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The Kitchen is Closed

We are in week three of no kitchen. The room that once housed the kitchen is down to studs. The electrician has done what he can. The plumber’s job is mostly finished.

So the room sits empty, waiting for someone to put the skin on the bones. This will be followed by that dusty period of taping and mudding and sanding and more. Then the floors go in.

While all of this happens, the rest of the house looks like a bomb went off, except that in my privileged life I have never really seen what that looks like, so I can only guess. We have gone through a whole tank of propane and all the pellets for the smoker are now gone. Tonight’s dinner sits in the crock pot on the table in the sunroom, teasing all of us with the smell of garlic and onions.

The children are wondering when the house will go back to normal and when the tape and plastic will come down and the dumpster will be out of the driveway. So do the parents.

Still, it has been an adventure. It has been a reminder of how blessed we are to be able to refinance, to stay employed, to afford the first-world luxuries of choosing cabinets and hardware and tile and backsplash – in a country where many cannot do any of those things. It has allowed us to get creative with meals, to eat things we don’t remember buying, and to eat outside around the campfire, or on the floor near the coffee table, or really anywhere you can find a seat.

Maureen and I are trying hard not to let this project become like the story, “If You Give A Mouse A Cookie…” where we find that when one room looks great, another one doesn’t so maybe we should do something there too. That temptation is real, let me tell you.

With the kids home three days a week and in school only two, it can be hard to find a quiet place to do our respective assignments. There is some yelling and some tears, but I stop after a while. (Insert smiley face).

If we were on social media more, you could follow along, but that seems like a poor excuse to join that melee. For now, we will focus on today’s readings from Ephesians: “Be kind to one another, compassionate, forgiving one another as God has forgiven you in Christ. Be imitators of God, as beloved children, and live in love, as Christ loved us…”

Good advice in times of upheaval and change and dust and renovations.

I suppose it’s good advice for every day.

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The Rest of the Story

From the 5MOM archives as I take today off.

The great radio commentator Paul Harvey has been dead since 2009 and if I had not grown up with the parents I had or with the older siblings I had (and still have) and if one of those siblings had not been in radio himself, I might not have known who Paul Harvey was. But I did and if you did too, then the title of this entry already makes sense.

I thought about those old “The Rest of the Story” radio segments and their little known or forgotten facts as I reflected on Numbers 11.

It is one of my favorite passages of the Old Testament and is one I invoke often. Look it up. Read it. And smile along with me.

There are times, in ministry and in life, we are, quite frankly, overwhelmed by the ignorance around us. On the road, in the supermarket, perhaps even in the office, we are surrounded by foolishness, incompetence, and just plain…well…you know what I mean. Like Moses in this reading, we hear the cries of those we are called to serve and, though we know the tasks we have been given, we are at our wits end, ready to surrender. Every time I read Numbers 11, I laugh because I recognize the Moses in me. “Please, Lord, if this is how you are to treat your servant, just do me the favor of killing me now.”

I don’t really mean it. I am sure Moses, a family man himself, didn’t really want to die either.

But there does come a time in ministry when we look around and wonder if we are the only ones with creativity, vision, or a sense of what’s possible. It’s not arrogance. Really, it isn’t. It is just frustration that those around us simply don’t move as quickly or in the same direction as we think they ought.

So, like Moses, we take it to prayer, and we ask to be let off the hook.

But you have to read the rest of the story.

Since it’s not in this morning’s first reading, let me summarize. Moses says, “Kill me now, God, so I do not have to bear the burden of these people.”

And God says, “I have a better idea.”

“Go find people smarter than you and bring them with you to the meeting tent (ahh, the first parish committee). Then I will take some of my spirit that is within you, Moses, and I will place it on them, so you do not have to do my work all by yourself.”

So, in other words: “Quit your whining and surround yourself with smart people, if you can admit they exist, which is another issue entirely. Find those who share your passion and vision and remember: the work you do is God’s, not yours.”

It isn’t your ministry. It’s God’s.

They aren’t your young people. They are God’s.

It isn’t about you. It’s about you making God present to others.

And just because an idea wasn’t yours, doesn’t mean it isn’t good. Just because you didn’t think of it, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t support it…but I digress.

God could have let Moses off the hook. He could have struck him dead.

But disciples hardly ever get off that easily.

Look around this week. Who are the smart people you should gather together so that God can share God’s spirit with God’s people so that, together, you can do God’s work?

I love Numbers 11. But you have to read the rest of the story.

I think Paul Harvey would be pleased.

~pjd

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Let the dead bury their dead

We hear this week in Luke’s Gospel that Jesus is calling people to follow him. As he is inviting people to be his followers, one person requests that he first be allowed to bury his father.

“Let the dead bury their dead.”

It’s not the most sympathetic portrait of Jesus. Even when we add the last part of the conversation, “..but you, go and proclaim the Kingdom of God,” it doesn’t really get better. There is no bereavement leave where Jesus is concerned.

Why?

Because nothing is more important that proclaiming the Kingdom. Nothing. Not family, not rituals, not taking the time to pack, nothing.

This is tough stuff. We like our comforts. We enjoy our rituals. We depend on our down time to get recharged and rejuvenated.

But not so, when it comes to Jesus.

Scholars tell us that the man’s father was probably not actually dead yet. His request was to spend time with him until he died, to stay with him, make him comfortable, and hold his hand as his dad passed from this world to the next. That was important to the son – and I think we can all probably relate.

Here’s the problem: the man assumes that tomorrow – or whenever he was free from his duties as a son – he could come back and follow Jesus. The response of Jesus shows that He understood full well that if the man did not respond immediately, he might never respond all.

Jesus asks us to follow, to be compassionate, to feed the poor and forgive one another. He asks that we love one another in a way that is both counter-cultural and, for some, counter-intuitive. He asks us to be merciful and just, open-minded and even keeled. He tells us to welcome the stranger, give sight to the blind, and heal the broken-hearted. He asks us to witness our faith to others and live as an example of sacrificial love that can change the world.

And nowhere does he say that any of this will be convenient or that the invitation will arrive only when we are ready to heed it.

Invitations come in all shapes and sizes – at all times of day and night. From children and parents and brothers and sisters. Through friends and strangers and people stuck in traffic.

I cannot help but wonder how many invitations I missed today because I let my own desires get in the way.

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Everyone

Today is the Feast of the Exultation of the Holy Cross. For today’s Gospel reading, we hear from John:

”For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son,
so that everyone who believes in him might not perish
but might have eternal life.
For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world,
but that the world might be saved through him.”

Note that John didn’t say that God loves only those people who vote for the “right” people.

Or attend the right church. Or believe what we believe. Or look like us. Or talk like us. Or come to the country in the same way as we did.

I don’t believe it’s an accident this reading follows Sunday’s gospel about forgiveness. Maybe one of the things we could work on this week is an eagerness to forgive those who have offended us with no strings attached.

The next several weeks are going to be rocky. We are going to disagree with people. Depending on the channel, the commentators will irritate us. Or maybe all the commentators on all the channels will irritate us. There is a serious lack of clarity in this world when it comes to truth.

But John is clear. God loves the world and anyone who believes this is in pretty good shape. The hard part is acting like we believe it.

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Prayer for a New School Year

Master and Teacher,

Bless our Zoom-time together.

Bless our Google classrooms.

Bless our remote learners and those who struggle to sign in.

Bless our Internet providers and IT personnel and parents who balance working from home and a home filled with work.

Bless those children who struggle to keep the mask on, trying so hard to stay six feet apart from friends they have missed so much.

Bless our teachers who have worked so hard for so long, those who yearn to embrace their students and those who will face the challenge of keeping their charges safe and healthy.

Bless our school nurses, who guide those who are not well away from others, trying to discern the difference between a common cold and a deadly virus.

Bless our little ones entering school for the first time in this reality that changes every day. Give them the wisdom to comprehend the need to stay  angel wings apart from their friends.

Bless those who are new in our schools – students and teachers alike – trying to find the right classroom, the right locker, the right books, and the right attitude.

Bless those extroverts among us who long to sing and talk and have for so long been stuck indoors.

And bless those introverts who wish they were still inside.

Bless us all with compassion, that we may root for the underdog, celebrate those who accomplish much, and pray fervently for each other.

Bless us with an environment free from bullying, needless competition, and petty jealousy.

Help us, Lord, to fall in love with learning, be it online, in person, or a little bit of both.

And we beg you, Lord, to bring these children and teachers safely home at the end of the day, the week, or the semester. Keep them free from violence and viruses – at home and at school – on the bus and on the streets – and guide them home to the waiting arms of those who loved them first.

Finally, Lord, we beg for an end to the pandemic that has cost so many so much.

We make this prayer through Christ our Lord: teacher, servant, and source of all hope.

Amen.

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Making Peter’s Confession Our Own

The reading from Matthew’s Gospel we shared yesterday is one of my favorites.

Remember: Jesus asks the apostles that great, defining question, “Who do people say that I am?” It’s the 2,000-year-old version of, “Hey, what are you hearing about me out there?” except that it doesn’t sound paranoid or conceited coming from Jesus.

Some apostles give answers and then Peter jumps in and shuts down the conversation. “You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God.” Boom. There it is. The naked truth. The confession.

I use the word confession on purpose. Peter believed it to be true. It was – and is – a statement setting out essential religious doctrine. It was not and could not be a profession of some religious truth because that truth was not yet fully established. For this group of itinerant preachers, getting to the reality that Jesus was the Messiah was a process. Peter, who I imagine as very impatient, sought to make the truth known now.

And therein lies the challenge for us. Do we let others define who Jesus is for ourselves, our families, our coworkers, and partners in ministry or are we, like Peter, willing to make the statement others only say in the silence of their hearts?

To make Peter’s confession our own, we have to remember that it’s all faith. Peter’s statement is important because he did not know it to be true. He believed it to be true. Ultimately, we go to the grave believing, not knowing.

But we read the Bible, listen to the Gospels, and think about Jesus as people who have read the end of the book and seen the end of the movie. We know that if Jesus is not the Christ, our sins are not forgiven and Jesus did not rise, so, as St. Paul says, “Pack your bags” because we are all a bunch of fools.

But Peter did not know the end of the story. He only knew Jesus. He knew his own lived experiences and his lived experiences were the Jesus experiences. He knew the Jesus of history. We know the Christ of faith. We know that only if you walk with Jesus can you get to know Jesus and really come to see him. Peter didn’t know that – but he was figuring it out. (Which is, by the way, the reason Jesus tells the boys not to tell anyone – it’s a process for everyone.)

This is why I love this passage, whether it’s in Matthew 16 or Mark 8. It reveals the truth and joy that comes from understanding that only those who walk with Jesus and repent can sit down with Jesus (though the repenting may come later for some).

We too must walk the Jesus way so that we can break bread together and see Jesus for who and what he really is: the Lord. If we walk the Jesus way, then we too can sit with everyone – saints and sinners alike – and break bread together. But not without doubt and skepticism – it is a process, a journey.

It always reminds me of the end of Godspell. Jesus is dead and they take him off the cross. But in a really great production – where the audience is really into the play – they don’t just take Jesus down, they carry him around and sing those haunting words, “Long live God…long live God.” They cannot accept that this ends with death. God is victorious even in this death. Even the audience, who sings right along, cannot accept that this is the end. In time, they realize that it isn’t the end, but they don’t know that as they are singing. That’s why its so powerful.

That is why I love this passage. It reminds me to walk with Jesus, as did the first followers. It reminds me to experience Jesus. It tells me that if I do, I too will see precisely who and what this man is: God’s definitive act, word, salvation, and presence in history.

Then I too can say with Peter: “You are the Christ, the Son of the Living God.” But now it will no longer be Peter’s confession, but my own.

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The Banquet

This week, we hear from the Gospel of Matthew (chapter 22) and the story of the wedding feast. Remember? They had a big party, killed the fattened cattle, set the table, and…

No one came.

We are told that some ignored the invitation, some laid hold of the ones giving the invitation and “mistreated them, and killed them.” Honest to God, who does that? It’s like attacking the guy who delivers your Amazon package.

The king, of course, is not much better. He sends his troop and burns the city. Yikes. Revenge much?

Finally, the king realizes the food is getting cold and sends his people to “go out, therefore, into the main roads and invite to the feast whomever you find.” The hall was filled with, as Pope Francis says, those on the peripheries.

Let’s pause here for a moment. Let’s not go into the last part of the story, where the king throws out the guy who is underdressed. Let’s forgo the conversation about what the heck is wrong with the king.

Last week, a friend sent a song to me, compliments of YouTube that she remembered from her days in the folk group back in the seventies. It’s called, “I Cannot Come” and, really, it’s just awful in a hilarious way. Search for it. Just Google “I cannot come to the banquet song” and enjoy. It’s a bit of an earworm, so you’ll be humming the silly song the rest of the day.

But I thought of that song as I was looking at the readings for the week. The refrain started playing in my head again and again:

I cannot come to the banquet,
Don’t trouble me now.
I have married a wife,
I have bought me a cow.
I have fields and commitments
That cost a pretty some,
Pray, hold me excused,
I cannot come.

It seems that each day we are invited into the lives of others – a cashier, a coworker, a stranger at the stop light, the guy on the corner with a sign, a sibling, a child, or a spouse. The invitation to come to the banquet is right there in front of us. Will we shy away from doing what is right and good and holy and just or will be ask to be excused because we are too deep into our thoughts and jobs and commitments and emails and Zoom calls to worry that much about someone else.

Yes, the song is silly by today’s standards. But the question it asks – the same question the writers of Matthew’s Gospel ask – are still out there.

When God invites, what’s our response?

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The Truth About Walking On Water

I had a call today that irritated me. We were talking about various things and at one point the person made the comment, “Truth is relative.”

I wanted to scream, “No it isn’t!” but I am trying really hard not to interrupt people. Still, as the conversation went on, I could tell that the person on the other end of the call was serious. Truth, to my colleague, is what you believe it to be – and if my truth is different than your truth – then we just have to live and let live.

All I could think about was if this guy’s house was on fire and I told him, as the flames licked through the windows, “I don’t believe that’s fire.” I wonder how he would react. Having an opinion is fine in this house, even welcomed. You can tell me that you don’t like something or you would rather watch another show or play a different game. But there is also truth in this house. We believe in right and wrong. We live according to a creed. You are not allowed, in this house, to make up your own truth because you no longer want to live by the one that existed five minutes ago.

Oh, if I ruled the world….

Actually, that’s a really bad idea.

What does this have to do with walking on water? Well, in my irritation with my phone call, I went back to the readings for the day. I suppose it’s a good thing that a conversation about truth led me back to Scripture.

Looking at today’s Gospel readings had me searching through the archives of this blog when it appeared in another form. I love the reading about walking on water (Mt 14). It puts me in the mood for impossible things.

I can imagine the storm, the darkness, and the fear. I can imagine what it must have been like to feel alone, wondering if anyone would help as the waves got bigger and I feel smaller. It’s like that feeling you get when you are in bed and you swear you hear a noise…and you freeze. It gives me chills just thinking about it.

Then Jesus comes along – wait, is that Jesus? Sometimes I don’t recognize Him. Is He in a boat? Or are we that close to shore? No, wait. He is walking on the water. Holy cow. It’s like He is stepping on stones as he comes closer and closer.

Then Peter, that rock, that steady but sometimes dim witted leader, says something to Jesus and Jesus responds. What are they talking about? Then Pete hops out of the boat and starts walking on the water too. This is incredible. I forget about the storm. I forget about my fear. I am watching the impossible; or rather two men doing the impossible.

Suddenly Peter begins sinking. What did he say? He must have called out, because Jesus reached after him and brought him to safety, but he had that look on his face, Jesus did…that look that says, “Why do you persist in your unbelief? Why are you so hard hearted?” I’ve seen that look before.

Later Jesus is asleep and the others are giving Peter a hard time. He did, after all, lose faith and start to sink. If it weren’t for Jesus he probably would have drowned.

Peter takes it all in stride. He just listens for a bit and then starts to smile. It’s a smile that comes from knowing the Truth.

“Three steps,” he says, and the others are silent.

“Three steps,” he repeats. That is not just his truth, it is truth. He walked. He doubted. He was saved. Sometimes in life there are simple unarguable truths and just because we don’t like them doesn’t make them any less true.

The implication is clear: How many steps did you take on the water? I may have started sinking, but I took three more steps than the rest of you…

He is right. He speaks the truth. And the rest of us doubters are well-rebuked.

The Truth will be all around me this week and in many cases, I probably won’t recognize it. I am often distracted by life.

“Three steps,” I say to myself.

How many steps will you take this week? What truth will you live?

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Anniversaries

I have been thinking a great deal about anniversary lately. Maureen and I celebrated 16 years of marriage earlier this month. Saturday was the ninth anniversary of the death of my father and the second anniversary of the death of Uncle Bill.

A year ago today, we returned home from the Holy Land after ten days with young adults walking in the footsteps of our Lord, reading Scripture, studying the landscape and the people.

Two years ago today, the family was in Paris. It was the first day of a  three-week adventure and someone (me) had signed us up for an eight hour walking tour of the city. It looked like a great idea and the guide had rave reviews, but who knew that it would be 100 degrees in Paris that day and I would catch a stomach bug (try finding a bathroom in Paris, I dare you)? After 27,000 steps and the traumatizing of at least one child I dragged into the bathroom (who would refuse a child who needed to go?), we collapsed at the un-air conditioned apartment we had rented while the children plotted a coup against their father.

Twenty three years ago this week, my dad and I were in Rome and, having just met Pope John Paul II, we set off to the catacombs. I remember our bishop asking if the afternoon visit to the tombs would be anti-climatic, having just hung out with the Holy Father. “After this morning,” my dad replied, “the rest of my life will be anti-climatic.”

I have an app on my phone that shows “photos from this day in history.” Sometimes, it is really neat to see how the kids have grown and to remind us what was happening. Other times, I stare at the picture and wonder what happened to that younger, thinner man I used to be.

The summer doldrums have set in and the children have begun to realize we will not be going to the Jersey Shore this year. I did convince them to take a break from electronics today and paint or draw or, heaven forbid, do some summer reading or their respective math packets. It’s 100 degrees outside, so I suggested we repeat our death march through the town but, not surprisingly, no one raised a hand.

I pray your summer is restful. I pray you and yours are healthy. Mostly, I pray for a return to some semblance of normalcy and a vaccine to keep this virus at bay.

Stay well this week and let us continue to pray for one another.

 

 

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Rest

I’m on vacation this week. No beach. No trip to the shore. Just books and downtime at home.

I picked up a book of poetry recently and found one that I had marked with lots of notes. I hope you enjoy it.

Have a great week

-———

The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.

‘In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I’d like all the odor of your roses.’

‘I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.’

‘Well then, I’ll take the withered petals  and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain.’

the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:  ‘What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?’

by Antonio Machado