It’s the same message every Christmas. We preachers get to declare to all kinds of people that on this day, long ago, a Savior had been born, and He is for YOU.
When she was very little, he would pick her up, hum a tune, and dance with her around the room, and he would tell her, “I love you, little girl.”
All these years later, I fear much of what we learned as a result of 9/11 is being lost to time and apathy. Today, there are those who never heard of 9/11. Others simply know about the events of September 11, 2001 through history books and the stories their parents and grandparents tell.
It seems part of everyone’s recent conversations centers around the changing season. Everyone has their opinion. Some (like me) are lamenting the ending of the shorts and flip-flop season. I hear many bemoan the fact that soon darkness will fall on this part of the earth as early as 4:30 pm. Others, like my grandchildren, are eagerly anticipating fall. Emmelia tells me it is her favorite time of year.
I know I am dating myself, but with this recent heat wave, I suddenly found myself humming the tune to Nat King Cole’s 1963 hit, “Those Lazy-Hazy-Crazy Days of Summer.”
I was pleased to receive an invitation to attend the Quaker Valley Commencement. It was a very moving and memorable experience. The speeches offered by some of the graduating seniors were filled with heart, strength and emotion.
In the marriage ceremonies I conduct, I never ask, “Who gives this woman to be married to this man?” No one is property to be GIVEN to another. I always ask both sets of parents to give their blessing to the marriage of their children. Yet there is something endearing about being spoken for.
On Easter, I said one of the Easter challenges God puts before us is to see those around us… really see them. But often, we see only what we want to see. Sometimes, like Thomas insisting on seeing the wounds of Jesus, we insist on seeing the wounds of others before we believe that the people we serve are persons worthy and deserving of grace and kindness during their most vulnerable hour.
What I wish to convey to you in this pastor’s letter is the importance of allowing scars to define us; not our scars however, but the scars of Jesus. Jesus's scars have their own story to tell.
I don’t think it is a secret that if you looked up “party animal” in the dictionary, you will NOT find my name or picture there. However, this lackluster kind of guy has a very odd allure to the festival of Mardi Gras.
One of the joys of being a pastor is to hear your stories, stories like these—reports of epiphanies.
The name of this month has associations with the concepts of beginnings, doorways, openings, gateways and transitions. There’s little doubt that the name derives from the Roman god Janus, who is usually depicted as having two faces, one looking to the past and one to the future. This year, I can’t help but wonder what the United Methodist Church will look like after February.
“Do you know what that young man said? When he rang the doorbell, and I answered, he asked, ‘Is he home?’ I told him, ‘No.’ He replied, ‘Oh good, he makes me nervous!’”
“Say what? Now why in the world would I make him nervous?”
“Maybe it is because you used your PREACHER’S VOICE, and you intimidated him.”
I knew the day would eventually come. I tried my best to not dwell on it, as it was just too painful, too final. Thursday, October 11, that dreaded day came. There was no more denying it or refusing to think about it.
While sitting at my desk in the church office, I received a phonecall from Nancy. She asked, “Did you see Cindy’s post on Facebook?” (Cindy is Nancy’s best friend from high school.) I told her I had not and immediately went to Cindy’s page to find what Nancy found so interesting. Here is what Cindy posted…
Today one does not need a textbook to learn. You can simply go to your computer and find your way to YouTube, and there you will find how to do any number of things. Someone, somewhere has created a video to show you how to do what you’re about to attempt; whether it’s a repair for your home or your car, how to put on makeup, learning self-defense or making dinner. All you need to do is look it up on the world’s most popular video site, and soon you’ll be an expert yourself—even if it’s expertise on the best way to massage your pet opossum (because, apparently, opossums need massages!).
For twelve years, we passed it almost weekly. Often, I would say we need to stop and try this place out. We admired the outside and often commented on the beautiful hanging baskets filled with pretty pink petunias. But for a variety of reasons, we just drove by and wondered and admired from afar.
These past few weeks, I have not had a smile on my face or heart. In fact, my heart is broken over the desperate cries of precious little ones as they were ripped out of the arms of their migrant parents. The anguish and desperation in their voices has reduced me to tears. This IS NOT the American way, or at least I pray it IS NOT the American way.
Grief is perhaps the greatest teacher known to humankind. It comes at a very steep price. Grief teaches us perspective, patience, love like never before, kindness, tolerance, acceptance, appreciation for the present moment, and so much more. Grief never ends, but it changes. It’s a passage, not a place to stay. Grief is neither a sign of weakness nor a lack of faith. It is the price of love.
Do you have a nickname? When I was growing up, I had two nicknames. The first was Rara. I am not sure where it came from. Maybe my older brother couldn’t say Russel, and as he tried to pronounce my name, it came out “Rara.” I utilized that nickname with all the little children Nancy babysat over the years. Many of those children are now adults and still call me “Rara.”