgical preaching schedule. As a child I often heard the Book of Revelation read and discussed with much emphasis given to preparation for the Second Coming and being ready. Woe to those who were caught short like the New Testament bridesmaids who ran out of oil for their lamps before the bridegroom came. One’s personal spiritual journey was seen as preparation for not only heaven but also, perhaps, for the end of time in our time. The pendulum has swung, as pendulums do, I think, to the other extreme.
Somewhere, somehow, we should be trimming our lamps and making ready for the coming darkness, even if it is only the darkness of our approaching deaths. It is not an easy image to consider, this picture of our own ending. And how do I trim my lamp so that the light that shines through me reflects the Source of my Light? What is it that is oil for my lamp? And what is the quality of my light?
I trim my lamp by some rather simple practices. I read the Bible. I try to read it every day. In keeping with my ADD, I read it like a Roomba vacuum; back and forth, over and under, around and about until I am satisfied. Sometimes I read two translations for the same passage. If I am feeling energetic, I’ll read three or four. I read devotionally, lectio divina, or in scholarly fashion using reference books. Sometimes I read just for the sheer pleasure of letting the words and images and ideas flow into and around my heart and mind like a crisp cold mountain stream that takes your breath away when you jump in.
I pray. My last conscious act before sleep claims my restless soul is a prayer, often a child’s prayer. "Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take." As a child I remember such comfort in the assurance of God’s presence in my daytime life and my night time sleep. Sometimes it is just a name or a worry that I hand off to God as I slip away in sleep. Evening prayer, even if it is just "Please" or "Thank You", completes my day’s journey towards God.
I have a Covenant group, the Homecoming Group. Born in anger and desperation, we are being redeemed and transformed into a family of faith. As we met last night at our house, we heard the laughter, touched the tears, prayed for those of us who have heart hurts, shared the struggle, had communion with biscuits and mayhaw jelly and sweet tea... and we remembered. Memory... to remember... another way to trim my soul’s wick. Michael played a record his dad gave him, a record of the Washington March in 1963. We closed our eyes and let Martin Luther King’s preaching roll over our souls like rivers of mercy and justice. His black preaching style, call and response, his voice, his language, his effortless use of Scripture from memory, stirred our souls.
We shared our earliest memories of racism and injustice connected to skin color. Some of us, born in the deep south, had memories of signs and mason jars for glasses, segregated schools and movie theaters, communities that were equally divided in numbers of black and white. Others in our group grew up where there were only one or two people of color or in an interracial community where people of all colors stood on level ground, were all of one piece in the community. As we shared, only one in our group now has close relationships with African Americans through her work. She counts them as friends. Some of us had been members of churches that worked to establish and maintain relationships with African American churches, sharing food and preachers and choirs and going on retreats together. Most of us have had or have now some relationships with African Americans. But, none of us have a long term committed group interaction with people whose skin color is different from ours right now. We asked some hard questions and heard some painful answers. Sometimes it isn’t racism but inertia that keeps us separated.
Like Dr. King, we dreamed last night. We dreamed of having faith friends whose skin color is different from ours, whose worship culture is different from ours, who share our belief in One God, Jesus Christ and the Spirit who moves among us breaking down the dividing walls of inertia and apathy. At least two or three of us are committed to doing something so I am holding fast to the Biblical promise... Where two or three of you are gathered in my name, there shall I be also. Perhaps we could find some African American Christians who would join with a few of us to provide mentors for the men in prison next door to our church. Some in our group are single parents, struggling to just keep up with the financial and emotional demands that come with raising children alone. Could we reach out to other single parents, African American and Hispanic, share the load and lighten our hearts in the process? Maybe we could start with a shared meal in each others homes and let our lamps shine for one another. Sooty chimneys, untrimmed wicks and low on oil though we may be, we are called to follow the Light of the World and shine ourselves as witness to the One who keeps our darkness at bay. Keep my lamp trimmed and burning, Lord, the time is drawing nigh.
in a neighborhood cloaked in complete darkness. The only light available for those of us who elected to stay in our homes was lamp light, the old fashioned oil lamps with wicks and glass chimneys. The soft light just barely illuminated one room with circles of light ever dimmer radiating to the outer edges. We would cook and eat early, in keeping with the outside light so our evening tasks could be completed before total darkness. After bathing Megan and tucking her in, I would move about the house with the lamp held high. Michael would go to the basement office with the camping lantern to work on his master’s thesis until his bedtime. Light became a precious commodity and one that required tending daily. Oil needed to be replenished, chimneys needed to be washed and wicks needed to be trimmed. If you ran out of oil, the chimney covered in soot, or the wick mostly burnt fabric, the light would be inferior, dim. Light in evening darkness was not available at the flick of a switch.
As our choir sang "Keep Your Lamps Trimmed and Burnin’" in worship this morning, I time traveled back to Louisville, Kentucky and remembered/felt the presence of cold darkness and the absence of warm light. The fragrance and warmth of my grandmother’s old oil lamp linger in my memories of that time, the soft edges of objects lit by a gentle glow of light that warmed body and soul. I learned to trim the wick, smoothing away the black sooty edges, and adjusting the height of the wick so the flame would burn brighter. I began transferring the image of trimmed lamp wicks to my own soul work as worship moved on around me.
Our church is not much on the eschatology of the last days, so making ready for the end of time is not on our liturgical preaching schedule. As a child I often heard the Book of Revelation read and discussed with much emphasis given to preparation for the Second Coming and being ready. Woe to those who were caught short like the New Testament bridesmaids who ran out of oil for their lamps before the bridegroom came. One’s personal spiritual journey was seen as preparation for not only heaven but also, perhaps, for the end of time in our time. The pendulum has swung, as pendulums do, I think, to the other extreme.
Somewhere, somehow, we should be trimming our lamps and making ready for the coming darkness, even if it is only the darkness of our approaching deaths. It is not an easy image to consider, this picture of our own ending. And how do I trim my lamp so that the light that shines through me reflects the Source of my Light? What is it that is oil for my lamp? And what is the quality of my light?
I trim my lamp by some rather simple practices. I read the Bible. I try to read it every day. In keeping with my ADD, I read it like a Roomba vacuum; back and forth, over and under, around and about until I am satisfied. Sometimes I read two translations for the same passage. If I am feeling energetic, I’ll read three or four. I read devotionally, lectio divina, or in scholarly fashion using reference books. Sometimes I read just for the sheer pleasure of letting the words and images and ideas flow into and around my heart and mind like a crisp cold mountain stream that takes your breath away when you jump in.
I pray. My last conscious act before sleep claims my restless soul is a prayer, often a child’s prayer. "Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take." As a child I remember such comfort in the assurance of God’s presence in my daytime life and my night time sleep. Sometimes it is just a name or a worry that I hand off to God as I slip away in sleep. Evening prayer, even if it is just "Please" or "Thank You", completes my day’s journey towards God.
I have a Covenant group, the Homecoming Group. Born in anger and desperation, we are being redeemed and transformed into a family of faith. As we met last night at our house, we heard the laughter, touched the tears, prayed for those of us who have heart hurts, shared the struggle, had communion with biscuits and mayhaw jelly and sweet tea... and we remembered. Memory... to remember... another way to trim my soul’s wick. Michael played a record his dad gave him, a record of the Washington March in 1963. We closed our eyes and let Martin Luther King’s preaching roll over our souls like rivers of mercy and justice. His black preaching style, call and response, his voice, his language, his effortless use of Scripture from memory, stirred our souls.
We shared our earliest memories of racism and injustice connected to skin color. Some of us, born in the deep south, had memories of signs and mason jars for glasses, segregated schools and movie theaters, communities that were equally divided in numbers of black and white. Others in our group grew up where there were only one or two people of color or in an interracial community where people of all colors stood on level ground, were all of one piece in the community. As we shared, only one in our group now has close relationships with African Americans through her work. She counts them as friends. Some of us had been members of churches that worked to establish and maintain relationships with African American churches, sharing food and preachers and choirs and going on retreats together. Most of us have had or have now some relationships with African Americans. But, none of us have a long term committed group interaction with people whose skin color is different from ours right now. We asked some hard questions and heard some painful answers. Sometimes it isn’t racism but inertia that keeps us separated.
Like Dr. King, we dreamed last night. We dreamed of having faith friends whose skin color is different from ours, whose worship culture is different from ours, who share our belief in One God, Jesus Christ and the Spirit who moves among us breaking down the dividing walls of inertia and apathy. At least two or three of us are committed to doing something so I am holding fast to the Biblical promise... Where two or three of you are gathered in my name, there shall I be also. Perhaps we could find some African American Christians who would join with a few of us to provide mentors for the men in prison next door to our church. Some in our group are single parents, struggling to just keep up with the financial and emotional demands that come with raising children alone. Could we reach out to other single parents, African American and Hispanic, share the load and lighten our hearts in the process? Maybe we could start with a shared meal in each others homes and let our lamps shine for one another. Sooty chimneys, untrimmed wicks and low on oil though we may be, we are called to follow the Light of the World and shine ourselves as witness to the One who keeps our darkness at bay. Keep my lamp trimmed and burning, Lord, the time is drawing nigh.
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