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.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
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.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
God's girls and God's boys
Michael was given his grandfather’s radio a few years ago. It is a tall floor model with a beautiful wooden case and a phonograph that slides out below the radio. It is so powerful that you can hear BBC broadcasting from London. In the mountains of north Alabama, Michael’s grandparents and family would sit in the living room/master bedroom/all purpose room next to the kitchen listening to the world beyond. A collection of records from Michael’s dad contains two treasures... Clarence Jordan reading his Cotton Patch Gospels and Martin Luther King preaching at the Washington March. I listen to those two voices from the south and am struck by the power of their preaching and the changes that have come because of their living with us.These two men were alike in many ways. Both were very well educated, seminary trained and a part of a culture that denied the most basic human rights to a majority of the south’s people.
Clarence Jordan, a Greek scholar, a part of the Southern Baptist church, took the gospel seriously and heard his call. He established a farm in southwest Georgia near Americus (and Plains) that included both races as owner/farmers living and working together. They were bombed, boycotted and ostracized by the local community. Jordan wrote the Cotton Patch Gospels to help support the farm and spoke at seminaries, churches and other venues to promote the cause of gospel justice for all. Habitat for Humanity came into being at the farm because of Jordan’s prophetic life.
Martin Luther King was a part of the elite educated upper class. His father was an influential preacher and as a PK, Martin saw the church at its best and its worst. He became a preacher himself and one with great charisma and power. The African American preaching tradition is not a static experience confined to Sunday morning pews. It lifts you up, gets you to shouting and moves you on out. King knew his people, black and white, and he knew how to use his preaching gift to inspire change. His earlier ministry was devoted to the cause of racial equality but at the time of his murder, he had begun to work for the poor and call for peace.
Neither of these men was perfect. The after death practice of erasing a persons flawed humanity is not confined to your alcoholic Uncle Joe... "Poor soul. He was so generous and kind. (And drunk ninety percent of the time)." We do them and ourselves a disservice by pretending they were superhuman beings. It removes the possibility of our following in their footsteps. These two men were men who heard and heeded a call that also is extended to us. If they could do it, so can we.
Prophets are notoriously difficult to live with. They are always out on a mission, never home to unstop the drain, don’t make it to the PTA programs and miss the recitals and ball games. The families of prophets have a tough row to hoe without any of the fruits of the labor.
They often carry a burden not of their own choosing, a way of life that is as dangerous and public as the prophet they live with. I wonder sometimes about Jeremiah’s wife, and Isaiah’s family, and John the Baptist’s mother and father. When one hears a prophetic call, those who love you best lose you. Jesus did say we must be prepared to give up our families. Prophets often do.
I am grateful for these two prophets in my time. They came from my people in the south, black and white. Their lives changed the course of history and honored the One they worshiped. This Sunday I will play the records and listen to the voices of these two human beings who did great things for their God. I will remember that even though I am not called to be a prophet, I am called to live as one who has been redeemed. I can be the Face of God for those in my community who are the least of these. And in the living of my call, I can hear the voices of those who have gone before saying, "Good for you, girl. Now get on outta here and get on with it. Remember you are God’s girl and live up to your family name."
Clarence Jordan, a Greek scholar, a part of the Southern Baptist church, took the gospel seriously and heard his call. He established a farm in southwest Georgia near Americus (and Plains) that included both races as owner/farmers living and working together. They were bombed, boycotted and ostracized by the local community. Jordan wrote the Cotton Patch Gospels to help support the farm and spoke at seminaries, churches and other venues to promote the cause of gospel justice for all. Habitat for Humanity came into being at the farm because of Jordan’s prophetic life.
Martin Luther King was a part of the elite educated upper class. His father was an influential preacher and as a PK, Martin saw the church at its best and its worst. He became a preacher himself and one with great charisma and power. The African American preaching tradition is not a static experience confined to Sunday morning pews. It lifts you up, gets you to shouting and moves you on out. King knew his people, black and white, and he knew how to use his preaching gift to inspire change. His earlier ministry was devoted to the cause of racial equality but at the time of his murder, he had begun to work for the poor and call for peace.
Neither of these men was perfect. The after death practice of erasing a persons flawed humanity is not confined to your alcoholic Uncle Joe... "Poor soul. He was so generous and kind. (And drunk ninety percent of the time)." We do them and ourselves a disservice by pretending they were superhuman beings. It removes the possibility of our following in their footsteps. These two men were men who heard and heeded a call that also is extended to us. If they could do it, so can we.
Prophets are notoriously difficult to live with. They are always out on a mission, never home to unstop the drain, don’t make it to the PTA programs and miss the recitals and ball games. The families of prophets have a tough row to hoe without any of the fruits of the labor.
They often carry a burden not of their own choosing, a way of life that is as dangerous and public as the prophet they live with. I wonder sometimes about Jeremiah’s wife, and Isaiah’s family, and John the Baptist’s mother and father. When one hears a prophetic call, those who love you best lose you. Jesus did say we must be prepared to give up our families. Prophets often do.
I am grateful for these two prophets in my time. They came from my people in the south, black and white. Their lives changed the course of history and honored the One they worshiped. This Sunday I will play the records and listen to the voices of these two human beings who did great things for their God. I will remember that even though I am not called to be a prophet, I am called to live as one who has been redeemed. I can be the Face of God for those in my community who are the least of these. And in the living of my call, I can hear the voices of those who have gone before saying, "Good for you, girl. Now get on outta here and get on with it. Remember you are God’s girl and live up to your family name."
Monday, January 14, 2008
the sweepstakes...
When we lived in Columbia, South Carolina, my friend Toni would call. "Did you get your Publishers Sweepstakes mailer?" She would come over, small children in tow, and we would fix a cup of tea while we filled out the forms. While drinking the tea, we would imagine what we would do with a million dollars. First, of course, we would tithe ten percent to the church. Then we would let our imaginations run amok with possibilities. We would pay off the house mortgage, buy a new car, send parents on vacations, save for college funds. We kept a running tally and suddenly the money was gone. It was such fun imagining how generous we would be and how wonderful it would be not to have to decide whether to pay Peter or Paul this month. I have yet to win anything but I still enter the contests.
I have some friends who have made a lot of money... a LOT of money... relatively late in life through hard work, good ideas, good luck, good timing and a willingness to risk. Having money removed some burdens from their lives but interestingly enough, added some unforseen responsibilities. One friend has had to hire someone to manage requests for money after making some public gifts that put him on the short list of big givers. If you are the owner of a company, you feel responsible for those who work for you. Medical insurance, retirement, and daily bread for those in your business... these employees depend upon you keeping the business fresh and productive. What was energizing and creative while you were building your company runs the risk of becoming confining and constrictive. Having a lot of money is both gift and curse and it doesn’t matter if you inherited it or earned it.
I am fascinated with the public and religious perspective on poverty and wealth. Somehow the rich myth ( always white and Republican) in our church culture has taken on new life. One cannot be rich and follow Jesus. People who truly desire peace and justice for the world must feel guilty for the abundance in their lives goes the myth. We live in a rich country and we have more than most of the rest of the world. The rich young ruler who was unable to give up his wealth for Jesus’ sake is the poster child for this movement. If you are rich, shame on you. We all know it is harder for a rich person to go to heaven. Jesus said so, didn’t he?
We forget all the rich people who were a part of the Jesus Movement. Mary, Martha and Lazerus were at least upper middle class. Nicodemus, a part of the religious ruling class, was rich enough to buy a tomb for Jesus. Many of the people healed by Jesus were wealthy and a part of the establishment. Remember the ruler of the synagogue whose daughter died? His need was not put to the sliding fee scale test. Jesus’ ministry was not confined to the poor or the rich but to the needy.
And contrary to the politically correct interpretation of poverty, not all poor people are virtuous. Poverty in and of itself does not confer a mantle of sainthood upon a person. Poor people like rich people and middle class people, come in a variety of styles and sizes. Poor people, like rich people and middle class folks, can steal and lie and cheat. The scale may be smaller but the act is the same. The person who stole a handcrafted box from our church art gallery is as much a thief as the CEO of a large corporation making millions more than the company’s employees.
And then there is that disturbing story in the gospels of Matthew and John. "When Jesus was at the home of Simon the wino in Jonesboro, a woman with a very high priced bottle of perfume came and dabbed it on him while he was eating. When the students noticed it, they boiled over: ‘What’s going on? Why waste this when it could be sold for a neat sum and used for the poor?’ Jesus got wind of it and said,’Why are you bitching at the lady? She has done something beautiful for me. You have poor people with you all the time, but you don’t have me all the time. By putting this perfume on my body she has prepared me for burial. I assure you wherever the gospel is preached she will be remembered for what she has done.’"(the Cotton Patch Gospels)
So what do Christians do about money? For those Christians who have a great deal of money, live and share without guilt but in gratitude for all your blessings. Gifts given from gratitude tend to be larger than grudge gifts given in guilt. It is an insult to the One who has blessed you to give without joy. For those in the middle, give with gratitude and the awareness that we in the middle are also rich and can give what we are able. For the poor, like the widow in the Gospel, you are not let off the giving hook just because you are poor. Jesus held up the widow’s mite as an example of giving. It was given freely, quietly and joyfully not publicly, coerced or grudgingly. When we all share our money, however small or large the gift, we put a down payment on a piece of the Kingdom, for where our hearts and our monies are, there is our treasure.
Honest wealth is no sin nor is honest poverty or honest middle class. The money is not the problem. Our first love is the problem. Somehow we must put the God Movement first, learn to love God with our whole selves and come to a way of living filled with gratitude, giving because we have been given much. An old hymn says "Out in the highways and byways of life, many are weary and sad. Carry the sunshine where darkness is rife, making the sorrowing glad. Tell the sweet story of Christ and his love, tell of his power to forgive. Others will trust him if only you prove true every moment you live. Give as was given to you in your need, Love as the Master loved you. Be to the helpless a helper indeed, unto your mission be true. Make me a blessing, make me a blessing. Out of my life, may Jesus shine. Make me a blessing, O Saviour, I pray, make me a blessing to someone today."
I entered the HGTV House give away contest today. If I win, I will celebrate and share my good fortune with others. If I don’t win, I will still celebrate and share my good fortune with others seeking to be a blessing, not buy one.
I have some friends who have made a lot of money... a LOT of money... relatively late in life through hard work, good ideas, good luck, good timing and a willingness to risk. Having money removed some burdens from their lives but interestingly enough, added some unforseen responsibilities. One friend has had to hire someone to manage requests for money after making some public gifts that put him on the short list of big givers. If you are the owner of a company, you feel responsible for those who work for you. Medical insurance, retirement, and daily bread for those in your business... these employees depend upon you keeping the business fresh and productive. What was energizing and creative while you were building your company runs the risk of becoming confining and constrictive. Having a lot of money is both gift and curse and it doesn’t matter if you inherited it or earned it.
I am fascinated with the public and religious perspective on poverty and wealth. Somehow the rich myth ( always white and Republican) in our church culture has taken on new life. One cannot be rich and follow Jesus. People who truly desire peace and justice for the world must feel guilty for the abundance in their lives goes the myth. We live in a rich country and we have more than most of the rest of the world. The rich young ruler who was unable to give up his wealth for Jesus’ sake is the poster child for this movement. If you are rich, shame on you. We all know it is harder for a rich person to go to heaven. Jesus said so, didn’t he?
We forget all the rich people who were a part of the Jesus Movement. Mary, Martha and Lazerus were at least upper middle class. Nicodemus, a part of the religious ruling class, was rich enough to buy a tomb for Jesus. Many of the people healed by Jesus were wealthy and a part of the establishment. Remember the ruler of the synagogue whose daughter died? His need was not put to the sliding fee scale test. Jesus’ ministry was not confined to the poor or the rich but to the needy.
And contrary to the politically correct interpretation of poverty, not all poor people are virtuous. Poverty in and of itself does not confer a mantle of sainthood upon a person. Poor people like rich people and middle class people, come in a variety of styles and sizes. Poor people, like rich people and middle class folks, can steal and lie and cheat. The scale may be smaller but the act is the same. The person who stole a handcrafted box from our church art gallery is as much a thief as the CEO of a large corporation making millions more than the company’s employees.
And then there is that disturbing story in the gospels of Matthew and John. "When Jesus was at the home of Simon the wino in Jonesboro, a woman with a very high priced bottle of perfume came and dabbed it on him while he was eating. When the students noticed it, they boiled over: ‘What’s going on? Why waste this when it could be sold for a neat sum and used for the poor?’ Jesus got wind of it and said,’Why are you bitching at the lady? She has done something beautiful for me. You have poor people with you all the time, but you don’t have me all the time. By putting this perfume on my body she has prepared me for burial. I assure you wherever the gospel is preached she will be remembered for what she has done.’"(the Cotton Patch Gospels)
So what do Christians do about money? For those Christians who have a great deal of money, live and share without guilt but in gratitude for all your blessings. Gifts given from gratitude tend to be larger than grudge gifts given in guilt. It is an insult to the One who has blessed you to give without joy. For those in the middle, give with gratitude and the awareness that we in the middle are also rich and can give what we are able. For the poor, like the widow in the Gospel, you are not let off the giving hook just because you are poor. Jesus held up the widow’s mite as an example of giving. It was given freely, quietly and joyfully not publicly, coerced or grudgingly. When we all share our money, however small or large the gift, we put a down payment on a piece of the Kingdom, for where our hearts and our monies are, there is our treasure.
Honest wealth is no sin nor is honest poverty or honest middle class. The money is not the problem. Our first love is the problem. Somehow we must put the God Movement first, learn to love God with our whole selves and come to a way of living filled with gratitude, giving because we have been given much. An old hymn says "Out in the highways and byways of life, many are weary and sad. Carry the sunshine where darkness is rife, making the sorrowing glad. Tell the sweet story of Christ and his love, tell of his power to forgive. Others will trust him if only you prove true every moment you live. Give as was given to you in your need, Love as the Master loved you. Be to the helpless a helper indeed, unto your mission be true. Make me a blessing, make me a blessing. Out of my life, may Jesus shine. Make me a blessing, O Saviour, I pray, make me a blessing to someone today."
I entered the HGTV House give away contest today. If I win, I will celebrate and share my good fortune with others. If I don’t win, I will still celebrate and share my good fortune with others seeking to be a blessing, not buy one.
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