Sunday morning worship at Bethabara Baptist Church was not for the fainthearted or weak in spirit. Worship as I had known it at Pinetta Baptist, Clyattville Baptist, Pauline Baptist and the downtown church of First Baptist was no preparation for this way of approaching God. We filed in chatting amiably, sat in our appointed places, sang our songs with joy (sometimes), stood and sat on cue, listened quietly to the sermons, prayed with heads bowed and “behaved” in church. This was not the method of worship employed at Bethabara Baptist. We were a group of Baptist college students spending our summer building a church for this small congregation, primarily Cherokee, and worshiping with them every Sunday morning. We learned a new foreign language in worship that summer, a way of speaking to God that was vastly different from our own.
The first time an altar call was extended for prayer, we watched as most of the congregation came down front, knelt and began to pray out loud all at the same time. Some prayed in Cherokee, some in English and some in unknown tongues. Prayer lasted until the last voice faded away into silence, a season of prayer, prayer that was public and private at the same time. We sat trying to behave as if we knew exactly what was happening when we had no idea at all what was going on.
Sermons were not the same. Some of us had been exposed to the suck and spit method of preaching, preachers who suck in air and spit out the words in a rhythm, but not like this. This method of preaching was loud and messy. It called out a response from the congregation that scared us a little. People “lost control”, stood up and spoke in tongues, answered back to the preacher with fervent “Amen’s” and “Preach it, Brother”. Brother Owl, the pastor, was a small man who seemed to swell in size and volume when the Spirit moved. One Sunday the Spirit caught up Mrs. Owl and she threw her grandbaby in the air, jubilantly unaware of her grandchild’s danger of a hard landing. One of our fearless leaders, Mary Lynn, fielded that baby on its way down.
Worship was dangerous, exciting, upsetting, unsettling and a scary business for us that summer. These folks spoke a different language to the God we both worshiped and I learned some very important things that summer. I learned that the form didn’t matter to God nearly as much as it did to me. I learned that we are all more alike than different. I learned to watch and listen because if you are truly searching for God, you might get what you ask for and that can be dangerous. I learned that God is able to find us however we call out his/her name and if we are persistent and pushy, God will come when we pray.
Abram knew this, I suspect, because he dared to question God, asking for explanations of the inexplicable. “How can my reward be great when I am childless? What gift can you give me that will equal the hurt of living without a child born to Sarai and me?” God told him to do something... go out into the woods and kill some animals, split them in two, don’t burn them, just stack them leaning on their sides and keep the birds of prey away. It grew dark outside and inside of Abram as he slept. The light of the stars, the stars that God said were the numbers of his descendants, was not bright enough to hold the dread and darkness at bay. But in this time of darkness, God spoke a new covenant into being between them, a covenant that promised hope for the future. Hard times were coming for those who would be Abram’s descendants but God would not leave them. All would be well. The slaves would be set free and Abram would die in peace at a ripe old age.
Abram’s faith, his willingness to live with the darkness and dread, his acceptance of God’s answers to his questions, sets a pattern for me this Lenten season. I need to venture out into the darkness of my soul. Feel the dread and not run away from it. Do something that provides a time and place for God to come to me. Keep on asking questions and listening for answers. Make a new covenant between God and me. Wake up from my sleep and move on into the rest of this season of repentance and renewal. Like Abram, Lord, I question what lies in store for the rest of my life... what gifts do you have for me that my faith eyes are too nearsighted to see... what troubles are coming... will I have a good old age... will You be with me even until the end of life as I now know it... And, an answer comes for me as it did for Abram. All will be well because God is a present help in times of trouble and a stronghold for my heart in times of darkness and dread. God will bring rivers of laughter and joy, the shelter of grace and peace, and the assurance of more light yet to come after the darkness is spent. Thanks be to God for all of life and for Lent, my season of prayer caught up in the Spirit.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Lent... the art of letting go
Michael and I have been married a long time, nearly forty one years. I have loved him longer than anyone else in my life except mama and the Lord. A long term marriage is one way God has to teach you the power of grace and the art of letting go. When I survey our friends who have good marriages or relationships that nurture over a long period of time, the ones I most admire are the ones who practice grace and letting go.
Mama and Daddy were a marriage of opposites. He was mercurial in temper, steadfast in his love for her, shifting sand with quick decisions made without consulting her, accepting of her independence from him in working outside the home and managing her own money (outside the norm for their time), a Georgia farm boy with few of the graces. She was a daughter from a loving family, a family who knew how to celebrate special occasions, educated, poor but genteel, a match for his determination. As children we never doubted their love for each other. We knew the differences between them but saw how their love bound them together even when they were far apart. She tells stories of their life together now with humor and grace, remembering the struggles of the lives together with loving kindness.
Swan and Freddy Lou were another marriage that taught me how to live together. He, the loving pastor of Baptist congregations and a seminary professor, had an unmatched ability to speak the truth in love even when it hurt. Michael, recently returned from a sojourn in Germany, was in his class. Still struggling with his decision to return to seminary, Swan as his professor represented all the Michael did not want to be. So he sat in class reading his Time magazine as Swan lectured. “Mr. Hester, is my lecturing interrupting your reading?” Startled and shamed, Michael responded “No, sir”. “Well, your reading is interfering with my lecturing”. An angry Michael called and made an appointment to meet with Swan, unloading on him some of his pain and indecision about his calling. That was the beginning of a meaningful relationship marked by loving truth telling and grace filled loving.
Freddy Lou was a free spirit who felt no need to be anything except who she was. Joyfully, with abandon and laughter, she kept Swan lightened up. Her housekeeping was noted for her ability to create stacks but there was always time to sit a little while and visit. When you came into her presence, you felt celebrated and warmed by her loving appreciation for you. She was a soul who danced the dance of life with grace and good humor. Always up for a good adventure, they rode motorcycles to tour Europe in the thirties and approached old age together with the same verve and vigor they gave to that trip.
Walt and Mary Lynn taught me many fine arts in living together. As the Baptist Student Union Director at my college, Walt and Mary Lynn lived above the Student Union building in an apartment. I was upstairs one day when Walt came in the kitchen looking for some butter. It was in the frig not on the table. He and Mary Lynn had a spirited discussion, one of many I was privileged to observe, on the relative merits of keeping butter out so it was soft when you needed it or putting it in the frig to keep it from spoiling. Five minutes later the “discussion” was over and they had moved on to the next task at hand. Approaching their fiftieth wedding anniversary this summer, our work camp crew will be creating a celebration for this couple who have been such a force for good in our lives.
I have learned at least two lessons from these friends of mine. The first lesson is not to keep track or count of who wins and who loses, who gets what when and how, who did what to whom and when, to let go of the need to be right or keep it even. Hard, hard lesson for me and for us all. Since childhood we have tried to make the world fair... He got more than I did, she hit me first mama, she started it... and that is a difficult habit to break. The truth of the matter is the world is not fair and neither are relationships.
The relationships I know that have lasted gave up needing fairness and replaced it with the skill of letting go. There is no need to keep count because love trumps fairness every time. I love him and I want what is best for him and for us. Sometimes I give up or in and sometimes he does. It will work out in the long run and I am in it for the long haul. The Bible story I repeat to myself when I need to let go is Jesus instructing his disciples to shake the dust off their feet and move on when someone was not willing or able to hear what they had to say. Let go, move on, get on with the business at hand and the business at hand is loving.
The second lesson I have learned is the power of grace to redeem and heal. Grace that is offered freely with no strings attached, that comes when you are broken and need mending as well as grace that comes in times of great joy. Grace abounds. As sweet as time spent with Freddy Lou and as piquant as Mary Lynn’s green beans, grace never fails to delight and sustain. Grace comes when you live life with your hands open not clenched, giving and receiving with a thankful heart whatever comes your way. Grace is the open arms of Swan holding Michael in a holy hug after their first confrontation, standing by him as he struggled to find his way. Grace is Mary Lynn and Walt grousing and laughing in equal measure including us in their lives. Grace is a Kawasaki mule for Christmas that I didn’t know I wanted but now cannot imagine how I ever made it without it.
Help me once again let go of all I have done this past year and all that has been done, Lord. Let me shake the dust of disappointment and despair from my soul so that I might once again love freely and without reservation. As I have been loved by you, so teach me to love others, especially the ones I live with. Amen.
Mama and Daddy were a marriage of opposites. He was mercurial in temper, steadfast in his love for her, shifting sand with quick decisions made without consulting her, accepting of her independence from him in working outside the home and managing her own money (outside the norm for their time), a Georgia farm boy with few of the graces. She was a daughter from a loving family, a family who knew how to celebrate special occasions, educated, poor but genteel, a match for his determination. As children we never doubted their love for each other. We knew the differences between them but saw how their love bound them together even when they were far apart. She tells stories of their life together now with humor and grace, remembering the struggles of the lives together with loving kindness.
Swan and Freddy Lou were another marriage that taught me how to live together. He, the loving pastor of Baptist congregations and a seminary professor, had an unmatched ability to speak the truth in love even when it hurt. Michael, recently returned from a sojourn in Germany, was in his class. Still struggling with his decision to return to seminary, Swan as his professor represented all the Michael did not want to be. So he sat in class reading his Time magazine as Swan lectured. “Mr. Hester, is my lecturing interrupting your reading?” Startled and shamed, Michael responded “No, sir”. “Well, your reading is interfering with my lecturing”. An angry Michael called and made an appointment to meet with Swan, unloading on him some of his pain and indecision about his calling. That was the beginning of a meaningful relationship marked by loving truth telling and grace filled loving.
Freddy Lou was a free spirit who felt no need to be anything except who she was. Joyfully, with abandon and laughter, she kept Swan lightened up. Her housekeeping was noted for her ability to create stacks but there was always time to sit a little while and visit. When you came into her presence, you felt celebrated and warmed by her loving appreciation for you. She was a soul who danced the dance of life with grace and good humor. Always up for a good adventure, they rode motorcycles to tour Europe in the thirties and approached old age together with the same verve and vigor they gave to that trip.
Walt and Mary Lynn taught me many fine arts in living together. As the Baptist Student Union Director at my college, Walt and Mary Lynn lived above the Student Union building in an apartment. I was upstairs one day when Walt came in the kitchen looking for some butter. It was in the frig not on the table. He and Mary Lynn had a spirited discussion, one of many I was privileged to observe, on the relative merits of keeping butter out so it was soft when you needed it or putting it in the frig to keep it from spoiling. Five minutes later the “discussion” was over and they had moved on to the next task at hand. Approaching their fiftieth wedding anniversary this summer, our work camp crew will be creating a celebration for this couple who have been such a force for good in our lives.
I have learned at least two lessons from these friends of mine. The first lesson is not to keep track or count of who wins and who loses, who gets what when and how, who did what to whom and when, to let go of the need to be right or keep it even. Hard, hard lesson for me and for us all. Since childhood we have tried to make the world fair... He got more than I did, she hit me first mama, she started it... and that is a difficult habit to break. The truth of the matter is the world is not fair and neither are relationships.
The relationships I know that have lasted gave up needing fairness and replaced it with the skill of letting go. There is no need to keep count because love trumps fairness every time. I love him and I want what is best for him and for us. Sometimes I give up or in and sometimes he does. It will work out in the long run and I am in it for the long haul. The Bible story I repeat to myself when I need to let go is Jesus instructing his disciples to shake the dust off their feet and move on when someone was not willing or able to hear what they had to say. Let go, move on, get on with the business at hand and the business at hand is loving.
The second lesson I have learned is the power of grace to redeem and heal. Grace that is offered freely with no strings attached, that comes when you are broken and need mending as well as grace that comes in times of great joy. Grace abounds. As sweet as time spent with Freddy Lou and as piquant as Mary Lynn’s green beans, grace never fails to delight and sustain. Grace comes when you live life with your hands open not clenched, giving and receiving with a thankful heart whatever comes your way. Grace is the open arms of Swan holding Michael in a holy hug after their first confrontation, standing by him as he struggled to find his way. Grace is Mary Lynn and Walt grousing and laughing in equal measure including us in their lives. Grace is a Kawasaki mule for Christmas that I didn’t know I wanted but now cannot imagine how I ever made it without it.
Help me once again let go of all I have done this past year and all that has been done, Lord. Let me shake the dust of disappointment and despair from my soul so that I might once again love freely and without reservation. As I have been loved by you, so teach me to love others, especially the ones I live with. Amen.
Lenten Letters... The Nail Scarred Hand
We went to Ash Wednesday service at an Episcopal church near us last week. As we walked into the beautiful sanctuary, the cross at the front caught my eye. Made of wood and contemporary in design, it was the centerpiece of the whole room. Each person as they entered the sacred space, stopped, faced the cross and with a bow, reminded themselves and each other why we were gathered.
As I sat in quiet before the worship, I time traveled back to the churches, other sanctuaries I have known and loved where the cross was the centerpiece of worship. Some were plain and simple, others works of art, but they all were stark reminders of the death of the One we would follow. Sin, guilt, repentance, death, grace, resurrection... the Baptists of my childhood raising knew the truths of this progression. Lent was a year round occupation of worship. We lived it and we sang it. It was a messy, untidy, often painful and hilarious but real and true.
The saving grace of a small town is the art of knowing everybody’s business and minding your manners. It is devilishly difficult to hide anything, good or bad, in a small community. Mrs. Hamrick is caught in sleeping with the chair of the deacons and his name is not Mr. Hamrick. Everybody knows, passes judgement and waits to see if repentance leads to confession, forgiveness and grace to follow. Even small children knew the routine. After all, a murderer who served time in prison for his action, been converted and become a preacher, had stood in our pulpit as a revival preacher. I can still feel the power of his story told simply and honestly. He was an example of the power of the blood to redeem those who seemed beyond saving. Raw, uneducated and simple we might have been, but we had a pattern for living that gave us a way to name and atone for our sins.
Knowing everybody else’s business meant you knew you were not alone when it was your turn to confess and ask for forgiveness. In Sunday morning worship you were surrounded by others whose stories you knew, whose lives had fallen apart and been rebuilt, whose sins though they were scarlet had been made white as snow. You were in good company. Salvation from yourself was neither cheap nor easy but it was possible and the way was made plain.
One of the old hymns we sang...The Nail Scarred Hand written by B.B. McKinney... still gives me comfort when I stand once again during this season of reflection and repentance with my sins and failures to live as a Christian revealed to myself in the harsh light of truth telling.
Have you failed in your plan of your storm tossed life?
Place your hand in the nail scarred hand.
Are you weary and worn from its toil and strife?
Place your hand in the nail scarred hand.
Are you walking alone through the shadows dim?
Place your hand in the nail scarred hand.
Christ will comfort your heart, put your trust in Him.
Place your hand in the nail scarred hand.
Is your soul burdened down with its load of sin?
Place your hand in the nail scarred hand.
Throw your heart open wide, let the Savior in.
Place your hand in the nail scarred hand.
There is hope and light and life after the fall from grace for me if I will just reach out and take the hand of the One who waits for me in the darkness, the One who would lead me to a new life, clean and shriven of my sins, ready to go and try once more to live as a true Christian. I am not alone. I am not beyond the pale. I only have to reach out and hold the hand of the One who waits to walk with me. Help me throw my heart open wide in this season of Lent, Dear One and hold my hand tightly please, as I start over again. Let your scars and mine become reminders of the power and grace available for me if I ask. Thanks be to God for a lifetime of second chances.
As I sat in quiet before the worship, I time traveled back to the churches, other sanctuaries I have known and loved where the cross was the centerpiece of worship. Some were plain and simple, others works of art, but they all were stark reminders of the death of the One we would follow. Sin, guilt, repentance, death, grace, resurrection... the Baptists of my childhood raising knew the truths of this progression. Lent was a year round occupation of worship. We lived it and we sang it. It was a messy, untidy, often painful and hilarious but real and true.
The saving grace of a small town is the art of knowing everybody’s business and minding your manners. It is devilishly difficult to hide anything, good or bad, in a small community. Mrs. Hamrick is caught in sleeping with the chair of the deacons and his name is not Mr. Hamrick. Everybody knows, passes judgement and waits to see if repentance leads to confession, forgiveness and grace to follow. Even small children knew the routine. After all, a murderer who served time in prison for his action, been converted and become a preacher, had stood in our pulpit as a revival preacher. I can still feel the power of his story told simply and honestly. He was an example of the power of the blood to redeem those who seemed beyond saving. Raw, uneducated and simple we might have been, but we had a pattern for living that gave us a way to name and atone for our sins.
Knowing everybody else’s business meant you knew you were not alone when it was your turn to confess and ask for forgiveness. In Sunday morning worship you were surrounded by others whose stories you knew, whose lives had fallen apart and been rebuilt, whose sins though they were scarlet had been made white as snow. You were in good company. Salvation from yourself was neither cheap nor easy but it was possible and the way was made plain.
One of the old hymns we sang...The Nail Scarred Hand written by B.B. McKinney... still gives me comfort when I stand once again during this season of reflection and repentance with my sins and failures to live as a Christian revealed to myself in the harsh light of truth telling.
Have you failed in your plan of your storm tossed life?
Place your hand in the nail scarred hand.
Are you weary and worn from its toil and strife?
Place your hand in the nail scarred hand.
Are you walking alone through the shadows dim?
Place your hand in the nail scarred hand.
Christ will comfort your heart, put your trust in Him.
Place your hand in the nail scarred hand.
Is your soul burdened down with its load of sin?
Place your hand in the nail scarred hand.
Throw your heart open wide, let the Savior in.
Place your hand in the nail scarred hand.
There is hope and light and life after the fall from grace for me if I will just reach out and take the hand of the One who waits for me in the darkness, the One who would lead me to a new life, clean and shriven of my sins, ready to go and try once more to live as a true Christian. I am not alone. I am not beyond the pale. I only have to reach out and hold the hand of the One who waits to walk with me. Help me throw my heart open wide in this season of Lent, Dear One and hold my hand tightly please, as I start over again. Let your scars and mine become reminders of the power and grace available for me if I ask. Thanks be to God for a lifetime of second chances.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Lenten Teamwork
This has been a different kind of winter than I have been accustomed to... more snow and ice, brutal winds, weeks of dark grey days... and I have struggled with living in winter darkness. When I wake up in the mornings not only to dark but to no sunrise at all, I sink down in a miry clay that sucks my spirit under. Cold and snow I can live with. Harsh winter winds are no fun but I can always pull up the hood on my Carrhart jumpsuit. But days on end lived in half light and darkness wear me out and wear me down.
Yesterday and today have been beautiful, warm, filled with bright sunlight and suddenly I see signs of spring all around me. Those signs were there last week but obscured by my hazy vision. Too caught up in survival mode, grumping and complaining, cocooned inside the house with only short necessary trips outdoors, I never noticed the new birds visiting my feeders or the daffodils shooting up through the frozen soil. There are buds on my camellia bush and signs of new life, sap rising in trees and spring calves. I have been surrounded by spring light but too blinded by the remains of winter darkness to see.
Alison’s friend Molly came to visit her here at the farm yesterday. Molly’s children and Alison’s son Aidan took off running and jumping and swinging and exploring with verve and gusto. The sound of laughing children, the laughter of young friends now moms themselves, animals waiting to be petted and given treats, dogs chasing each other, neighbors dropping by with their children and grandchildren, doors flung open as children and dogs ran through the house front to back, an impromptu hay ride to see the trash pile bonfire and the cows... a welcome respite from the silence and isolation of winter.
Living through Lent I am covered up and weighed down by darkness. Everywhere I look I see and read of death, suffering, injustice, a Congress that seems consumed with itself at the expense of the people who need their help, wars and rumors of wars, assassinations and starvation, earthquakes and mud slides. Sometimes I cannot bear to even hear the news much less watch it. And yet the scripture for this week is not about the awfulness, the darkness, the sins of us all but about God’s loving care for those who love Him. God gives us into the charge of angels who will bear us up when life is more than we can handle by ourselves.
Aidan sings a little song while he works and plays... teamwork, it takes teamwork... learned from one of his television shows. That is what I need this Lenten season, a little teamwork with God to help me keep my eyes on the prize. The darkness is necessary so that I might see the Light. It cannot consume me nor destroy me if I keep this little light of mine burning as I walk through this season of preparation and recognition. So, here goes. Rain predicted for tonight and through the week, perhaps some frozen precipitation, grey light once again but I will remember these two days and hold them in my heart, a small warm light that glows with the assurance of things not seen but hoped for. Help me work with you, Lord, to be light and see light that reflects You in our world. Teamwork, it takes teamwork...May it be so, Lord Jesus. Amen.
Yesterday and today have been beautiful, warm, filled with bright sunlight and suddenly I see signs of spring all around me. Those signs were there last week but obscured by my hazy vision. Too caught up in survival mode, grumping and complaining, cocooned inside the house with only short necessary trips outdoors, I never noticed the new birds visiting my feeders or the daffodils shooting up through the frozen soil. There are buds on my camellia bush and signs of new life, sap rising in trees and spring calves. I have been surrounded by spring light but too blinded by the remains of winter darkness to see.
Alison’s friend Molly came to visit her here at the farm yesterday. Molly’s children and Alison’s son Aidan took off running and jumping and swinging and exploring with verve and gusto. The sound of laughing children, the laughter of young friends now moms themselves, animals waiting to be petted and given treats, dogs chasing each other, neighbors dropping by with their children and grandchildren, doors flung open as children and dogs ran through the house front to back, an impromptu hay ride to see the trash pile bonfire and the cows... a welcome respite from the silence and isolation of winter.
Living through Lent I am covered up and weighed down by darkness. Everywhere I look I see and read of death, suffering, injustice, a Congress that seems consumed with itself at the expense of the people who need their help, wars and rumors of wars, assassinations and starvation, earthquakes and mud slides. Sometimes I cannot bear to even hear the news much less watch it. And yet the scripture for this week is not about the awfulness, the darkness, the sins of us all but about God’s loving care for those who love Him. God gives us into the charge of angels who will bear us up when life is more than we can handle by ourselves.
Aidan sings a little song while he works and plays... teamwork, it takes teamwork... learned from one of his television shows. That is what I need this Lenten season, a little teamwork with God to help me keep my eyes on the prize. The darkness is necessary so that I might see the Light. It cannot consume me nor destroy me if I keep this little light of mine burning as I walk through this season of preparation and recognition. So, here goes. Rain predicted for tonight and through the week, perhaps some frozen precipitation, grey light once again but I will remember these two days and hold them in my heart, a small warm light that glows with the assurance of things not seen but hoped for. Help me work with you, Lord, to be light and see light that reflects You in our world. Teamwork, it takes teamwork...May it be so, Lord Jesus. Amen.
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