Rev. Ted Huffman

Looking for leaders

A year ago, during the first week of Advent, we gathered for the funeral of a young man. He was known to many of us from his participation in camp and his leadership among the youth of our conference. We know his parents. There were many aspects surrounding the tragedy of his death. Part of the depth of loss for us was the sense of what might have been. He was a man of great talent and ability. He had shown great potential for leadership in the church. He was finishing up his undergraduate degree and had spoken of going to seminary to continue his education. Those of us who knew him had felt God’s call in his life and were eagerly anticipating his ministry. As we gathered for his funeral there was a deep sense of the loss of a leader of the church even though he had not yet been ordained, nor had he assumed the role of a church leader.

New ministers are few and far between in this season of the church’s life. We treasure the younger pastors that we have, but we are deeply aware that there are not as many as once was the case and there are not enough to meet the needs of the church. Across the prairies, small town churches are struggling to find leaders. It is unclear whether or not these smaller congregations would be able to afford full time ministry if there were leaders available. The costs of supporting a minister have gone up a great deal. The health insurance premium for a pastor now exceeds the total pay package that we received upon graduation from seminary. Congregations are smaller and have fewer financial resources. It is a hard time for many of our churches.

That sense of uncertainty about leadership for our congregations was a big part of the mood last night as we gathered for a service for one of the elders of our Dakota Association. It will be palpable this morning at his funeral. His years of service have been great and he worked actively as a pastor through the decade of his seventies, and continued to serve as his health allowed to the end of his life at 80 years. As we spoke of his life and his ministry it was clear that there is no one who is ready or able to step up and take his place. It is uncertain who will lead the congregations he pastored. It is uncertain who will assume the role of pastor to the region. He was the person to which hundreds of grieving families have turned to at the time of funerals. He mentored and taught so many of us about the art of providing comfort to grieving families and leading funeral services.

The need has not gone away. There will continue to be deaths. There will continue to be funerals.

As challenging as the current situation is, we know that the times in which we live are not the hardest times in the story of our people. We read of the years of the destruction of the great temple in Jerusalem, of the generations of exile that our people endured. We know of the times of persecution and fear of persecution in the early days of the church and of the sacrifice and deaths of leaders who helped establish our religion. In the history of the church, times when pastors have been educated, equipped and fully supported in their ministries have been rare. The times that we have known in our career as pastors are fairly unique.

Still, it is a worry to come face to face with the reality that stands before the church.

There are plenty of people who are willing to work in urban settings and in congregations that are large and have big budgets. There is no shortage of ones who want the title of pastor along with a salary, a retirement account, vacations, and health insurance. Plush offices and fancy pulpits will not go empty for many years.

But it is different in the small congregations where one or two dozen people gather in buildings that are in need of repair and weekly offerings barely cover the light bill. It is different in communities where the pastor lives many miles from the nearest colleague and there is no one to fill in when illness occurs. It is different in places where there is not enough money to allow for the purchase of new vehicles, but the pastor is still required to drive hundreds of miles to make hospital calls and visit parishioners who live on backroads and byways. It is different to be the sole pastor in a large area where the church isn’t the only struggling institution. Schools too are trying to find acceptable leadership and one would think twice before enrolling one’s children.

So as we celebrate the legacy of service and the great gifts of leadership of one pastor, we wonder about leadership for the next generation of the church. We know that there are some big gaps left in our institution. We know that there are some difficult times ahead.

Our faith teaches us that God will provide the leadership we need - often from unexpected places. It is likely that the ideas we have and the places we will look for leadership may leave us short-handed. It is likely that we have not yet thought of the right solution for the leadership problem of the church in rural and isolated locations.

I’m fairly certain that in the short term there will be a need for some of us to leave the comfort of our homes and congregations to provide occasional services for our neighbors. This is only a partial solution and will provide a kind of “hit and miss” ministry, but it could well be part of the process. We already have been helping with hospital visits and support of families for decades.

We will pray for the leaders that God will provide. We will look in new places and come up with new strategies. Even more, we will expected surprises along the way. When we don’t know the answers, we learn to search diligently and open ourselves to the unexpected.

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Advent begins

I am probably busy every year, but it seems like I am especially busy this year. Yesterday was a full day with a funeral in the morning and decorating the church in the afternoon. Today after worship we will go to Eagle Butte to attend a memorial and funeral tonight and tomorrow. When we get back it is newsletter week. I have to prepare for a concert on Saturday evening and I am narrator for another on Sunday afternoon. In the meantime, we have a lot of physical setup that needs to be done at the church. We need to get the newsletter out this week and there are reports to prepare for meetings and people to visit and a host of other undone tasks. My desk at home and my desk at work are mazes of papers that need to be sorted, many of which need to simply be thrown in the wastebasket.

In short it is typical for my life. It isn’t that I am a disorganized person, though we all could be helped with a bit more organization. It is that I have a long-standing habit of tackling more than I am able to accomplish.

Today, however, is the start of a new year in the Christian calendar. We begin Advent with a reminder of the expectations of the people who lived in the time of Jesus. Our people have had visions of a new and brighter future that we have carried for thousands of years. We know that God is near, and we often wonder what the world would be like if it was more directed by God’s will than by our own limited human vision. We have read the promises of the prophets and we know that Gods promises are fulfilled in God’s time not our own. We understand that our human relationship with God plays out over many generations and yet we like to think of ours as a pivotal and most important time. We’d like to be the hinge on which history turns.

In the midst of the busy nature of our lives, in the midst of our sometimes-unrealistic anticipation, Advent comes as a gift each year.

We are asked to simply wait.

We are invited to practice patience.

We can see the problems of the world. The news headlines are filled with disasters and diseases and famines and refugees and violence and injustice. Too often we think that we need to dive in and fix all of the problems. Faithful work is required and we are allowed to participate, but we don’t have the ability to fix all of the world’s problems. Sometimes we have to trust God.

Sometimes we need to wait.

For me the art of patience has been an acquired skill. I believe that I am more patient than I was when I was younger. I think that I have learned to take a slightly longer view of progress and understand that not everything that is good can happen on my time schedule.

I still need the season of Advent to teach me more, however. I need to be reminded that there is virtue in watching and praying and preparing.

One of the paradoxes of a life of faith is that God’s promise is both about the future and about the present. One of my teachers was fond of saying “The not yet already is.” We are called to live as participants in God’s new order even while the old order holds sway. We are called to live with peace and justice in a violent and unjust world. While we wait for the complete revelation of God’s way, we are called to live into the new order.

The challenges of living as those who belong to the future are multiple and complex. There are times when others misunderstand our ways. There are those who are threatened by our insistent on justice and our sharing with those who are less fortunate. There are plenty of good folks who just don’t understand. The present world suggests a life of fear. God invites us to lay aside our fears and live in anticipation.

I remember being a small child and thinking that the four weeks of Advent stretched on interminably. I was longing for Christmas with its presents and food and family time. It seemed as if Christmas would never come. These days it seems as if we are in a headlong rush and there is no way to slow things down to a reasonable pace. Before we know it Christmas will have come and gone and we’ll blaze through Epiphany and into Lent.

There are, however, in the memories of my childhood, clues to a better way to manage time. To the extent that I am able to remember and recover some of that child-like anticipation and wonder I will experience a slowing of time. There will be time to simply wait and wonder. Not every moment of Advent needs to be scheduled. There is plenty of time if we take the time.

And Christmas - all twelve glorious days of the season - will be a wonder this year. We will put the hustle and bustle of preparation behind ourselves and take time to simply be together. We’ll lay aside the rushed schedule and focus on developing relationships with others in our community. We’ll make time for sacred conversation and deep sharing. I resolve to celebrate every moment of Christmas and be in no rush to take down decorations and move on. After all we have the season of Epiphany to celebrate Christ’s presence even more.

That, however, lies in the future. Today our Advent journey begins. Four Sundays and their attendant weeks to get our hearts ready for the promised one. A season to lay aside all of the trappings of preparing spaces and decorating homes, or at least to get our priorities straight and remind ourselves that preparing ourselves is far more important than preparing spaces.

Our journey has begun. And a journey it will be.

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My Black Friday report

We had a lovely day yesterday. We didn’t get up particularly early. We didn’t wait in line at all during the day. We didn’t experience any pushing or shoving. We didn’t find we had to race and rush to accomplish our goals. We didn’t overextend our credit cards. We had a leisurely lunch in an uncrowded place. We had a calm dinner with pleasant conversation. There was very little that was black about the day for us. The sun was bright and shining even though the temperatures were a bit cold compared to recent weeks around here. It was pleasant to venture outdoors.

We didn’t watch any television, so we weren’t influenced by stories of frenzied shoppers and we weren’t annoyed by the empty rantings of candidates. We took all of the advertisements out of the newspaper and put them into the recycling bin, so there wasn’t much to look at there and it just took a few minutes to scan the headlines and read an article or two.

It was a nice day. I hope it felt that way for others.

I spent a couple of hours in the middle of the day working on the service for a funeral today. I read the obituary of a dear friend who died last week and set in motions plans to attend his funeral. I spoke on the phone with a few friends and made a few arrangements for church activities this weekend. Compared to most days, it was relaxed and comfortable.

The arrangement of days and the schedule of a pastor means that there are rarely times the we take more than one day off each week. The concept of weekend doesn’t really apply in our profession because Saturday is much about preparing for Sunday and Sunday is about leading worship and being with people. I sometimes comment to folks that Thanksgiving weekend is the only three day weekend in our calendar. But, of course, the realities of life mean that taking three days off for Thanksgiving works some years and doesn’t work other years. I’m not meaning to complain. We have a good life. But I am aware that it is different from the lives of some of the people that I serve.

I’m sure that there are plenty of articles about why people behave the way that they do on Black Friday. I’m sure that there are some who enjoy the hustle and bustle and the feeling that they found a special bargain. The sense of going after a limited supply of very special products at very special prices gives a sensation that one is unique and different from others. Even the online stores try to create a climate of scarcity by displaying the number of remaining items in inventory, making shoppers think that if they don’t act quickly they might miss the product or the price.

And I know that shopping is a bigger part of holiday preparation for some than it is for us. We like to give presents to family and friends and we like to have nice things to give, but it definitely isn’t our highest holiday preparation priority. If we don’t find the perfect present for the holidays, we might do better at a birthday or some other time during the year.

For us, the gift of time is a precious and limited item. I was able to spend most of two days with my wife and sister. We talked and listened. We got on the computer and Skyped with our daughter and son in law and with our son and his family. We read a few pages in our books. We took time for one another. It was a luxury that was delightful - a rare kind of day for us. Too often I rise early and rush through my chores to get to work and accomplish a list of tasks working toward a deadline. I know that deadlines are important to accomplishing goals. I know that the flow of people’s lives means that there are things that need to be done on a schedule. I know that there are expectations that can turn into pressures. So it is nice to have a couple of days of rest and relaxation.

In the midst of the holiday we did receive a phone call from a telemarketer. It certainly made me sad to think of a low-paid person spending the day talking to people who didn’t want to be talking, many of whom were rude or even verbally abusive on the phone. I doubt if it was a good time for sales for the marketer. I know that the person had many other things she would have liked to be doing. There are people who get caught up doing bad jobs in order to survive.

The people who pick up the garbage probably had an extra long day yesterday with all of the holiday trans - that after having to do double duty earlier in the week in order to take Thursday off. But at least they got Thursday off. There were folks in the retail trade for whom there were no days off this week.

We are interesting creatures. i’m not sure I know why we behave the way that we do. There are probably astute psychologists who can explain all of this. Some of them work for the large retail outlets and advise them on how to create the excitement for holiday shopping. Whatever it is that attracts the big crowds isn’t very appealing to me.

For some people appearing as winners is important. They develop strategies to get the best bargains and make plans to organize their Black Friday forays into the marketplace so that they get the best bargains and edge out the competition for limited numbers of items. They will be able to brag about the bargains that they have scored for weeks.

It all works out pretty well. Some of the strategic shoppers got what they wanted at a price that makes them happy. Meanwhile, I feel like a winner without even having entered the contest.

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Remembering our mistakes

I am frequently asked about our United Church of Christ. There are many who are not familiar with the history of our denomination of Christians, with roots in Congregational Christian, Evangelical and Reformed churches. Sometimes I answer with a brief history lesson, and mention Thanksgiving and the remembrance of the Pilgrims who established Plymouth Colony and eventually, along with Puritans from England, formed the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. We have denominational resources that tout our history, mentioning pastor John Robinson, urging people to keep their hearts open preaching, “God has yet more light and truth to break forth out of his holy Word.” We tell of the spread of Congregationalism throughout New England, carrying with it the seeds of democracy. Early Congregationalists sought to create a model of a just society lived int he presence of God. John Winthrop preached that “we shall be as a city on a hill . . . the eyes of all people upon us.”

Thanksgiving is a good time to remember that history as our denomination had a role in the establishment of the holiday as a national time for giving thanks.

There are other sides to our story that we are less eager to tell. We were, in those days, a gathering of fundamentalists. The Puritans, who sought to reform the Church of England from within, moving is more and more distant from its Roman Catholic roots and distinguishing it theologically from the leadership of the Pope, were, in large part, a group of educated thinkers who argued intently, with other Christians and within their own group, about theology. They were concerned with having the right beliefs. They also sought to promote common belief and interpretation of scripture. In the process, our spiritual forebears became intolerant of those whose ideas didn’t conform.

Its a bit hard to find the story of Mary Dyer in church publicity. Mary was born Marie Barrett in England around 1611. There aren’t many records of her early life, but she was married in London in 1633 to William Dyer. They were Puritans and when the king increased pressure on the Puritans, they joined thousands of others and left to go to New England. Mary and William arrived in Boston in 1635 and joined the Boston Church there. Almost as soon as they arrived, they got caught up in a church fight, known as the Antinomian Controversy, a theological split within the church. The fight grew so intense that many settlers left Massachusetts to establish a new colony on Aquidneck Island, later known as Rhode Island, in Narraganset Bay.

Before leaving Boston, Mary had given birth to a severely deformed infant that was stillborn. The infant was buried secretly. Authorities found of the birth and charged that it was evidence of Mary and William’s theological convictions - a sign that they were wrong in their beliefs and faith. Her religious opinions were called “monstrous.”

Under pressure from such strict and judgmental authorities, Mary returned to England in 1651, where she stayed for five years and became involved in the Quaker group that had been established by George Fox several years earlier.

Back in Massachusetts, the Puritans considered the Quakers to be among the most heinous of heretics.They enacted laws banning the belief from their colony and imposing strict punishments on those who adhered to those beliefs. Our forebears in the church weren’t known for tolerance.

After five years away, Mary returned to Boston where she was arrested and banished. However, she defied her banishment order, defending her beliefs and arguing for the repeal of the ant-Quaker laws. In 1659 she was sent to the gallows. The rope was around her neck when she received a reprieve. She refused to accept the terms of the reprieve, however, and returned to Boston the following year. She was hanged, becoming the third of four Quaker martyrs.

This is part of the history of my church. Our fundamentalism and refusal to show reasonable tolerance for differences of belief resulted in violence and death. Like I have said, we’re not proud of this history and we don’t often tell the story.

I pray, however, that we have learned from the mistakes of our past.

The argument that stemmed the violence, traditionally called the Antinomian Controversy, was an argument over morality. On one side of the argument Boston minister John Wilson spoke of “justification by sanctification.” Christians, he claimed, need to form a covenant of works, holding themselves to the highest moral standards. Their personal piety became the avenue to salvation. On the other side of the argument, a newer pastor called to the church, John Cotton, argued that God’s will was inevitable. Christians are caught up in a covenant of grace and receive salvation as a gift of God. The parishioners began to choose sides. Anne Hutchinson was a strong supporter of Cotton’s side of the argument and a good friend of Mary Dyer. Hutchinson herself was tried for slandering the minister Wilson. Hutchinson held theological gatherings in her home and continued to work for the support of Cotton. The story of the dissension and disagreement within the church is far more complex, with lots of other strong personalities, but the result was a series of hearings before the leaders of the church, a day that was intended to be a day of fasting and prayer for unity that involved competing sermons and further division within the church.

We took our theological arguments seriously in those days and the controversy continued to grow until banishments, weapons seizures, and fines were imposed. Eventually, the community split with many leaving Massachusetts.

I sometimes say it is the fundamentalism in our own history that makes us so wary of contemporary fundamentalists. We have seen the violence that can emerge from the failure to tolerate differences. Today, when we declare “No matter who you are, or where you are on life’s journey, you are welcome here!” in every worship service, we are making a public statement to our guests to be sure. We are also reminding ourselves of the mistakes of our past and renewing our dedication not to repeat them.

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Thanksgiving, 2015

Over the years I have heard a lot of Thanksgiving sermons. Thanksgiving is one of the holidays where churches find it a bit easier to get along with each other. Community services are common throughout the United States and they are good occasions for different congregations to remind ourselves that we have far more in common than the relatively few differences that divide us. The theme of thanksgiving to God reaches not only across denominations of Christians, but across the lines of different faiths as well. Jews and Buddhists and Hindus and Muslims and practitioners of many other religions can all agree that giving thanks to our Creator is a good practice. I celebrate our abilities to join together and share.

I do have to admit, however, that the messages delivered at community thanksgiving services often are pretty generic and somewhat empty of new ideas.

You know the major themes:

Thanksgiving should be a lifestyle, not just one day.
Expressing gratitude will make you happier and healthier.
The purpose of every human life is to say thanks.
Our heritage is filled with thankful people.
Even in our most difficult moments, there is much for which to be thankful.

Given that most community services are a bit larger than the average congregation’s services, with a bigger choir and a bit more pomp and ceremony, the average preacher is bound to go on and on a bit. It isn’t at all uncommon for the sermon to cover all of the above themes with a significant amount of repetition.

Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy community services. I attend as often as possible. I plan holiday travel around the services. I’ve peached at my share of them. I make sure that our congregation extends invitations to host on a regular basis.

But I don’t anticipate innovative preaching. That will have to wait for another venue and time.

If you want Thanksgiving creativity, read the “How to cook a turkey” contest section of our local newspaper. Elementary students color pictures of turkeys and write instructions on how to cook them. They write things like this: “first go to the store go to the chicken ally. Find the turkey. then go home. take all the bad stuff out.” Here’s another example: “Step 1: Buy a turkey. Step 2: Put it in the oven. Step 3: 20 minutes. Sept 4: 50 degrees. Step 5: Let juoge eat it.”

Elementary children seem to be more creative and individualized than thanksgiving preachers.

Knowing that I can’t provide reading that is more creative or entertaining than you’ll find in the newspaper, I thought I might just tell a bit of the story of the first thanksgiving. It all started about six years before the Pilgrims from England landed in Plymouth, Massachusetts. Thomas Hunt, another Englishman kidnapped a man named Tisquantum from his village, Patuxet, which was part of a group of villages known as the Wampanoag confederation. He took Tisquantum and around two dozen other kidnapped Wampanoag to Spain, where he tried to sell them into slavery. This brought quite a bit of negative attention to Hunt. People in the church protested and demanded the release of the slaves. Catholic friars helped Tisquantum to get to England and he finally found a means to go back to his home in America. The English had trouble pronouncing his name an often referred to him as “Squanto.”

During his absence, an epidemic swept across New England. The source and type of the disease is not fully known, but some say it started with a shipwreck of French sailors on Cape Cod. It may have been smallpox. It may have been a form of viral hepatitis.

Tisquantum was the only one of the original two dozen slaves to make it back to his home continent. Then, when he finally made his way back to his village, he discovered he was its only survivor.

That’s the scene into which the Pilgrims bumbled when the Mayflower arrived. Not only was their first encounter with the indigenous people of North America eased by the fact that the native they met could already speak English, he happened to have an entire empty village available for rent. OK they didn’t really rent the village, but they occupied an established village. The land was cleared. They called it divine providence. The graveyard of Tisquantum’s people became Plymouth Colony.

Meanwhile, other nearby villages, also badly hit with 75% or higher losses, were so badly stricken that their rivals, the Narragansett, who hadn’t suffered from the disease, became dominant in the region. The few surviving Wampanoag were pretty much devastated. They didn’t like the Narragansett. They didn’t trust the English. And whey were suspicious of Tisquantum. Massasoit, one of the survivors, had placed Tisquantum under house arrest before the Pilgrims showed up.

Once the Pilgrims showed up, in December 1620, they promptly started to starve to death. 45 of the 102 immigrants died that first winter. In May, they finally made their first formal contact with the natives. Massasoit brought Tisquantum to serve as translator. They were apprehensive about these settlers, but it was clear that they needed help. They weren’t going to make it without a dose of common sense and a few survival skills. Furthermore, Massasoit needed protection from the Narragansett. A rather uneasy alliance was forged. Tisquantum moved in with the Pilgrims. The house arrest deal with Massasoit wasn’t working out all that well for him in the first place. He taught them a few basic serval skills. They made it through a second winter with fewer fatalities. A feast was held to celebrate. Massasoit showed up with some ninety men, most of them with weapons. The Pilgrim militia responded by marching around and firing their guns in the air in a manner intended to convey menace. Gratified, both sides sat down, ate a lot of food and complained about the Narragansett.

It isn’t exactly the scene we picture. The Pilgrims weren’t dressed in formal black attire. They didn’t have buckles on their shoes. There were probably fowl of some kind served at the meal, though probably not turkeys. There was likely venison and other game meat. None of the Wampanoag wore the regalia of plains tribes.

Still, it was the beginning of a noble tradition. We’ll celebrate it again today.

If you’d like a good read about the adventures of the Pilgrims, I recommend “The Wordy Shipmates” by Sarah Vowell or “1491: New Revelations of the Americas Before Columbus” by Charles Mann.

Happy Thanksgiving!

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Newspapers and stickers

When I was growing up we always received a daily newspaper. Our town was too small to have more than a weekly newspaper, so the paper we received was from a larger city 80 miles to the east. We’d read the comics and sometimes scan the headlines. There would be occasional school assignments that sent us to the newspaper for specific articles. And, of course, newspaper was useful for starting fires, sopping up puppies’ “mistakes,” protecting floors from painting projects, collecting the seeds when carving pumpkins, and a host of other household chores. A sheet of newspaper and a little vinegar can make windows sparkle. My first venture into the newspaper business was a four-year stint as a delivery boy. The way the system worked, I purchased the papers from the publisher and resold them to my customers. I had to make collections every month and pay for my papers. I had to allow for the occasional paper that was lost or damaged and I had to keep my customers happy by delivering the papers before they got up in the morning. The franchise was passed down to my little brothers when I found other jobs in my teenage years.

In college, I wrote a bit for our college paper and, for a little over a year, was editor and writer for an alternative college weekly newsletter. I learned about deadlines and a bit about reporting. I didn’t receive a daily newspaper in those years, but since my work study job was opening the library each morning, I had access to the daily paper as I put the copies on the racks in the reading room. I also had a steady supply of newspaper when needed as I took the old copies off of the racks and put them into the garbage. I had a small role in moving our library into paper recycling and used my old newspaper boy skills to bundle stacks of newsprint for recycling.

When we got married we still weren’t newspaper subscribers, but often would tread ourselves to a copy of the Sunday paper from the newsstand. When we moved to Chicago the Sunday Tribune became a bit of a habit, the walk to and from the newsstand just the right length for a Sunday morning. I worked on seminary publications and for a while ran a small newsletter at the seminary and another at the health clinic where I interned.

It wasn’t long after we had completed our seminary education and become settled in our first parish that we subscribed to a daily newspaper as well as the weekly paper of our small town. We also started a monthly newsletter in our parish. From that time on we have always held a subscription to a weekly paper and have produced a monthly church newsletter. When we were called to a congregation in Boise Idaho, we switched papers and after a few years there I began working for a small publisher of two weekly small town newspapers. As is often the case with part-time jobs, this one swelled and after the sudden death of the publisher I became publisher of both papers for a short time until they could be sold to new owners. I make the proposals and supervised the purchase of the first computers and software for those small newspapers and learned a lot about managing subscriber databases, printing labels, and computerized page layout.

So I know a little bit about the newspaper business.

I know that as annoying as are the advertising stickers our paper puts across the headlines on the paper - you know the ones that will tear the page when you remove them if you aren’t careful - and as annoying as the full screen popup ads that block your view of the online version - newspapers exist first of all to sell advertisements. It isn’t as simple as they don’t care about their subscribers, but the primary revenue source that makes or breaks the success of a newspaper is not subscriptions. To simplify a more complex process. Subscribers count because the amount you can charge for advertising is based on the number of papers you distribute. Subscribers enable and pay for distribution of the paper. They are a necessary operating cost. As such you have to sell newspapers to sell advertising. So a newspaper has to keep subscribers. In order to keep subscribers, the paper has to print news. If there is nothing to attract readers, they will loose readers which means losing ad revenue. Newspaper reporting and writing is driven by the advertising market. It works quite a bit differently in online publishing and I’m no expert on how those numbers work.

The bottom line is that each sticker put on the front of my newspaper is a sign that advertising is more important than news to the paper’s publisher. Since news is more important than advertising to me, I have steadfastly boycotted the businesses that are advertised by stickers on the newspaper. This silent protest, even the one exception I made to participate in a local toxic waste cleanup day, has gone unnoticed by the newspaper and its advertisers and has had no effect on the practice.

It has, however, given me an attitude about stickers.

I now not only can rant on and on about the stickers on the paper, but also about stickers on lots of other items. A few weeks ago I purchased a new wide blade for finishing sheetrock. There was a barcode label on the blade to ease checkout at the store. That sticker could not be peeled from the blade with my fingernails. I managed to get it off with a razor blade, but it left adhesive marring the surface of the tool. Soap and water would not remove the adhesive. Alcohol would not remove the adhesive. I had to use an industrial solvent to get the blade clean enough to use the tool. In my temper tantrum I railed against the sticker.

I have no idea why I got mad at the sticker instead of the person who made the decision to put the sticker on the working blade of the tool when it would have served the same function on the handle without interfering in the use of the tool.

So here is the bottom line for the business folks. Yes, stickers work. They get my attention. And if you can endure by diatribes and temper tantrums, go ahead and use your stupid stickers. It seems to boost the sale of industrial solvents.

In the meantime, I'm seriously considering dropping daily delivery of the newspaper. I'm back to the comics being the only thing I read these days.

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Grief and hope

“But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers and sisters, about those who have died, so that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope.”

—1 Thessalonians 4:13

I belong to a group of people who, for the past six weeks or so, have been having an ongoing discussion of how hope appears from a variety of different perspectives. We have become familiar with one another as we have shared our ideas and had our ideas expanded by our conversations with one another.

It is a good thing to think about hope - to understand that it has been, for our people, a concept far more complex than just getting one’s way or having one’s wishes come true. Hope does involve positive outcomes, but often it is born of pain or grief and involves hard work and enduring difficult experiences.

this week I have been pondering the relationship between hope and grief. As a pastor, I have been privileged to be invited into the homes of grieving people and into the places where they are working out the meaning of life in the face of devastating loss. I have officiated at between 10 and 25 funerals per year for the past 37 years. That adds up to a lot of tears and a lot of different and unique situations. You might think that this experience might lead me to become an expert on grief, but I don’t know if that is true. I have learned not to fear grief. I have learned that one does not get over grief, but rather gets through it. Grief changes those who have experienced it and the change is permanent.

I also know that each journey through grief is unique and different.

So people grieve in different ways.

The writer of the Letter to the Thessalonians states that grief is different for those who have hope than for those who do not. It makes sense that this might be true.

Perhaps I have never been in a situation of grief with no hope. I have never been in a situation of active warfare where the devastation rains from the sky and the deaths are so frequent that one has no expectation that one will survive. I have never been a member of a group singled out for genocide where the expectation of some is the annihilation of others. I have not yet been in a place of immediate expectation of my own immanent death.

The people with whom I have been privileged have been in situations where hope is revealed fairly early in the grieving process. I remember bringing the news of the death of a son to a mother who has immediately so devastated that she collapsed onto the floor in tears and there was no consoling her for some time. She didn’t want to talk to me and she didn’t want me offer her comfort in any what that I knew. Another time I stood by helplessly as an elder brother literally collapsed over the body of his younger brother who had died. I wondered how we would separate the living one from the one who had died. In both cases the grief was intense, overwhelming, undeniable, and, for a while unquenchable.

But those moments of awful devastation did not last forever. They were not the end of the story. Those individuals do not feel the same today as they did on that day. In both cases the change came in the form of the arrival of another caring person, a family member, a friend, who at first simply shared the space with the one overwhelmed. I was able to offer a bit of comfort, perhaps only in the form of an offered tissue or information about where we could find a place to sit and talk. Then, little by little, a tiny sense of normalcy returned. A cup of water was offered, a memory was shared, a small decision was reached. Life went on.

I don’t know if I have ever experienced grief with no hope.

I think of the words of the letter often. I read them at nearly ever funeral where i am asked to speak.

As I have walked through seasons of grief in my own life, I have wondered about hope. Even in the midst of intense grief when multiple losses pile up one upon another, I don’t think I have journeyed to the depths of despair that I have witnessed in others. I can’t speak to their experiences, because I do not know them from the inside. But I think that I have always had he luxury, or privilege, or serendipity of having some small amount of hope in my life.

One of my favorite passages of scripture is the great recitation of the faith of our ancestors in the 11th chapter of the Letter to the Hebrews. It tells of the many generations of faith in which our people took risks, endured hardships, gave of themselves, worked hard, set forth on incredible journeys and adventures, lived and died. It describes a legacy of faithful people who have been willing to act on their faith. The recitation is so meaningful to those of us who are familiar with the scriptures because it is a summary of stories that appear elsewhere in scripture. These are stories that we have known and with which we have wrestled for meaning. And here they are, almost in a list, recalling the generations of faith and the stories upon which our faith and our stories are based. The writer of Hebrews calls this the “great cloud of witnesses.”

The introduction to this great recitation says, “No faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” (Hebrews 11:1) In a simple sentence faith and hope are linked together and we are reminded that there is more to this great universe than that which is directly observable.

Perhaps that is what I discover when I am with those who grieve. I am always aware that there is more going on than what I can observe with my eyes. There is more to the story than the moment I am witnessing. Occasionally I am able to share that simple fact with those who are grieving: “This isn’t the end.” “Love never dies.” Sometimes those words can be the seeds of hope so that we do not grieve as those who have no hope.

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Remembering Norman

Norman
There are teachers who have taught me through speaking. I have heard some very engaging and even life-changing lectures over the years. I have been present when it seemed as if the teacher was speaking directly to me alone only to find that there was a classroom of students who were moved and touched by the lecture. There are teachers who have taught me by writing books. I often pull a familiar book from my shelves and it is like greeting an old friend. Some authors are people whom I have never met and yet they are so real in terms of their impact on my life. I know I am a better person for having read their words and it follows that there are many others who also have been shaped by their writing.

In my life there have been a few great teachers whose lessons came from the core of their being. It wasn’t what they said, what they wrote, or even what they did as much as who they were.

My first reaction upon hearing of the death of Rev. Norman Blue Coat is that we have lost a great teacher. That is only partially true, however, because the lessons he has taught remain and can still be learned for those who have the willingness to learn. Norman’s body may have worn out. The effects of the cancer may have become too toxic for more days in our way of counting time. There is, however, no doubt in my mind that his presence and his influence is still very much present in so many lives that his lessons will continue. I know I will be telling his story for the rest of my life.

I remember his ordination. He, Hampton Andrews and Mike Kills Pretty Enemy were ordained in a joint service in Pierre. There were lots of accolades, a few gifts exchanged, and plenty of conference pomp and ceremony. It was evident, however, that what we were doing was acknowledging a truth that had existed long before we got around to the ceremony. No one who had ever been with Norman as he served his congregations, or stood with the small crowd gathered at a gravesite on a windswept hillside, or listened to one of his prayers ever doubted that Norman was a minister. None of us who were present for the laying on of hands had any illusions that we somehow held the power to make anything happen. God called those three elders to be ministers and we were simply acknowledging what was already a truth.

Norman understood what it means to live with his people. The people he was called to serve have no high salaries, luxurious ways of life, opulent parsonages, or special benefits for their ministers. They are good hearted and generous, but a life of service in their midst is a life of poverty by the standards of the world. Norman was willing to patiently work on aging and broken vehicles, drive children and grandchildren and great grandchildren to school every day, scrounge for enough coats and mittens to keep everyone warm and be careful in the management of resources to assure that there was enough food for everyone who showed up. There was always room for one more at the table and a space for another to sleep when necessary. Norman never made any efforts to separate himself from his people. Even after being awarded honors and distinctions he never behaved as if he had any position or privilege. You’d find him in the back row when he deserved to sit at the head table.

Norman, better than most of my colleagues, understood grief. He officiated at a lot more funerals than most of us. Elders, children, teens, tragedies, sudden and traumatic losses, lingering illnesses. Death is no stranger on the Reservation and Norman was no stranger to death. If a funeral took several days, Norman invested the time. In the weeks when they stacked up and there were too many to attend, Norman went from one to the next. For those of us who were honored to occasionally attend a service, there was always Norman’s warm greeting and hug. His smile was reassuring even in a time of loss. On first view, you might not notice how much Norman was in charge. He was quiet and preferred to work behind the scenes, speaking to elders and pastors inviting them to say a few words here or there, lining up the order of events in his mind. Then, when the service started, you paid attention because Norman was introducing people and asking them to speak. He didn’t so much ask you to speak as he told you that is what would happen. And when he introduced you it felt as if you have been given a huge honor. People didn’t say, “no” to Norman very often. He didn’t ask for much.

I’ve attended a lot of funerals. I’ve officiated at quite a few. No one ever got the graveside ceremony better than Norman. He had his pocket sized book of worship. He would take it out and open it. He used the words that are on the pages, but he didn’t need to read them. They were in his heart. It wasn’t so much a sense of the mental exercise of memorization, but rather a deep, intimacy born of use and repetition. He had said the words so often that they were no longer external. The were a part of his identity. He knew what was important and how to bring closure in the midst of the deep pain of grief. Then, slowly, one step at a time, you go on.

firewood
I never saw him rush or panic. I’ve worked side by side and shoulder to shoulder with him. I know he was a hard worker and could accomplish a lot, but he had no need to move quickly or inefficiently.

The lesson he taught with which I struggle the most, yet the one I most hope to learn is humility. He was simply at home being himself with no need for recognition or accolade. He was happy to simply be present and to listen. I will always think of him as I struggle to learn this difficult life lesson.

The Lakota phrase Mitakuye Oyasin is more of prayer than it is an expression of a worldview. Roughly translated, “all are related,” it speaks of the deep interconnected of all living things. It is true. Norman is forever a part of my life. I pray for those moments when I allow him to shine.

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Celebrate mystery

I have worked hard at crafting my skills as a story teller. I have taken classes, attended workshops, read books and practiced over and over again. I believe that storytelling is an essential skill for a preacher. We need to be able to tell the stories of our people in ways that are engaging, while at the same time accurate. The truth of the story is often at a deeper level than the mere repetition of the words. Meanings emerge from the way the words are spoken as much as from what is said. Oral language is significantly different from written language. There are plenty of excellent scholars and religious thinkers that have the capacity to bore their audiences to the point of not listening. I have resolved to develop a different style of presentation.

As a storyteller, however, I am aware that my own experiences and thoughts become woven into my narrative. I am looking for patterns, connecting events and activities, trying to make each story fit into the shape of beginning, middle and end. Real life, however, isn’t always that neat. Sometimes things occur and the purpose isn’t clear. Sometimes the order of events seems to be almost random from the perspective of meaning. But all humans hunger to make sense out of the randomness of life. If we can tell the story, if we can explain the events, then our lives seem to us to be less haphazard.

One of the temptations for a storyteller is to rush towards a conclusion. When telling the story of a tragedy, I feel a compulsion to look for the silver lining in the cloud. I want to rush forward towards a conclusion that has a positive impact on my hearers. Real life, however, is never quite that simple. Yes, good things do come out of tragic circumstances, but too often in the midst of tragedy, we are unable to see the positive side of the situation. It can take years for us to understand fully the impact of a tragedy. Grief doesn’t pass quickly enough to be reported in a sermon. Not all stories reach their conclusion in less than 20 minutes.

Occasionally, I am courageous to leave the congregation hanging - to simply state that the story is not yet ended, that there is more that we need to say, but today isn’t the day for the conclusion. That is, however, rare for me. I like to have the loose ends tied up and the congregation at a comfortable place when we leave the sanctuary for coffee hour.

I am not positive, but it seems to me that the challenge for a teller of stories in our generation is a bit more challenging than it has been in some times for our people. Our people are far less comfortable with mystery than once was the case. In our scientific age, se somehow have convinced ourselves that our minds are capable of understanding everything. Instead of a reality to be respected, mystery has become a problem to be solved. We don’t want to simply life with mystery - we want answers.

In some of its more fundamentalist forms, religion is used to beat back mystery rather than engage in it. Preachers claim to have all of the answers, to be able to explain every thing in the universe. They speak of Biblical narratives as if they are science textbooks, create scenarios in which their notion of the timing of creation trumps the explanations of scholars and scientists, and claim authority to shape the narrative of the wider community to their own ends. In such communities, uncertainty is viewed as a lack of faith.

In other corners of our community there are those who seek only answers that can be mastered in terms of effectiveness: profits, results, spreadsheets. If there is plenty of money it must be successful - or worse yet, moral.

Neither of these two perspectives have much room for mystery.

Mystery, however, is at the heart of the human experience. And it is at the core of our religious faith. Despite all of the studies, autopsies, and other explorations, we don’t know the full meanings of human death. We don’t know what the experience of dying is like. We don’t know what lies beyond. We can speculate. We can try to draw conclusions for those who have had near death experiences. We can search the literature of pervious generations for their thoughts and ideas.

The expanse of the universe is unknown. Even if we did develop just the right telescopes to view the edges of the universe, even if we were to develop the right language to describe such gigantic distances, the reality remains that there is much inside of the universe that is unknown. Dark matter and dark energy appear to be realities that cannot be seen. In terms of traditional scientific observation, we do not possess the ability to study things that cannot be observed. We might question the existence of things that cannot be observed, but their effects on those things that can be observed is undeniable.

There is much in this world that cannot be wrapped up in neat stories with compact endings. Mystery abounds.

I want to celebrate that mystery, not explain it. I am as intrigued by scientific exploration as are others. I celebrate new discoveries and new ways of understanding dimensions of the universe and our role in it that were unknown to previous generations. These explorations, however, are as driven by mystery as they are by strident application of particular techniques and principles. The quest to understand lies deep within us and it responds to the reality of mystery in surprising and wonderful ways.

As much as we would like to believe otherwise, we are not the authors of our own stories. Events which are beyond our control influence and shape our lives narratives. There is much mystery in each human story and most stories don't come to neat conclusions, even for the storytellers.

So let us celebrate the mystery and accept unending stories. It may be that in doing so we open our lives to deeper meanings and truth than we had previously known.

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Contemplation

We in the church have thousands of years of contemplative traditions. Early in the history of the Christian church, religious leaders chose to separate themselves from the hustle and bustle of everyday life and go out to lonely places to think and pray. In the third century, hermits, ascetics and monks lived in the Scetes desert of Egypt. The Apophthegmata Patrum is a collection of writings of those early monks and nuns. Their lives in the desert became the model for subsequent generations of faithful people who withdrew from society for the purpose of thinking deeply, praying, and connecting with God.

There is something about the monastic life that is appealing to me. I’ve read some of the books by Thomas Merton, the Trappist Monk. The Abbey of Gethsemane, where Merton spent half of his life, seemed like an ideal place for one who wants to invest time and energy in thinking about God. The wooded hills of Kentucky are a beautiful surrounding filled with peace and nature and far away from the urban noise and pressures of modern life.

Intrigued and interested in monastic life, I’ve never even come close to actually taking that step. I’ve been on a few retreats, but never even spent a full week in such a setting. Knowing that as a husband and father I have responsibilities beyond myself makes the process of simply moving off to an isolated location just for the purpose of peace and quiet seem selfish. More importantly, I have discovered many Christian leaders who have found depth of meaning and a close relationship with God in the midst of life.

Influential in the way that i think of a life of service has been Henri Nouwen, a Dutch Catholic priest. I discovered Nouwen through an unusual connection. In seminary I studied the work of Anton Boisen, a theologian who suffered from major mental illness and who wrote about the experience of his psychotic episodes in the light of his relationship with God. Through my studies of Boisen, I discovered that Nouwen had been greatly influenced by his work. Nouwen invested nearly two decades of his life as a teacher at the University of Notre Dame, Yale Divinity School and Harvard Divinity School. Then, he decided to follow a new direction and went to work with Mentally and physically handicapped people at the L’Arche Daybreak community in Richmond Hill, Ontario.

Noun found a way to live as a contemplative - a person who thinks deeply - in the midst of everyday life. Mostly living in urban areas, he found sufficient peace and quiet to think and write about the deeper aspects of life.

All forms of contemplation share the same goal: to help us see through the deceptions of self and world in order to get in touch with the genuine within and around us. Contemplation is a way of penetrating illusion and touching reality.

Much of our world focuses on the illusion. Television and other media are all about illusion. Most of politics is about appearances. Too many of our relationships stay on the surface instead of making the deep connections that are possible.

One of the ways to live the life of contemplation is to look directly and honestly into mistakes. When things go wrong, I find myself learning - and often relearning - the truth about myself. The hard truths sometimes don’t appear until there is something that forces me to be honest with myself. Basking in the glow of success rarely leads me to careful analysis of myself.

I genuinely admire those who have developed the disciplines of classic contemplative life. I have respect for the nuns at the Abbey, and other monastics who rise early each day for prayer and who keep the hours of prayer. I am inspired by the monks of Taize and the ways their lives of prayer transform our world. But I also know that their path is not my own. I have been called to plunge deeply into the community rather than separate myself from it. I have been called to think deeply in the context of a busy and over-scheduled life.

My path is, however, one of contemplation. I make room in each day for prayer and reading and studying. I try to think deeply about the meaning of the events of my everyday life. I try to make responsible choices about how I invest my time and energy. I try to avoid the surface and plunge deep into the meanings of relationships and connections with others.

Regret can be turned into blessing. The mess we call politics can be a way of cleaning out the influences of too much money and reclaiming our American democracy. When we feel that others show a lack of spirit and soul, it is time to make our spirits and souls visible in this community.

I think that my particular relationship with contemplation in the midst of everyday living has led me to this blog as my major written expression at this phase of my life. I haven’t taken time to write a complete book. To do so would require a major investment of time in writing, re-writing, editing and working through a huge volume of organizational tasks. Writing the blog allows me to make a daily contribution - to think a few thoughts and write a few words. I know that my words quickly fade and are forgotten, but the process of writing invites me to think and to express my thoughts.

It is nothing like withdrawing to the desert - or the hills of Kentucky - to focus and become more single minded. It is a hour or so each day of thinking and sorting out my thoughts as I turn to more complex tasks.

There are many different forms of Christian contemplation and many different ways to invest time and energy in thinking. I will never explore all of them in a single lifetime. For right now, this particular way of expression myself seems to work for me.

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Preparing to preach

I have been privileged to have my life touched by a number of brilliant teachers. Some of them touched me through regular class work in college, university and seminary settings. Some of them have changed my life by the words they have written and by observations of them from afar.

One of those who has taught me from a distance, and who may be the most influential theologian on my preaching is Walter Brueggemann. When I was a student at Chicago Theological Seminary, he was professor of Old Testament at Eden Theological Seminary in St. Louis. As I began to realize the impact of his writings on my life he moved to Columbia Theological Seminary in Atlanta, Georgia. My visits to the American south have been few and far between. I have listened in the crowd while Brueggemann addressed clergy meetings, continuing education events, church conferences and the United Church of Christ’s biennial national gathering, General Synod.

Each time I preach on Genesis, 1 & 2nd Samuel, or the prophet Jeremiah, I turn to Brueggemann’s books first. Whenever I do, I am reminded by his direction to pulpit preachers to read beyond the lectionary. Look beyond your assigned texts, learn their context, understand how they are part of a whole. Read the whole Bible and read it again and again. I remember clearly watching a video of a presentation that Dr. Brueggemann delivered in Hartford Connecticut in 2007. I was in the city at the time, but had been asked to lead workshops that day and was not able to be present when he spoke so I purchased the video and watched it later. At one point he addressed the lectionary preachers in the room and looked directly into the camera. I could feel my cheeks burn as I listened. It was as if he was speaking directly to me and he understood me perfectly. I have no idea whether or not my congregation sensed the change in my preaching, but I made a lot of changes right away.You will find me reading long passages of scripture out loud in the sanctuary of the church when no one is present, developing an intimacy with texts that are beyond my usual cycle of preaching. Stirring up the mix.

In 2010, Brueggemann published a small book on preaching: “The Word Militant: Preaching a Decentering Word.” In the book he reads, in the Gospel of John a great legal argument over who Jesus really is: Jesus isn’t the one on trial in our world today, but each one of us is called to testify. Perhaps the contemporary church is the place where all of us are on trial. What do we really say and believe about Jesus? What is the truth to which we belong? Brueggemann says that we're not dealing with intellectual or theoretical things here, but with "a way of being in the world in suffering and hope, so radical and so raw that we can scarcely entertain it.” Could people say that about the way we live our lives, as disciples of Jesus in our church today?

I turned to Brueggeman this week in search of a way to present the relatively short passage of the Gospel that is the focus of my sermon on Christ the King Sunday. On the last Sunday of the Church Year our Gospel text is John 18:33-37, a short slice out of the trial of Jesus before Pilate. Brueggemann warns against preaching the message of the wider culture - simply affirming what is said on television and read in the newspapers. He reminds us of how radical the message of Jesus really is in our complacent world.

I have lived through decades of church leaders (and often myself) downplaying Christ the King Sunday. We’ve never lived in a monarchy. I don’t know what it means to have a king. In the height of the changes in language use, I’ve referred to the day as “Reign of Christ” and to Jesus as “Sovereign over all the world,” to transform the way we think about Jesus role in the world as leader not of some ancient cultures in far away places, but contemporary ruler of the world. For Pilate, however, Jesus portrayed as a king is exactly what gets his attention. He understands well those who rule by fear. It is the Roman way. It is how Herod has kept Pilate under his thumb for all of his political career. Pilate has much to fear: loss of position, prestige, wealth, home and even his life. Herod can order him destroyed and carry that order out without a moment’s hesitation.

As we read the brief description of the trial, we realize that Jesus’ simple answer is just what Pilate needs to hear. Just as when he spoke with the woman at the well, Jesus calls Pilate to look at himself as he really is and choose to become something different. He simply says, “But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.”

Jesus is not one to rule by fear. He is not a king in the way that the kings of this earth are kings. He is something entirely different. And we are called to reject the way the world does business.

How stark our world stands in this light, with politicians and would-be presidents and governors speaking of fear and trying to make us afraid in every speech. They loudly proclaim that we are fools not to be afraid.

All I want to say is don’t look of Jesus on the ballot. “You say that I am a king, for this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”

Pilate comes close, but he is unable to conquer his fear. He is unable to come clean in the face of the powers of this world. He is unable to see something beyond the reign of the Roman Empire.

We have inherited this story. We have been offered the option of making a different choice. We don’t have to submit to the rule of fear.

Would that I can find the words to say this clearly to the people that I love so dearly - the ones who worship with me each week in the hope that I might, on occasion, utter words of truth.

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Visiting the places of dying

One of the blessings of my life and work is that I am privileged to come close to death with the people that I serve. Like any pastor, I am called to respond to grieving families, to assist them with the planning and conduct of funerals, to speak to them about the process of grief, and mostly to be a presence with them in the midst of a very difficult time. It has taken me many years to learn that my presence is more important than the words I say. Especially in cases of sudden and traumatic loss, the grieving family won’t remember the content of my words. I can give them information, but they won’t be able to retain it. They will, however, remember that someone came and that the person cared. That is enough to know in the early stages of what is a long process.

There are others, however, who are given the grace and challenge of a process that is much slower. Often, I am present as loved ones are lost slowly. Illnesses progress at their own pace. Memories fade slowly. Sometimes there are many losses and griefs along the way. A person loses freedom by no longer being able to drive. Dignity is lost in the midst of invasive medical treatments. Relationships are lost when travel is no longer possible.

We have many people who assist along that journey. Doctors and nurses can greatly affect the quality of life as one dies by managing pain and treating unpleasant symptoms. Hospice workers bring experience and knowledge of the process and can interpret what is going on and ease fears. They also assist with equipment and care plans during the period of dying. Friends assist with meals and visits. There are many others who provide guidance, support and compassion.

On a fairly regular basis I am given the honor of being received into a home where death is near. The initial shock of the diagnosis and early stages of treatment is now past. The reality of death has been accepted. But dying is rarely a simple process of passive acceptance of the inevitable. There are many questions. There are fears. There are regrets. Sometimes I am asked questions about what happens after death.

My answers to those questions come from my beliefs. I have no special insight, no scientific research, no direct revelation of the nature of life beyond death. Fortunately, however, I am not left to personal beliefs. I belong to a congregation that is part of a church with thousands of years of history and hundreds of generations of faithfulness. Of course there are gaps in my understanding. Of course my faith is incomplete. Of course I have doubts as well as beliefs. I also have the Bible, the history and tradition of the church, and the teachings of those with brilliant minds to assist me with seeking answers and expanding faith.

When I was younger and less experienced, I would head out to a visit with someone who was gravely ill and perhaps dying armed with a Bible, a book of worship, and a handful of other resources. These days, I have learned to travel much lighter. I have psalms and passages of scripture that I can recite from memory. I know the prayers of our tradition and have confidence in my ability to shape new and different ones.

More than those resources, however, I have my own experiences of grief. I know something of the nature of kindness because it has been shown to me in times when I have experienced significant loss. I havre lived with sorrow through significant seasons of my life and have known the compassion of others who have shared my journey. I have felt times when it was all I could do to simply tie my shoes and take a step or two outside of my home, forcing myself to go through the blurry vision of tears.

This world can be heedless and heartless. When a loved one lies dying, you can suddenly become aware that the whole world has not stopped. The delivery trucks still rumble through the neighborhood, there are countless people who go on with their lives as if nothing has happened. There are faces that turn aside and fail to share your pain and loss. In this world compassion must grow from deep roots to be strong and sustainable. My ministry with those who are nearing the end of their lives and with their family and friends has taken a lifetime to learn and each visit, each loss, adds to my capacity to be a person of care the next time that I am called.

I am learning, ever so slowly, that the real important experiences of this life occur in God’s time which does not look at all like our time. The movement of the hands on my watch, the relentless rigidity of the digital display on my phone - these are not the keepers of real time. In God’s time a single moment can seem like an eternity and a generation can pass in the blink of an eye. The psalmist cried, “A thousand years in your sight are like aa day that has just gone by or a watch in the night.” In the miracle of God’s time I have been gifted by seeing a small child crawl up into bed with a gravely ill family member and offer more care than I am able, with my years and years of experience. I do not think I was so wise when I was so young.

What I do know is that the places of dying are places of great faith, hope and love. What I do know is that the letter to the Corinthians is right: “And now, these three remain: faith, hope and love. And the greatest of these is love.”

It is indeed a privilege to be called to the places of faith, hope, and love in our community. In a sometimes maddening and out-of-control world where fear and terror and anger and self-righteousness seem to shout for our attention, there are also places of peace where a deeper reality is being experienced. We will all one day find ourselves dwelling in such a place facing our own deaths. It is an experience I have not yet faced, but I know that when my time comes I will be less fearful because I have been invited into the experiences of others.

“I am certain that nothing . . . will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

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Courage in a refugee crisis

In May of 1939, the German ocean liner St. Louis sailed from Hamburg, Germany for Havana, Cuba. There were 937 passengers on the ship. Most of the passengers were Jews fleeing from the Third Reich. Most were German citizens. The majority of the passengers had applied for US visas and had planned to stay in Cuba only until they could enter the United States. This was after Kristallnacht pogrom in November, 1938. The world, including those in the United States knew of the dangers Jews faced in Germany. It was also after a long Depression with unprecedented unemployment in the US.

When the ship arrived in Havana Harbor, only 28 passengers were admitted to Cuba. One additional passenger was admitted to a hospital for treatment.

The ship sailed close enough to Miami for its passengers to see the United States, but they were denied entry. In early June, the St. Louis sailed back to Europe. Eventually, Great Britain took 288 of the passengers, the Netherlands admitted 181 passengers, Belgium took in 214 passengers; and 224 passengers found at least temporary refuge in France. Continuing to struggle to emigrate, some were later able to leave Europe. 532 St. Louis passengers were trapped when Germany conquered Western Europe. 254 of these became victims of the holocaust.

If you visit the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C., you can see postcards written from the SS St Louis and read a complete account of its voyages and passengers. It is chilling and makes one wonder what might have happened if our country had found room to admit more refugees.

It is not one of the high points in American History.

Two words have become forever associated with the remembrance of the Holocaust: “Never Again.”

It is that commitment that has given rise to another exhibit at the Museum that highlights the plight of minorities under threat in Iraq. Christians, Kaka’i, Sabean-Mandeaeans, Shabak, Turkmen, and Yezidis are all in immediate danger in that country. Their story is well known to those who are paying attention to the stories in US newspapers. In the summer of 2014 the self-proclaimed Islamic State (IS) conducted a violent campaign against civilians in northern Iraq. In less than three months more than 800,000 people were driven from their homes.

Fear of attack, fear of kidnapping, fear of death - all have terrorized innocent civilian residents of the region. It is fear that has driven them from their homes. Clutching only their most essential possessions, clinging to families, many of which have been splintered by kidnappings and killings, these refugees have moved from place to place in search of safe haven. Uprooted from homes, businesses and communities these people have found themselves living in horrible, strange conditions.

And they are not alone.
Over half a million refugees from other countries including Syria, Afghanistan, Eritrea and other countries have made the choice to embark on dangerous journeys as the only way to give their children a chance of survival and safety.

Have we learned the lessons of the SS St. Louis?

Listening to the political rhetoric of the past few days, it appears that may may not have.

The well-publicized attacks ini Paris are only part of the story, but they seem to have given voice to a new round of fear among politicians who are speaking boldly about refusing to admit refugees. More than a few US politicians have spoken of the victims of IS as if they themselves were the terrorists.

As horrific and terrible as the attacks in Paris have been, they affect far fewer innocent human lives than the refusal to show compassion to refugees. Over a half million have crossed the Mediterranean and Aegean so far this year, ending up in Italy, Greece, Serbia, Hungary, Turkey and other European countries. No one seems to have a complete count of those remaining in Jordan, Lebanon, Turkey and across Africa.

We do know that critical support services are insufficient. We do know that there are shortages of food. We do know that people are sleeping on the ground without even a mat to protect them from the cold.

Will we allow fear to reign supreme? Will we allow our fears to prevent us from showing compassion?

This is a time when we need courage from our leaders, not more loud rhetoric espousing fear.

The dictionary defines paranoia as “a tendency on the part of an individual or group toward excessive or irrational suspiciousness and distrustfulness of others.” Of course there are risks involved with welcoming refugees. Of course there is a possibility that someone intent on causing harm might pose as a refugee. But rejecting all refugees because of the fear of those risks borders on irrational. If we are afraid of terror, do we seriously believe that we can avoid it by disassociating from its victims?

I guess in our current political climate politicians need to exaggerate. When they continue to exaggerate their fears it begins to sound like paranoia. I can’t help but wonder if we expect our political leaders to suffer from chronic personality disorders. That, however, is my cynical side. And cynicism is no better than fear in providing a solution to hungry, cold, threatened refugees.

Solutions will come from working together. Those who are fearful of all who are different from themselves will need to find courage to confront their fears. Those who are complacent and doing nothing will need to speak out. Those who are unrealistic in their assessment of potential risks will need to develop vigilance. We all need to display an increase in hospitality and compassion for those who are literally running for their lives. Getting to know refugees as individuals with their own unique hopes and fears and dreams will go a long way towards preventing the mistakes and tragedies of our history.

I hope that decades from now my grandchildren will visit the Holocaust Museum. I pray that they won’t be visiting displays that depict the tragic mistakes of our generation and telling the stories of lives lost from a lack of compassion.

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A new Poet Laureate

If you were to poll the citizens of South Dakota, I suspect that not many of us would be able to tell you much about David Allan Evans. I don’t know much. Evans is an English professor at South Dakota State University. His collegiate career began by his distinguishing himself at football. He earned football scholarships to Morningside College and the University of Iowa. The University of Iowa is a good place for writers of English to develop their skills and Evans developed a talent for creative writing. Later he earned a M.F.A. in creative writing from the University of Arkansas.

I don’t expect my fellow citizens to know all of the professors in our university system, but in addition to his other accomplishments, Evans served as our state’s poet laureate from 2002 through September this year. He could have continued to serve, but offered his resignation in order to provide an opportunity for other poets to serve in the position.

David Allan Evans was preceded in the post by Audrae Visser, who served as our state’s Pot Laureate from 1974 to 2001. It seems to be a position that people keep for a number of years.

Ask a South Dakotan about the position of Poet Laureate, and they are unlikely to be able to name a single person who has served in that position. Those who can, are most likely to name Badger Clark. Clark, the son of a minister born in 1883, wrote “A Cowboy’s Prayer.” It has to be one of the most famous cowboy poems. I’ve been asked to read it at a number of funerals.

Badger Clark served as South Dakota Poet Laureate for only one year, 1937.

That’s it. From 1939 to 1973 there were two others who served in the position of Poet Laureate, but they are little remembered by the folks here. Maybe those were lean years for poets in our state. More likely, because the Poet Laureate is appointed by the governor and serves at the pleasure of the governor, we had a run of governors for whom poetry wasn’t a priority.

That gives us reason to celebrate because in July we got a new Poet Laureate, our fourth.

Lee Ann Roripaugh is Professor of English and Director of Creative Writing at the University of South Dakota. She is author of four volumes of poetry, the most recent of which, “Dandarians,” was published just over a year ago.

Roripaugh is the daughter of poet Robert Roripaugh, so grew up with an appreciation for language and the power of words. In her young adult years, however, the Wyoming native pursued a music career, earning her BM in piano performance and her MM in music history. Her studies at Indiana University in Bloomington formed the foundation of her career in English and poetry.

Her book, “Beyond Heart Mountain,” published in 1999 and finalist for the 2000 Asian American Literary Awards, Roripaugh explores her Asian-American roots. A second-generation Asian American, she knows how the history of our country shapes lives in the present.

Located between Cody and Powell, Wyoming, the Hart Mountain War Relocation Center was one of ten concentration camps used for the internment of Japanese Americans evicted from the West Coast Exclusion Zone during World War II. At its peak, the camp had a population of 10,767 Japanese Americans, making it the state’s third largest city. A total of nearly 14,000 people spent some time at the camp in its three-year history. The site of the camp is now home to a museum that is dedicated to preserving the history of the Center. The museum and its exhibits stands as a powerful reminder of the tragic consequences of wartime over reaction to fear. The website for the Hart Mountain Interpretive Center speaks of the continuing effort “to remind the Nation about the importance of tolerance and the need to balance our concern for national security with a commitment to protect the basic rights of all of our citizens.”

It is a lesson we need to continue to learn.

The selection of Roripaugh as our state’s sixth Poet Laureate is important in several ways. It is important because she is one of the voices that reminds us not to forget our past as a nation and as a state. A life-long resident of our region, she understands the west from a perspective that is not often recognized. More importantly, her appointment is important because it speaks of our future as a complex culture with many different participants and perspectives.

We are the state of Badger Clark, even though he learned much of his cowboy skills and much of the language of herding cattle from his experiences on the U.S. Mexico border. We are also the state of Lee Ann Roripaugh.

I came to poetry as an element in my personal reading rather late in life. When I was a student, I didn’t read much creative writing at all. One of the things that began to open my attention to a broader range of literature was reading the novels of Elie Wiesel. His ability to craft stories that wrestled with deep truth and a part of the human story that must never be forgotten, demonstrated to me how important words are as tools not only for listing facts, but for exploring deeper realities of life.

Still, I read very little poetry in those days. I think that the pace of my living and my reading was a bit too intense for poetry. It takes time to read and appreciate poetry. Rushing through a book of poetry just to reach the end invites one to miss the meaning that lies in each individual offering. Maturing and learning to slow down were required of me before I began to acquire the skills of appreciating poetry.

Just as I have grown up, it seems that the appointment of our new Poet Laureate is a sign that our state is growing in maturity as well.

Perhaps, if we read enough poetry together, we will mature as a state and as a people.

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A little thought in a big universe

When I was a college student, my course of study didn’t involve very much mathematics or science. Ours was a liberal arts college, so every student was required to venture into all of the areas of study and I was required to at least sample the fields by taking a course in mathematics and another in science. For my science course, I took “Atoms to Stars,” a general overview of the scientific method with a smattering of physics, geology, astronomy and other fields. For my mathematics course, I took logic, which was, understandably also a philosophy course. I also took introductory classes in psychology which at the time, as now, a bit controversial about whether or not it is an area of pure science. Employing the scientific method and focusing on direct observation and the advancing, testing and rejecting or accepting of hypotheses through repeatable experiments, it too is a scientific endeavor in my opinion.

If I were able to spend more time in a university setting, I certainly would pursue more classes in science. I am fascinated with the work of contemporary cosmologists. I suppose that, like other so-called “soft” sciences, there is a bit of a buzz surrounding cosmology that questions whether or not it is a true science, with its rather limited possibilities for independent observations. Based on more easily recognized scientific inquiry ranging from physics to anthropology, studies in cosmology advance such enormous theories that creating studies to test them is beyond the reach of science. How do you “test” the big bang theory?

Cosmology is the study of the universe in its broadest dimensions: the study of the whole of everything in search of theories that connect the divergent theories of all of he sciences. Understanding the origin and evolution of the universe leads to inquiry about its directions and ultimate fate.

If you are going to study, the entire universe seems like a field worthy of a lifetime of inquiry. Like my field, theology, it seems unlikely that one would run out of things to study.

One of the podcasts I enjoy, “On Being” with Krista Tippett, recently featured an interview with Lisa Randall, professor of science at Harvard University. I haven’t listened to the interview yet, so am not competent to comment on it, but it came up yesterday in a conversation with a physics professor at South Dakota School of Mines and Technology. Unlike the professor, I am not “caught up” with contemporary study and couldn’t name the leaders in particle physics study of the top of my head. But listening to him talk about his research and his teaching fascinates me. He is patient with my questions though they must seem to be very elementary to him.

Lisa Randall is author of immensely popular and successful books including “Warped Passages” and “Knocking on Heaven’s Door.” Her most recent book, “Dark Matter and the Dinosaurs” is so popular that even giant bookseller amazon.com has trouble keeping it in stock. In the book Randall shares a bit of the theories surrounding the nature and role of dark matter in the Universe, including a so far untested theory about the role of dark matter in large scale changes in our galaxy such as the disruption of the orbit of a comet or an increase in the number of collisions between asteroids and planets. It is commonly accepted that a collision with another body in the universe was the cause of the dramatic and sudden extinction of dinosaurs on our planet.

What fascinates me about the work of Lisa Randall, and will attract me to read her books and listen to Krista Tippett’s interview with her, is the expansive nature of her ideas. I am impressed with a human mind that is capable of trying to connect what little we know of events sixty-six million years ago with the events of the present and the future. She draws from the farthest known edges of the universe and attempts to speak of the whole of the cosmos and how it affects the particularity of individual existence in a specific time and place. Its heady stuff.

Randall and my physicist friend agree that the commonly accepted term “dark matter” is not the best description of the phenomena. Perhaps “transparent” or “invisible” might be more descriptive than dark. If I understand my physicist friend correctly, what is known about dark matter comes primarily from speculation of the variances in observations of the effects of gravity. Very accurate measurements of the movements of observable particles in the universe indicate that they are subject to forces that cannot be explained by gravity from known objects alone. In order for the mathematics to work out there must be something in the Universe that exists but that has not yet been observed. What we know of dark matter is our observation of its effects on things that can be observed.

As a theologian, it does my heart good to listen to a particle physicist speculate about unobservable forces at play in the universe. Although the language is different, it is clear that both theology and physics invite their students to think of things that are beyond our grasp. From my point of view, there is an incredible amount of faith behind the search for dark matter and dark energy.

It fascinates me that we, who are so small in the vastness of the Universe, have been somehow endowed with minds that not only are capable of observing the universe, but speculating on its size, history and future. From our perch on this one planet in the midst of an enormous galaxy on the edge of an immense universe we look out and wonder about the whole of everything that is. Our observations are accurate to a degree and our mathematics precise enough that we know about the existence of things that are unseen.

One life is too short for all that there is to be learned. Perhaps, however, I might one day learn enough to have a sense of my place in the vastness of human discovery and knowledge.

However, there are a few books I’ll need to read before I get even that little piece figured out.

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Responding to terror

I often don’t know how to respond to major world events. There is no shortage of talk among my friends about the attacks in Paris. I’ve heard a wide variety of responses. Folks who for several years have spoken derisively of France, seeing the country as weak and somehow anti-American, are all about solidarity in the wake of the violent attacks that left 129 people dead and 352 injured, 99 in critical condition. Like the 2001 attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon, and many other major terrorist actions, it may take months to understand the dynamics behind the attacks. The response of the world to the attacks may include acts of war, political interventions, and much more. It is generally assumed that the claim of the ISIS to be behind the attacks is valid. If so it is the first major attack outside of the Middle East carried out by that group. Like other major acts of terrorism, it is likely that the horrors of the attack are so intense that support for a large-scale, worldwide response is likely to be galvanized.

In the midst of all of the news reports and analysis and outpouring of sympathy from around the world, I am at a loss for words. Of course we pray for the victims and for their families. It is the nature of terrorism that the victims are innocent. The attempt to strike fear into others has no respect for human life. The claims of the perpetrators of the crimes that they have been victims of injustice ring hollow when they attack innocents and expand the violence. In the face of senseless violence, I don’t pretend to be able to make sense of the events, I simply mourn and grieve with the victims and try to discover what can be done to assist them in the difficult journey of recovery. A nation doesn’t get over an attack like those of Paris’ Friday night. A nation gets through it and moves on.

I’m no expert in world affairs, but it seems likely that a large-scale invasion of territory held by the Islamic State, especially in Syria, will come. Had the attacks not come, it seemed that the group's attempts at forming government in Syria and Iraq was destined to failure. The attacks may have the effect of hastening the demise of the attempt to become recognized as a legitimate government. The Islamic State has been incredibly well funded and has attracted militants from around the Middle East. It seemed to be primarily focused on building a state in Syria and Iraq and encouraging other groups to do the same in other parts of the Middle East. It has shown great brutality in its internal politics and has been incredibly cruel to people within the territories that it controls. The Paris attacks seem to be a shift in target, but not in the tactics of the group, which previously has not been adverse to the use of bombs and attacks on innocent victims.

Of course being involved, doesn’t mean that the central operations of Islamic State in Syria and Iraq was the primary director of the attacks. Supporters of the group who carry out attacks abroad are not the same thing as operatives who are trained, funded and deployed by a central government. It is clear from what I can read about the subject that it will take some time to know all of the connections and how the attacks were planned and carried out. Like other major crimes, there are likely details that will never be fully known.

The other recent attack by the group, the downing of the Russian airliner, seems to indicate the the group is targeting countries outside of its normal sphere of influence and in doing so has selected countries with substantial differences than our own. I do not know but I suspect that the choice of targets was not based on ideological stances of governments, but rather what was perceived as weaknesses in defenses. Terrorists are opportunists before ideologists. They attacked the victims that they attacked because they believed that they could do so. Had another country or another opportunity presented itself, the attacks might have been carried out against other nations.

This much I do know, however. Responding with fear is exactly what the attackers want. Suppressions of liberty, restrictions of freedom, increased monitoring of civilians by the government are all possibilities both in France and in other countries. When we allow the terrorists to make us fearful and we surrender our freedoms out of fear, we allow them to control our actions. It is not strong central government expanding its authority that the extremists have attacked, it is the notion that people can live in freedom. Restricting freedom is allowing those forces which attack it to gain ground.

There are church leaders who believe that our congregations will be the focus of future attacks. There are seminars on church security and congregations that are training and deploying armed guards. I doubt that our congregation is on the radar of any international terrorist group, but even if we were, we will maintain our worship in a sanctuary - a peace of peace and not of violence where people can freely come and go.

In our sanctuary we will pray for the victims. In that sanctuary we will pray for peace. In that sanctuary we will admit that we do not have the knowledge or capacity to solve the world’s problems and call upon the help of God.

I have no sermon to give in response to the terrorism. I do not have advice for governments or for individuals. I ponder the situations and try to learn as best as I am able, but I do not pretend to be able to know how to respond to current acts of violence nor how to prevent future terrorist actions. I turn to Psalms of lament and the cries that our people have made to God for help in the past.

The answers will not come from me, but I do know where to turn with our questions.

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Creativity

I don’t think of myself as an artist. I never developed skills in drawing. I’ve tried several different artistic media from watercolors to pottery, but never stuck with any of those expressions long enough to even become competent, let alone good at the skills and techniques required to make beautiful objects. I do, however, have several creative outlets that allow me to express myself in ways that are different than words. I studied photography back in the 1970’s and have had access to quality cameras for most of my life. When I have time I enjoy taking pictures, especially nature photographs. I have a large collection of photos of sunrises over water. In recent years I have taken a waterproof camera with me on virtually every paddle and pause to take a few pictures each time I am on the water.

My paddling reflects another craft that gives me artistic expression. I make woodstrip boats, both canoes and kayaks. I made my first canoe simply because it was a less expensive way to obtain a boat. I continue to make boats because I enjoy the process. It seems that each boat I make is a bit more elaborate than the previous one. I’ve experimented with different techniques, making a skin-on-frame kayak and a plywood lapstrake row boat. I prefer woodstrip boats, though I have noticed that my processes are slowing down. It takes me more time to complete a finished boat than was the case a couple of decades ago.

Still, I don’t expect to ever display my creative efforts in a gallery or museum. I make things for my own enjoyment and use and occasionally share them in my blog or on a paddle with friends. People have asked me if I sell boats, but I’ve never sold a boat of my own making and have no plans to turn my hobby into an income source.

I am, however, very interested in the creative process and how people learn to produce art. Artistic creativity bears some connections with the creativity that is employed to solve problems and come up with new alternatives. Furthermore, creativity is a mode of relationship with God. The book of Genesis teaches that humans are made in the image of God - creatures endowed with the ability to create.

David Bayles and Ted Orland have written a book about making art that has gained a lot of recognition outside of the community of professional artists. “Art and Fear” is an exploration of art as a human enterprise for common folk rather than a treatise on rare genius. In the introduction, they write:

"This is a book about making art. Ordinary art. Ordinary art means something like: all art not made by Mozart. After all, art is rarely made by Mozart-like people; essentially—statistically speaking—there aren't any people like that. Geniuses get made once-a-century or so, yet good art gets made all the time, so to equate the making of art with the workings of genius removes this intimately human activity to a strangely unreachable and unknowable place. For all practical purposes making art can be examined in great detail without ever getting entangled in the very remote problems of genius."
In their book they tell of a ceramics teacher who announced on the opening day of class that he was dividing the students into two groups. Half were told that they would be graded on quantity. On the final day of term, the teacher said he'd come to class with some scales and weigh the pots they had made. They would get an "A" for 50lb of pots, a "B" for 40lb, and so on. The other half would be graded on quality. They just had to bring along their one, pristine, perfectly designed pot.

The results were not what I would have expected. The works of highest quality, the most beautiful and creative designs were all produced by the group graded for quantity. Essentially that group kept trying and learning from their mistakes while the other group focused on thinking about how to make a perfect pot, but didn’t gain skills from churning out pot after pot. Productivity allowed for a much more rapid rate of learning than a semester invested in making a single high quality work of art.

There are plenty of other stories of significant discoveries and products coming from the hard work of simply producing products every day. British inventor James Dyson claims to have produced 5,126 failed prototypes before coming up with his now famous design for a coal cyclone vacuum cleaner. The machine didn’t come to him in a flash of inspiration. It came as the result of day after day of working on a project, making thousands of mistakes and coming back to try again the next day.

When we think of advances in human culture, we often think of stories like Archimedes shouting “eureka” or Newton being hit on the head with an apple and instantly inventing the theory of gravity. The problem with these stories is that they are pure fiction. The human brain doesn’t work that way at all. The moment of insight is just part of the process. It comes after hours and hours - usually years and years - of working on problems and wondering about alternative solutions. The stories of Archimedes and Newton don’t dwell on what happened before the insights occurred. A lifetime of wondering and working often precedes a moment of revelation.

A few years ago we heard Dr. Charles Townes, Nobel Prize-winning physicist who was instrumental in the development of modern lasers. He was in his 90’s at the time and reflecting on the process of developing his breakthrough discovery. He spoke eloquently about the moments of insight. What he didn’t talk about was there quarter of a century between his earning his PhD and being awarded the Nobel Prize or the half century he served on the faculty of the University of California at Berkeley. The moment of insight was preceded by decades of work. And, I suspect, by more failures than successes.

Creativity is not avoiding mistakes, but being bold enough to keep one learning through the mistakes in pursuit of a better idea.

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Thoughts of an aging pastor

When I was a young pastor, sometime in my first decade of service, I was acquainted with another pastor who had decades of experience under his belt and was serving a congregation in another town. It seems as if he was perpetually tired, and had little enthusiasm for trying anything new. He had lived the life of a solo pastor for decades, serving mid-sized congregations. His career had been successful, but there had been many nights of “on call” duty, many interruptions to family dinners, many times of working long hours in thankless tasks. The term we used in those days was “burned out.” It described him well. I remember thinking, and even saying to others, I promise not to become like him. I thought, at the time, that careful adherence to spiritual disciplines, regular attendance at continuing education events, a program of self-care and other things within the control of a professional pastor could prevent such from happening.

In those days, I knew little of how the effects of aging felt.

That was a long time ago. In that span of time I have been blessed with very good health. I have had plenty of energy and stamina for the work that I do. For the past twenty years I have served a congregation with a generous sabbatical policy that has provided me with periodic longer-term breaks for renewal. Furthermore, the nature of the pastoral ministry is continually changing. There are new and exciting adventures at almost every turn. I’ve been called upon to participate in the church’s music ministry in a variety of roles, I’ve led different styles and moods of worship, I’ve served as teacher in a variety of settings. More importantly, the parade of people with whom I serve is constantly changing. Babies are born, people come to the end of their life’s journeys, couples marry and some divorce, people come to the church filled with enthusiasm and participate in the life of the congregation and then move away from our community. Others participate for a while and then change their focus. Each pastoral situation in which I find myself has its own unique challenges and opportunities.

I’m not worried about burning out.

But I am aging. I rise with a few aches and pains from time to time. I have nights when I don’t sleep as well as I ought. I move a bit slower after a day of physical labor. I enjoy a nap when the opportunity presents itself.

The simple fact is that none of us will go on forever. We share a common mortality. Although none of us has the power to predict a particular day or time, we all operate with limits. Like the milk cartons in the store refrigerator, we each have a “Best if Sold by” date.

It appears, however, that the topic of when I should move on from this call as a pastor is not one with which the members of my congregation are eager to discuss with me. I’m fairly confident that the topic comes up when I’m not around, but when I try to discuss it with church leaders and friends, they often come up with lines like, “Oh, pastor, we love you. Don’t talk about retiring,” or “Let’s get this capital funds drive behind us before we bring up that subject,” or “You’re too young to retire.”


I have no desire to form a succession plan. I know that it is not in the best interests of the congregation for me to direct its planning for its next ministers. I understand that God will provide the leadership the church needs. I know that there are competent and talented leaders who are younger than I. I also have had such a good experience with our church’s search and call process to be confident that the Holy Spirit works through the procedures of the church and the matching of pastors and congregations can yield great connections and deep relationships. I trust allowing the process to work.

I also know that traditional dates don’t apply to my generation and to the times in which we live. There is nothing about reaching the age of 65 (an event that is still 3 years away for me) that means one has to retire. I know pastors who have capably served well into their seventies. And we are living longer than previous generations and have many more options for health care to extend our active working years.

Still, I love this congregation that I serve. I want what is best for it. I can imagine it with new leadership both in its clergy and in its laity. I remember reading a research project a while back that asked respondents, “Which pastor in your lifetime had the most impact on your spiritual development?” The answer in the largest percentage of cases was the pastor who was closest in age to the respondent. The young people in our congregation deserve that kind of close relationship with a pastor. And for some of them I more resemble their father or grandfather than a peer.

Fortunately, this isn’t a problem that I have to solve today. And it isn’t a problem that I have to solve alone. What I need most is patience for the church to engage in the conversation at the time that is right for the congregation.

In the meantime, I need to be serious about my spiritual disciplines to keep from burning out.

I exercise for endurance. When I can’t get outside, I have a static rowing machine. I log my time on that machine, which also doubles as time to think and listen to podcasts, some of which are inspirational. I keep introducing fresh practices into my spiritual disciplines so that I am not just repeating things I have done before, but learning new dimensions of faith. I try to be open to new possibilities and new directions each time I meet with a committee or group within the church.

Still, I can’t avoid watching for new and younger leaders whenever I gather with my colleagues and thinking about what might come next for the congregation that I love.

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Post-reality politics

I am well aware that there are many different forms of intelligence. Not every person learns in the same way and there are those who possess genius in a particular aspect of life who are challenged by other areas. For example, a person can be a true musical genius and have difficulty learning mathematics. One can possess a nearly perfect spatial awareness and be able to navigate through complex paths without having musical skills. I know this in part because I have read books and articles written by Dr. Howard Gardner, professor of education at Harvard University. Language is one of the best ways for me to learn. I would be labeled a verbal/linguistic learner by adherents to Gardner’s multiple intelligence theory. I love words. I like to read. I write. I speak. I have often thought that if I weren’t a preacher, I would be drawn to the lecture hall. I don’t know if I would be suited to university teaching, but the field attracts me. I believe deeply in developing critical thinking skills and using the power of language to enable others to grow and learn. I suspect that I would be challenged, however, by the rigors and struggles of a contemporary elementary classroom, where a teacher must be constantly employing a wide variety of different teaching techniques and styles to motivate children who learn in diverse ways.

I enjoy the give and take of formal debate, in which ideas are offered, challenged, reformed and used to persuade. Having said that, I am baffled by what is labeled debate in politics. Both in our legislative bodies and in the displays produced for television as part of political campaigns, there is virtually no listening as a part of contemporary political debate. The speeches that are made do not follow the topics of the questions asked, there is no attempt at persuasion, only attacking persons and ideas that seem threatening or simply are different than those of the candidate or legislator. I have often said that I think our state legislators ought to take at least one day each session when they listened as high school debaters presented rational arguments on the issues in front of the legislature. I suspect that our legislators lack both skills of listening and of forming cogent rational arguments. They could learn a thing or two from students who have been trained to argue both sides of an issue.

Without trying to influence your vote, I can’t resist making a comment about the current political climate in our country. I am worried that we seem to have entered a post-rational era in American politics. It is as if the truth no longer matters. Public attention, media exposure, sound bytes, and bravado are the qualities that the candidates seek. There seems to be a lack of balanced, reasonable, fact-based thinking.

Bear with me for a minute. While we do have primary elections in the United States and the popular vote is a factor in selecting candidates, the complete process is one of selecting delegates to a convention. In previous election cycles, candidates engage in a process of delegate mapping that keeps track of the number of votes that they will have at the convention. This means that a candidate needs to have an appeal in a wide variety of different locations with a wide variety of different issues. An intelligent campaign pays close attention to shifting demographics. As a result both of the major political parties’ candidates used to play to the middle. The system tended to lean towards political insiders, those with experience who have been previously known not just by the public but also by the process. The location of “the middle” shifts with the demographics of the country.

In a political mapping scenario, a Republican candidate would understand that while the most recent successful Republican candidate for the presidency, George W. Bush, was elected with 41% of the Hispanic Vote, the rapid growth of the percentage of voters who are Hispanic means the next successful candidate would need a higher percentage. With over 800,000 new Hispanic citizens coming of voting age each year, you can argue that it would take 47% of the Hispanic vote for a candidate to win in the 2016 election.

That argument seems to have no impact on the current leader in the polls. It would be hard to do more to alienate Hispanic voters than Donald Trump has already done. I am sure, however, that making this argument to him would have no impact on him at all. He appears to be far more interested in ratings and current poll numbers than in actual votes at the convention or in the electoral college. When John Katich pointed out the ludicrous nature of Trump’s so called “plan” to immediately export all undocumented aliens and build a wall to keep anyone without proper documents from entering the country, his argument was simply ignored at the debate. His poll numbers went down and those of Donald Trump went up. It is as if the truth no longer matters in the political argument.

It seems that evidence is for wimps, that objective truth just doesn’t matter, that reason need not be applied. Pipe dreams and fear are the dominant tools of the frontrunners at this point in the campaign. Trump’s signature television line, “you’re fired,” seems to be applied to all who disagree with him. If you don’t agree, you don’t matter.

Another frontrunner, Dr. Ben Carson appears to be running with a fictional personal history. The facts of his own personal past and the rhetoric of his speeches don’t line up, but so far that has not had a significant impact on his poll ratings.

There is a magician appearing at the Rushmore Plaza Civic Center tomorrow night. I won’t be making the show, but I’ve read a bit about the illusionist Jay Owenhouse, who travels with two tigers. He performs escapes, slight of hand, and has a highly produced show where things appear to be different than they are. People go to his shows to be entertained. He claims that what makes his shows unique is that instead of “fooling people for two hours” he seeks to “inspire people to see the illusions as a metaphor.”

That got me to thinking. Maybe the candidates aren’t just trying to fool all of the people in America. Maybe their post-rational arguments are some kind of metaphor.

If so, I don’t get it yet.

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Veterans Day 2015

The significance of this day goes back to the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. It was at that time back in 1918 when the guns finally fell silent along the Western Front in Europe. The observance of Veteran’s Day is different in different parts of the world. In Europe, specifically in the United Kingdom, Veteran’s Day is a solemn time of remembering all of the war dead. It has a partner observance, Remembrance Sunday, that takes place on the Sunday closest to November 11. Remembrance Sunday is a time for churches and other religious institutions to pause to remember those who have died. The day we call Veteran’s Day is often known as Armistice Day in the UK. Ceremonies include the placing of wreaths in military cemeteries and at war memorials. There is an annual “Silence in the Square” event at Trafalgar Square that features musical performances and readings with two minutes of silence at 11 am. Members of the public are invited to place poppy petals in the fountains in the square.

On this side of the Atlantic our observances include the placing of wreaths, the visiting of war memorials, parades and other events honoring veterans.

Part of the difference in the observances is that it has been a long time since war has taken place in our country. Our involvement in wars since the Civil War has been in foreign locations. Our losses in war since that time have been primarily military losses. In England and throughout Europe there is the memory of the civilian casualties of World War II.

According to the most recent statistics I can find, there are around 1.4 million people serving in the U.S. armed forces. That means 0.4 percent of the American population is active military personnel. Of course former members of the military vastly outnumber current personnel. The Department of Veterans Affairs estimates that 7.3 percent of all living Americans have served in the military at some point in their lives. Of that number most are men. Only about 2 million veterans and about 200,000 current personnel are women. By gender, 1.4 percent of all female Americans have served in the armed services, compared to 13.4 percent of all male Americans.

Those we honor today are a few among us, not the majority. Their experiences are unique and it would be a mistake for those of us who have not served in the military to assume that we can fully understand the events that have shaped their lives. Not all veterans served during time of war and of those who served during war only a percentage were involved in actual combat. There are plenty of logistics and behind-the-scenes work that needs to be done to support an active fighting force. About 5.5 million living U.S. Veterans served between wars, when the U.S. was not involved in any conflict.

However, we are beginning to forget those times. There are still a little over 1,000 U.S. Veterans who served prior to the beginning of World War II. There are others who served between WWII and the Korean Conflict, between the Korea and the Vietnam War and between Vietnam and the Gulf Wars. Still, according to military officials, our nation has been continuously involved in active warfare. The first Gulf War is defined by the VA as having lasted from August 1990 to September 2001 and the second Gulf War is from September 2001 to the present. That’s a quarter of a century of continuous conflict.

What we know is that war changes the lives of all who are affected by it forever. Once a person has experienced war there is no going back to the life that was prior to those events. Because of the way history has played out at the end of the 20th century and the beginning of the 21st, younger veterans are more likely to have experienced combat than older ones.

Of course there are many other avenues of public service than just military service. I am honored to frequently work alongside people who have dedicated their lives to serving others through service in government, through service in nonprofit organizations, and through service in the church. Veterans are not the only ones who have given a portion of their lives for others.

Still, today is a day to honor veterans. But it is also a day to remember the much higher costs of war. The tragic loss of the lives of young and dedicate soldiers is worthy of our remembrance, but so too is the loss of the lives of innocents who are caught up in the crossfire of conflict. When nations result to war as a means of resolving conflict, the price paid is incredibly high and the highest cost has nothing to do with financial resources - it is the cost of the lives. Those who die are not the only victims of war. Some emerge with physical disabilities that are visible and constant reminders of the costs of war. Others emerge with less visible disabilities. As we learn mora about the effects of Post Traumatic Stress Disorders and other mental and emotional costs of war, we are reminded of the depth of sacrifice that has been devoted to the causes of our nation.

While it makes sense to recognize this day by wearing poppies and by thanking veterans for their service, it also makes sense to include in our observances times of silence for remembrance and contemplation. There is much about our history that is beyond the capacity of words to express. Sometimes silence is the most effective way to commemorate events of awesome magnitude.

As I reflect quietly today, I will try to remember the moment when the guns silenced at the end of World War I, the sense of relief that those actively engaged must have felt, and the glimmer of hope that remained after the years of blood and devastation.

May we never forget that silence.

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Listening to TED

Often when I am driving and when I am working out on my rowing machine I listen to podcasts. I listen to several different podcasts and I tend to allow several episodes to stack up and listen to them in batches. When I’m in the right mood, several episodes of “Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me,” can be entertaining. Over the past few days, I’ve been listening to TED talks. No the talks aren’t named after me. TED is an acronym for Technology, Entertainment and Design. The talks began at a conference in 1984. The talks are highly rehearsed, careful presentations usually ranging from 15 to 20 minutes on a wide variety of topics. Some focus heavily on scientific or technological advances: “How I teach kids to love science,” “An Internet without screens might look like this,” “The future of flying robots,” and “Soon we’ll cure diseases with a cell, not a pill.” The talks, however, cover a much wider range of topics. Recently, I have noticed that many have focused on subjects such as happiness and vocation and the purpose of life. It seems to me that many TED talks are really sermons for those who probably aren’t going to attend church.

Topics like what leads to genuine happiness or joy, how to find your true calling, and falling in love remind me that seeking meaning in life is an essential part of our human condition. For generations religious institutions have provided the forum for asking some of the big questions of life and exploring its meaning. In the increasingly secular world of popular culture the need to wrestle with these issues is not diminished.

Frequently it seems to me that the emphasis on new discoveries and new ideas in TED talks leads speakers to ignore the history and tradition that lies behind their subject. They expound on what to them is a new idea, but seem to be unaware that other humans have discovered similar ideas long before they came on the scene. In the last week or so I’ve listened to two talks about happiness. Neither of the speakers seemed to be aware that the relationship between gratitude and joy has been a subject of religion for over a thousand years. It has long been established that the expression of gratitude on a regular basis leads to increased satisfaction with life. People are more joyful when they take time to think about and express their gratitude. It is, to me a simple fact of life, not a revolutionary new idea.

There are so many TED talks available that the web site uses a set of standard words to categorize the talks. Ratings include: beautiful, informative, fascinating, persuasive, and courageous. But by far the most common rating given to talks is inspiring. Talking with others who listen to TED talks, I find that inspiration is one of the main reasons that they listen. It is fascinating, and perhaps even inspirational, to me that a religious term would be used to describe the reason for listening and the most common effect of the talks.

The concept of inspiration comes from the root word for spirit. In the time before modern medicine, breathing was one of the ways people could tell if an animal was alive or dead. If it was breathing, it was alive. The loss of breathing indicated death. Breath then became associated with the spirit. We draw the spirit into ourselves as we inhale. To inspire was to animate - to bring to life. The second creation story in the book of Genesis describes God scooping up the soil and breathing the breath of life into it to make the first human.

We now know that there is more to life than just breathing. We have more complex understanding of the circulatory system and brain function. We have machines that can provide the breathing function artificially for short periods of time to sustain life. But the sense of inspiration as necessary for life remains.

Preachers have practiced the art of using words to inspire others for generations. Unfortunately not all preaching is inspirational and too often the practice introduces an element of boredom for those who are listening. A congregation is not a TED audience and a preacher who delivers a sermon each week is engaged in a different enterprise than a speaker who gives only a handful of TED talks in a lifetime. Perhaps the repetition of the process makes for sermons that are frequently less inspirational than they might be.

I am not saying that TED conferences are a new form of religion. I don’t think the organizers of those events would like such a title. Those events do, however, demonstrate a basic human quest for meaning and inspiration. And far more often than they are aware, TED speakers venture onto religious topics.

I’m not very big on making the distinction between sacred and secular. From my point of view all is sacred. There is no place where God is absent. I find my religious faith has direct connections to all of life. In that sense, I expect to find inspiration in places that aren’t associated with the institutional church. It is just interesting to me that people who claim to have no religion in their lives flock to places where distinctly religious concepts and ideas are discussed. I suspect that if we lived in a world with no religion, we would be quick to develop religion.

I’ll keep listening to TED talks. I suspect that they inspire my preaching to an extent. But I don’t see TED conferences as forums for new ideas. The talks are, rather, fresh explorations of ideas that have been present in our world for thousands of years. When one is aware of the history of ideas and philosophies, there is a new depth of meaning in understanding the talks as part of a much bigger process of human thought. The truly great ideas of humans don’t become resolved in a single generation - they are shared over spans of time that are longer than our lifetimes.

It won’t be long before someone comes up with a new name and a new format as we continue to explore old ideas.

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Discovering purpose

Yesterday I sat in a circle of friends and our discussion turned to moments in our lives when we experienced hopelessness. There were only nine people at the meeting and of that number two shared stories of being on the edge of suicide, having chosen the means and the time of their own death. In both cases, the process was interrupted, or their focus shifted and the plans were not carried out. In both cases hope was somehow recovered, through a process of hard work and new ideas. Reflecting on the conversation afterward, I am aware of how rare such conversations are. We don’t often find communities of trust that allow such frank conversation. And when we do, we can be reluctant to share.

Working with our community’s LOSS team, a first-responder group that provides services to families when a suicide occurs, I am well aware that there are many who reach that edge between life and death and the story ends with death. The pain and loss and grief that we bear as a community is intense and all too frequent. I know that suicide is a very complex matter, involving brain diseases that are often misdiagnosed and misunderstood, treatments that have failed and dynamics that are often misinterpreted. While we have learned much about suicide prevention and know specific positive steps that can be taken when suicidal ways are recognized and the response is appropriate, there are times when we simply didn’t have enough information to prevent the tragic events.

One thing that I noticed about our conversation was that in both cases, the trip to the edge of death was a single event. Somehow, at the edge of despair both persons found reasons to go on living and began a process of recovery. That process involved different steps and processes in each story. In one story, a teacher was instrumental in opening new ideas and a different sense of purpose. In another the inability to come up with a care plan for children reminded the person that indeed she was needed and that there was no one who could take her place. These stories are, unfortunately, unique. Too many people come to the edge of suicide, have the process interrupted, and return to the edge of death. Sometimes this occurs multiple times before things go too far and a life is ended. Sometimes there eventually comes treatment that works.

I wonder what is the difference? Why do some people rise from despair and never return and others become entangled in a cycle of despair where hope is rarely, if ever, glimpsed?

There is evidence that chemical changes in the brain can be a factor. There are medicines that are effective in treating those chemical imbalances. But that is only part of the story.

Later in the evening, I spent a few moments looking at my grandfather’s Bible. It is not one of my regular bibles for devotional reading or study. The translation reflects the language of a different time and I prefer the combination of sturdier paper, larger print and scholarly footnotes for regular Bible reading. I keep the book for sentimental reason, I suspect. It reminds me not only of my grandfather, but also of my mother.

If you back up two generations from me, the majority of my relatives took faith as a given, an essential element of a meaningful life. They didn’t run away from doubt, but they lived lives of faith in which they wrestled with doubt. They had a strong sense of vocation, coming, in a large part from a lifestyle where regular church attendance was expected. Each person has a calling from God and when you discover it, what you do to earn your living is fulfilling a larger purpose. I know that there were people in that generation who experienced despair. I know that there were suicides, though they were seldom talked of and often covered up.

Move forward two generations in the other direction and it is obvious that the world has changed. Although our grandchildren are still young, I know teens whose grandparents are my age. In their world doubt seems to be more common and faith is almost an exception. Whereas their great, great grandparents pursued lives of faith with occasional struggles with doubt, these young people seem to be living lives of doubt with occasional flashes of faith. Their experience is not one of being immersed in a community where regular religious practice is expected. Sports and shopping and recreational activities are elevated to levels that often exceed participation in church. I wonder how these young people will discover their sense of purpose. Do they even have a sense that purpose is important in their lives?

It is interesting to me that twenty-somethings frequently feel pressure from the wider society to have a plan of what they are going to do with their lives. Vocational and educational choices are seen as the most important elements in their lives. While they pursue serious relationships, marriage often takes a back seat to education, career and other concerns. We did things in a different order. My career was not established before marriage. Our path was unclear. We simply made the decision to walk our lives’ paths together without knowing their direction. I frequently hear from young people today that they can’t think about marriage until they know who they are and where they are going with their lives. They feel huge pressures to become financially successful in a world that increasingly makes that goal elusive.

I don’t think that advice is a good way for my generation to connect with younger folks, but if I were able to give advice, I would suggest that paying attention to relationships is more important than forging careers. Purpose in life is a gift of community and not something you can discover on your own. I discover deep meaning in the conversation of trusted friends.

I find great hope in the young adults I know. I am comfortable stepping aside and watching them assume leadership. As they do, I pray that they will find lasting relationships and the purposefulness in living their lives for others. It is obvious to me that they are a part of something far bigger than just their own pursuits and goals. May they discover that truth as they explore this wonderful life.

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I don't understand money

It is a good think that I’m not a banker, or an accountant, or anyone else whose business it is to deal with money. The bottom line is that the more I think about it, the less I understand money. Huge amounts of money exchange hands and much of it doesn’t make sense to me. Last night we attended a fundraising dinner. The cause is a foundation whose work I very much appreciate. They contribute heavily to the quality of life in our community and the banquet celebrated the accomplishments of those served by the foundation. We probably never would spend that kind of money on a dinner, but knowing that we were supporting the cause made it seem like a good idea. After all, nice as the dinner was, we know that it did not cost the amount of the tickets. On top of that, they were selling raffle tickets at high prices. I’m not one for raffles, so didn’t buy tickets, but a lot of others did. And there were envelopes on the tables for those who wanted to make additional donations. We were reminded throughout the evening of the corporate sponsors who had made large donations in support of the evening’s activities. The dinner was held in one of the larger halls in our community’s civic center and the tables were filled with diners. I don’t know the amount of money that was raised, but I think the planners of the event feel that it was successful.

Here is the part that I don’t understand: The evening was filled with evident extravagances. There were two stages set up in the room. After the program on one stage there was professional entertainment on the other. The raffle prizes were expensive items like a big screen tv, a mountain bike, vacation vouchers, spa treatments and more. Four huge projection screens showed professionally edited videos throughout the evening. There were two cash bars. The catered meal was fancy and I’m sure expensive. To raise the money, they spent a lot of money.

The evening was pleasant, but I probably would have been just as happy if they had not spent the money on the entertainment. I’m not anti social, but I would probably have been just as happy if they had served a few hors d’oeuvres, handed out the awards, and let it go at that. I suspect that the organization has a lot of donors who would be happy to make their gifts without expecting anything in return and who would be just as happy if the organization didn’t invest months of preparation and hours of staff time planning the extravaganza.

But, again, I don’t really understand money. I suspect that they raised more money in their one evening than the annual budget of my congregation. When it comes to dollars, I’m more comfortable staying out of the big leagues, whether we are talking about running a nonprofit or my own family budget.

Back in the late 1960’s, John McCaw bought a Gibson J-160E acoustic guitar for $275. That was in the days when I paid $60 for my first guitar. The thing about this guitar is that Gibson made it for a man named John Lennon, who used it for about a year then swapped it to George Harrison for another guitar. A few years later, Harrison started using another guitar and the instrument ended up on the used market. Gibson, however, puts serial numbers on guitars and an individual instrument can be traced. Beatles’ instruments expert Andy Babiuk identified the guitar as one used by John Lennon and it sold at auction last week for $2.4 million dollars. It was, I think a rather large profit for the $275 investment. But I don’t really understand money.

After President Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas Texas in November 1963, the limousine in which he was riding was sent in for upgrades by its owner. The license plates that were on the car were discarded. One of the employees of the company doing the work retrieved the license plates from the garbage and kept them. His daughter inherited them along with the story of their origin. She kept them in a drawer in her kitchen for years. They sold at auction for $100,000, well over double what was expected. At the same auction a menu from the last dinner served on the Titanic before it sank fetched $118,750. I really don’t understand money.

It seems to me that the values attached to items bear no relationship to actual worth. I suspect that the guitar, license plates and menu might be interesting to view in a museum, but I can’t imagine wanting to own such items.

For some reason last night after the dinner I was thinking of my mother’s father. He died when I was young and I know him mostly from family stories. He was a prominent lawyer and very active in his church. He was a generous man who supported a lot of causes. He would have been appalled at the dinner we attended. I don’t know if I could even have explained our choice to participate. He would have been upset at the alcohol served. The alcohol wasn’t a big part of the evening, but he was a teetotaler and objected to any public consumption of alcohol. He would have been upset over the raffle. He was ardently opposed to any games of chance and would have considered a raffle to be gambling. “You don’t get something for nothing. That’s not the way the world works.” He would have objected to our eating the fancy dinner while there were people who were going hungry within blocks of the venue. Not sharing would have appalled him. The music and dancing probably wouldn’t have been to his liking, either. He wasn’t much for public displays. He simply wouldn’t have enjoyed the way the funds were being raised.

Two generations later, my wife and I dressed up and made an evening of it. I respect my grandfather deeply, but I live in a different community in different times and I really believe in the work done by the foundation.

On the other hand, I’m thinking that I won’t be going to their banquet every year. Some years I’m just going to write a check and make a donation and let others attend the festivities. After all, I really don’t understand money in the first place.

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Bracing for nostalgia

Memory is a rather strange thing. As we grow and age, our memories can shift and change with us. I’ve blogged before about how my siblings and I have different memories of the same events. I’m sure there is a degree of this in every family. It is a part of human nature to sift and sort through memories, emphasizing certain recollections and repressing others. In the cold of winter, I can’t remember exactly what it felt like to be too hot while working outdoors in the summer. When summer returns, I can’t remember the bite of winter wind on my face. I know these things exist, but I find myself at a loss for words to describe them.

When I tell stories of my childhood, I rarely mention mosquito bites and bee stings and skinned knees and splinters. I rarely remember those things when I think of those days. Probably every person has some sense of nostalgia: a sentimental longing for the past. The problem is that the past about which we wax poetically may have existed only in our minds. The remembrances are rarely the same as the reality was.

Brace yourself! We’re in for a few years of overly sentimental remembrances filled with nostalgia. As the fiftieth anniversary of the events of the late 1960s roll around, there will be plenty of nostalgia. This year saw the commemoration of the 50th anniversary of the Selma to Montgomery freedom march. And we are coming up on the 50th anniversary of A Charlie Brown Christmas, the first Peanuts television special. And next year we can celebrate the 50th anniversary of How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

I doubt if there is much nostalgia for the 50th anniversary of Taster’s Choice freeze dried coffee, but there will probably be a television special or two focusing on the Beetles last concert at Candlestick Park in San Francisco.

There are plenty of nostalgia 50th coming in the next few years. 2019 should be a banner year with the Woodstock anniversary alongside the first moon walk (on the actual moon by Neil Armstrong, not the dance by Michael Jackson). It is also the anniversary of the release of Easy Rider, which happens to be the first movie I attended Susan before we were married.

I suspect that we Baby Boomers will drive the Generation Xers and Millennials up the wall with our nostalgia. I can remember being put off by the nostalgia of our parents’ generation. There was a time when popular culture was so romantic about the victories of World War II that you would have thought that every one that age had personally been present for the storming of the beaches at Normandy and then returned to Times Square for a romantic kiss captured by the photographers.

We’ll probably be no different. So, for the record, I wasn’t at Woodstock. I did buy the record album and played it a bit too loud for the comfort of my neighbors in the dormitory I presume. I did have an Easy Rider poster on the wall and for a month or so I called my roommate “Billy,” and he called me “Captain.” There was no particular resemblance to Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda and the biggest motorcycle I ever rode was a borrowed 350 cc Honda driven around town a few times.

I suppose that the events of the 1960s shaped the culture of our time as surely as the events of the 1940s shaped the culture of the years that followed. I just don’t want us to get so nostalgic that we become dishonest about our times.

My generation hasn’t exactly been stellar in our contributions to the future. We have been a bit too self absorbed and selfish to solve the problems that we identified in our youth. The wealth gap between rich and poor is greater than it was when we came into our adulthood. The gender pay gap has not been overcome. Poverty persists and there are more homeless on the streets now than in our youth. We have over consumed fossil fuels and left the climate warmer than it was before our time. We have not made racism a thing of the past nor achieved world peace.

The truth is that even though the 1960s were tumultuous times for our country, they probably were not more so than the times in which we are currently living. Injustice and violence are still threats to civil society that need to be resisted. War continues to ravage and destroy lives around the globe.

I suppose that nostalgia is inevitable and the nostalgia of my generation will seem quite oppressive to those who are younger than us if for no other reason than that there are so many of us. They call us boomers in part because there were so many of us born in those post World War II years.

For the most part, I have no plans to get caught up in all of the reunions and commemorations and nostalgic events of the next few years. I find it more interesting to have a conversation with a member of Generation X or a Millennial. Quite frankly, I’m more interested in talking about the present and the future than I am in telling stories about the past. We shared some hard times and some good times. We made some good choices and a few bad. We had our triumphs and tragedies. We contributed to the stories of our people. But our story only makes sense if it is connected to the stories of those who went before and those who follow us.

As we look back, we have an obligation to tell the truth about the past. We also have an obligation to realize the importance of the events of times other than our own.

As Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. told the crowds in Washington in 1963, “We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. . . . Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God’s children.”

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A trip to the country

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Every once in a while I get the opportunity to drive through the empty country. It isn’t really empty. There are so many things to see and each trip is a chance to watch the subtle effects of light and land and to commune with the hawks and eagles. There are plenty of cattle and sheep on the National Grasslands that are a part of Northwestern South Dakota and Southwestern North Dakota. There just aren’t as many people and not as many cars as in some other places. Driving through the open country gives me time to unwind a little bit and allow my mind to wander and reflect.

Yesterday’s drive was full of memories. I was headed to Hettinger, the town where we lived for seven years in the 1970s and 80s to officiate at the funeral of a woman who had served as the treasurer of one of the churches we served.

There are a lot of people who live in the hills who have never visited Hoover or Reva or Prairie City or Holland Center or Lodgepole. I guess that there are some who would wonder why anyone would want to go to those places. It is possible to drive through them without seeing any people, though usually there are cars at the post office or the store and you could always find a helping hand if something went wrong. It was Thursday, so if there were anyone at one of the rural churches along the way it would most likely mean that there was a funeral, in which case there would be so many cars that they would spill out of the church yard and be parked alongside the highway. Never fear, however, those churches aren’t abandoned, at least not most of them. You can tell by the fresh paint on the steeple and the new shingles on the roof that there are folks who love and care for them and that their presence on the prairie and tucked into the rolling hills is a lifeline for the folks who live on the ranches.

For me the country is full of stories. I can show you the curve where we hit black ice one winter and slid into the ditch without damaging our car. I can show you the ranch house where the woman gave us cookies while the rancher started his tractor to pull us out of the ditch and where they refused my attempts to pay them for their help. I can show you a place where we had a picnic on our way through the Slim Buttes and where we went to cut Christmas Trees.

The stories fall into two categories. When I drive through some of the small towns, I can remember the days when the cafe was full and if you stopped for coffee at mid morning you might get involved in a conversation that lasted into the afternoon. I can remember folks standing outside the post office exchanging news and views. I can remember the high school football fields filled with folks and cars parked all around. I can remember the full store fronts and the days when tiny towns still had two grocery stores and the hardware stores had harness rings and the machinery dealers actually stocked spare parts and the machine shop could manufacture nearly anything made out of steel.

I know that what I remember is the way it was. There are also stories of the way things are: of empty homes and storefronts, of dust blowing down the street and no one outside to complain about it, of folks moved away and of funerals - too many funerals. It was a funeral after all that brought me back to the small church with the house right next door where my family lived.

Its been thirty years since we moved from that house and the carpet in the sanctuary of the church is the same and it isn’t worn out yet.

Sometimes it seems as if the very soul of rural Dakota is changing. Take the country we knew when we lived there, add a farm crisis, mix in the dramatic changes in health care delivery, splash it with an oil boom and bust, install the infrastructure for an RV parking area that, while spartan, is way nicer than a man camp, and spice it with the normal cycles of kids being born, growing up, moving to the cities, and the adults growing old and facing health crises and ending up in the nursing home before being laid to rest in the old cemeteries. You might end up thinking that the things you once thought would never change are gone forever.

I remember when you’d have the choice of a dozen different salads at funeral lunch in that country. I remember when a little lunch over a farmhouse table involved fresh-baked pie. I remember when 4-H and FFA were the main activities. I remember thinking that it would never change.

Of course that was wrong. Things always change. Hidden south of the buttes in Harding County archeologists are excavating sites that contain fossils of Dakotaraptor a large bird-like creature that has been extinct since the end of the Cretaceous period. The published reports of the find describe a place filled with creatures that bear no resemblance to anything I’ve ever seen. And my experience is nothing like the days when that part of the continent was home to the last of the gigantic free-roaming buffalo herds that once ruled the prairies. If you are lucky, you’ll see coyote and fox when you drive through the country, but the wolves are gone. Times change. Things don’t stay the same.

As I crawled to bed last night, I was aware that I have changed as well. There was a time when I would get up and work a half a day before making the three hour drive from up there to Rapid City, do my errands and drive home after dark and think nothing of it. Last night I felt pretty tired as I closed my eyes. I wouldn’t want to repeat the process too soon.

As I closed my eyes, however, I remembered the glory of the sunset and the beauty of the land, grateful for the opportunity to once again travel through the empty country.

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A brief political outburst

I am no expert on politics. I have my opinions, like many others, but often I am reluctant to offer my opinions. I finding that doing so can stifle communication. I appreciate very much having friends with a wide variety of political opinions and positions and rarely engage in any efforts to change or convert those with whom I disagree. I’m pretty sure that I wouldn’t make a good politician. While I love the intensity and wordplay of debate, I can easily argue the other side of the issue in most cases.

As a result, this blog just isn’t about politics very often. I may offer a point of view from time to time, but it isn’t one of the places the readers turn for political opinions. So today’s post may be a bit out of character. Before beginning, let me assure you that I am open to disagreeing opinions and those who might disagree. I’m not out to convert you to my way of thinking.

Then, on the other hand, I’m not sure that you have been following politics in Myanmar. The country is also known as Burma. Just in case it has fallen below your radar, the country will vote Sunday in what should be a landmark election. The country has been run by a military junta. The Junta has eased control a bit and is allowing an election. It is a tiny country, and reliable polling is hard to find, but on the one side in the election, is candidate Aung San Suu Kyi, a Nobel laureate. Her National League for Democracy party has a platform of establishing a democracy for the country.

On the other side of the election are the leaders of Ma Ba Tha, which means “Association for the Protection of Race and Religion,” have thrown their support to President Thein Sein, a former general who is backed by the ruling military junta. Among their proposed actions would be enacting laws that would restrict religious freedom. Some have also proposed laws enforcing racial purity.

It is about as clear a case of democracy vs dictatorship that we have witnessed in a generation in the world.

A little bit more background might be in order. Myanmar/Burma is a predominantly Buddhist nation. From a sociological standpoint, the country will have a vast majority of Buddhists for a long time. Alongside, there is a very tiny minority of people who are Muslim. The leaders of Ma Ba Tha, however, have been promoting a narrative that the Muslims pose an existential threat to the Buddhists - that it is their aim to eliminate Buddhists and make the country Muslim. There is no evidence that this is occurring, or that there are any proponents of such a vision. It exists not in the rhetoric or thoughts of the Muslims, only among the far right of the Buddhist extremists. Still, they are using the threat as a reason for the country to stay away from democracy and embrace the military dictatorship.

There was a hugs soccer stadium event recently that attracted more than 10,000 Buddhist monks and nuns who rallied and cheered and chanted nationalist slogans. We don’t often think of militant Buddhist monks and nuns. It must have been quite a sight. These ultra-nationalist Buddhists have certainly been gaining a lot of attention and it is clear that they have influenced many voters.

It illustrates how fear of people who are different can cause dramatic results in the political landscape. It is obvious to an outside observers that the tiny Muslim minority poses no threat to Buddhists in Myanmar/Burma. In a democracy, majorities rule. But the fear that there is out there a stranger who might pose a threat has been used to convict a large number of people to actually vote against democracy. Which side will win remains unclear at this point, but democracy literally hangs in the balance. Those promoting dictatorship are using the illusion of a threat to religious and ethnic purity as their rallying cry. And that cry is incredibly loud.

Unfortunately, we know from history that such religious extremism virtually always results in violence. Dictatorships lead to suppressions of freedom for all, not just the minority which is labeled as hated. Genocide arises from an attempt to create some kind of imagined purity in the population.

I sincerely hope that the voters in Myanmar/Burma choose democracy. Mind you, I’m not anti-Buddhist. I am not attracted by Islam as a religion. If I lived in the country I would also belong to a very small minority. About 4% of the country is Christian, about the same size as the Muslim population. Christians are sharply divided between Baptist and Catholic. Neither of those brands is the particular corner of Christianity where I am most comfortable, so I have no idea how I might choose to identify in such a place. At any rate, my group would be a very small minority in the face of a country that is 90% Theravada Buddhist with another 1% professing other forms of Buddhism. If you are adding all of these percentages up, the remaining 1% is Hindu, roughly the same size as the Roman Catholic population. It is clear I wouldn’t be a member of any majority from the perspective of religion if I lived there. And if I lived there, I would be very nervous about this election.

If you talk about religious purity, Christians are as foreign to the Buddhists as are Muslims. Any form of cleansing will put pressure on all minorities. That is one of the wonderful paradoxes of democracy. The rule of the majority protects the rights of the minority in a democracy.

As far as I know, I have no readers of my blog in Myanmar/Burma. My words won’t be affecting their election. Still, I pray that democracy will get a chance in the tiny nation. I pray that they won’t try to demonize Muslims. I pray that there won’t be further religious repression.

Then again, I’m no expert on politics. I’m just a student of history who has seen the effects of military dictatorships on the lives of citizens. And I happen to live in a country where some of the candidates are spouting narrow views of religion that make them sound like adherents of Ma Ba Tha. It is never a good thing when people allow fear to entice them into voting against democracy.

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An alarming study

Because of my work in suicide prevention and my professional membership in the National Alliance on Mental Illness, I read quite a few abstracts of studies. I rarely read the entire published results of the studies, which are often technical and published in medical journals to which I don’t always have access. The abstracts, however, give an overview of contemporary research. One abstract caught my attention recently.

Researchers at Princeton University studied mortality rates of U.S. citizens aged 45 to 54, over the period of 1999 through 2013. It revealed an unexpected change. While mortality rates for black (non-hispanic) Americans continued its decline, as was also the case for Hispanic Americans, the mortality rate for Middle-aged white Americans went up. After decades of declining mortality rates, the increase was not at all expected. Furthermore, when the study was broken down into sub categories, White Americans with education levels of high school or less showed a steady increase over the research period, with their mortality rate becoming higher than all other categories in 2007.

The study, published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, compared the results with national data from the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Several factors contribute to the increased mortality rate.

We have known for several years that suicide rates are highest among white males and females and that they are highest in the South and West. We also know that rural areas suffer from higher suicide rates than urban areas. Accurate diagnosis and treatment of mental health problems is far less common in rural areas. There are fewer resources for treatment and a higher social stigma for seeking mental health care in rural America. At the same time access to the most common means of suicide, firearms and drugs, is highest in rural areas.

A second factor cited by the study is increased drug and alcohol abuse among middle aged white males. Leading the drug abuse is opioid drugs. Prescriptions for opioids have increased greatly since the 1990’s. There has been some awareness of the increase and many physicians have become more careful about writing prescriptions. The result has been an increase in heroin use among whites. The New York Times reported that 90% of people who tried heroin in the last decade were white. While not quite as dramatic, the increase in alcohol abuse among whites has also been documented.

The increase in the abuse of pain medication and alcohol is likely connected to the increase in undiagnosed and poorly treated mental illness. People will attempt self medication with inappropriate substances just to dull the pain. The result is a compounding of symptoms leading to an increased death rate. Even if the cause of death is not suicide, alcohol and drug abuse are self destructive and related.

My experience as a member of our county’s LOSS (Local Outreach to Survivors of Suicide) has paralleled the findings of the study. We are responding to more suicides of white middle aged males than was the case years ago.

Another thing about the study is that it appears that this increase in death rates is occurring only in the United States. The results among US males is not paralleled by studies in any other country.

I had been pondering the study when I read an article in this morning’s Washington Post reporting on Susan Williams’ interview with “Good Morning America” yesterday. I didn’t watch the television interview, but the widow of Robin Williams was direct in saying that the underlying cause of Williams’ death was Lewy body dementia, an often undiagnosed brain disease. Williams suffered a wide array of symptoms before his death: crippling anxiety attacks, strange delusions, and the feeling that he was loosing his mind. He knew that something was terribly wrong, but didn’t understand what it was.

Lewy bodies are accumulations of a protein called alphasynuclean, at the ends of neurons where they connect with synapses. These bodies destroy the neurons, leading to loss of function in affected areas of the brain. The presence of Lewy bodies in Williams brain was not discovered until autopsy. Lewy bodies are also responsible for Parkinson’s disease, and Williams was diagnosed with Parkinson’s based on the symptoms he displayed. The problem with a misdiagnosis, which may have been the case with Williams, is that the medications prescribed for Parkinson’s can be ineffective for Lewy body dementia symptoms.

There have been other celebrities diagnosed with Lewy body dementia (LBD) including the famous DJ Casey Kasem, who died last summer. Kasem was initially diagnosed with Parkinson’s but the diagnosis was changed as he began to deteriorate mentally as well as physically. Stan Mikita, star Chicago Black Hawks player of the 1960s and 70s, ahas also been diagnosed with LBD. He is currently living in a health care facility unable to remember his hockey career or much else about his life.

Patients with LBD usually die within five to seven years after the initial onset of symptoms, though there are cases where people have lingered for decades with dramatically decreased cognitive function.

We will never know the full story of Robin William’s death. He was scheduled for neurocognitive testing in late August, but a week before the scheduled tests he died of suicide. Even with the information gained at autopsy, there is much that is not understood about the nature of his brain disease and death.

Williams was older than the men in the Princeton University study group, but understanding his death might lead to more understanding of the increase in mortality among middle-aged US White males. Sometimes the death of a celebrity can bring attention to a phenomena that has been affecting many people, but remains unstudied because attention is focused elsewhere.

One thing is clear to me, the social stigma that blames victims of suicide is misplaced. There is much more going on than poor choices when someone dies of suicide. Only by learning to diagnose and treat illness will we be able to make a change in this alarming statistic.

I’ll keep reading the abstracts. Clearly we have much to be learned.

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November paddle

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As is often the case, the weather is giving us a beautiful extended autumn in the hills. I sometimes say that October is a busy month in the life of the church, but the truth is that every month is busy. The past couple of weeks, we have been making firewood deliveries on Saturdays, which take a little more time than our usual half-day splitting party, but the general operation of the church, while filled with activities, isn’t significantly more busy than any other time of the year. I had a conversation with one of the neighbors of the church recently, who commented that our parking lot seems to be full during the midweek. I explained some of the things that we do and he commented that we certainly have a lot more going on than is the case with the congregation he attends. I’m not sure that we have more things going on than was the case a decade ago, but we do keep busy.

Despite the full schedule, there are moments to pause and reflect and yesterday was a good day to begin with a paddle. The weather was quite warm, nearly 50 degrees at home, about 10 degrees cooler at the lake. The combination of shortening days and end of Daylight Savings Time put the sunrise at around 6:30 a.m. That meant I could be on the water for sunrise without having to leave home too early and being able to return home in time to tackle the chores that were waiting for me.

I had the lake to myself and there was just a little texture to the water, with a slight breeze. I launched at the north beach and headed out directly across the lake to explore some of the inlets on the south side of the lake. Two huge sections of dock from the North Marina had made their way across the lake. I suspect that they came loose from their moorings during heavy winds that we experienced last week. Fortunately everyone had taken their boats from the water and there were no boats attached to the docks. Still, it must have been a bit dramatic, with water washing over them as they broke loose. Someone will have to retrieve them and there’ll be a bit of diving needed to get them properly anchored once again. But yesterday, they were just interesting shapes in the water that were fun to paddle around as I made my way in my little kayak. I was layered up and plenty warm for the conditions.

There aren’t many ducks left at the lake and those who remain probably had late hatches. Although the chicks look a bit smaller than I expect at this time of the year, they are healthy and flying, so they may not linger much longer. The lake should, however, be rich with food for the ducks and the weather is just fine for a few more days in South Dakota before heading south for the winter.

With the boats out of the lake, I’m sure that there are a few fishermen who are still coming out, but there were none on the lake when I was paddling yesterday. As I made my way across the lake, several fish rose to check out my passing and to remind me that despite regular fishing, there are plenty of fish who escaped being caught. In the early morning light it is hard to see what is beneath the surface of the water. Too much is reflecting off of the surface, but I could imagine a big old Northern or perhaps one of the big rainbows rising the check for food as my boat passed. In general, the time when I was paddling is the best time of day for fishing. By 9 am or so the fish are less active. I’m not much of a fisherman and I haven’t fished Sheridan Lake for many years. I know that serious fishermen keep track of the barometric pressure and times of moonrise and set in predicting fish activity.

The main characters in yesterday’s paddle, however, were the geese. There are Canadian geese that hang around our area in the winter. I think that they are mostly birds that summer farther north while the geese who are here in the summer winter to the south, but I’m not sure. I’ve never gained the ability to identify individual birds with any accuracy. At any rate, yesterday I didn’t notice any geese when launching my boat. Not long into my paddle, however, six birds made a low pass overhead, with lots of honking and squawking. I was just thinking about how a few geese can sound like a lot when I noticed another small group. Soon there were 16 on the water close to the shore and they were really raising a ruckus: splashing and chasing one another. I don’t know what was causing the ruckus, but perhaps there was a bit of food worthy of a fight.

Geese aren’t hard to hear, but it seemed as if the sound of those birds went out to other geese in the area. By the time I returned to the same place after paddling around a bit there must have been at least 30 geese and perhaps more. The splashing and carrying on had settled down a bit but there were still occasional skirmishes between birds with the appropriate amount of noise. They reminded me of some people I know. Their battles are mostly a lot of shouting with occasional gestures, but very little real physical contact. And their noise raises a crowd.

I enjoy the creatures of the lake, but even more inspirational for me is the simple beauty of it all. The lake reflects the hills and sky in a gorgeous way. The few clouds in the sky provided a canvas for all of the pinks, oranges and golds of sunrise. Because of changes in sun angle, the colors of autumn are different from those of summer. Everything seems a bit softer. The day is a bit gentler. Gratitude comes naturally.

As I drove back home, it seemed sad to me that the many cars that were streaming to town carrying people to school and work were filled with people who came so close to such astounding beauty and didn’t have time to sit still and take it in.

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Food and health

The comedians on a couple of podcasts to which I listen are having a field day with the recent announcement from the World Health Organization warning of a link between processed meat and colorectal cancer. One comedian, addressing a crowd in North Carolina compared bacon to cigarettes. I haven’t read the WHO report, but I doubt that it compared bacon or hot dogs to cigarettes. At any rate, I’m doubtful that the statistics bear out such a comparison.

Cigarettes really do result in significant health risks for those who smoke and those who breath the smoke of others. I believe that the risk factor is between 10 and 15 percent. In other words, for every 100 people who quit smoking, 10 to 15 lives can be saved. Smoking has been linked not only to lung cancer, but also to other forms of cancer, heart disease and other ailments. But it is important to understand that there is no such thing as a risk-free life. I am the child of non smokers. I’ve never smoked. My wife is a non smoker. I’ve lived my entire life in a nonsmoking household. That does not mean that I have a zero risk of lung cancer. Health officials do not keep official statistics, but about 20% of those who die of lung cancer do not smoke or use any form of tobacco. If lung cancer in nonsmokers was a separate category, it would rank among the top 10 fatal cancers in the United States according to the American Cancer Society. Lung cancer is also caused by Radon gas, secondhand smoke, other cancer-causing agents, air pollution and genetic mutation.

Changes in lifestyle can lower risk, but not eliminate the risk entirely.

Processed meats, even in the most recent studies pose a far lower risk factor. A BBC report on the WHO warning about processed meats stated that there is a 5.6% risk of developing colorectal cancer. For those who eat processed meat every day the risk rises to 6.6%. The 1% difference makes the impact of lifestyle change that much smaller than is the case with tobacco. For every 100 people who stop eating too much processed meat only 1 life would be saved if I’ve got my statistics right.

I’m thinking that the comedian who called hot dogs “gastronomic asbestos,” was quite a bit off from a purely statistical point of view.

The reality is that changes if lifestyle can have an impact on health, but there are so many other factors that there is no such thing as a perfect lifestyle change or a magic pill.

As I rid the transition from middle age to senior citizen, I have been trying to be careful about the choices I make. I would like to preserve my health as best as I am reasonably able so that I can enjoy my relationships with my family and serve the church for as many years as possible. I am well aware that I will not live forever. Nor will I be able to maintain my role in the church for extra decades. Still, it makes sense to me to at least consider the health effects of the choices I make within reason.

The problem is that it is difficult to determine which choices yield the best results.

For most of my life, for example, I have been a fairly heavy caffeine drinker. I enjoy coffee and have an espresso pump in my home. I like to make fancy espresso beverages for our guests. There have been many days when I was drinking several cups of coffee each day and experienced no noticeable ill effects. In fact in 2012 a study published in the New England Journal of Medicine reported positive health benefits of coffee. In that study 400,000 Americans were studied over 13 years. The scientists found that people who drink between three and six cups of coffee a day were around 10% less likely to die and had lower rates of heart disease, stroke, diabetes and infections. I remember reacting positively to that study thinking that my lifestyle put me right in the middle of that lowered risk group.

The problem is that the study made no distinction between those with normal health statistics and those with other factors that raised their risks. If the study had been limited to those who were already diagnosed with high blood pressure, for example, the results would likely have been different.

So much of what we know about health risks is based on observational studies. In the coffee study, we have no way of knowing if the coffee itself was protecting the heart, or if healthier people are just more drawn to coffee. There are other possible explanations for the results, but none have been tested enough to know for certain why the correlation between moderate coffee drinking and better health exists.

In a nutshell, it is difficult to say whether or not there is an increased risk or possible benefit from drinking coffee.

I grew up with several relatives who were wheat farmers. We were taught that whole wheat was extremely beneficial for health. We used to haul unprocessed hard red winter wheat directly from the farm in clean new metal trash containers. My mother would grind the wheat freshly when she baked bread. We used the same grinder to produce cracked wheat for cereal. Hot wheat cereal was a part of our breakfast all winter long. I remember longing for summer because during summer we would be allowed to eat cold cereal. During the school year, however, hot cereal was the norm. It was fairly common to also have toast, eggs and sausage, ham or bacon with our breakfasts as well.

Recently I caught a study connecting over consumption of wheat and Alzheimer’s disease. Alzheimer’s isn’t a disease that I would want to inflict on my family. However, even with some limited evidence that what based boots can trigger inflammation throughout the body, whole wheat is better for those with a family history of diabetes than say potatoes, which release sugars more quickly than whole grains.

The bottom line, don’t look to me for advice on a healthy diet. I try to make informed choices for myself, but I remain unconvinced that a perfect diet exists.

Still, I got this article about the DASH Diet, published by the National Institutes of Health. It sounds pretty good on the first read.

Has anyone ever done a study on the effects of following the latest diet fad on long term health prospects?

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All Saints, 2015

The Protestant reformation produced some forms of severe reaction against the pomp and ceremony of the Roman church. Some of the reformers rejected extravagances of organs and processions and incense and elaborate vestments. There was a general rejection of the overburdened calendar of saints’ days in favor of a simpler form of worship and faith. As is true with most human endeavors there are always a few extremes in both direction. The elaborate and pompous high Baroque cathedrals with some of the most expensive organs created in their time were places for grand processions and recessions with all of the pomp and ceremony the church could muster. The severe and stark Calvinist churches, some without any musical instruments stood in stark contrast.

Our particular strain of church history has often stood a bit to the so-called “low church” end of that spectrum. We haven’t gone in for too much in terms of statuary and vestment. On the other hand, we have an appreciation for good music and have collected valuable instruments and hired good musicians.

In our corner of the tradition All Saints Day is an optional festival. The lectionary of readings gives alternates for the day, with a set of readings for the observation of All Saints and another set for the twenty-third Sunday after Pentecost in the season we call “ordinary.” Some of our congregations will observe All Saints day, others will not.

The tradition of All Saints observances in our congregation is not long standing. We have placed more emphasis on the holiday in recent years influenced, no doubt, by the ecumenical bible study in which I participate. As I discuss the readings with Lutheran, Methodist, Presbyterian and Episcopal colleagues, we also discuss the worship and practices of our congregations. One of my colleagues recently commented, “What better evidence of a good and gracious God than the people we get to know in the church?”

For many congregations All Saints has evolved into a kind of memorial day, when those who have died in the past year are remembered. In our congregation, we print the names of those who have died on Memorial weekend in May and, in recent years, we have adopted the practice of showing their pictures on All Saints Day.

We also sing. There are two beloved all saints hymns: “I Sing a Song of the Saints of God” and “For All the Saints.” I’ve blogged about the former in other years, but I think that “For All the Saints” is sung even more often in our congregation.

The hymn, dating back to the late 19th century, has been sung to several different tunes, but in our congregation, the tune by Ralph Vaughn Williams, called Sine Nominee (“without name”), is associated with the hymn. It is common for our organist to play that tune as the first song of the postlude at funerals. We have associated that song not so much with the grief of loss as with the triumph of resurrection.

The song was composed as a processional, and probably fits well with a high church tradition. The text, written by an Anglican Bishop, William Waltham How, has eleven verses and often is sung in unison to enable choirs and church leaders to process while singing. The tune is nearly a march in structure and makes walking easy. The repeated Alleluias at the end of each verse brings a triumphant note to the song. There are verses celebrating Saints, Apostles, Soldiers, Evangelists, and Martyrs, as well as verses celebrating the communion of all who have served, verses describing God’s assistance of humans, and the struggles of this life, all capped by a glorious trinitarian formula: “Singing to Father, Son and Holy Ghost: Alleluia, Alleluia!”

It is a glorious hymn and we will be singing it this morning as well as hearing it sung as we show the pictures of those of our congregation who have died in the past year. It isn’t an easy moment for our congregation. Grief involves pain and brings tears to our eyes. We don’t take the loss of loved ones lightly. But worship isn’t always about choosing the easiest path.

In an adaptation of the celebrations of previous years, this year’s remembrance is embedded in the celebration of communion with special words to place our recollections in context of the life of our community. The words of the hymn remind us that we remain connected with those who have died:

O blest communion, fellowship divine!
We feebly struggle, they in glory shine;
Yet all are one in Thee, for all are Thine.
Alleluia, Alleluia!

I don’t take the responsibility of planning worship lightly. I am aware of the power of worship planners to manipulate the emotions of participants and I want no part of such manipulation. At the same time, I know that our emotions are a part of who we are and that ignoring emotion can result in bringing less than our full selves to worship. Maintaining a delicate balance requires careful thought. I know I don’t always get it right. I try to learn from my mistakes and make adjustments to respect the people who worship and the process of community.

That balance seems to bring us to a kind of mid-point between elaborate high church celebrations and austere low church gatherings. We have deep respect for liturgy while remaining open to innovation and creativity. I have studied the ancient prayers and time-honored words and employ them in our observances alongside new forms of language and expression. We sing some of the new songs, without distancing ourselves from the historic ones.

No single church can express the widest diversity of the Christian faith, and we know that the expression of faith in our generation requires our sister congregations as well as our own. We have no illusions that we are better or more important than other congregations. But we strive to be the best we are able at genuine worship that is appropriate to who we are.

In that effort we celebrate not just the saints who have gained official recognition, but all of the faithful people whose lives have touched ours. In our hearts and minds the communion of saints is vast and expansive.

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