From time to time I read about others who take epic adventures and long journeys by unusual means and I think to myself that I would like to try something like that. I especially enjoy reading about canoe adventures in Canada. I have acquaintances who have paddled some of the great wilderness rivers in Canada and their reports of the peace and solitude are amazing and very attractive to me. There is, however, a part of me that knows that such trips are, for the most part, fantasy in my case. My vocation doesn’t give me multiple months away from work to pursue personal goals. The expense of some expeditions requiring flying into remote locations and flying out from remote destinations is beyond my means. And, quite simply, I’m not as young as most of the epic adventurers and I don’t have the stamina and energy that I once possessed.

This isn’t to say that I will never canoe in remote and isolated locations. I’m sure that there are some wonderful canoe trips ahead of me as I contemplate the possibilities of retirement. And, as professions go, mine is generous with vacation and sabbatical leave. So who knows? I may not travel the full length of the Yukon or cross Great Slave Lake, but I might dip my paddle in some of these waters. I may one day see the barren lands and even the Beaufort Sea.

One way to enjoy adventure is to read about the adventures of others. I have read extensively on the journeys of the voyageurs of the days of fur trading and exploration in Canada. I enjoy visiting the web sites of northern adventure companies. And, every once in a while I encounter some folks heading for an epic adventure.

Five-year-old Magali Berthiaume is going to be heading off on an incredible adventure next week. Fortunately for him, he is taking his parents along. Last summer, Magali and his parents canoed over 275 miles down the North Saskatchewan River. When the trip was ended, Magali declared that he wanted to canoe for the rest of his life.

The family lives in Edmonton, Alberta and Mali’s father, Ben has just completed his doctorate in Forest Ecology at the University of Alberta in Edmonton. Their original plan for the summer was to take a car trip from Edmonton to Montreal, crossing three-quarters of Canada from west to east. Both parents are originally from Quebec. There were, however, a couple of things that changed their plans. First of all their car is not in the best of shape and it has been determined that it isn’t up to the challenge of such a road trip. More importantly, Magali’s mother, Benoit, works at Mountain Equipment Company and keeps track of others’ adventures. When she learned of Mylene Paquete’s paddle across the Atlantic from Canada to France, she was inspired. The family launched the plan to canoe from Edmonton to Quebec.

They plan to leave on Tuesday. Their trip will take them on the historic voyageur routes. Starting on the North Saskatchewan river, they will head to Cedar Lake, portage through a long series of lakes and rivers. They will be paddling upstream on the Winnipeg and French rivers and will skirt the shores of Lake Winnipeg before making their way to Grand Portage on Lake Superior. Even sticking close to the shore, the journey on the Great Lakes will require considerable skill at handling the large waves that develop.

And, unlike the voyageurs, the family will have to come up with all kinds of entertainment for the young paddler, whose days will have to include long stretches of sitting in the bottom of the canoe between his parents while they paddle. There will be plenty of time for storytelling and opportunities to learn a lot of history. And Mali plans to try his hand at fishing with the outfit he has made from a twig. He plans to use raisins for bait.

Unlike the voyageurs, also, the family won’t have to take time to repair their canoe. They are traveling with a modern canoe designed to take the abuse of occasional rock strikes and the rigors of a long trip. It is much lighter than the traditional canoes of the territory. They also will have the latest in safety equipment with lightweight life vests and helmets for times when the water is rough. Their already considerable canoe skills will be honed with the wide variety of conditions they will face and by the time their four-month adventure has reached its conclusion they will have faced almost every kind of weather that a Canadian summer has to offer.

Camping with children is an adventure in and of itself. Camping with a child every night from May through August with no access to laundry facilities and limited access to medical care means that they have to be prepared to deal with a lot of different scenarios.

I don’t know how much of their journey I will be able to follow. It appears that they won’t have much opportunity to report along the way. But the journey should provide a good source of a story and theirs is likely to end up in a book some day. It is the kind of book that I like to read.

Unlike Mali, I am no longer at a life phase where summer seems endless and four months can become a lifestyle. I change slower and the months seem to stream by at an alarming pace. I can’t seem to figure out how to take four months for any adventure and I’m pretty sure my aging body wouldn’t find sleeping on the ground every night for months to be all pleasure. So I’ll live vicariously as I have done before. I’ll admire the sense of adventure and the spirit of rising to the challenge. And I’ll read their story for lessons that I can apply to my life.

Knowing I won’t be on that adventure, however, won’t keep me from putting my canoe into the water as often as possible to hone my paddling skills. You never know what adventure might present itself to me.

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The thing about waking to birdsong in this part of the country is that you can’t remember exactly when the birds were back in numbers. It is hard to say in part because you close the windows when it is too cold outside and fewer sounds drift into the bedroom. And the birds don’t come back all at once. Of course we have birds who are hardy and spend their winters here, but others head south for more warmth during the winter nd return in the spring. The calendar puts the change of season in March, but it takes a while longer for the warmth and moisture to combine into green lawns. I think we’re there now.

I’ve rearranged the shed and the snow blower is buried back where the lawn mower spent the winter. The garden has been tilled and seeds for some of the plants have been sown. There is a host of outdoor work that needs to be done, but the place is starting to look like summer is on its way.

The green will be brief if we don’t get more moisture. A few cloudy and misty days won’t make up for a winter with far too little snow. But we are optimists, especially at this time of the year, and we are hoping for some soggy days in May and June to get us set for the summer’s heat.

So I am listening to the birds this morning as I prepare for another busy day and feeling grateful for their presence.

I’m sure that my hearing isn’t as acute as it was when I was younger. I’ve spent enough hours operating machinery and power tools, not always with the proper hearing protection. I have, however, retained enough hearing to make conversation pleasant, to enjoy music, and to delight in the sounds the birds are making out in the yard.

I suppose that the birds are attracted to our yard in part because there are a few patches newly planted to grass with plenty of seed close to the surface. I doubt that the birds will eat enough seed to make a difference in the lawn and grass is relatively easy to grow, so I have no problem sharing with them. I’ve never invested the time and energy to distinguish many of the birds by their songs, but a few are distinctive enough for me to know.

One of the birds that I miss living in the hills is the Western Meadowlark. We have them in the prairies surrounding the hills, but the distinctive whistle of the bird is not often heard here where we live. Most of the rest of my life I have lived in places frequented by meadowlarks. In fact I’ve lived in two states, Montana and North Dakota, which have chosen the meadowlark as state bird. South Dakota is the only state I’ve lived in where the state bird is an immigrant, imported from China, and where the state bird is a game bird that is hunted. Most other states don’t have hunting seasons for their state birds. I must admit that I have enjoyed eating pheasants, so I can’t complain about the choice.

We humans have been slow to learn how important birds are in our lives. They are so numerous that we take them for granted. It is thought that the last passenger pigeon died a century ago even though they once were so numerous that the flocks darkened the skies. They had endured all kinds of changes in the earth, but couldn’t make the evolutionary adaptations to escape the pressures of growing human populations and over hunting. We’ve since learned that birds can often give us signs of imminent threat. It isn’t just the canary in the coal mine that can warn of unsafe conditions for humans. The rapid decline in birds of prey after the over use of insecticides in the post World War II time gave us a warning about how we were polluting the environment not only to the detriment of the birds, but making a toxic environment for ourselves as well.

During the decade that we lived in Idaho we would occasionally visit the Birds of Prey center, where Eagle and other raptor rehabilitation programs were providing a second chance for near-extinct species. The Peregrin Falcon was brought back from the verge of extinction by a carefully managed captive breading and release program. The California Condor is another bird who is being reintroduced to its original habitat after having the population sink precariously low.

What we have learned is that we do well to pay attention to the birds. They have much to teach us about the world and how to make our way in it.

It is the nature of our world that we are all connected. There is no species that can say to another, “I have no need of you.” The connections are sometimes obvious, sometimes less so. I’m not always pleased to be startled by a spider when I’m crawling under the deck, but I’m grateful for its role in keeping insects populations in check. I’m grateful that the swallows eat mosquitoes.

Some of our non human neighbors are a delight just because they are fun to watch. I’m not a hunter, so we don’t eat wild turkey, but we enjoy having them come in and out of our yard. It is mostly for the entertainment value. The big birds are messy and rather silly to watch, but compared to human neighbors, they don’t make much work, they don’t keep us awake when we want to be sleeping, and they are nearly as interesting to watch.

Beyond all of these things, birds, by flying, stir our imaginations. I grew up around airplanes and have had many different opportunities to look at the earth from above in airliners, private airplanes, a sailplane, a hang glider and helicopters. There is something very wonderful about the perspective one gets from flying. Birds have been our primary inspiration for human flight.

So it is a good day to wake to the song of the birds. May I hear their songs for all the days of my life.

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In conversations with members of our congregation the topic of youth and children often comes up. There are a few older members who can remember the days of the baby boom when the congregation had more young families and the number of children per family was higher. Those were also days of a major construction project, so the members who were involved at that time grew together through the process of developing a vision, sacrificial giving, and construction. Those days, however, are past. As those dedicated members aged, they stayed together in the church for the most part. And the church grew older with them.

That graying congregation effect was enhanced by the sociology of our community. Rapid City is a retirement community. Many people live their working lives in other states and come to the hills to retire. The natural beauty, the abundance of good medical care in Rapid City, and relatively low prices combine to make the area a good place for retirement. It is often the case that new members attracted to our congregation are people who are retiring.

This age profile, however, isn’t what our congregation wants. It isn’t how we envision ourselves. We want to be a congregation with all ages, where the tiny children get to know the grandparents and where the seniors have contact with the youth. More often than not, when someone speaks of all of the gray and white haired members of the congregation, it is a lament. We wish we had more young families.

At this particular moment, we are growing in the younger age segment. We do have more younger families than was the case a decade or so ago. We have more children in our church school and more youth in our programs. But the patterns of participation for this generation of young families is vastly different than was the case a generation ago. The seniors in our congregation mostly think of regular attendance as participating in worship every week. Young families consider themselves to be regular participants when they come once or twice a month. A wide variety of activities pull young families away from the church on Sunday mornings. There are many people that we know and who consider themselves to be a part of our congregation who we see only occasionally.

Despite the way we see ourselves and our desire to be a congregation that is full of children and youth, there is a significant future in a graying congregation. The fastest growing segment of our community’s population is in the 65 and up age category. For the foreseen future there will be an increasing number of people in that age category and they need the services of a church in their lives. Our congregation can sustain and even grow without becoming substantially younger.

Furthermore, the children and youth of our community are not, for the most part, the future of our church as many refer to them. They are, rather, our mission to the world. Children who grow up in Rapid City are most likely to move away from the community - in fact most move away from the state. Having them in our congregation is wonderful, but their mission in life is not to replace us when we get too old or too tired to continue in our positions of leadership. They are going out into the world. We hope that their experience in our congregation can equip them to carry the gospel with them and to be persons of service wherever they find themselves, but we don’t raise our children to maintain our institution. We raise them to serve in the world.

The aging of our town can be seen on several fronts. There is a ground breaking ceremony set for today at the site of Lutheran Social Services new $4.8 million 50-unit apartment complex. The apartments are specifically designed to be homes for individuals and couples aged 62 or older who have limited incomes. This investment by the nation’s largest nonprofit housing provider, which funds its projects with state and federal programs, follows a much larger investment in the upscale St. Martin’s Village housing complex and that came on the heels of the mid-income Echo Ridge complex all products of the same organization. The for profit sector is growing in our city as well. Golden Living Centers, specializing in full nursing care, now operates four facilities in our city. Fountain Springs nursing home, once a nonprofit church-related facility, is now owned by Welcov healthcare, a for-profit corporation. Despite the statewide ban on new nursing home beds, investments in nursing homes in Rapid City in the past decade have been in the tens of millions of dollars. Healthcare facilities are investing in and banking on a growing population of seniors in our community.

All churches serve the place where we have been planted. And we are no different. We are called to serve a population that is, on average, growing older. It isn’t a depressing mission.

Serving our aging population gives us skills that are useful with all ages. With people coming to Rapid City to retire, the average length of membership in the congregation is shortening. We have to learn to say “hello” and “goodbye” more frequently than was the case when people joined the church and stayed in the same congregation for 50 or more years. Our society is more mobile. We need to learn to involve people in the congregation as deeply as possible in a shorter amount of time. We need to allow people who don’t know the whole long history of our church to be active in shaping its present. This skill is useful not only in working with seniors, but also in working with children and youth, who come to the church with their families and then move on to other communities when they become adults. Learning to greet new people and to say good bye in meaningful ways is an important part of serving our community.

Some people worry when they look at our congregation with all of the gray and white haired people. I see it differently. I see a vibrant congregation that is ideally situated to serve our community and that resists the urge to market to only part of the population.

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The Kimball upright piano had a place in our living room. When my parents remodeled, they had custom cabinets installed at the height to be above the piano for storing music. The piano sat there on an interior wall and was available for children who were taking piano lessons to practice. I confess I wasn’t the best at practicing. There weren’t many activities that I enjoyed that required me to sit with my back to the windows and not look outside.

Not having practiced, however, didn’t mean that I didn’t enjoy the piano. I have no record, and not even a good concept of how many hours were spent playing “chopsticks” or “heart and soul” with my mother and siblings. We could get going with three of us on the bench and six hands at once. I still get nostalgic whenever I hear either of those two tunes. And I did manage to make it through six years of piano lessons that have served as a good musical foundation for the other instruments managed to learn to play. (After all, the trumpet is a marching band instrument and I learned to play outdoors!)

And I remain a big fan of piano music. Of course, there are certain pieces that really set me off. Hearing Pieczonka’s Trantella and some of Chopin’s Etudes can instantly transport me back to the home of my youth. The big meal of the day at our home was served at noon and my mother would prepare the mean and then sit at the piano as she waited for us to come home from school and my dad to arrive from work. I loved to run home from school for the few minutes that I would get to listen before my little brothers arrived.

With that upbringing, I have tried to be very supportive of music and musicians in my work in the church. I am well aware of the power of music to touch our emotions. I know the spiritual value of music. Our creativity is one of the parts of us that is “in the image of God,” and we do well to pay attention to the gifts that God has given.

The church has struggled with the role of music. Some of the instruments that we use in worship are expensive. It can seem like an extravagance to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on organs and pianos that are primarily used for worship, being played only a couple of times each week. Some churches, (and some theologians!) have denounced the use of instruments as a reaction to the extravagances of baroque cathedrals that were monuments to human excess and spared no expense while there were deep needs in the community. There are congregations where all of the singing is acapella and no instruments are allowed. However, some musical instruments are so expensive that it makes sense for them to be communally owned, rather than located in private homes. An instrument in a church can be played by many different musicians and enjoyed by an even larger number of people. And churches grant access to those who aren’t comfortable in concert halls and other places that while, public, attract a specific socio-economic segment of the population.

Yesterday was a good day to celebrate the instruments in our church. It wasn’t a special holiday, but a regular day in the life of the congregation. Those who worshiped with us in the morning were treated to carefully rehearsed and magnificently presented organ music. The postlude was especially stunning. We like to say that the applause at the end of our service is an expression of gratitude to God for the entire worship service, but in truth it is often a spontaneous reaction to the well-played postlude.

Then in the afternoon, we were treated to a wonderful concert by Butch Thompson. It was like a lesson in the history of jazz to listen as Butch played blues, stomps, rags and more. Working off of a list of tunes hand-written on a yellow legal pad, Butch introduced his songs with stories about the musicians who made the music. From Scott Joplin’s Maple Leaf Rag to Duke Ellington’s Mood Indigo, from Jelly Roll Morton’s New Orleans jazz to the strip piano of 1920s Harlem, Butch played a bit of so many different types of jazz that it was a special treat to those of us who love to hear the piano sing with its many different voices.

One day, however, doesn’t justify the extravagant expense of the instruments we have in our church, but it was, for me, an opportunity to reflect on those instruments. Our Blüthner 9’2” grand piano is passing an anniversary of sorts. It was ten years ago that the Keyboard Cartage truck arrived and delivered the instrument to our sanctuary. I was quickly seduced by its sound and the masterful craftsmanship of the piano’s creators. Blüthner pianos are unique in their sound. This is due, in part, to the fourth string in the treble, mounted a fraction of an inch above the hammer’s strike, that rings by harmonic vibration with the three that are struck by the hammer. But it is also a product of the Blüthner sound board and the overall quality of the instrument. The hammers are slightly more compact and their strike a bit more crisp than some other pianos.

At only ten years old, our piano is just beginning its career. Our 6’ piano, a Baldwin, is around 80 years old, and definitely will be good for another century if it is properly maintained. It had a major rebuild about 15 years ago with new strings and significant work on the action. We are fortunate that our organist is the only certified piano technician in the Black Hills and our piano is maintained to his exacting standards, often receiving multiple tunings in a week.

Many investments made by churches are relatively short lived. Sound systems and computers and projection systems become obsolete almost as soon as the equipment is installed. I know a congregation that makes major investments in video equipment every 5 years or so. In contrast, there are pianos that perform to original specifications that are 200 years old and organ pipes that have been delivering sound for more than 500 years. Amortized over the expected life of the instruments, the investment in musical instruments we have made in the past decade are a fraction of the cost of equipment other congregations have spent to play recorded and downloaded music.

From my point of view, it is an extravagance with which we can live.

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“It’s Sunday, get rolling, you’ve got a sermon to deliver.” It is a thought that is so automatic in my mind that It comes to me as I rise even when I am on vacation. My life is lived in a series of rhythms. I keep track of what day of the week it is. I tell myself what day it is as soon as I awake each day. I keep track of the time of day. I have appointments to keep and there are events in my life each week that need to start and end on time because they affect the lives of many other people.

Time may be an artificial construct, invented by humans, but it is a construct that has an impact on my life.

This isn’t a complaint. I do not experience myself as being a slave to the clock or the calendar. Rather I see the rhythms of life as supporting me as I journey through it.

The Revised Common Lectionary is a pattern of readings for worship that is laid out in a three-year pattern. That means that the texts I studied in preparation for today are the same ones I studied three years ago and the same ones I studied three years before that. In fact, I’ve preached my way through that three-year cycle more than a dozen times now.

Repetition doesn’t always lead to boredom, however. In fact, sometimes the texts don’t even seem familiar to me. It is the nature of Scripture to have something new to offer to every situation - a freshness that comes with each reading of the text no matter how many times you’ve read it before.

The fourth Sunday of Easter is known as “Good Shepherd” Sunday. The psalm is the 23rd every year of the cycle. I suppose that there may have been more sermons preached about the 23rd Psalm than any other scripture text. Many of us memorized the Psalm when we were children. I recite it at bedsides and in homes of grief because it is familiar. Like the Lord’s Prayer it is a constant in the lives of faithful people. In the second year of the lectionary cycle, the one we’re in right now, the Gospel is from the 10the Chapter of John, where Jesus refers to himself as the good shepherd.

So why was it that this week one phrase from that Gospel leapt out for me in ways that I’ve never encountered it before? I guess the fact that I noticed it means that something is going on in our community that brings it to the fore. Jesus body states, “I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice. So there will be one flock, one shepherd.”

Last week we had two large funerals in the same day. The afternoon funeral was of a man who had been a part of the church for more than half a century. He had served as usher, moderator, deacon, and search committee member. He had a booming voice that seemed to get louder as his hearing failed. He had a commanding presence that made him impossible to ignore. Although he has been out of circulation for a few years, living in a care center without transportation, most of the members of the congregation immediately knew him.

The other funeral was for a woman who was beloved by her family and friends and her tragic death from cancer at only 52 years of age brought out a large gathering of people from across our town. But many members of the congregation asked, “Who was she?” or said, “I don’t remember her.” I knew part of the story of her life because I had conducted the funerals for her father-in-law and mother-in-law and had developed a relationship with her husband over the past half dozen years. But they weren’t church-going people.

This week’s funeral (so far there’s only one of which I know) is for a woman that will be known by even fewer members of our church. She attended once with her mother a few years ago. Her family were leaders in the first congregation we served, in North Dakota. She had a connection to rural and isolated congregations in Southwestern North Dakota, but never joined, or became active in a congregation in Rapid City. A year or so ago, she and her husband moved to Billings, Montana, and only returned to our area when her illness became so severe that she decided to come back to friends. I wouldn’t be surprised if all but a handful of people who attend the funeral are not members of our congregation.

There are some churches that are reluctant to offer funerals for those who have not participated int he congregation, but ours has always been a church that is open to people who have no church home.

Though my life has its rhythms, there are also many weeks, like this one, that head off on tangents and lead me in directions I don’t expect. Often the tangents come from the fact that as a pastor, I seem to have “other sheep that do not belong to this fold.”

This week there will be a visit to a prisoner facing serious charges who I will meet for the first time in jail. My relationship with him will most likely be brief, but may be intense for a while as he sorts out issues of the meaning of his life. Sometimes visits with prisoners are attempts for them to “clean up” their image in jail before trial. Since I will meet this prisoner after charges have been filed, I won’t know anything that would be useful as evidence in court and everyone knows that I am immune from testifying because of clerical privilege, so no one expects me to figure out the truth. I trust God with knowing the truth, and have no illusions that I will know whether or not I’m being conned by the prisoner. What I have to offer is prayer.

So I have the “regular” sermon to deliver today, but it won’t be my only sermon of the week. Like other shepherds, I can’t ignore my flock simply because I have other sheep who are not of this fold.

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The concept of “thin places” or “thin spaces” is ancient. I believe that its origins lie in Celtic spirituality. Essentially a thin place is a place where the experience of the holy is so intense that God seems to be very close. There are a few locales where the distance between heaven and earth collapses. Around the world there are many shrines and other places where people have had significant religious experiences and are labeled as holy places. The experience of a thin space is never universal. Some people have experiences in that place that elude others. Given the Celtic roots of the concept, perhaps standing on the windswept Donegal cliffs of Ireland or watching dolphins of the Sheep’s Head peninsula are experiences of thin places.

There are many others: the grand canyon, the Taj Mahal, Mt. Fuji, Bethlehem, Lake Tanganyika, . . . the list goes on and on.There are also places made sacred by what occurred on the site: ground zero in New York City, Auschwitz, Normandy Beach, and especially today, Gallipoli on the 100th anniversary of the landing that has become especially important in the history of Australia and New Zealand commemorated for a century as Anzac Day.

In 2006, Susan and I made a study of sacred places, starting with the sites close to home, Wind Cave, Paha Mato (Bear Butte), Mato Tipi (Devil’s Tower) Wounded Knee, and the highest point in South Dakota, Harney Peak, also known as Black Elk peak. Our travels took us through British Columbia where we visited places of natural beauty, glaciers, and totem sites. We traveled to Australia and walked around the base of Uluru (Ayers Rock).

There is no doubt that place has in important impact on our religious experience. The sanctuary where our congregation worships has served the congregation for 56 years. For a little over a third of that time I have been pastor in that room. Every funeral, every baptism, every confirmation, every wedding, every anniversary celebration, every family reunion, every Christmas, every Good Friday, every Easter . . . occasion upon occasion add layer upon layer of meaning to the place. Each time I walk into the room, I feel a rush of memory and power that comes from knowing that people have been coming to the place for the most significant moments in their lives for generations. It is a holy place.

In 2011, we expanded our studies into encounters with God to focus on the times of encounter as well as the places of encounter. We know that grief and loss can make us more aware of our need of God. We know that the birth of a child can make us more aware of the power of God’s creativity. But there are other sacred moments - the exchange of vows, the sharing of communion - that shape our experience of the holy.

Scientists might try to analyze the psychology of certain events and try to break down the emotions of experiences of deep beauty or moving ceremonies. Their insights might be helpful, but the encounter with the sacred is far more than simple emotion.

Historians point out that knowing the history of a place adds to its meaning. Discovering our place in the world in part involves a connection with the rich history of those who have gone before. But there is more to the experience of the holy than just knowing the story.

I once led a delegation of high school youth to a Western Regional Youth Event held in Hawaii. This was back in the ’80’s when caps were part of the outfits of most of the boys in the group. We had had several conversations about different cultures and the language of respect, but I still had to remind some of the youth of the need to remove a cap when entering a church or viewing a shrine. They weren’t intending to be rude, they just didn’t think of their caps as anything other than a part of their outfit. Towards the end of our visit, we went to the Pearl Harbor memorial. You ride a boat out to the memorial, constructed over the place where the Arizona lies on the bottom. In the white marble are etched the names of the victims. While we were standing there, in silence, I looked around and noticed that all of the caps were being held in hand. I hadn’t told anyone that they should remove them, they knew, without being told, that it was a sacred place.

I don’t know if the memory of that visit is as strong for those who traveled as youth with that delegation, but at the moment, we knew we had shared a common experience. I have had similar experiences at the Vietnam War Memorial, with the Aids quilt, and at countless other memorials we have visited in our travels.

I am sure that the thousands who camped out to be on the beach at Gallipoli at dawn this morning for the ceremonies marking the centennial of the start of the failed campaign that took the lives of tens of thousands will long remember this day. Most were aware of other dawn gatherings, in the cities of New Zealand and Australia, marking the first military campaigns of those countries after achieving their independence and the deep looses they suffered. It is estimated that more than 11,400 from Australia and New Zealand were killed in the Gallipoli campaign.

The experience of the sacred, however, is more than grieving and honoring those who have died. It is in the realization that the impact of their lives continues beyond their deaths that is so powerful in such moments. And places become sacred for other reasons than as places where death has occurred.

Natural beauty, places of meeting, times of vision all are factors in the recognition of thin places.

The earth shook in Nepal today. The beautiful home of the world’s highest mountains is shook with grief and injury and death as they begin to dig out from the rubble of fallen buildings and collapsed memorials. The land is no less sacred than it was before the earthquake. It is more so.

Layering meaning upon meaning, story upon story, event upon event, can make the sacred even more intense.

May we continue to visit the places that make our hearts sing and remind us that we belong to something much bigger than ourselves.

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I grew up with Yellowstone National Park in my back yard. Not literally, but we lived north of the park. To get to Yellowstone Park by driving, we could either go 30 miles to the west to the town of Livingston and turn south to the North entrance at Gardiner or head over to Red Lodge and take the winding road to the heights and on to Cook City. But our most common method of going to the park was to get in an airplane and head straight up the Boulder Valley to the Slough Creek divide and into the Park. I got to ride along on a lot of flight seeing tours for visitors. The Upper and Lower Falls and the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone is spectacular from an airplane. Yellowstone Lake is impressive from any point of view. The steaming Mammoth terraces and Norris geyser basins are easy to see from the air. And, when your timing is right, Old Faithful is equally impressive.

My father and a friend once took a jeep up over that divide and drove into Yellowstone through the roadless country that these days is a wilderness area. There was a little shovel and axe work to clear the path, but there were no physical obstructions such as cliffs or drop offs that prevented their trip.

So I understand people who live in the shadow of volcanoes. The beauty of the mountains and the setting make a great place to live and the slowness of geological time means that the threat of an eruption seems so remote that it is easy not to think about it.

The North America tectonic plate under Yellowstone is moving at a rate of almost an inch a year and the pools of magma beneath the surface sort of slosh in that movement. Earthquakes are common, but most of them are very small and don’t really cause much damage. The giant earthquake in 1959 caused the side of a mountain to create a dam on a river and there were several fatalities in a campground that was buried in the rock, but that is the only event in my lifetime that was of the scale to make people think about the danger of living near such a volcano.

The bottom line is that today, living much farther from Yellowstone in the Black Hills of South Dakota, I’m not far away enough to escape the dangers of a super eruption of the Yellowstone super volcano. Scientists estimate that in a big eruption, Yellowstone would eject 1,000 times as much material as the 1980 Mount St. Helens eruption. Since we had ash enough to coat most surfaces 1,200 miles downwind from Mount St. Helens in 1980, when we lived in North Dakota, the closer eruption downwind and much closer to Yellowstone pretty much means that we’d be buried in ash after a major Yellowstone eruption. The bentonite mining to our northwest is the excavation of ash from an earlier eruption of volcanoes in north-central Montana. A Yellowstone eruption would pretty much bury us all in that mixture of greasy, ashy stuff.

Of course if there really were to be a super eruption in our lifetimes, we’d be pretty small scale. Such an eruption would be a global disaster, changing weather patterns and affecting life all around the world.

Thoughts of a Yellowstone super eruption, however, don’t occupy much of my mind. After all, Yellowstone has been sitting there, spewing steam and rumbling with tiny earthquakes for at least 17 million years. Recent studies have enabled scientists to get a better picture of the shape of the various pools of magma in the upper crust, lower crust and even beneath the mantle of the earth. They have a much clearer idea of what lies 10 to 50 miles beneath the surface than was the case of earlier generations of people who studied the earth’s geology. Computers aid in giving graphic representations of the various pipes and pools that lead to the earths molten core. This more complete picture of the dynamics of the area, however, don’t really aid scientists in making predictions about a possible eruption.

Not long ago, the rising dome of magma beneath the lake was being measured and studied and there were thoughts that it might be the precursor of an eruption, but as the dome recedes a bit, it seems that perhaps the rising and falling of the dome is more frequent than previously thought and simply not known or recorded because we have better instruments to observe than did previous generations. Floating in a boat on the surface of the lake, it is easy to be completely unaware of what is going on beneath the lake’s bottom.

When I have the opportunity to go back to Yellowstone, I am eager to look a the park. One of the things that interests me is how events on the surface change the appearance of the place. The 1988 and 1989 fires were so intense and hot that I expected to see a wasteland when I returned after those events, but the land recovered much quicker than I expected. There were lush green hillsides where I thought the soil had been sterilized by the heat of the fires and new vistas opened up to see things where before all I had seen were acres of lodgepole pine. Now, decades later, many of the standing snags have fallen and though there is plentiful evidence of fire, the evens that seemed so big at the time seem to be already fading from memory.

I don’t lose any sleep worrying about Yellowstone. It remains, as it has been for all of my life, a place of great recreational potential. Paddling a canoe along the shore of the lake or hiking a backcountry trail offer opportunities for solitude and renewal. It isn’t hard to get away from the crowds if you know how. The unique geothermal features are fascinating and worthy of a look. The waterfalls and canyons are glorious beyond words to describe.

Just as it did when I was a child, Yellowstone continues to call me and I know I will return again and again.

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Some days I think that I understand other people very well. Then something happens that reminds me that there is still mystery and surprise even in the people I know best. It is one of the joys of this world that is also a bit of a challenge. Mostly difference is a joy. I have little interest in sameness all of the time. That doesn’t mean that similarities are undesirable. I think that part of the attraction that Susan and I feel comes from our similarities. We have similar interests, similar commitments and similar passions. We like similar music and enjoy similar activities. In the early days of our relationship, I reveled in having found someone who could understand me and whom I could understand. After more than four decades of marriage I am also aware of differences. And I have found those differences to be the source of great meaning and joy. At my side is an integrity who can be encountered, not a clone. She can challenge my thinking and encourage me to change when change is necessary. She can give me a fresh perspective when my vision is narrow. She expands my world with new ideas and fresh creativity.

It is similar with the congregation that I serve. We share a common commitment to our faith. We share a common commitment to serving others in the name of Jesus Christ. But one of the treasures of this congregation is the wide diversity of the people. We have people whose politics might be labeled as tea party and others whose voting is significantly left of center. We have people whose theology is fundamentalist and those whose theology is nearly Unitarian. On Easter the room had many Christians with a handful of Hindus and Buddhists and during Holy Week one of the participants in our services is a Unitarian who prefers our style of worship to her congregations when it comes to Holy Week. This rich tapestry is constantly changing and always interesting and exciting. I often say that we are not bound together by our sameness. We gather not to agree with one another, but rather to worship God. I like it that way.

Even after 20 years as pastor, I can be surprised by the congregation. I’ve been scratching my head trying to understand some of the conversations I have had this week. The conversations have to do with part of a capital funds drive that we are preparing for a congregational vote in just over a week. The drive contains much-needed major building improvements and repairs that are clear to understand. Along the way, the people defining the projects took a look at the capital funds drive of our Camp and decided that those needs were also worthy of our support. The proposal was to give a portion of the proceeds from our drive to the camp fund drive. As we discussed that proposal, some have expressed opposition to giving a percentage off of the top. I have been trying to listen very carefully to understand their thinking.

At first I thought that the opposition was the result of not understanding the camp capital funds campaign. People often confuse operating budgets with capital needs and it takes careful education to enable them to see the distinction between long-term investments and day to day operations. The camp, like our church, has both operational needs and capital needs. I thought that the concerns could be addressed with more information. Indeed the answers to some of the questions about the camp drive have been helpful, but they don’t fully address the concern of those who have been raising their voices in meetings.

Then I thought that they were expressing fear that there wouldn’t be enough money for all of the projects - that if we were to give part of the funds to the camp, there might not be enough for the things we need to accomplish at our church. I can hear that fear and understand it, but I can’t share it. Our people are so generous and our church has been provided for so abundantly that it seems nearly impossible to think God would fail to provide what we need. I have a fear about our campaign, but it is very different. My fear is that we are being too selfish. What if God does not intend for us to worship in air conditioned comfort when some of our neighbors don’t have enough food to eat? What if focusing on the things we want for our building distracts us from the feeding program in our sister church? I can come up with all kinds of fears. I can understand fear. But I also know that Jesus continues to invite us to lay aside our anxious feelings and trust that God will provide. “Consider the lilies of the field,” he challenges us.

One person said that it seemed like offering a percentage was putting the needs of the camp ahead of the needs of the congregation. That is correct. The way the proposal was originally made, the camp gets a percentage of every donation. The more we raise, the more the camp gets. And we cannot accomplish the first item on our list without giving money to the camp projects. I tried to answer this concern by saying that what was proposed is exactly what we propose to our members - that we give out of our substance, not out of our surplus. In our family we make giving the first thing we do out of our paycheck, not wait until we’ve made the other purchases we want and then give out of what is left over. I believe that the church ought to demonstrate the same generosity we expect of our members. If we give only after our wants are satisfied, why shouldn’t our members do the same? I don’t think my argument was convincing.

We have a deadline that is looming. We go to the congregation in just a few days. We need to have a proposal that is meaningful for the members when they vote. It must be easy to understand and clear in its purposes. As I have said many times, whenever we raise money we need to be completely honest about where that money will go. Despite the deadline, however, I know it is time to think and pray and listen. It is not time to rush to counter proposals or to be defensive about the path that led us to this point. I don’t know what proposal will emerge at this point, but I trust that one will come that is right for our congregation.

Still, it is a worry. And I still struggle to turn my worries over to God.

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Today is Earth Day. It isn’t one of the big holidays. In some ways it feels like an idea that has never fully reached its potential. I’m not sure if I was involved in any activities on the very first Earth Day back in 1970. I did participate in the early years. At our college, Earth Day involved an outdoor gathering and some work projects, often cleaning up litter after a long Montana winter.

The origins of Earth Day lie in an oil spill that occurred in the waters off of Santa Barbara, California in 1969. The region was not prepared for such an event and attempts to clean up the oil by spreading straw to soak it up were only minimally successful. There were attempts to clean up some of the birds, but many died, in part because volunteers didn’t really know how to clean up the oil.

The next year, Senator Gaylord Nelson of Wisconsin proposed a national day to educate people about the environment and enlist the help of grassroots citizens in organizing to clean up the country. In the intervening years, it never has become quite what was envisioned.

Earth Day 2015 has its own web site, a host of corporate sponsors, official t-shirts, a Facebook page and a twitter feed. It is not, however, seen as a day for teaching and learning. There might be a few rallies and speeches, but for many the day will pass without much that is different from any other day.

Part of the story of Earth Day in the United States has been a story of politics and polarization. What started as a coordinated effort to work together to clean up our corner of the world has become a field of intense argument and disagreement. At the beginning, there was a legislative side to Earth Day. The Environmental Protection Agency was formed in 1970. The Clean Water Act was passed in 1972. The Endangered Species Act was passed in 1973. But that was about it for cooperation in congress. In 1990, legislation was passed and signed into law aimed at reducing acid rain. Since then, no major environmental legislation has made it through the U.S. Congress.

Environmentalists have been portrayed as extremists and anti-business. The word is often said as if it were a curse in some circles. Images of tree-huggers disrupting construction projects and excessive regulations strangling business have been bandied about enough to make care for the environment a negative concept in some parts of our society.

Nowhere is the conflict and polarization more stark than in the agricultural community. Farmers and ranchers, the traditional stewards of the land, who dedicate their lives to caring for the earth, have often been pitted against the modern environmental movement. They see changes in regulations governing the use of chemicals as unnecessary. They incur costs due to increased predation from species that have been protected. The very people who seem to be most likely to be advocates for the environment have been alienated by what they see as over regulation and interference with their way of life.

Despite all of the politics and arguments, despite all of the corporate sponsors and marketing, we are still called to care for this planet. Our track record hasn’t been good. We human beings have an established pattern of making messes and not cleaning them up. Some argue that our impact on the planet has made irreversible changes. Continuing business as usual seems to have us on a headlong course toward making the planet unlivable.

And there is a religious side to all of this.

“The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof,” declares the Psalmist. This fragile planet that we inhabit is not of our own making and it does not “belong” to us. It is God’s creation and ours to use and care for. It is not only the current generation that has to live with the consequences of the damage that we do - we pass on our legacy to future generations as well.

So, this evening, the youth of our church will gather at their usual meeting time to pick up garbage bags and head out to Skyline drive to help clean up our community. It is a small gesture, though one that is important from an educational standpoint. When messes are made, when litter is strewn all about, someone has to clean it up. Hands-on work to pick up someone else’s litter is a good reminder of why it is important for us to be careful about how we dispose of unwanted items. It becomes a way of life if you keep your eyes open. It is a rare day when I don’t pick up someone else’ litter. And it is a rare day when I don’t wonder why people can’t refrain from littering in the first place.

Our youth won’t be receiving any t-shirts or hoodies with bright earth day logos. They won’t be listening to any speeches. They won’t be carrying placards and demonstrating. They will be out picking up trash to make our city a little bit cleaner and our world a little bit better.

The world will not become instantly cleaner because of Earth Day. There will still be major challenges of pollution and our impact on the ecology of this planet.

And there is another important lesson from these decades of Earth Day. This wondrous planet, created by God, is far more resilient than was earlier predicted. The dire warnings about overpopulation of the 1970’s have not come to pass. When given a little help, the earth recovers much more quickly that was previously thought. Major clean up projects such as superfund sites have resulted in major improvements to the health of those who live there. The grace of God is built into God’s creation. When we are careful about our use of resources and careful to clean up the messes that we make, the earth is capable of restoring itself.

So, Happy Earth Day! May it be a time when we together give thanks for this amazing life-sustaining planet. And may each of us remind ourselves that it is not ours, but belongs to God. And may we see picking up a bit of the trash and cleaning up a bit of the mess as participating in God’s work.

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I suppose the story played out hundreds, even thousands of times. A young man, patriotic and caught up in the fervor of a country at war, enlists in military. His natural skills and talents run more toward accounting and paperwork than the traditional duties of a soldier, so he is assigned to desk work. From his position, however, he witnesses the atrocity of war - even worse, the victims in this case are not enemy combatants, but rather citizens of his own country and the countries conquered by his country who are being systematically destroyed: women, men, children, elders . . . It is genocide. But he finds himself to be just one small person in a gigantic organization and not a person in a position of power, but rather a rank and file serviceman with assignments and duties to do. He tries to ignore the things he has witnessed and goes on with his work.

Years pass. The war ends - not well for his country. There are times of short supply and great need. He survives. He goes on with his life. He becomes an old man.

Those who witness war, however, never recover from the experience. The war is always a part of them. At the age of 93, Oskar Groening is facing a war crimes trial. It may be one of the last of the big public trials for Nazi war crimes. There is little argument of what Mr. Groening did and what he witnessed. “I saw the gas chambers. I saw the crematoria. I was on the ramp when the selections took place.” There is no question that he was a direct witness to genocide in unspeakable proportions. In the two months in 1944 when Mr. Groening served at the Auschwitz camp as many as 425,000 Jews from Hungary were brought to the camp and at least 300,000 were gassed to death. His job was to count the money confiscated from the new arrivals. He has denied any part in the actual killing of persons.

You can’t see what he has seen without having it affect you for the rest of your life.

In the 1980’s charges were brought against him, but later dropped because of a lack of evidence for his personal involvement in the killings.

In 2005, he decided to speak out about what he had witnessed. He allowed an interview with Der Spiegel and another with the BBC documentarians. It has been reported that he decided to go public because he felt that the truth needed to be told in the face of Holocaust deniers.

Facing the judges in his trial he said, “I ask for forgiveness. I share morally in the guilt but whether I am guilty under criminal law, you will have to decide.”

I suppose that in the flow of human history whether or not a 93-year-old man receives a sentence of 3 to 15 years in jail is not a huge thing. Nonetheless, it is important that we don’t forget what happened. Telling the truth in the face of deniers and revisionists is critical. We owe it to the victims to never forget what happened.

At what point do we become personally responsible for the things that our society and our government does? It is easy to see ourselves as small and insignificant and powerless in the face of the great sweep of history. I am just one citizen and taxpayer, but can I maintain my illusion of innocence when a drone, sent by my government, hits the wrong target and innocents die? Of course my role is far different from that of a guard at an execution camp, and their is a big difference between trying to prevent an act of terrorism and systematically destroying people because of their religious traditions and ethnic heritage. Still these are questions worth pondering for every citizen of a nation that has power to wield.

I remember so well our visit to Dachau Concentration Camp Memorial in 1978. I can still hear the crunch of the clean gravel that replaced the dirt walkways. I have peered into the empty bunkhouses where so many were crammed into bare wooden shelves instead of beds. I walked down to the remaining crematoria and looked into the ovens. I looked up at the guard towers and the fences atop the walls. I read that at liberation the residents of the nearby town were forced to march into the camp and see the remains of what had happened there. Many residents who lived within sight of the walls claimed that they had no knowledge of the systematic killings that were taking place and the source of the smoke that rose from the crematoria chimneys.

Is failure to see the evil that is at hand also participation in the crime?

I don’t expect us to come up with solutions to the moral dilemmas posed by the wars of the 20th century. I expect to be wrestling with the implications of these events for all of my life.

But, like Mr. Groening, I can at least refuse to participate in attempts to forget or erase the crimes of humans against other humans. I can study and learn what I can about history and I can speak out when others want to deny or change the story. We owe at least that much to the victims.

The photographs of the concentration camps are so grotesque that I am not able to look at them for long. The images are so stark that they overwhelm. One of the most impressive displays in the U.S. National Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C. is a huge pile, in the center of a room, of shoes confiscated from the victims of the gas chambers. There are shoes of all sizes, but many - too many - are the shoes of children. When groups of people can convince themselves that children are a threat simply because of their inheritance, there is something very wrong.

At Dachau and at Auschwitz and at other concentration camp sites there is a simple marker with words written in a dozen languages. It simply says, “Never again.” This must be our pledge.

To keep that pledge we have to remember as accurately as possible what happened there. To keep that pledge we need yet another trial and yet another international conversation. These are still very important issues.

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As a pastor the worship element about which I receive the most feedback from worshipers is the sermon. It has become common and accepted for church members to give brief comments about the sermon in their conversations with me. I appreciate the feedback. It is frequently the case that I am not able to judge the effectiveness of my own preaching. Sometimes a well-honed sermon that is the result of hours and hours of work somehow misses the mark, or fails to connect with the lives of those who are worshiping. Other times a sermon that didn’t have quite enough time for preparation and that seemed to me to be less than my best, will be deeply meaningful to someone in worship. The congregation is never static, always changing and preaching is an art that requires study, patience, practice, and a little luck.

It is less common for me to hear from my congregation about the words of prayers. Occasionally, however, people will tell me that a prayer or a few sentences of a prayer has special meaning. Prayer is one of those things that often contains repeated words and phrases. Words that have come from my own creativity blend with words I have read. Our prayer books contain specific prayers that can be read on many different occasions, but it is common for me to offer prayers in hospital rooms, homes and sometimes in public worship that are customized to the situation. Because I use prayers over and over, many of the words of prayers written by others are in my memory and their lines are used in different places and on different occasions.

I write prayers for use in worship every week. But even when I am sitting at my computer with no open reference books, the words in the prayers I write come from my mind, which has many memories of words that others have said. If I address God as “Eternal God,” I’m not the first one to have said those words. In fact, they remind me of a minister of my youth, Franklin Elliot, who often began prayers with that address. But the words didn’t start with Frank. They had been around for centuries before he was born.

An often-cited prayer fragment that is used in a wide variety of settings is known as the serenity prayer. One form is:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.

The concepts of the prayer have circulated in oral tradition for many years, but the prayer is most often attributed to Reinhold Niebuhr. Niebuhr was a great theologian of the 20th century. He wrote many books of theology and examined the relationship between our faith and the wider culture. Various versions of the prayer were published under Niebuhr’s name. The prayer was used in worship led by Niebuhr in the ’30’s and ’40’s. It gained its widest circulation as a longer prayer that was attributed to Niebuhr and published in the 1944 edition of the Federal Council of Churches’ book for military chaplains.

The form of the prayer that I have is probably a revised and refined version from the early 1950’s after Niebuhr had used various versions for decades:

God, give me grace to accept with serenity
the things that cannot be changed,
Courage to change the things
which should be changed,
and the Wisdom to distinguish
the one from the other.
Living one day at a time,
Enjoying one moment at a time,
Accepting hardship as a pathway to peace,
Taking, as Jesus did,
This sinful world as it is,
Not as I would have it,
Trusting that You will make all things right,
If I surrender to Your will,
So that I may be reasonably happy in this life,
And supremely happy with You forever in the next.
Amen.

This prayer has been deeply meaningful to many people over the decades and has become deeply engrained in our culture. The distribution of the prayer by Alcoholics Anonymous and other 12-step programs has allowed the prayer to circulate in populations and places where documents of the church might not be as easily accepted.

So when people refer to the serenity prayer, which occurs often to me, I know the general concept of what they mean, but I might not know the exact words they have in mind. Sometimes I simply say that I know the prayer, which is true. Sometimes, especially when it is requested that I pray it on a particular occasion, I ask them if they have a copy of the version that they like the best. For example, Niebuhr’s prayer makes a direct reference to Jesus, but there are versions that do not mention Jesus by name, only use the pronoun “he” and allow the worshipers to make whatever connections they choose.

All of which is to say that like my sermons, my prayers are not completely original. I draw from the thoughts and ideas of others, often from the particular thoughts and ideas that have become engrained in my memory rather than from getting out books and finding specific quotes. My prayers don’t contain footnotes acknowledging the source of the concepts they contain. Rather they grow out of a tradition that has been developing for millennia. I hope and pray that I have been a wise student of that tradition and am representing it authentically. I’m sure, however, that like other preachers before me, I take a few ideas out of context and add different meanings to the ideas that i use. In that way the words of the ancients acquire new meanings as they are used in generation after generation.

With all of that, some of the most significant prayers of my life have been moments of silence when no words are spoken. One of the powerful moments of prayer, which has deep impact and to which I was treated just yesterday is when I invite quiet prayer and the congregation is still and the gentle sounds of a happy child rise from some place in the room. We don’t need words to be connected to God. And the connection isn’t dependent upon the preacher choosing the right words. Knowing that allows me to pray with my congregation in stead of praying at them.

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It is official. South Dakota state climatologist Dennis Todey has checked all of the records. The first quarter of this year is the driest on record. March itself was the second-driest month since the state has kept official records of rainfall. We already knew it before the official announcement came. We’ve been breathing smoke from an all-too-early start of the fire season. We’ve noticed the crackle in the grass as we walk in the woods. We’ve felt the dryness in the air. So it was good to have a spot of rain yesterday, even if it was just a bit. .1 inches won’t make up for the drought. With two thirds of the state in moderate drought according to the charts, it will take a lot of precipitation to bring us up to normal. And normal around here isn’t very wet compared to a lot of places. We, however, are optimists. We’ll take the somewhat more optimistic forecasts for May and into the summer as a sign that patience will be rewarded and that we’ll see some more rain before the really hot weather sets in. In the meantime, we have the memory of driving home in the rain yesterday to refresh us a bit.

Regular readers of this blog know that I’m not much of a watcher of movies. I see one from time to time, usually because one of my children provides the motivation. I’m not anti-movie, but it just seems like other things come up that are more interesting ways to invest my time. I have, however, watched most, if not all, of the Star Wars movies. The first round of Star Wars, now more than three decades ago was during the time that my father was struggling with cancer and I was trying to launch a career and start a family. My life seemed to be filled with enough tragedy and struggle that a little fantasy was a good addition. Not only did I watch the movies, but it was also in those years that I read J.R.R. Tolkien’s Hobbit and Lord of the Rings and the C.S. Lewis Chronicles or Narnia.

the second round of the Star Wars franchise came out at a time when our son was willing to stand in line to get into the theatre for the first showing of some of the movies and I was there, standing in line with him and watching them. I think we watched all of them together. That brought the videos of the first series into our home where they were played many times.

So, for some reason I watched the trailer for the new series, with a movie set to be released around Christmas this year. In the trailer, Harrison Ford, playing his signature role of Han Solo, says to Chewbacca, “Chewie, We’re home.” Although he doesn’t look it, Ford is ten years older than I. Not to take anything away from the Indiana Jones series, the Star Wars movies are a big slice of the actor’s career.

Whether or not we like it Star Wars is part of the culture of our generation. I noticed online that the Japanese airline, All Nippon Airways (ANA) has unveiled a Boeing 787 Dreamliner decorated to look like the robot R2D2 from the movie that has the words Star Wars in the script of the movie logo painted on the fuselage. When a company decides to paint a movie logo on a $250 million airplane, you know they want to be associated with the movie.

But culture can be a fickle thing. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the sales of Barbie are falling dramatically. I was only about six years old when Mattel introduced the plastic doll. It was a big success, making the brand and supporting the company through more than a half a century. I’ve never owned a Barbie, unless you count the ones I purchased as gifts for our daughter and nieces, and there weren’t too many of those - mostly the girls obtained theirs from other sources. Barbie sales were off 15% in the first quarter of the year compared with last year. Mattel lost a whopping $58.2 million. On the other hand the company is rich enough to be able to take such a hit. Predicting the future of Barbie sales is probably at least as risky as predicting the amount of rain that will fall in South Dakota this spring.

What I recognize is that I am shaped by the culture in which I live. As much as my life style is a bit counter-cultural and as much as I stay away from some forms of media such as television and movies, things that happen outside of my home and the trends of popular culture have their affect on me. I have to keep up with much of culture in order to maintain my relationships with the people I serve. If I were to try to live an isolated, monastic life - something which has a mild appeal from time to time - I would quickly lose my ability to make connections with people whose lives are immersed in the wider stream of media and marketing.

So don’t expect to find my sermons smattered with references to the latest movies any time soon. I’ll leave that to my colleagues who can manage their time better than I and can find a couple of hours a week to sit in a theatre. And don’t be looking for references to the most trendy of toys in my preaching. Those trends change so fast that I won’t be keeping up with them.

In place of those things, I’ll turn to something even bigger than the trends of popular culture in my preaching: the weather. None of us, no matter how up-to-date or behind-the-times, can escape the effects of the blessings of rain and sun and snow.

On the other hand, people will probably remember Barbie and Star Wars longer than they’ll remember my preaching.

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This is the fourth year that I have participated in a program of the South Dakota Conference of the United Church of Christ called “Sacred Conversations on Race.” The purpose of the program is to engage people in conversations that help to move us beyond some of the entrenched racism that permeates our society. It is important for us to talk openly about race and to confront the half truths and untruths and misperceptions that are rampant in our culture. I have made participation in these conversations a priority and have invested time and energy in them.

I am not, by nature, a pessimist, but I am a realist. I know that a handful of UCC clergy are not going to change centuries of broken relationships in one weekend a year. I know that the problems of entrenched racism are bigger than one generation. I know that change often comes in fits and starts and at an uneven pace. I know that some of the problems of our region are bigger than we are. I am, however, called to do what I am able and to reach beyond the ways of the past in the living of my life.

Sometimes working for change can be frustrating.

Sometimes our conversations drift from ourselves and the relationships in the room to other people and the misperceptions that they carry. I’ve never been very good at changing people in other places whom I’ve never met. I can be frustrated with their opinions and attitudes. I can even be disappointed at the way they vote. For me, however, what I can do is to be present and authentic in the relationships that I have. I can reach out and develop new relationships.

The story of the Woodchuck Society at our church is one to which I turn because it is a genuine grassroots attempt of people to have helpful relationships with others. In the hills, we have excess wood. There is a need for the trees to be thinned and other trees have to be removed to prevent the spread of insect infestation. In many different places on the reservations firewood is a practical solution to reduce energy costs and provide heating for homes. So our little group receives donations of logs. We cut and split them using volunteer labor and donated equipment. Then we deliver cut and split firewood to partners in several different locations on the reservation. Our partners get the wood to the people who need it. So far it is simple and the program has grown in terms of the number of participants and the amount of wood that we deliver.

Through the Woodchuck Society, we have enabled people who otherwise might not do so to make regular trips to reservation communities. We have formed relationships with some of the families who receive the firewood and with our partners who distribute it. Friendships have formed. Opportunities to make real changes have occurred. Attitudes have changed. Fears have been calmed.

From time to time our church receives a little publicity for the program. Whenever that happens expressions of support are received. We also, from time to time receive questions and criticism. A common question I hear is something like this: “Why don’t you employ Lakota people in your project? People on the reservation need jobs, not charity.”

My answer is usually pretty simple: “We don’t know how to run a jobs program. We do know how to cut and split firewood.”

The answer is rooted in my core conviction that the Woodchuck society is all about relationships. It is about the joy of working together shoulder to shoulder. It is about the depth of returning year after year to the same people and sharing meals and conversation and getting to know each other as human beings. It is about recognizing and celebrating our common humanity. We can understand the love and concern of grandparents for their grandchildren. We can laugh at shared jokes. We can learn to recognize each other when we meet in other contexts. We can provide care for one another that reaches beyond the delivery of firewood.

My belief has always been that my role is to facilitate relationships, not to be a spokesperson for my congregation on the reservation or to be a spokesperson for the reservation in my congregation. I try not to speak for others, but to get them to speak themselves.

We won’t change the world overnight. We will change it one relationship at a time.

When I was younger an perhaps a bit more idealistic than I now am, I used to wrestle with Jesus statement, “You will always have the poor with you.” I wanted to end poverty and see it go away. With more age and perhaps a bit more maturity, I have come to understand that there are many things in this world that are bigger than I. Relationships between indigenous people and settlers who are primarily from European backgrounds have been going on in our country for at least 500 years. That’s 500 years of history, some of it harsh and cruel and filled with pain. We can’t fix all of the brokenness of this history in one generation. Some problems are worthy of many generations of faithful work.

To put it simply, this isn’t about me.

That said, it remains important for each of us to do what we are able. I can’t solve the problem of jobs, but I can speak out for fairness in hiring practices in the community where I live. I can’t solve multi-generational poverty, but I can share what I have. I can’t eliminate the fear of others, but I can introduce a few folks who might develop lasting friendships.

Our congregation isn’t the solution to all of the problems of South Dakota, but we can be a place where people meet and conversations begin.

Perspective is critical when working on big problems. While I’ll continue to participate as genuinely and authentically in the Sacred Conversations on Race as long and as I am able, I am aware that back home, a group of faithful people will gather to split wood this morning. I need to keep balance in my life.

Some days I work for change with careful listening and a few words. Other days I split and stack firewood. Splitting wood may be the more noble of the tasks.

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Driving highway 212 East between Faith and Eagle Butte there South Dakota “Think” sings that mark the places of highway fatalities dot the road so frequently that they are almost as numerous as the mile markers. Some are just plain. Some are decorated with artificial flowers. Some have elaborate memorials set up next to them with white crosses, flowers, stuffed animals and other mementos that help with the burden of grief for the family and, in some cases, become a kind of spiritual discipline that helps grieving families to feel a sense of connection. In traditional Dakota and Lakota theology humans are always Spirit and only temporarily inhabit earthly bodies. There is a line in the service of committal that I use that shows Christian roots of a similar concept, “We all come from God and to God we all return.”

The markers are just one of the symbols of the burden of grief that one feels when one spends time on the Cheyenne River Reservation. Our meeting last night was in the Cheyenne River Sioux Tribe’s Cultural Center at Eagle Butte. This is the first time I’ve been to the Cultural Center for anything other than a wake or funeral. One of the features of the room is a series of life-size or larger murals that depict scenes from the history of the tribes. The Wounded Knee mural is stark and harsh, showing the bodies frozen and partially covered with snow. It is painful to look at, as perhaps such a painting should be. One mural shows beautiful scenes of prairie summer. Another shows elders gathered in Inipi, or sweat lodge. Mounted below the murals are the Cheyenne River flag, the U.S. flag, a POW flag, a portrait of a young man who died in the Iraq war, a mounted buffalo head, and a lot of pictures of significant scenes in the story of the tribe. Strung around the room are cords that are used for hanging quilts for wakes and funeral dinners. The room, even when used for a retreat and a joyful gathering of friends as we had last night, carries a sense of grief and loss and a past that has not always been pleasant.

There is more than enough grief all around the reservation. Despite the singing birds and the beauty of the open prairie, one can’t escape the ever-present reality of hard lives lived in this place. On days when our destination takes us over the gravel roads to Red Scaffold or Frasier or Cherry Creek or Takini School, we see the boarded up houses and abandoned mobile homes of those who once made their homes here and now are gone. The churches and schools and community buildings almost all sport need of repair and signs of age.

In recent years many of our conversations with friends include stories of recent suicides - all too often the deaths of youth - that leave incredible pain in their wake. It is as if the burden of grief is so intense that it becomes unbearable even for the teens of the community. Of course suicide is something that we do not fully understand but it is clear that it carries with it a sense of the loss of the future. If the youth die, who will tell the stories of the people in the generations to come.

But these people are survivors. The word Takini means “survivor,” if you look it up in the Lakota-English dictionary. It is clear that it has a deeper meaning if you listen to the stories that fill the evenings up here. The Takini who walked in the dead of winter from Wounded Knee to the spot on the Cheyenne that is now called Bridger, were survivors of an organized attempt at genocide. They walked with tears on their cheeks from the grief of the death of elders and infants and mothers and children. They walked with depression in their hears that came from a sense that no one cared about them and that they were hunted in a war the origin of which they had no understanding. They walked with dragging feet that came from too little food and not enough warm clothing. And some died in that harsh winter. But others survived to become parents and grandparents again. One great grandson of the survivors told me that the word Takini means “barely surviving” or “just holding on.” Another grinned at me and said, “It means . . . we’re still here!”

There have been many opportunities for the stories of these people to be lost. Young ones move away to the cities. Too many die in too many different ways. Addiction is rampant and affects the lives of too many, clouding the minds and robbing the memories. Domestic violence, unheard of until recent years, has reared its ugly head and left its indelible scars on the communities.

You might think that our meetings in this place would be somber. You might think that they would be mostly sad. But they are not. Coming here is like an invitation to a great family dinner. There is always good food in generous portions. There are always hugs from friends we seen only a few times a year. And there are always jokes. Last night I laughed and laughed as Adele told about Mike trying to get rid of the skunks in the shop, first with his slingshot and later with a rifle. Mike was sitting right next to her and he has a different opinion of his accuracy with both weapons than Adele, but that didn’t deter her from amusing us with the tales of his antics. After a while Mike joined in with great exaggerations about his hunting prowess and the cunningness of the skunks. We all know that in years to come we will need only say the word “skunk” to make each other laugh.

Some folks back home think that we come to the reservation to bring something to people who lack many of life’s luxuries - that our conversations are about what we bring. But that is not why I keep coming back to visit our friends. For me it is about reconnecting with the joy that suffering cannot turn back, the faith that endures the depths that come with this life, and the love that thrives in the midst of tough times. I come here to renew my hope.

Once again, I am not disappointed.

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The doctor that I see for routine care is part of one of the larger medical practices in our city. They have several different buildings that provide office space for dozens of doctors including several specialties. They also have an urgent care center for walk-in primary care. In recent years they have installed an automated system to remind patients of their appointments. The machine calls the phone of the patient and when the phone is answered it gives the reminder and other information. The system is sophisticated enough to leave a clearly understood message on voice mail. I’m sure that someone in the practice figured out that such a system costs less than paying a staff member to make those calls. Someone also had to decide what the content of the message would be. The message gives the time and location of the appointment and then reminds listeners that the policy of the clinic is to require payment of all co-pays or deductibles or payment in full in the case there is no insurance at the time of service.

I know that the corporation in charge of the medical practice has the right to set its own payment policies, but it is very off-putting to me that they lead with the financial information. It is almost as if the message they are sending is, “We don’t care about you enough for one of our people to call you, but we care about money enough to make sure that you get the message about our desire to be paid.”

I am struck by how many conversations I have with members of my conversation that contain stories of problems with insurance companies, payments to medical practices, and some of the high costs associated with health care. “I get statements from my doctors, but I can’t figure out what I am supposed to pay.” “Never write a check until the medicare payment has been received by your doctor.” “We’re already $20,000 into the treatments and we don’t know what is and what is not covered by insurance.” “When I asked for a detailed statement, it included charges for medicines that I never received, but that were dispensed ‘just in case.’” The litany of stories goes on and on.

And you don’t have to go very far to encounter very strong opinions about the role of the federal government in health care that range from a desire for the federal government to stay completely out of health care to the opinion that the government should be the primary insurance provider of every citizen. I don’t know how many times I have listened to arguments for or against “Obamacare” from people who don’t have a clue what the law means or how it applies to them.

Capitalism is a marvelous economic system. In open markets competition can drive down prices and provide an effective control to excessive profits and unfair pricing schemes. When it comes to health care, however, there are some problems that arise from and unregulated financial system.

In small markets, competition can lead to expensive duplication of services. Some diagnostic machines such as MRI as so expensive to own and operate that having too many machines in the market drives up the cost instead of driving it down. The costs of the machine are fixed whether or not they are being used. Sometimes the costs can be covered by over ordering of unnecessary diagnostic procedures, but in most cases extra machines in the market result in higher costs for everyone. The same thing is true of hospital beds. You’d think a specialty hospital would provide competition to a full service hospital and drive down costs. However the effect is just the opposite. Losing the specialty services from the full service hospital forces them to raise the price of other services and the specialty hospital ends up raising its prices because the market will bear the increased profit. Frequently in medicine competition drives prices up instead of down.

Capitalism creates shortages. Because of the law of supply and demand, one of the ways to increase profits is to create shortages. In the practice of medicine in the US, this is most apparent in the shortage of doctors. Admission to medical school is so competitive that thousands of well-qualified students are turned away every year. This results in inefficiencies that drive up the cost of medical education and creates a shortage of doctors. If you don’t think there is a shortage of doctors, try to get an appointment for a physical with less than three months’ wait. The shortage of doctors is so severe, that the United States imports thousands of doctors from other countries to meet the demand. In our rural and isolated location much of the ethnic and cultural diversity of our city comes from these imported doctors and their families.

The current climate in medical practice is to scale up. Most hospitals in the US are on buying binges, purchasing all of the private medical practices they can afford. The belief is that size will make them more competitive in a tight market. We have multiple multi-billion “nonprofit” hospitals in our country. While the core hospital is nonprofit, there are plenty of associated profit streams. Big nonprofits outsource services to for-profit companies. A stay in the hospital will result in a statement that is extremely complex. You might receive your room from the hospital, but the person inserting your IV might work for a subcontractor. The people who provide the x-ray work for a different company than the doctor who reads the x-ray. There will be consultants on your case that you have never met and who may not even have ever been in the same city as your hospital.

As is common for my blogs, and much of my conversation, I’m better at pointing out problems than at providing solutions. But I’d love to begin to switch the conversation from the problems to the solutions.

Maybe I’ll get around to that after I spend a few more afternoons listening to the problems of the people I serve . . . and after I make an appointment for next year’s physical . . . and after I get my insurance company straightened out on the charges for a diagnostic procedure . . . and after . . .

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From time to time I look at the uses of tablet computers and think that it might be nice to have one. Both of our children have iPads and use them for a wide variety of things, including Skype conversations with us. We have friends who use tablet computers to read books, check their e-mail, communicate with loved ones and a host of other chores.

I have several colleagues who use the devices to read their notes during worship. Recently, I attended a funeral officiated at by one of my chaplain colleagues and he used his iPad exclusively, reading the scripture from it, and checking it for his notes during the sermon. It was very unobtrusive and his speaking was fluid and powerful. The small gestures needed to scroll through the device’s pages were completely natural and did not detract from the worship in any way. After the experience, I checked with other colleagues. The devices are being used in Episcopal, Methodist, Assembly of God and Lutheran congregations in our town.

Still, I haven’t taken the plunge and bought the device yet. I’m reluctant to have yet another device. I can remember when I carried a digital assistant (Palm Pilot) as well as a cell phone and how happy I was when the functions of the two devices could be combined into a single device. If I were to purchase a tablet computer, I fear I would still be carrying my notebook computer with me everywhere that I go. The software that I use for my web site is not available for tablet computers and I am completely addicted to the keyboard for writing. In fact the notebook computer that belongs to the church that is being replaced by a new one is on its third keyboard. I literally wore out the keys by using them more than the average computer user.

I do, however, admit to liking various electronic devices. And I have invested significant amounts of money in them over the years. So I remain intrigued.

And yesterday I read a little blurb that peaked my interest. It seems that Pope Francis somehow decided that he didn’t need his iPad any longer. It was personalized with “Su Santidad FRANCISCO” (His Holiness Francis) laser etched into the back. Laser etching is permanent and can’t be removed. So Francis gave the iPad to an Uruguayan priest as a gift. He even had the Vatican draw up a certificate of authenticity to go with the gift.

I couldn’t find out if the Pope used the device to read the Bible or if he ever used it to organize his sermon notes. Anyway, the Uruguayan priest who received the iPad ended up giving it away as well. Maybe iPads lack a certain ceremonial flair for occasions when Roman clerics kiss the scriptures or hold them high in processions. For whatever reasons, the iPad was donated to a local school for a fund-raising auction.

I don’t know which model of iPad the Pope had, but the price range of iPads runs from about $250 to $825 or so. At the auction for the school, the Pope’s iPad sold for $30,500 to an undisclosed buyer who placed a bid over the telephone at the auction house Castells of Montevideo.

That’s a pretty good margin.

I think I’ve got to come up with just the right thing to have engraved on the back of an IPad and I could raise some serious money for our church’s capital funds drive. Can’t go with “Su Santidad Francisco.” That’s already been done.

Something tells me “Rev Ted” might bring a lower price.

On a pretty regular basis I use my computer to organize all of the notes and information I need for a worship service into a single document. Hymns are scanned and placed inside of the document, the parts that the liturgist will read are included so that I can follow along. Prayers and other liturgical elements are all put in their right place. Then I use the church’s printer to make a booklet on 11X17 paper with a single fold in the middle. This fits easily into a black cover that I use and I’m all organized for worship. Because I do this regular and because I use the “cut and paste” method to do my layout I have made some interesting mistakes. Last Sunday, I had the regular call to worship in my notes followed by the call to worship from the previous week. I had forgotten to cut the previous call when I pasted in the new one. This resulted in momentary confusion, but I soon discerned which was correct and crossed out the extra one.

At our Great Easter Vigil service, however, my notes had a different problem. I had left out three or four lines of the liturgy that were printed for the congregation to use. When I read the line, it took the congregation a while to figure out where I was in the liturgy. They did, however, and we all skipped a few lines and continued without our worship. They are kind and forgiving people and there was no fuss as a result of the mistake.

I suppose that if I had an iPad, which would allow me to adapt, edit, cut and paste during the service, I could really mess things up with a keystroke or a misplaced gesture. I’ve been known to make an entire document disappear on a computer in the past.

So, for now, I’ll leave the tablet computers to my colleagues. They are intriguing devices that may have some usefulness in the church. And I do admire Pope Francis’ generosity and the long-term good for the school children that came from the gift that kept on giving. That ended up being a pretty good choice for the Pope and for the priest who received the gift and in turn donated it.

I can’t seem to come up with the words to have engraved on an iPad if I did purchase one. After all the engraving is free. A very tempting offer.

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I really don’t remember when computer-related topics became popular for church meetings, but over the years I have gone to a lot of workshops designed to teach pastors and lay leaders how to be more effective in their work through the use of computers. Back in the 1980’s we were looking at the use of computers primarily for word processing and page layout. A few database programs were becoming available for tracking membership and giving and other church management functions, but they were expensive and we hadn’t developed sufficient backup systems to make them fully reliable. When we began to computerize those records in the congregation I was serving we kept our paper records alongside our computer “just in case” for an entire year and then began to make monthly print-outs and keep them in a binder as a way to keep from losing our information when the machines broke down. Our first computerized address lists, from which we created labels for mailing things through the U.S. mail, was self-designed and customized for our operation.

These days the use of computers for many office functions is assumed. When I came to this congregation twenty years ago, there were a couple of computers that were used for a variety of functions. Over the years, we have created a network, added our copy machine as our primary printer, installed a server drive with an off-site backup and installed wireless routers to serve our entire building. In terms of the latest, we’re a ways behind the curve, but most of our employees use computers in their work and have access to our servers. We even have a very reliable cloud-based data system that allows our accountants and key personnel to access our database from any computer in any location. It can be a bit spooky to be alone in the building and have the copier begin to print documents for a meeting that have been ordered by someone who is working in a different location.

In recent years, the workshops at church meetings have focused on social networks and the use of networks to reach beyond the walls of the church and engage people in ministry in a variety of different settings. The ramifications of this are a bit mind-boggling to an old school church person like myself. I’ve visited with a pastor who has a “virtual congregation” of nearly 200 people all around the world who participate by computer. There are regular podcasts of worship services, put together in an office and beamed across the Internet to the “faithful.” The system has a web page with a “click to donate” button that provides income to support the project. People who never or rarely set foot inside of a regular church participate in worship with others they have never met face to face. There are online classes and various chat options for members to meet and greet one another and to socialize.

Facebook pages for congregations are virtually required these days and some congregations create multiple Facebook pages for different small groups. LinkedIn is actually growing faster than Facebook at the present and is now the second-largest social network. Although Linkedin is supposed for focus on professional networks and job seeking, it is filled with theological forums, groups and opportunities to discuss religion and religious issues.

There is a whole world of networking in few words such as Twitter and Instagram. There are specialized networks such as Caringbridge for persons experiencing a serious health event and recovery, WriteAPrisoner for those who are incarcerated and their families, and ParentsLikeMe for parents seeking support for their particular stage in life.

It is becoming more and more common for churches to make social networking a job responsibility of one of their employees. Most large public service organizations such as police and fire departments have someone who is in charge of their social media. I can understand this because all of these networks consume a lot of my time, and I sometimes fear it threatens face-to-face ministry. Recently, I was deeply involved in the crisis of a family that centered at the pediatric intensive care unit of the hospital. I was making multiple visits each day and providing a variety of different supports for the family. One of the people who works in our office discovered that there was a facebook page dedicated to the situation and sent me the link. I started to look at the page and was considering how I might add a prayer or other resources, but realized that what I really needed to do was pray with the family and invest my time in direct contact, even though there were multiple family members engaged with smartphones and tablet computers while they were in the hospital waiting room.

Perhaps for some people virtual reality seems more real than what I call reality, but I don’t know how to do my job without the occasional touch. We touch when we baptize. We touch when we anoint with oil. We hug people who are in need and place a hand on a shoulder to comfort. The tactile, face-to-face interaction of caring for others is intrinsic to the work I do. I don’t know how to convey tone of voice in an e-mail message. I’m no master of emoticons. I do, however, know quite a bit about recognizing emotions that people may not be aware of. I can sense the mood of a room. I can differentiate between anger and pain when I can see someone’s face.

I’m sure that technology will continue to be a big part of the operation of churches in the future. Already there are congregations where people are used to looking at screens and projections in place of people. There are some people who claim that all of the technology enables them to engage more senses and emotions than a direct relationship with others.

I don’t quite get it. There is nothing more multi sensory than paddling on the lake on a cold spring morning. I can hear the swish of the water, the crackle of the ice on my spray skirt and the cackling of the geese. I can feel the chill of the air and breathe in the mist rising from the water. I can smell the must of the marshes and the pine scent from the hillside. I can taste the saltiness of my own sweat and feel the stretch of my muscles. I know I am alive and engaged with my world.

I don’t need the latest technology to encounter my world.

So don’t expect me to stay on the cutting edge. I’m not exactly a luddite, but I’m confident that there is enough real ministry needed in this world to last my lifetime. I’ll leave the virtual pastoring to others.

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From time to time I have the good fortune to share a bit of ministry with a colleague who is younger and less experienced than I. One of the advantages of such a working relationship is that theological education has changed a great deal in the span of my career and those who have newer educations often have books to recommend and resources of which I am unaware. I also appreciate their idealism and their energy as well as their perspective on faith and the profession of serving people.

I hope that I have a bit of experience and wisdom to share so that the exchange is fair.

Recently a younger colleague was giving advice to himself as well as to me when he said, “You just have to learn not to take some things personally.” On the surface it is good advice, if very difficult advice to follow. When pastors allow their personalities to get in the way of the ministry, they often end up focusing on themselves instead of the needs of the people being served. And it is true that we often are called to absorb emotions that aren’t aimed at us. I know that when a grieving person expresses anger, anger is a normal part of the process of grief and it isn’t always “aimed” at me, even though I’m the one feeling the fire. That does become a bit easier with experience. I have begun to understand anger not only as a normal part of grieving, but a healthy part of life. Still, angry words hurt and they never stop hurting no matter how much you understand.

But there is another part of the advice that needs to be taken very cautiously. We are called to love one another: “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” (John 13:34-35) And love is, by its very nature personal.

I get personally involved with other people all of the time. It is critical that I keep myself emotionally healthy and have a good understanding of appropriate boundaries. Those are skills that have to be learned and honed over years of experience as well. Really caring - and being really affected by the pain and struggles of those we serve - is all a part of the vocation to which we are called.

Yesterday after worship a sensitive and caring member of our congregation made a comment to Susan that she worries about me. It seems like there have been a lot of difficult challenges in our ministry in the past year. Her concern is deeply appreciated. It is true. I guess that part of it is that after twenty years in the same congregation most of the funerals are for people who are my friends. I guess that part of it is that there have been some distressing community tragedies that I have been called to witness. Another part of it is that trauma is somehow cumulative. The more you see, the more layers of emotions you build up.

Before I was ordained, when I was a seminary student, I took a unit of Clinical Pastoral Education at an agency that had a contract with Child Protective Services of the City of Chicago. When parents were referred to counseling by the courts, our agency provided some of that counseling. That meant that we were working with people who on the one hand didn’t want counseling. On the other hand, however, they were being extremely compliant with us because they wanted to prove to the judge that they were willing to do what needed to be done to get custody of their children. As a part of that experience, I became involved in a case of an 11-month old baby that had suffered 11 broken bones. I believe that the child was literally thrown down a stairway. I never met the person who committed the abuse. I didn’t even fully understand his relationship to the child’s mother. My assignment was to work with another counselor and the mother’s extended family to provide counseling services that would be reported to the judge in the case.

In my conversations with my supervisor, I confessed that I was struggling with the severity of the abuse. There is something about an 11-month-old that doesn’t know how to cry - or is too afraid to cry - that is impossible to ignore. My supervisor reminded me that the severity of the abuse, in fact the situation of the baby, wasn’t the focus of our counseling. I needed to behave professionally and work with the mother and her extended family on their issues and trust the courts and the foster care system to care for the child.

But you can’t “unsee” the things you have seen. You can’t “unhear” the things you have heard.

Since those days, I have had a bit of a hair trigger when it comes to child abuse. I’ve even said to trusted colleagues in the midst of things that “I don’t want to live in a world that allows children to be injured in that way.” Of course I have no choice. This is the world in which I live and I have been called to care for its people.

This past week, I’ve been providing support to a family that has suffered every family’s worst nightmare. Their child was left with an abuser. They didn’t know he was an abuser at the time. The child suffered injuries that resulted in its death, but that process was not swift. After the child was declared brain dead, a process of caring for the body to allow for the most generous gift of organs for transplant took timing and coordination. And they didn’t lose their little one all at once. It took days. Sometimes you just find yourself in that place.

It was apparent from the comment of the member of our congregation that I allowed quite a bit of myself and my own personal struggle to come into yesterday's sermon. It showed that I was struggling. And the compassion of my congregation was aroused.

That might be a bit too much in some situations. But in my case, it is deeply meaningful that my congregation supports me when I face things that are difficult for me. And that they surround not only me with their prayers, but also other people that I serve.

By this I know that they are Jesus’ disciples, that they have love for each other.

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I bet you know someone like my friend. He has a very dry sense of humor and his face rarely betrays his jokes. I have a really difficult time telling when he is serious and when he is joking. We have a lot of different ways of exercising our senses of humor. Most of us love funny stories. Ones that aren’t completely fictional, but have a bit of basis in actual events, are often the ones that bring the biggest laughs from us. Then there are the somewhat awkward situations that involve a twinge of embarrassment. Often these are more funny after a pit of time has passed between the actual event and the story. Some of us are amused and laugh at word games and puns and the quirks of language. Our jokes often bring groans from some of our hearers. Still others laugh at pranks. YouTube has thousands of videos of a wide variety of pranks being pulled. Some are harmless, others come close to vandalism.

There have been plenty of studies, but I don’t think that we fully understand humor. One thing that seems to be apparent is that humor can let some of the pressure out of the situation. I know a couple of people who know just when to crack a joke in a tense meeting to receive the pressure and get us back to working together instead of choosing sides. That ability is a gift and greatly appreciated. But there is no real formula that gives us control over our laughter. Perhaps that is what makes it so special: we lose control, if even for just a brief moment.

The tradition of Holy Humor Sunday is long standing in some parts of the church. It seems to come and go in other corners of the institutional church. Ours is a congregation where it seems to be more important some years and less so others. We’ve never gotten into elaborate pranks, but there have been a few good jokes, some laughs and general joy around the occasion.

One year we ran our entire service backward, beginning with the postlude and proceeding through the benediction to the offerings, prayers, sermon, scripture, etc. We even walked backwards for the “recessional” and the “processional.” It was great fun, garnered a few laughs and provided a story for people to tell.

I like to tell jokes, but most years it seems as if the Sunday after Easter is just a bit close to the intensity of the Lenten experience for me to be in a real joking mood. Of course events in the life of the community can make a big difference as well. There are things that happen in our lives which simply aren’t laughing matters and demand our serious sides.

The basic premise behind Holy Humor Sunday is that humor is a part of God’s creation. We were made to laugh and enjoy life. Furthermore of all of the jokes that have ever been played, the death and resurrection of Jesus has to top the list. Death isn’t permanent! Jesus really died. Jesus is really alive. It is difficult to wrap your brain around such a concept. It looked, for a while as if the forces of evil had taken over the world. Then, suddenly, everything was changed. It is enough to bring a smile to your face - enough to make you laugh.

In some churches the tradition was to pull pranks on the priest or pastor as a way of relieving the tension and somberness of the Lenten season. Surprising or shocking the leader of the flock was a time for great mirth and laughter. And most of us are pretty good at taking a joke now and then.

Perhaps it is age and experience or perhaps it is just my innate nature, but it seems to me that the week after Easter almost comes too fast for Holy Humor. I’m a great fan of humor. I try to work it into my sermons. I like to laugh and joke, but it has been my experience that Easter is a very difficult concept to grasp - one that doesn’t come quickly or easily. By the second week of Easter we’re still struggling with what has just happened.

I may not get all of the jokes, but I do get Thomas. Perhaps I am a bit skeptical by nature, but try to see the situation from the perspective of the disciples. Their world has fallen apart. They lost not only Jesus, but their entire way of life. They don’t know how they will get food to eat or what work they will pursue. They have lost their closest friends. The disciples essentially abandoned Jesus at his trial and on the cross. They don’t even know if Jesus living again would be a good thing. What if he holds them responsible for their behavior? What if he no longer has the same love for them that they once felt? What if anger and recrimination are the primary emotions of a reunion?

It isn’t just Jesus that they lost in the crucifixion. It was also their vision of the world. They thought the were following the Messiah, who would have victory over the forces of evil in the world. They thought they had chosen the winning side. To see Jesus - the one crucified with nail holes in his hands and feet - might not be a pleasant experience.

Thomas was saying he needed time to wrap his brain around the entire concept: Salvation doesn’t mean military victory. Salvation doesn’t mean that the world is suddenly without any evil. Salvation doesn’t bring an end to poverty or loneliness or pain or distress. It doesn’t work that way. The life of service to others is an on-going commitment, not just a phase that we get through on our way to streets paved in gold and an unlimited buffet line.

There’ll be a few jokes and a surprise or two today at our church. But I suspect that the best jokes will be left for another day. I’m still trying to wrap my brain around the power of the resurrection and what it means for our lives today.

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Among my colleagues these days, I am considered to be one of the senior pastors. I’ve been around for a long time and I have collected a brain full of memories and enough stories to add my two cents worth to almost every conversation. Sometimes, when I am with my peers, I have to consciously hold myself back from the stories that begin with “You think that’s something! Let me tell you about the time . . .” I know better in my brain and occasionally I have the maturity to show some restraint and keep my mouth shut.

Still, even with decades of experience under my belt, there are times when I discover that I’ve been answering questions the wrong way. It isn’t that I’m intentionally dishonest. It isn’t even that I am speaking untruth. It is just that I don’t always know the real answers and I rush to say something and end up saying something that isn’t really the right thing.

Let me give you an example from yesterday.

For several years, from time to time, I get a question about the prayer shawls and the prayer bears that fill a cabinet in the church parlor. The question is usually something like: “Don’t we give this out any more?” “Why are there so many in the cabinet?” or even, “ Do we do the prayer shawl ministry any more?” Those asking the question seem to know in general about the prayer shawl and prayer bear ministries, but look at the full cabinet as if the shawls we blessed in worship a few years ago are the ones that are still in the cabinet.

So my answer to that question is usually something like, “Our knitters and crocheters are so generous and so productive that sometimes the shawls and bears get ahead of our distribution process.”

Here is what I’ll be answering in the future: “Isn’t it wonderful that God has blessed us with such generous knitters and crocheters? You never know when some big tragedy will mean that we need a whole bunch of them. When that happens, we’re ready.

I know that because yesterday I needed 12 prayer bears and four prayer shawls. And when I say “needed,” mean exactly that.

The story is too raw for details and it isn’t my story to share but I can say this much. When a child less than two years old is critically ill in the hospital it is time to get out a prayer bear. When such a child has 11 first cousins who are under the age of 11, eyes get big when I come in with a prayer bear. When I think of who needs comfort, of course all 12 children need comfort even the cousins who aren’t able to be with the family in the waiting room of the pediatric intensive care unit.

I can say that I know when a mother has run out of prayers and is deeply in need of a tangible reminder that she is not alone, not the only one praying, and that there is a circle of love much wider than the crew at the hospital, there is a real need of a prayer shawl.

I can say that I don’t find it hard to identify with the parents of that young mother. I know the ache in their hearts each time she cries. I know that there is no answer to the question, “Why?” I know that I can’t look them straight in the face without wrapping them in the love and prayers of our church as well. And the aunt of the little one in the hospital, even though she has a daughter to hug, is braver than I’ve ever had to be and while I honor her courage, she needs to know that she will never be left alone.

I can’t even begin to imagine what it feels like to have to decide between you father’s funeral in one town and being with your daughter as she attends a meeting with the hospital transplant coordinator. But I know that God was with the one who had to make that decision last night. He told me that he heard his father’s voice as clear as can be telling him that his place is with his daughter. It was his father’s voice, no doubt, but I’m convinced that his father is with God and that God needed to use his father’s voice to communicate a most important message. Nothing you can say will convince me otherwise.

When we bless prayers shawls or prayer bears in our church, I sometimes say something silly like, “We live to bless.” Of course we don’t do the blessing. It is God who blesses. The fingers of the knitters and crocheters wrap prayers into the tension of the yarn and string as they make the simple gifts. They literally have faith to share and share their faith in each stitch. They know that faith and hope and love never diminish by giving them away. The more you give, the more you have.

The cabinet is a bit like that. It is a little empty at the moment. But I know that is temporary. The more prayer bears and prayer shawls we give away, the more we have. Isn’t it wonderful that God has blessed us with such generous knitters and crocheters? You never know when some big tragedy will mean that we need a whole bunch of them. When that happens, we’re ready.

I’m no good at knitting and I don’t know the first thing about crocheting. But I do spend a bit of almost every day praying in different parts of the church. Sometimes I pray in my office. Sometimes I pray in the sanctuary. Sometimes I pray in the nursery or the kitchen. Sometimes I pray in the youth room. They are all very sacred spaces. Now I’ve got a new place to pray. If you see me praying in front of the cabinet it isn’t that I’ve lost my senses. It is just that I know that there are some days when you might run short of prayers unless you work ahead and surround yourself with others who have prayers to spare.

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We love “rags to riches” stories. The idea of someone who is born into modest means or even poverty who has the right combination of initiative and luck to become wealthy is a story we like to read. Such things really do occur. But they aren’t very common. A more common story in our neighborhood - and in our country - is that those who are born rich become more rich and those who are born poor remain entrenched in poverty. One of the biggest reasons for this is the inequality of education. A big factor in the difference between wealth and poverty is eduction. People with money tend to live in neighborhoods with better schools. They tend to have more time to volunteer in schools and become involved in encouraging their children’s educations. More money means more options for educational advantage for college students. Intense poverty effectively eliminates the option of college for all but a very few students.

But we don’t like to think of our system as unfair. We’d rather believe that people are poor because they somehow deserve to be poor. We’d like to believe that people with wealth have wealth because they have earned it.

I’m struck by how often, in my conversations with compassionate and caring people, I hear stories of poor choices made by people living in poverty. I often hear criticism of government programs for the poor. We often come fairly close to saying that people are poor because they deserve to be poor. A prevailing attitude is that entrenched poverty is the result of poor choices.

Of course poor people do make unwise choices. Then again so do rich people.

In Missouri a bill has been introduced in the legislature to make it illegal for food-stamp recipients to use their benefits “to purchase cookies, chips, energy drinks, soft drinks, seafood, or steak.” I admit the list includes some poor food choices in terms of health and that a family living on a very limited budget can get more benefit from making other food choices. But do we really want to live in a society where some choices are available to only part of the population? I’m pretty sure that people who are dependent on a $7/day food stamp allotment aren’t lining up to buy filet mignon or crab legs. There may be an occasional extravagance, but I’m not sure that making it impossible for them to buy canned tuna and chuck steak is going to solve the problem.

After all, when wealthy people make poor choices or indulge in unnecessary extravagance, we don’t suggest that we make laws to prevent their behavior. In fact the tax laws reward certain poor choices made by wealth people. The mortgage interest deduction can be applied to second homes and even to a boat, provided that it has sleeping quarters, a kitchen and a toilet. That means you get a mortgage deduction for a yacht, but not for a canoe or a fishing boat. So if you are poor, you’re not going to get fish in your diet that way, either. And if you rent out that home or yacht for part of the year there are all kinds of business deductions that can come your way. Maybe owning a yacht isn’t really a bad choice in the first place.

How about gambling? Gambling losses are deductible for people who have enough money to gamble. I confess that I’m not a gambler and I don’t really understand how this deduction works, but I’m thinking that there aren’t a lot of people living in entrenched poverty who pay accountants to find this deduction for them.

Somehow we’ve come up with the belief that it’s OK for rich people to make poor choices, but poor people shouldn’t be allowed to make bad choices.

There is another important difference between wealthy people and poor people in our country. Politics is expensive. It’s a game poor people can’t afford to play. We’ve made campaigning so expensive that running for elected office is an option only for the wealthy or those who have lots of wealthy friends. The people who are making the laws are unlikely to have any first-hand experience with entrenched poverty. They are making laws based on their perception of poverty rather than the reality. They may be very compassionate. They are unlikely to really know about poverty or what might help.

Add to that the simple fact that there is a big difference in wealth between states, so that many rural states such as our own tend to have a lot of legislation presented that was developed and paid for by out of state money. It is rare to see a bill in the South Dakota legislature that was actually written by a South Dakotan. Our legislators rely primarily on out-of-state interests to actually write the legislation proposed in our assembly. I’m thinking, off the top of my head, that there aren’t a lot of poor people who are spending their time trying to get legislation passed in other states.

I don’t remember reading anywhere in the Bible about Jesus trying to determine whether or not a poor person was worthy of compassion or healing. In fact one gets the impression from the Bible that the reason to show compassion and to share is because it is good for the giver. Remember Jesus and the rich young man? Matthew, Mark and Luke all report that Jesus had compassion on the rich man when he said, “Go, sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven.” Jesus didn’t say anything about the need of the poor to receive, only the need of the rich man to give.

I know that I do not know how to solve the intense poverty suffered by some people in my own town. I know that my means of helping are inconsistent and often ineffective. Still, it seems to me that I’d rather give what I can than save my funds for the purchase of a second house or a yacht. And gambling holds no appeal for me whatsoever. I’d much rather buy lunch for a stranger I met on the street than feed coins into a slot machine.

For the record, however, none of my canoes has a mortgage on it.

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Today I go to my doctor for my annual physical. It isn’t much of a process, as I have been blessed with excellent health so far in my life. Outside of a couple of stupid accidents and a trigger thumb a decade ago, I haven’t needed much treatment. My doctor is very busy and if you call to make an appointment for a physical, you’re likely to be offered a date six months in the future. Probably most of the doctor’s time is invested in things more interesting than routine health screenings. Still, I like to be one of the “boring” patients. I’m not eager to become an interesting problem to solve for my doctor. One of my favorite parts of the exam is the pre-screening done by the doctor’s assistant. As they check blood pressure, weight, temperature and other statistics they get out a computer to record all of the medicines you are taking. Until this year, I’ve always been able to say “none” and go on. This year the only medicine I have to report is a daily low-dose aspirin, a suggestion at last year’s exam based on the doctor’s knowledge of my mother’s history of TIAs. Still, it won’t take the person long to record a single medicine, and I’m likely to garner a “that was easy!” comment.

I don’t want to live the rest of my life obsessed with the question of “How long do I have?” I’m more interested in “How will I use my time?”

Still, I’m glad that my doctor accepts medicaid. I’d hate to have to change doctors in just a few years when my insurance situation will take a turn that marks the transition from “regular” to “senior citizen.”

According to a 2014 Gallup Poll, the average retirement age is now 62, the age I will reach early this summer. I’ve never thought of myself as average, however. Another statistic that I keep in mind is that one in four current retirees will live past 90. And when I look at some of the “past 90” members of our congregation, I am encouraged. We’ve got folks that age who still drive their cars, live independently, and are engaged in a lot of church and social activities. A couple of them seem to have sped up, rather than slowed down in recent years. They are good role models for me.

I’ve still got several things I’d like to accomplish in my life. One of my heroes, whom I never met face-to-face, is novelist Frank McCourt. He had a full career as a New York school teacher before publishing the Pulitzer Prize-winning memoir, “Angela’s Ashes” when he was 66 years old. He died at the relatively young age of 79, but that still givers me four years to pull together a book - one of the unmet goals I set for myself when I was younger.

I’m not likely to do anything spectacular like Diana Nyad, who at 65 completed her 110-mile swim from Cuba to Florida on her fifth attempt a couple of years ago. But there may be some beautiful paddles and even a few whitewater waves in my future. Most of my favorite outdoor activities - paddling, taking pictures and walking - can be done at a slightly reduced pace. I can always shed my biggest and heaviest canoes as I age, reserving the lighter ones that are easier to launch and retrieve for the years when my strength decreases.

I can still get the lid off of the peanut butter jar - one of the tests of strength of which I have long been proud.

I think that it is most appropriate for people to consider making some changes in their sixties. It is a good time to make some plans and consider one’s options. But I’m not sure that the word “retire” is the best term. Of course the word has many meanings.

If we mean retire in the sense of “leaving company to go to bed,” I’m in favor of doing that almost daily.

If we mean retire in the sense of completing the defensive inning so one can go on the offensive as in baseball where one team is retired and the other gets to bat, I’m ready.

If we use the word in its 16th century application for military maneuvers meaning to “withdraw” or “lead back,” I’m not so sure.

The old French meaning of the word also speaks of seeking privacy, an endeavor that I enjoy.

But I was really encouraged as I took the trip through the etymology dictionary for the word retirement to find the connection between the word “retire” and the word “tirade.” I’ve been on several tirades and if the prefix “re” implies doing it again, there are several that I’d probably go on several times given the opportunity.

Ask anyone who has gone to meetings that I attend. I’ve been known to make some long speeches and some rather intersting volleys of words. I’m going to believe that I’ve got several tirades left in me.

On the other hand, again, leafing through the etymology dictionary, an enterprise that doesn’t attract all of my friends and acquaintances, I discovered that the “tire” root in “retire” also shows up in another old French word, “martyr.” And, so far, martyrdom is not an option I have chosen for myself.

All in all, it seems to me like this might be a good time in my life to consider one or two major projects - perhaps one that has been on the “back burner” like tackling a book-length manuscript or perhaps a new adventure including several things I’ve never before attempted. Maybe it is time to dream up some new things that I haven’t previously imagined.

At any rate, after I complete my physical this morning, I’ve got another appointment as part of my annual post-easter self-care routine. I’m going to get my teeth cleaned. From an evolutionary standpoint, the structure of human teeth have a service life of about 50 years. Coming in between 6 and 7 years of age, many folks in previous generations got enough life out of those teeth. I, on the other hand, am going to need a few more decades out of the old ivories. It’s a good idea to take care of them.

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I know from personal experience that making judgments from the midst of grief can lead to some poor choices. Of course there are certain decisions that simply need to be made when one is grieving. Funeral plans have to be made. Financial arrangements need to be managed. Choices about the distribution of personal property have to be made in accord with a will and dealt with in a timely manner as specified by the courts. One cannot avoid making decisions when one is grieving. Still, I know that I wasn’t doing my best thinking as we journeyed through the grief of the death of family members. It took me a long time to gain enough perspective to be proactive instead of reactive in my decision making.

So today isn’t the best day for those of us in Western South Dakota to make a complete assessment of our state’s attitudes and policies about children and youth. Because we are immersed in a season of grief. We’ve lost four teenagers in automobile accidents in the past two weeks.

Jeremiah Helton of Belle Fourche died in a rollover accident on March 25 near Belle Fourche. Another teen was injured in that accident. Jeremiah was 14.

Nehemiah Larimer died March 30 after being struck by a car while riding a scooter. The driver of the car was 15 years old. Nehemiah was 18.

Robert DuBray, Jr. died after being ejected from an SUV in a rollover accident early on April 5. At least five other teens were injured in that accident. Robert was 15.

McKenzie Stilwell of Kadoka was killed April 6 when he rolled a pickup truck in Mellette County. Two other teens were injured in that accident. McKenzie was 16.

It is enough to make us question the driving age in South Dakota, or wonder about the lack of drivers education in our schools, or wonder what could be done to reduce the accidents. Since three of the four accidents involved youth who weren’t wearing seatbelts, we wonder if there is a way to get more youth to wear seatbelts.

Meanwhile, in a story that seems to some to be unrelated, citizens of our city are gathering votes on petitions to bring to a public vote a proposal by the school board to “opt out” of the state funding formula, a move that would make more funds available for the school district by raising property taxes. There are plenty of people who don’t want to see tax increases and the opt out is almost certainly headed for a vote. The schools are very dependent upon property taxes in our state, where teachers receive the lowest salaries in the nation and school districts struggle to hire and retain teachers. The lack of driver’s education in our schools is directly related to the lack of money to pay for such programs.

Our state has a teen suicide rate that runs about 2 1/2 times the national average. Suicide is a topic too big for today’s blog, but we know from research that teen suicides have a relationship to a lack of impulse control. A teen suicide delayed is most often a teen suicide prevented. Our prevention training people are overwhelmed. There is insufficient funding to respond to the calls for more training.

It is very hard to get accurate statistics about the so-called brain drain when it comes to graduates of South Dakota Universities. Because many high school graduates leave the state to pursue their academic careers and because universities attract students from other states, it is a bit difficult to know how many of our youth grow up in the state and then spend their active earning years in other states. Universities also only keep records on the first job after graduation which makes it nearly impossible to get accurate numbers. What I can say after 20 years of working with youth in our church is that we are definitely in the missionary business, sending the youth who grow up in our church to distant locations to pursue their careers. Of course a few remain in our city and are excellent contributors to our economy, but they are the minority when it comes to our church.

I have had too many conversations with young adults from our church who say something like, “I don’t wan’t to raise my kids in South Dakota,” or “South Dakota isn’t a good place for children.”

In the midst of this conversation the recent action of the South Dakota legislature and governor to decrease the minimum wage for youth, amending a minimum wage law enacted by public referendum, is more symbolic than substantive. Its symbolic message is clear. The legislature and governor with the support of the chambers of commerce in many of our cities and towns, believe that youth are less valuable than adults and that their pay should reflect that.

It’s hard not to believe that they meant to send that message.

Image can be everything.

While western South Dakota is home to Mount Rushmore, the Mammoth Site, Custer State Park and a host of other family-friendly places, what we are known for is the world’s largest motorcycle rally. We expect to host a million guests this year for that event. And I know from conversations with law enforcement officers that the activities and events of the rally are strictly adult. If the rally were a movie, the rating of events would probably range from R to XXX. I want our guests to feel welcome. But I also want our guests to include children and youth.

The loss of vibrant, young teens is a blow to any community. The tragedies that have occurred in our neighborhood in recent weeks are overwhelming. It probably makes sense for us to sit with our grief for a while and avoid too many major decisions.

But from every tragedy there are lessons to be learned. Grief, like other forms of pain, can be an effective teacher.

I pray that we might be able to learn our lessons and become a state that embraces, treasures and honors our children and youth.

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Years ago, I was visiting with a group of colleagues about how best to communicate within our conference. At that time our conference had a monthly newsletter that was printed and mailed on a bulk mail permit. This was before e-mail and web sites were in use by a majority of the ministers in the conference. One of the ministers at the meeting had a reputation for not paying much attention to his mail. It was said that his desk was piled high with unopened letters and that sending him something in the mail just wasn’t going to work. If you needed to do business with him the best thing was to call him on the telephone and talk to him. Another colleague couldn’t understand this at all. He claimed to deal with every piece of mail that he received on the same day that it arrived. He paid his bills the day they came. He answered correspondence by return mail. According to him, his routine was to go to the post office, return home and deal with his mail, leaving a neat stack of letters to be mailed on his trip to the post office the next day.

I found myself somewhere in between these two extremes, probably leaning toward the disorganized colleague whose desk was a mess. There are certain things that arrive in the mail that can be dealt with easily and quickly. It doesn’t take me much time to sort out junk mail that I have no intention of reading. I don’t receive many bills by conventional mail these days, but the ones that arrive are dealt with quickly. There are, however, other things that seem to require a bit of pondering. A thoughtful letter from a friend deserves a thoughtful response. It isn’t the kind of thing that I can just force in a set amount of time. Requests for donations need to be considered in the context of other donations that we are making and acting on impulse isn’t always the best way to respond. Often letters are put into a pile and I end up reading them multiple times before I am finished. This style, according to my super-organized colleague, is inefficient. He claimed that he never handled a piece of mail more than once. His method, he assured us, was the best way to manage time.

There are plenty of efficiency tips that I have learned, tried, and not adopted as a lifestyle. My friend’s way of dealing with mail is just one of them. What works for others doesn’t always work for me.

The advent of e-mail hasn’t reduced the “clutter” of my office a bit. I now have e-mails that I intend to respond to sitting in folders and files on my computer and these days I have personal e-mail and work e-mail and there are plenty of times when they get mixed up and confused.

Sometimes being a minister means simply responding to the most urgent request. During Holy Week, I kept a short list of the things that had to be done today. I tried to stay focused, but flexible enough to respond to the people who came to the church. I put of enough appointments to this week that my calendar is pretty full.

As I sat down to write my blog this morning, I looked at the pile of personal items awaiting my response: Do I have time to become a certified instructor with the American Canoe Association? Remember that I have an appointment to get my teeth cleaned this week. The homeowner’s association has a list of things that we are supposed to do as we are annexed into the city. Crazy Horse Memorial is looking for donations. The University of Wyoming alumni association is compiling a new directory. There are a few more items in the stack.

Being a pastor means giving my full attention to the person or situation that is present. Sometimes, I have to give up my routines and respond to what is happening at the moment. There are days when I don’t even get the mail out of the box and times when I hit the “airplane” mode on my phone so that it won’t interrupt what I am doing. I’m sure that my colleague who is very organized and has a set routine is a good pastor, but I simply cannot do my work the way that he does.

Part of this week is catching up on the things that I deferred last week. Leading worship demands my full attention. It is more important than some of the other tasks that are a part of my job.

I know that at any moment a phone call can rearrange my priorities.

I also know that it is likely that desk will be a mess when my friends come to visit. I’m pretty sure that there are members of my congregation who roll their eyes each time they take a peak into the church office.

One trick that I have learned is that when I do have some extra time to really tackle the piles on my desk, I can take one and turn it upside down. Chances are there are many things on the bottom of the pile that can be thrown away immediately. The deadlines have passed. I have already responded. Sometimes I can’t remember why I kept the paper in the first place. Most of the time, I resolve to get the job done and give it a good start just to receive one of those phone calls that requires an immediate trip to the hospital or a change in my priorities for the day. Sorting paper can be put off for another day.

I’m pretty sure that my organized colleague will die with a clean desk and with all of his affairs in order. It’s likely that I’ll leave behind some piles that need to be sorted. In the big picture it won’t make much difference - as long as we don’t end up as roommates in the nursing home.

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It is probably just the product of exhaustion, but it might also be a bit of a window on how my quirky brain works, but I somehow found it sort of creepy that they chose Easter as the day to restart the Large Hadron Collider. If you haven’t been following the field of experimental physics, let me fill you in a little bit. The Large Hadron Collider (LHC) Is a gigantic physics experiment buried under the French/Swiss border. It is a huge circle around which particles can be accelerated to nearly the speed of light, traveling around the gigantic circle something like 11,000 times per second. When the particles collide physicists can observe the results of the collisions and infer new information about the nature, and origins of the universe. It was the LHC that provided evidence of the existence of the once-theoretical particle known as the Higgs Boson, sometimes referred to as the “god” particle because of its potential to explain certain theories about the origins of the universe.

The LHC has been shut down for a year and a half, being retro-fitted and rebuilt so that it has even more energy - about double of what was available for earlier experiments. The system is now able to garner about ten times the amount of data per unit of time than was possible with the old LHC. The search is on for dark matter and dark energy.

Physicists, some of whom like to criticize religion because they see it as a product of human imagination, are able to observe less than 10% of the universe. The rest is pure speculation. They theorize that there may be other dimensions, and dark matter and dark energy are simply placeholders for elements of the universe that they infer might exist but which no one has been able to directly observe.

I’ve no problem with physics experiments. I think they are a worthy pursuit for human beings. I might have had different priorities for the limited resources of the world - something like, let’s work on solving word hunger and eliminating substandard housing first, then we can tackle expensive theoretical physics experiments. But they didn’t consult me and they did find the money to build the LHC. So I’m OK with them using it to try to learn as much as possible. Jesus himself once referred to an expensive extravagance by reminding his disciples that they were unlikely to solve hunger and poverty in their lifetimes: “The poor you will always have with you.”

I just would have chosen a different day to start up the experiments that garner such passion and intense emotion from physicists that they are tempted to use religious language to speak of them. Let the religious at least have the day of Easter and fire the sucker up a few days later. But that’s just me and I’m pretty sure that my mind doesn’t work quite the same as that of a physicist, who was probably just eager to get it up and running as soon as possible and didn’t want any kind of a delay.

So far, contrary to dire predictions of some religious fanatics, the LHC hasn’t caused the end of the world or the second coming of Christ. It has just produced experiments with results that, while amazing, were not out of the range of the imaginations of those who designed the experiments and the machines to conduct them.

Anyway, they’ve got the thing going and the particles are being accelerated around the giant ring. The data is being harvested and it is possible that we will see multiple major additional discoveries in our lifetimes.

From my perspective, there is nothing even moderately like a resurrection going on in the restart of the LHC. Resurrection is a very complex and difficult thing for humans to understand and I’m confident it isn’t something that we can make happen with our own skills and abilities, regardless of how much funding we secure.

But, again from my perspective, I see the aims of the scientists involved in the LHC as distinctly religious. The pursuit of truth for the sake of truth is what we who have invested our lives in religion believe we have been doing all along. And, like the physicists, we understand that there are limits to our understanding. There are even limits to our capacity to understand.

Of course, we in the field of religion pursue the truth in a slightly different manner than physicists. We don’t spend as much time speculating about what we might discover, and a bit more time being amazed and awed at what is revealed to us. Still I see us as colleagues in the pursuit of a better understanding of the universe.

I fully expect there to be many more announcements of new discoveries from the scientists at the LHC in the span of my life. I fully expect that our understanding of the true nature of the universe will still be a tiny, tiny slice, even centuries from now. The universe is so great and possible the word “universe” is inaccurate to describe what is being explored. “Multiverse” might be a bit better. But even that doesn't describe it fully.

Whatever else has occurred, we have found ourselves to be relatively small and obscure in the vastness of the universe. There is a lot more to creation than we can begin to observe.

So it is an amazing discovery that the Creator of all that is is so concerned with us that we are pursued with a passionate love and desire to be in relationship with us. It shouldn’t surprise us that we don’t understand death, when we have already freely admitted that we don’t know more than a tiny fraction of the whole of reality.

We don’t understand resurrection even half as well as we understand death.

It shouldn’t surprise us - or the physicists either - that we still have a lot to learn about the nature of God’s love and God’s actions in this universe.

Like the physicists, I’m content to invest my lifetime in exploring truth that is far bigger than me and discoveries that take more than a lifetime to be revealed.

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Sometimes a few of my colleagues will bemoan the fact that at the intersection of religion and culture, religion often seems to get run over - or at least dominated by popular culture. I don’t watch much television, and I haven’t watched any of the Bible-themed shows that have been very popular on television in the past week. That doesn’t mean that I am not influenced by popular culture. I am influenced by television even when I don’t watch it because the people I serve do watch television and the products I use are influenced by television ads. I don’t know what to make of it, but I am sure that it is no mistake that the first television ads for the presidential candidacy of Ted Cruz were aired during the television adaptation of Bill O’Reilly and Martin Dugald’s book, “Killing Jesus.”

What I do know is that most people have images of Jesus and of the nature of the Christian faith that come from a widely mixed up set of sources. What people know about Christianity and what they know about Jesus come from sources such as scripture and tradition, but they also come from rumor, heresy and fiction.

Take for example the Chronicles of Narnia or the Lord of the Rings. Both C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien were students of Christianity. They both had a background in theology. They took the things that they knew and the values that they held and they created mythological fantasy. Their books are not based in history, not in actual events, but are products of their imaginations. Still, they incorporated into those books bits of theology and bits of Christian tradition. Now, in the 21st Century we have people who have read those fictional books and use them as their source for faith and their understanding of Christianity.

The church, the institution that once was the carrier of Christianity to the social world - the bearer of the good news to the people - is declining in its impact and is less frequently a source of the image of Christ that is portrayed in the public sphere.

This can lead to distortions of faith and of history. Despite the portrayals of actors, for example, the Romans weren’t the bad guys because they were inherently evil. The Roman Empire wasn’t opposed to Christianity just because it liked killing people. Darth Vader hadn’t yet been imagined and wasn’t the role model for Roman Centurions.

the Roman Empire was opposed to early Christianity because Christianity was so counter-cultural. Early Christians and the Jewish Community from which they arose were persecuted by Rome because they fed hungry people. They developed a social network that was extremely tight knit. They took care of one another. And the Romans found that kind of tight community to be dangerous. It wasn’t because the Romans were mean, but rather because Christian community was a threat to the Roman system.

Christianity, at its core, remains a threat to the powers that be.

I may not watch that much television, but I do read the billboards. I do keep up with the activities of other congregations in my town. I know that Easter is being celebrated with “stadium” events by large evangelical congregations that don’t even observe Lent. Churches that had no holy week services at all will be renting large venues and drawing crowds of thousands. There will be a big celebration of the victory of Christ. I’m not sure I understand all of the promotion and expense, but it is a form of Christianity that is probably more recognizable in the public eye than the practices of our congregation.

Jesus had disciples who believed that the Messiah was all about popular acclaim and victory over the people they didn’t like. They wanted Jesus to start a political revolt that would overthrow Rome. They wanted Jesus to be in charge of the temple and throw out the religious authorities.

But the story of Easter isn’t the story of Jesus reeking revenge on the powers. Jesus appears to the women coming to anoint the body and they don’t even recognize him. Jesus appears to his disciples in small groups and isolated settings and they hardly believe their eyes. Jesus doesn’t go to Pilate and say, “Got you!” He doesn’t go to Caiphas and say “Told you so!”

The resurrection didn’t come to crowds of thousands or to the centers of power and wealth. The resurrection wasn’t about overthrowing the bad guys and taking over control.

It was, as was the life of Jesus, a story of healing to the broken, food for the hungry, hope for the despairing, reaching out to those who were marginalized.

It was about changing the world through relationships. It was about caring more about service than recognition.

And it shouldn’t surprise us that not all of Jesus’ 21st Century followers agree on what it means to be a disciple. The Bible reports that the first twelve had arguments about the meaning of glory and their place in God’s kingdom. Jesus’ words of correction to James and John are important for Christians to hear in this generation: “But it is not this way among you, but whoever wishes tro be come great among you shall be your servant; and whoever wishes to be first among you shall be slave of all. For even the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give His life as a ransom for many.” (MK 10:43-45)

The call of Easter is the call of service far more than it is a call to glory, or popularity, or fame. In Jesus’ eyes the ones with the biggest crowd may not be the most faithful. The names most recognized might not be the ones to follow. Jesus wasn’t about triumphalism.

It is my experience that it is very difficult to follow Jesus. The path of service seems to always lead to places where we’d rather not go. The story of disciples is more about bearing pain than becoming famous.

So, as Easter dawns once more, I realize that our journey to understand the power an meaning of Christ’s resurrection is a difficult one and that there is still much to do. When the strains of “Christ the Lord is Risen Today” have faded, that faithful will continue to sing, “Won’t you let me be your servant?”

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It would be fair to say that patience isn’t my long suit. I have a tendency to want what I want now. I’ve been known to make impulse purchases, which seem to me at the time to be very sensible, but clearly could have been delayed without any negative impact. And I have not always been prudent in some of the minor decisions in life. On the other hand, some of those decisions have turned out to be good. I was well aware of the counsel I had received from many to wait until we finished college to marry. We were in the same class and waiting one more year would put our marriage after our graduation. We didn’t wait. And things turned out very well. By marrying in college, we had a year of being married under our belts before heading off on the big move to Chicago and graduate school. I think it was good for us to have confidence in our relationship and some experience in making joint decisions before tacking a move that, in those days, was a long way from home.

That aside, waiting can be hard.

We Americans don’t spend much time practicing our waiting. When a decision or a purchase or a project has to be delayed, we invest our time and energy and enthusiasm in working toward achieving the goal.

There are, however, times when waiting is what is required of us.

When a family crisis occurs or we loose a loved one there is the process of waiting for distant relatives to travel. There are some fairly prominent buildings in our town that have waiting rooms built into them: the terminal at the airport, the bus station, the hospital, doctors and dentists offices. They call it a “lobby” instead of a “waiting room” but you can see people waiting in banks and accountants offices and even the outer offices of business executives. We wait for job interviews and calls from loved ones.

But we are not very good at waiting.

Like other skills, waiting improves with practice, but most of us don’t want to practice such a quiet event. We prefer action and activity.

Today is a day of waiting. It was a day of waiting for Jesus’ disciples. After the headlong rush of the journey to Jerusalem and the first heady days of the entrance and preparations for the passover and teaching in the temple the mood switched with the arrest and trial of Jesus. Although Jesus had to face his trial alone, his disciples must have been nearby. We know that Peter was in the outer court at Caiphas’ house while Jesus was being questioned there. There was nothing they could do but wait.

The law clearly prevented the bathing and anointing of the body on the Sabbath, which ran from sundown on Friday to sunrise on Sunday. That meant that the women whose task it would be to set everyone in the shroud properly and lay out the body had to wait to accomplish their not-so-pleasant task.

We too wait. The traditional service for Holy Saturday is called the Great Vigil. Most of our congregations hold a highly stylized and heavily adapted version of the Vigil. In the early days of the church it was an intense time of preparation for membership in the church. The vigil began at sundown on the evening before Easter and concluded with a sunrise worship service, though the entire night was filled with liturgy and worship.

They waited until it was dark, a condition that was even more intense because the candles of the church that had been extinguished on Good Friday and removed from the sanctuary had been replaced with new candles, not yet lit. The first fire was usually a small bonfire lit outdoors. From that fire a taper was used to light the new Paschal candle with special ceremony. The Paschal candle was raised three times with responses and worshipers lit small candles form the Paschal candle, passing the flames from person to person until everyone had a candle. Then, with special ceremony they entered the church to light the new candles.

After the service of the light there was often a pause for silent prayer and meditation. In some churches this pause could be as long as a couple of hours. It was followed by a service of the word, in which the major stories of the history of the church were read from scripture: the creation of the world, the near-sacrifice of Isaac, the exodus form Egypt, the words of the prophets. Each reading would be followed by a psalm, a special prayer and a hymn. After the Old Testament readings, there would be a reading of an Epistle and finally the story of Jesus’ Resurrection from one of the gospels. Depending on the tradition, there would be a short homily or sermon after each reading, or perhaps a single sermon following the reading of the Gospel. The service of the word could take as long as two hours. This, too was followed by a time of prayer.

The third service of the night-long vigil would be a service of baptism with vows and the sacrament of baptism for new members and a renewal of baptismal vows and sprinkling of the faithful.

After another time for prayer the celebration of the Eucharist, or Holy Communion, would be held, the first such celebration of the Easter season, with fresh linen and clean vestments.

We’ve collapsed the entire service into an hour, straddling the actual sunset. It will still be light out when we kindle the new fire and light the new paschal candle. The readings have been shortened, the sermon dropped, the baptismal remembrance shortened and the communion brief. We’ve a lot of practice in making things short.

Then we wait. Sunrise service will still be more than ten hours away.

And for now we wait for that service.

Perhaps we can even learn that waiting is a gift and not a curse.

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Part of the power of scripture is that you learn new things each time you read it. Our people have, over the course of centuries, discovered that there are a few great stories about our journey with God that bear telling over and over again. These deep and meaningful stories provide a way for us to remain connected with God. And they are stories that bring fresh insight in every generation - fresh meaning each time they are encountered.

So it is with the stories of Holy Week. I have read them over and over and over again. I have preached sermons on practically every nuance of the Gospels, and yet there are parts of the stories that come to me in fresh ways each time that I encounter them.

I’ve been mulling the role of the disciples in the the Garden of Gethsemane recently. It is the prayer that we have assigned to Thursday evening, though it could well have been Tuesday. There were two groups of Jews in Jerusalem in Jesus time, with two different schedules of observation of the Passover. One group began the passover on Thursday, the day before the traditional Jewish Sabbath. Another group, the Essenes arose around the time of the building of the Second Temple and flourished in the time of Jesus. The Essenes observed the Passover meal on Tuesday. It has been traditional for the church to imagine the events of the last week of Jesus’ life according to the older, traditional calendar, with the supper and the arrest on Thursday, the trial and crucifixion on Friday, the Sabbath on Saturday and the resurrection on Sunday. If, however, Jesus had observed the Passover meal with the Essenes, prayed in the garden and been arrested on Tuesday, with the trial on Wednesday, it would allow for the mandatory one-day waiting period before an execution required by Roman law. Thursday would have been that day of waiting with the crucifixion on Friday.

Perhaps it is a detail that is not important. But for those of us who try to faithfully recall the events each year details are of some importance.

However recalled, the prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane, just before the arrest, is an event that sticks in my mind. Usually when I meditate on that story, my mind drifts to Jesus, to his nearly-suicidal agony: “My soul is deeply grieved to the point of death.” It is a detail reported only by Mark’s gospel. Jesus’ prayer that the cup might pass from him that ends with “yet not what I will, but what You will” is a powerful prayer for each of us to remember for the points of our own agony.

But last night, I couldn’t get Peter and James and John out of my mind. Their role in the prayer isn’t mentioned by John, and barely by Luke, But Matthew and Mark report the three close disciples who couldn’t keep awake.

I think I understand.

Holy Week is a time of long days and short nights for me. There was a time in my life, when I would go full steam ahead and then collapse in exhaustion for a few hours and get up and go again. As I have aged, however, I find that I don’t sleep as well as once was the case. I rise in the night with aches and pains that I don’t remember having when I was younger. I lie awake, mulling the undone tasks on my “to do” list, sorting the “essential” tasks from those that can be delayed. The intense focus on worship sometimes means that I am less attentive to my pastoral duties than ought to be the case. It isn’t at all uncommon to find myself immersed in some of my best work as a worship leader while feeling like I am neglecting my duties as a pastor and counselor of my people. So I don’t sleep as well as I should.

And I find myself overcome with tiredness at inappropriate moments. I haven’t ever fallen asleep when leading public prayer, but I have dozed off during my private devotions.

I’m fearful that if I were to go to the sanctuary to pray in quietness early this morning - trying to connect with Jesus’ experience in the Garden of Gethsemane - I might nod off.

I think I understand Peter and James and John very well.

And the other disciples - of whom Mark reports “And they all left Him and fled” - I understand them too.

I’d like to say that I would not abandon Jesus, but the truth is that I do not know. What I do know is that the churches that boast the biggest Easter attendance don’t put much emphasis on Holy Week. One of the congregations that has a large “stadium” event for Easter Sunday, is described by one of its pastors this way: “We don’t do Lent. We’re not into all of that guilt business.” There are more than a few people whose faith is expressed in loud praise, high celebration, and a bit short on resources for deep pain, grief and loss. I sometimes feel abandoned when attendance is light for Holy Week services.

Sometimes I forget that we don’t worship for an audience. We worship for God. Like Jesus in the garden - praying is deeply meaningful even if you have been abandoned by some and the others can’t keep their eyes open.

Then again, every once in a while a community cannot escape the pain. As we gathered for our worship last night, there was a large gathering at a local high school for the funeral of an 18 year old who was killed in a tragic accident. For those people it was impossible to escape grief. Surely they were forced to sit with Jesus in the Garden, whether or not they would normally have chosen such a prayer. Life does that to us - often.

Wearily we face Good Friday.

I think we are supposed to be weary.

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The name comes from the Latin Bible: "Mandatum novum do vobis ut diligatis invicem sicut dilexi vos" ("A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you”). I think that the name suffers a bit in English. Allow me to set the scene, just a little bit. In the Gospel of John, it is reported that Jesus desired to share the passover with his disciples and that when they gathered, Jesus took up a towel, wrapped it about himself and proceed to wash the feet of the disciples. There follows an exchange with Peter, who at first wants to switch roles, saying that Jesus is the greater and therefore Peter should wash Jesus’ feet, not the other way around. Jesus talks about how serving and being served are important parts of a close relationship and Peter sort of over-reacts offering to allow Jesus to wash all of him. The scene is rather funny, when you think about it. It is in this context that Jesus makes his simple request of his followers: love each other the way I have loved you.

It has been dubbed the one mandate of the Christian lifestyle - that we love as we have been loved. Jesus spoke Aramaic. John recorded his gospel in Greek. The Roman Church ordered the Bible to be translated into Latin, which was the common language of the people at the time. We don’t speak much Latin around here these days, so after the printing press was invented, and after a few good family fights within the church, bibles became translated in many different languages. Some of the translations have been more accurate than others. Despite the rather circuitous path of language, the power and presence of Jesus continues to be conveyed from generation to generation through the words of the Bible.

Still, there are some misunderstandings that come from the words we choose. Maundy Thursday comes off as a bit somber and sometimes carries a sense of a steep religious demand. People sort of expect those of us who work in the church to go around with the smiles wiped off of our faces.

But love makes you smile.

Love is joyous and joyful.

Loving each other is a pleasant pursuit.

The folks I serve aren’t all that big on having their feet washed. We’re sort of the church of Peter in that respect. I get that. I don’t like taking off my shoes and socks in public. My feet stink half the time and I never know which half this is. And my toenails look funny. In general scrubbing is something that I prefer to do myself, in private, thank you very much. I like the story. And I understand the value of getting down on my knees to serve others. I just choose to serve by moving furniture and using the plunger to unclog toilets and scrub floors and serve in other ways. I understand that the position of pastor can become a kind of way to set oneself above others and it is very valuable from time to time to set things straight and remind myself that I’m not the one in charge and I’ve been called to serve these wonderful people not the other way around.

The mandate of Maundy Thursday, however is not that we wash other feet. That action is symbolic of many others. The mandate is to love as Jesus loved. Sometimes you can express that love by washing feet. Sometimes you can express it be washing dishes.It works in many ways.

The use of Maundy as the name for today varies in different communions and different locations. The Roman Catholic Church, in its decision to move away from the use of Latin as a result of the Second Vatican Council in the 1960’s now uses the term “Holy Thursday.” That’s the common term in the Methodist Church as well. The Episcopal Church tends to use Maundy in its prayer books. Our church, along with the Presbyterians and Lutherans and a few other mainline churches tend to use both Holy Thursday and Maundy Thursday as interchangeable terms.

I’m not sure which name is best for the day. I like the Idea of reminding ourselves that Jesus made the simple request that we love one another. It seems to be at the core of our faith and at the core of choosing to live in community with one another. I think the name can, however, be a bit “off putting” to folks who aren’t familiar with the religious term. It might also be fading from our society as familiarity with Latin is fading. Now that it is not the language of the Roman mass, it is an uncommon language in High School curriculums. I took two years of Latin in high school. I don’t think it was even an option for our children. I suspect that our grandchildren will be far more fluent in computer languages than ancient languages. The name Maundy might not be the chosen term a few generations from now. I’m OK with that. Things change. Language changes. The name of the day isn’t at the core of its meaning.

I do hope that generations from now people will hear and respond to Jesus invitation to love.

There is another old term for the day that you rarely hear around here. There Thursday (sometimes spelled Sheer), is used throughout Scandinavia. The name may have its root in the Swedish word Skär, an archaic word for wash. In many congregations it is a day of a specific kind of spring cleaning, preparing for the large Easter celebrations that are coming. In some congregations it is the day of changing the colors of the vestments from the purple of Lent to the white of Easter. It also might be a reference to an ancient custom of trimming beards on the day.

I had my beard trimmed last Friday. It seems like this week was just too busy to attend to such mundane chores.

I have, however, been washing my own feet every day all week long.

Whatever you call it, it is a day worth noting. And the reminder to love one another is worthy of our attention.

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From one point of view, the communities in which I have lived have had more similarities than differences. I’ve never lived outside of the United States, I’ve never lived in the south. In fact my four years of school in Chicago and the years we’ve lived in South Dakota are the only times I when I have lived in a state that didn’t have Canada on its northern border. I’ve lived in places with plenty of neighbors who have Scandinavian heritages.

Still, I have noticed many differences in funeral customs and practices over the years in the places that I have lived. Growing up in a small town, I had never attended a funeral that wasn’t held in a church until I had moved to Chicago. In fact, I don’t even know if the funeral director in our town had a chapel. I can’t remember ever being in the office or preparation area in my home town. Everyone knew who the funeral director was. I know where their home was, but when we went to a funeral, it was always in a church. That’s the way we did things in my home town. I remember our pastor saying that it was important that our church was a place for funerals for those who didn’t have churches because those people needed a place. I don’t think that was an exclusive role played by our congregation. There were probably other churches in town who also welcomed those who were not members, but it implied that there were some who wouldn’t do a funeral for someone who didn’t belong.

The earliest death in our family that I can remember is that of my Aunt Florence. She was my great aunt, but she and her husband were close to our family and lived in our town. She died unexpectedly of a heart attack and I remember people being sad and gathering in our home. I can’t remember anything about a funeral service. When I think back, I am a bit surprised that I can’t remember anything about my maternal grandfather’s death or funeral. I can remember Pop, a bit, but nothing about his time of dying. It is possible that we children didn’t attend the service, but we went to church enough that it is also possible that I was there and simply don’t remember it as a distinct event.

There are, of course, a lot of funerals that I remember. As a student, I became one of the primary buglers for military rites in our home town, and I’ve played taps at quite a few funerals over the years, including those for people who were pretty close to my own age. As a pastor, I’ve been the officiant at hundreds. I’ve participated in funeral rites for infants and people who lived past 100 years, and plenty of folks in between. As a member of our local outreach to survivors of suicide, I’ve gone to a few more. I have attended funerals as a chaplain and have a bit of a reputation as a pastor whose church is open and available to those who have no church home. Over the years, I have officiated at plenty of funerals held in funeral homes and chapels and several that were held on ranches and other open country locations. I know the routine of a ranch funeral, and the readings for an empty saddle ceremony. I’ve even flown missing man formation in an airplane for a funeral.

It is common in our community for families to have a “viewing.” It is usually held at a funeral home and the family sits or stands in a room with a casket, often open, with the deceased person dressed and made up to be viewed. Friends and relatives of the mourners come to offer their condolences. The viewing is generally a couple of hours long and often is concluded with a short memorial service. Sometimes the sharing of stories of the one who has died is completely informal. Other times it is part of a memorial service. I’ve often led a brief family service that is intimate and aimed at the closest relatives.

The tradition has its roots in a couple of different traditions. The first is that of a wake. In many cultures, the body of the deceased person was kept at home, or sometimes taken to a funeral home, and it was attended around the clock until it was buried. Family members would sit with the body, share stories, and often food and receive guests and condolences. In some times and places, wakes become elaborate events with a lot of food brought in, no small amount of alcohol consumed, and songs and stories shared around the clock. In other places, wakes are more somber and have long periods of silence with prayers and quiet remembrances.

In Jesus time in the warm climate of the Mideast, burials took place as soon as possible after death occurred. The body was washed and anointed with perfumes or oils, usually by women of the family. It was then placed into a tomb, often a cave or other place. The period of mourning continued after the burial as friends and relatives arrived and offered their condolences. Jesus’ arriving after Lazarus’ death was part of a normal sequence of events in a place where travel was by foot and the body needed to be dealt with before the guests arrived. That tradition survives in many forms to this day. “Sitting Shiva” is the practice of receiving guests during a week-long period of mourning. Comforters are obliged to care for the mourners and provide food during this time.

In the case of Jesus, the arrival of the Sabbath, which began at sundown, prevented the women from washing and attending to the body. Joseph of Arimathea received permission from Pilate to remove Jesus’ body from the cross. He wrapped it in the shroud and placed it in the tomb he had prepared for his own burial and the body was placed in the tomb to await the ritual washing and anointing that would take place at dawn on the day after the Sabbath.

Of course, we know the story. We know that things didn’t follow the expected course. We know about the resurrection. But the mourners, Mary his mother and Mary Magdalene, the disciples and others had a time of waiting and mourning and telling stories and remembering.

On Wednesday of Holy Week, even though Maundy Thursday and Good Friday lie ahead, we remember the family and friends of Jesus in their time of mourning and uncertainty.

Today is not a day of answers or resolution, but a time to sit with the reality of grief and loss. It is also time to care for those who mourn - to feed them - to make sure they drink plenty of water - to offer a tissue - and to not leave them alone. So we gather and sit together and tell the stories. It is the least we can do for each other.

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