There are various forms of the “science vs. religion” debate that I have heard over the years. Many of the discussions are far from intelligent with those engaged in the conversations seeing their opponents as evil, or ignorant or worse. The dichotomy seems to me to be false from the beginning. From my perspective I see nothing in science that threatens faith. Our forebears didn’t write Genesis as a scientific textbook. In the story of our religion, science is a relatively new voice in the conversation and it grew directly out of the dramatic changes that were set in motion by a discussion within the institutional church: the reformation. Scientific method is a direct outgrowth of the institutional church. But that bit of historical trivia is rarely interesting to those who want to see the world as sharply divided into two distinct camps. Some religious fundamentalists see the discoveries of science as somehow threatening to religious belief. There have been some creationists who claim that the discoveries of science about the length of time and the great distances of space are somehow wrong because they read Biblical creation stories as giving specific amounts of time. Their error in interpretation seems to me to be a matter of misinformed bible study, not a reason to disagree with scientists, but to them the numerology of the Bible is very important and they can be extremely dogmatic in their interpretations.

One of the things that often crops up in such discussions is talk of miracles and the suspension of the laws of physics. After I while I often bore of these arguments as well simply because I think that the so-called laws of physics are not laws at all, but rather explanations of the patterns in the natural world. Competent scientists are thrilled to find exceptions to rules and they conduct aggressive research to explain the new patterns they have discovered. Particle theory explains some of the ways in which energy works. Wave theory also serves to explain part of the observable world. Neither defies the “laws” of the other. They represent different frameworks for partial understanding.

From my point of view, religion doesn’t offer a set of immutable rules, but rather a deeply meaningful perspective to explain the world. Miracles often are not exceptions to the rules Spontaneous remission of cancer for example is well documented by science and by religion. One uses the word miracle. The other continues to look for an understanding of the phenomenon. Neither provides a completely satisfying answer to the question of why this occurs to one person and not to another.

Today, however, we celebrate an event that is absolutely unique in the universe. To my knowledge, the resurrection of Jesus from the dead occurred only once. There is no precedent and have been no subsequent resurrections that are identical. And because the event took place roughly 1500 years before scientific method, it seems unlikely that we have all of the evidence of exactly what occurred. It is even more unlikely that the events can be replicated, even if we were to undertake the bloody and cruel execution method of crucifixion. I am completely comfortable with seeing Jesus’ resurrection as unique, but I can see no problems with the search for other ways of explaining the events. I don’t have much passion for explaining it, however. I am comfortable with there being some things in God’s universe that I can’t explain.

I don’t believe that any “laws” of biology or physics have been violated. I see an event that doesn’t fit into the patterns we have observed. And it makes sense to me why it doesn’t fit into the patterns we know.

But it does make a big difference to me in the everyday living of my life. I’ve been around long enough to walk with grief every day. There are those who were once part of my life who have died. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, parents, in-laws, a brother and a sister are no longer living, but they continue to be a part of my life. And the sense of loss is a constant companion in my life. And there have been others also. As a pastor I have officiated at the funerals to too many people who have become my friends. I have eulogized people who were good and faithful and beloved.

All of this experience, however, doesn’t explain death to me. There is far more about the mystery of death than the little that I know and understand. I have no problems with biological explanations about the ending of heartbeat and the cessation of breathing, the slowing and stopping of brain function. I understand about the conservation of matter that means that the elements that make up human bodies are broken down, and re-used by the processes of this world by other organisms. But I don’t understand death. It is a mystery. In fact I would say it is a holy mystery.

What I do know is that when someone dies, it is not the end. Without starting a debate with an atheist, we could both agree that memory remains. And that influence can last beyond the span of a single life. There are those who lived and died hundreds, even thousands of years ago, whose words are instructional for us and whose lives impact the ways we live our lives.

And there is more. For now, I am comfortable to lie with the mystery. I don’t need to know, but I am confident that we have much more yet to learn. Just as some of the mistaken assertions of primitive world-views now seem a bit silly to us, what we now consider to be the pinnacle of educated understanding and rational thought will one day seem immature and incomplete.

Today it enough for me to say that the worst that this world can offer: the abuse of power by religious and governmental authorities, the use of torture and cruel and unusual punishment, the methods of killing someone in a slow and painful manner, the techniques of crowd control and mass manipulation – these are not the final words on the status of human life. These things cannot kill love. Love is stronger than death. It is simple and clear and true.

Love wins.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

A member of our church commented yesterday to me that he found it exciting and very unusual that our church was initiating so many new programs in recent months. “Usually after a pastor has been in a church for 15 or more years, he has a list of reasons why things won’t work and resists starting anything new, but we are seeing lots of new programs.” I don’t know what is usual about a pastor staying for more than 15 years. This is the only time I’ve done it. My previous pastorates were 7 and 10 years. But it does seem to be a season of change for our church. New programs like our young adults ministry, the “bring a friend to church Sunday,” and the intense worship schedule for Holy Week are all products of recent thinking and conversations. Grass roots ministries continue to bubble up from the members and we have started new Bible studies, new outreach ministries, and new connectional ministries all initiated by members of the congregation. It seems to be a good time for growth and change.

When I think of our Holy Week schedule, one of the obvious sources of the change is that sabbatical that we took in 2011. During our time away from active leadership in the church, we contemplated, researched and wrote on time and how some times seem to draw us closer to God. One of those times is Sabbath. The commandment about Sabbath and its deep connection to human freedom was an astute observation on human nature in its time and the truth that was discovered back then is as true today as it was when first revealed to a tribe of wandering herders in the ancient Middle East. When one does not set aside time for rest and recreation, one loses freedom. Perspective is also lost. It doesn’t take much for people to gain an inflated opinion about their own importance. During the 2011 sabbatical, I observed that many contemporary families have intensely over-scheduled lives with little, if any, time for true rest and recreation. Their time away from work is as full of schedules and demands as their time at work. This is especially true of families with teens. There is rarely a moment when the whole family is in the same place at the same time. They divide and conquer to provide transportation and presence for all of the activities. We have virtually no families in our church with teens that are able to maintain weekly attendance at worship. Many families with teens in our congregation attend about once a month or less on average.

Then I observed that families find ways to take time off when there is a death in the family. Schedules are suspended. Activities are canceled. They simply stop everything and enter into grieving. While I wouldn’t wish grief on anyone, I began to see that grief can bring families together for events that used to be common in everyday life: shared meals, conversation, telling stories, meeting relatives, entertaining guests, and telling one another that they loved each other. They power down the technology, withdraw from the hectic schedules and focus their attention on the things that are most important.

Then it struck me. In the church, we practice the process of grief every year. We go through a week of simply sitting with grief in the belief that because death and grief are inevitable, reminding ourselves that God journeys with us in the midst of the grief ought to be an annual practice. Holy Week offers the opportunity to practice a life skill that we all need. And, in the process, it offers Sabbath – time off from the every day.

We knew that it would not be practical for our families to take an entire week off from school and work, as is the custom in some other countries. So we began to imagine a week that offered a daily worship experience – an opportunity for an hour of Sabbath each day. We reasoned that even a single additional hour of Sabbath is preferable to none.

There are still two more days in our week. Three more special services are yet to occur. But the week has exceeded our expectations at almost every turn. The vast majority of the leaders of the congregation have availed themselves of opportunities for extra worship. More than a third of our regular participants have added at least one extra worship service this week. Mid-week attendance during Holy Week has already set records for our congregation. The number of visitors to our congregation has exceeded any week in the past 20 years. Each event has been rich in symbol and intensity. We’ve shared tears and laughter and heard life stories that had not previously been shared. We’ve drawn closer to each other and to God.

Of course there is the dynamic of church leaders, who rarely take Sabbath when they are responsible for leading worship. The ministers of the church are exhausted. We are looking forward to two days in a row off next week. We’ve moved furniture, set up and taken down all kinds of worship elements, printed bulletins, crafted liturgies, written prayers and worked as hard as we ever have in our lives to pull of the intensity of the week from the perspective of the church office. In addition to the special events of the week, we also produced a newsletter, made our calls and kept up with the usual business of the church. It has been exhausting, but so rich in meaning. Still, we need to take the commandment about Sabbath as seriously as do the families of our church. The week is rich in meaning not because we have added more activities and events, but because we have spent more time in prayer and more time sitting with the stories of our people.

My anticipation of Easter is higher than it has ever before been. I am looking forward to the Great Vigil, the sunrise and the resurrection celebration in ways that I have not felt for a long time. Our ability to feel the joy has its roots in our willingness to sit with the pain. If Holy Week were a play in three acts, we just completed the second act and are awaiting the opening of the third. It is appropriate that we will wait all day for our worship today. Not until 7 p.m. will we gather for the new fire. The day is about waiting and preparation. The anticipation is building.

There are more new things to be revealed – that is the nature of our faith. It is the promise of drawing close to God.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

We have mixed feelings about a lot of things. This season seems to project those mixed feelings to a strange proportion. The gap in the holiday is huge in this country. Let me try to explain, though it will be a challenge because I don’t really understand much of what we do. I’ll start with a question. It is a genuine question – that is I don’t know the answer. How did the rabbit get involved in Easter? The rabbit doesn’t seem to have any connection to the crucifixion. It doesn’t even seem to have any connection to eggs, which were a part of the observance of the Passover in Roman times. At least it is possible that Jesus ate an egg when he celebrated the Last Supper with his disciples. But I don’t know how the bunny got involved. Rabbits are not kosher. They are ruminants that do not have cloven hoofs – thus would have been considered by Jesus and his family to be unclean – not proper food for humans to eat.

I know the history of the church adopting secular holidays as it arranged its calendar of holy observances. I understand that some of the customs of our religious observances have their roots in pre-Christian times. And I know that rabbits are prolific breeders, so it might make sense that they are somehow symbols of spring and fertility. But rabbits don’t lay eggs. They give live birth. The confusion that leaves us with a mammal hiding colored eggs for the occasion is strange, to say the least. Actually, the thought of an oversized rabbit hiding colored eggs in your back yard is a bit creepy, if you want my opinion. We never told such stories to our children, though we did make up baskets of treats for them to discover on Easter morning.

But I guess, I could understand it and say that it is just one of the quirks of history if there was a secular symbol that showed up in a religious celebration. It happens at other holidays. The red and white clothing of Santa Claus comes more from the colors of the Coca Cola Company than from any traditions surrounding Saint Nicholas. But rabbits show up in really strange places. In early Christian art, hares appeared on reliefs, epitaphs, icons and oil lamps although their significance is not always clear. In Switzerland at the Paderborn Cathedral, there is a famous round window in which three hares have only three ears between them. The ears form a triangle, presumably a symbol of the trinity. It is possible that a running hare is an ancient symbol for the passage of time.

Physiologue, a resource used by medieval artists, says that when a rabbit is in danger it seeks safety by climbing high on rocky cliffs, but when it turns down it cannot go fast because of its short front legs and is easily caught by predators. This is somehow supposed to be a reminder to people to seek “higher” things and not rely on “earthly” possessions, though the connection is definitely a stretch in my mind.

The association of rabbits with the Virgin Mary is even more bizarre if you want my opinion. In ancient times it was believed that the hare was a hermaphrodite. At least Pliny and Plutarch make such references. They were wrong, of course, but if they had been right, I guess there is some sort of technical argument that a hare can reproduce without loss of virginity. That is a real stretch and makes no sense to me, but I guess I can understand that some misinformed person might think such a thing. Anyway they associated rabbits with Mary and there are lots of pieces of art that depict Mary with rabbits. There is a famous woodcut by Albrecht Duerer called The Holy Family with Three Hares.

It is a strange connection.

In this country it seems that we end up with two distinct holidays – one that has a distinctly somber tone, where we sit with grief and confront our mortality and another where a giant rabbit hides pastel-colored eggs in your yard and gives away chocolate. In that second one the rabbit is often made of chocolate, making biting the head off the creature some sort of strange ritual that I don’t get, either. I’m not a fan of television and I’ve never watched an entire episode of the animated series South Park, but I’ve read a quote from the character Stan in that show: “Look, I’m just saying that somewhere between Jesus dying on the Cross and a giant bunny hiding eggs there seems to be a . . . a gap of information.”

If it were only a gap in information, you could fill the gap by reading “The First Easter Bunny” by Frrich Lewandowski, in which it is implied that a bunny was present at both the crucifixion and the resurrection: “He saw that the man on the cross was the same man who rode the donkey in the parade a few days earlier. The rabbit was confused, but he remembered how the older rabbits always told the younger rabbits to beware of people because people can change their minds quickly.” I wouldn’t read the book to my grandchildren. It seems to be an invitation to disbelief, not faith. Are we to teach that the first living creature to see the Risen Jesus Christ was the Easter Bunny? It is simply a bizarre layering of divergent traditions.

So if I need to go to the store today, I’ll pass quickly by the displays with the chocolate rabbits. I don’t intend to rent a suit with floppy ears and hide eggs. I’ll leave that to others.

I will sit in the church, and ponder the depth of God’s love – love so deep that there is nothing, not even death itself, in human experience that God does not share.

And if I’m lucky, I’ll set aside all thoughts of rabbits and think of things with more meaning for me.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

Today is Maundy Thursday. The name comes from the Latin Mandatum, or mandate. The mandate is not, as some Christian writers have observed, Jesus’ commandment to “do this in remembrance of me,” but rather is instruction about washing feet: “If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For if I have given you and example, that you should do as I have done to you. Most assuredly, I say to you, a servant is not greater than his master; nor is he who is sent greater than he who sent him. If you know these things, blessed are you if you do them.” (John 13:14-17). In some corners of the church Maundy is the name given to the rite of washing feet.

We’re not really big on footwashing in our culture. We tend to think of our feet as something smelly, something that might be best left covered up. A number of years ago as we prepared for a Maundy Thursday pageant a member of my congregation commented that he would be leaving his shoes on during that part of the pageant: “I don’t take my shoes of in public and I’m not going to start doing to today.” But imagine, if you will how much more clean our feet must be than those of everyday people in the time of Jesus who wore not shoes, or if they were lucky they had sandals. Their feet must have been constantly dirty from walking the trails and unimproved roadways. They must have been as sweaty as ours and covered with sores and corns and bunions and other things we don’t talk about in polite company. It was feet such as these that Jesus washed. Peter didn’t like the idea and tried to talk Jesus out of it. But Jesus wouldn’t let him. He got down on his knees in the dust and dirt and scabs and scales of real humanity and served the people that he loved.

More than a few would like to ignore this instruction. They worry about infection and sharing problems and fungi. So when we wash feet this evening in our church we’ll be doing so in a most antiseptic manner with pre-heated disposable wipes and very clean conditions. We are more afraid of infection than we are of the consequences of being half-hearted disciples who take some, but not all of the instructions of Jesus seriously.

But I have witnessed moments of sacred footwashing. Some have even occurred in churches. A couple of times each month there is a sacred circle for footwashing at the Canyon Lake Senior Citizens’ Center. The foot clinics are attended by home health care nurses who bathe the feet and trim the toe nails of those who are aged and unable to care properly for their own feet. Foot care is especially important for those who are diabetic and each time the clinic is open the folks gather around and patiently wait for the few minutes when they will be seated in a comfortable chair without shoes or socks and have their feet gently bathed in warm water. The nurses kneel at the feet of those being served, or sit on very low stools. The tone is quiet, but friendly with warm conversation all around. It is a sacred moment.

And today is the day we remember the mandate of Jesus that we attend to each others’ needs.

There is another possible source for the term Maundy. The Latin mendicare, Old French mendier, and English maund all mean “to beg.” The noun form of the word refers to a small basket held out by maunders (beggers) as they maunded (begged) in public places.

Today isn’t a bad day to remember those who are reduced to begging in a society that takes a dim view of such activity. People ask me for money from time to time. Some ask because they think that the church is in the business of giving charity. While we do support a number of outreach missions and we are engaged in seeking to end hunger and poverty, we don’t have a fund dedicated to giving money to those in need. Some ask because they’ve heard that I do what I can to help. I’ve been known to give away some of my money when it seems the need cannot be otherwise met or the story strikes my heart. Some ask because they are desperate and there isn’t any place else that they can think of to turn. There are lots of requests that we cannot meet. While an occasional tank of gas does get given, we aren’t rich enough to give away “free gasoline.” Paying rent or utility bills is also beyond our means. Those who ask sometimes go away empty-handed and more often go away with much less help than they had hoped for.

While the Gospels give a general sense that we are called to help the poor and be generous with the abundance we have received, it isn’t much help in determining the response to any specific need. In Matthew 26:11 we are reminded that we do not have the means to end poverty. But that verse comes just a chapter after the powerful testimony of Matthew 25:31-46 that “whatever you did unto the least of these brothers and sisters you did unto me.”

When I lead worship I put a stole around my shoulders. It is a piece of liturgical clothing that is a reminder of the towel that Jesus took up when he washed the feet of the disciples. For a minister it is supposed to be a reminder that we are not ordained to rule over others, but rather we are ordained to serve. It is a simple way of keeping our minds on the fact that the Mandatum is not reserved for Maundy Thursday, but is an invitation for everyday living.

Today is Maundy Thursday. May it be a reminder of the call to live a life of service to others not just one day of the year, but every day.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

Seems like there’s plenty of reasons to get the blues these days:
A dozen years of war have not made us feel safe from terror
The returning soldiers injured in ways we did not foresee
Families wrent by stresses not before known
The post in post-traumatic stress is from here to eternity
No end for the victims
War changes participants’ lives forever.

Seems like there’s plenty of reasons to get the blues these days:
Partisan divides debilitating legislative assemblies
Seasoned statesmen arguing like two-year-olds
Even fiscal cliffs are irresistible for lemmings
We long for some sign of courage from those we elected
No independence detected
The votes follow dollars and not sense.

Seems like there’s plenty of reasons to get the blues these days:
1 in 5 live in poverty in our own town
The poorest of the poor are the youngest
Raise more funds, fill more backpacks, cook more mission meals
And the line just keeps on getting longer and longer
Empty belly breakfast
In the land of teenage obesity.

Seems like there’s plenty of reasons to get the blues these days:
Racist words ring out from city chambers
Jim Crow moved from cafes into prison
Minority become majority inside jail cells
Better have cash if you want gas for a rez car
Courts philosophize about equality
The Tiospaye ponders survival.

Seems like there’s plenty of reasons to get the blues these days:
Stock markets set new records piling money on money
Recession’s a dip if you don’t sell
You’ve got money, there’s ways to make more
New taxes are dead on arrival
Top’s a lonely spot, the more that you’ve got
The smaller your circle of peers.

Seems like there’s plenty of reasons to get the blues these days:
Mideast tempers flare lit by real rockets
The innocents end up the victims
My side’s right and we’ll fight
Our god hates your kind of people
Ambassadors dine, politicians whine
Widows’ tears soak the ground like rivers.

Seems like there’s plenty of reasons to get the blues these days.

We have been through Holy Week before. The path of the journey is not unknown to us. We knew that we’d be tired by the middle of the week with more events planned, more intensity coming, more emotional energy required. It is nothing compared to the journey of Jesus and his disciples in that Holy Week in Jerusalem so long ago. It is nothing like the journeys of grief that lie ahead as we face the loss of ones we love side by side with our own mortality. But it is intense.

When we lead camps, we talk with the staff about the Wednesday phenomenon. If tempers are going to flare, it’s likely to come mid-week. If homesickness rears, it’s likely to be most intense at mid-week. If behaviors get out of line, they’re most likely to show up in the middle. I promise counselors Thursday feels better than Wednesday and I’m usually. The kid you feel like strangling today will bring you tears at his departure.

Holy week is like camp in many ways. It is a carefully crafted series of experiences developed for practicing the serious business of real life. It is about developing relationships that carry us forward as a community with relationships that are tested and true. Sometimes the memories when the week is over are stronger than the events in the midst of the experience. And it is worth doing over and over again.

So tonight we have planned a concert. Not a worship service. Not a program. Not an attempt to draw new members to strengthen our institution. We won’t be taking an offering or making a speech. We won’t be offering solutions or solving problems. We’re just going to sit with the blues, listen to the tunes, and express the emotions.

And, since we’re a church, we’ll be doing it together.

There will be time to get the candles in order and carry out the rituals of Maundy Thursday. There will be time for the somberness of Good Friday. There will be time for the pomp and pageantry of the Great Vigil and the sunrise service and the Easter breakfast and the Resurrection celebration. But this isn’t that time.

Tonight is a night for the blues.

Music soothes when we are at a loss for words.

It’s been years since my blog’s ended with a word count this short. There’ll be plenty of words in the days to come.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

There are many different ways to interpret the data from polls, but it is nearly impossible to ignore the fact that America is undergoing a religious shift. You can read the data in terms of a cultural and ethnic shift. While the percentage of Americans who are affiliated with the Roman Catholic Church is relatively stable at about 22%, the church is increasingly Hispanic. About half of all Catholics younger than 40 are Latino. You can read the data in terms of decline. In 2012, American ceased to be majority Protestant. The decline, which started in mainline Protestant churches now has clearly spread to Evangelical churches as well. The declines have been most significant among whites and most rapid among men. But it is also possible to read the data as the story of growth. The group that is growing has been given the nickname “nones” (as in “none of the above”). In the 1950’s this was about 2% of the population. By the 1970’s it had grown to about 7%. Today it is close to 20% and growing.

One needs to be careful with that data however, because it may not indicate as dramatic a shift in terms of beliefs as one might expect. Only about a third of the nones identify as atheists or agnostics. The vast majority of them believe in God. In fact in one Pew poll, defying traditional definitions, about 9% of the respondents who identified as atheistic or agnostic said they believe in God with “absolute certainty.”

If the trend is away from churches, but not away from beliefs, one has to look more closely at the data in order to understand what is going on. This movement away from religious institutions is taking place in the midst of a rapid decline in trust in institutions in general. Confidence in government and big business has fallen at the same time and nearly at the same rate as confidence in religious institutions. Americans appear to be growing more individualistic and skeptical of authority in general.

Another trend that appears to be occurring is that the growth of the more fundamentalist and conservative right evangelical churches that began to accelerate during the 1970’s was almost completely at the expense of mainline protestant congregations. And, now that the fundamentalist congregations are themselves experiencing the decline it is clear that the attempt to draw members from other Christian churches was successful only in the short term. Those members kept going and now are leaving the church entirely. Many people who check “none of the above” express a very dim view of religious conservatives asserting that churches are too focused on rules and money and too involved with politics. Some put all Christian churches in the same category as Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson and conclude, “If this is religion, I want no part in it.”

Another dynamic worthy of note is that rebellion from religion is a socially acceptable form of expressing the distancing from parents that is a normal part of adolescence. The extending of adolescence in America has meant that things that used to affect a decade of the age span now affect nearly double the population. 74% of those who claim “none of the above” as their religious affiliation were raised in a religious tradition and turned away in their adolescent years. And here is another interesting trend: 40% of those raised unaffiliated have fallen away from their parent’s lack of religious tradition and now have become participants in churches. Mainline protestant churches are experiencing a mini-revival of young adults who grew up without religious affiliation and now are choosing to become involved in religion.

The result is a very confused religious landscape.

Churches that try to respond to every whim and fancy of the poll results end up being confused and often fail to attract new members because they don’t seem to have any identity at all. One of the elements that seems to be shared by many congregations in decline is a tendency to follow every trend that comes their way, making frequent major changes in styles of music, orders of worship and other major elements of congregational life.

Staying the same without any change at all, however, is also a recipe for decline.

One thing that seems to be succeeding for congregations is offering a variety of different options for members. If it is true that our culture in general is becoming more individualistic, different choices appeal to different people. When I became pastor of this congregation, it offered one mid-week service during Holy Week. The Maundy Thursday communion service was generally well-attended, though the crowd wasn’t as big as Palm Sunday or Easter. This week we are offering seven distinct mid-week services. It is too early to have any meaningful statistics, but if subsequent services have attendances that match last night’s service, the total attendance during Holy Week will exceed both Palm Sunday and Easter. That is something that may never have occurred in this congregation. More choices seem to result in more total attendance.

Our Department of Worship started to form the plan for this year’s Holy Week almost a year ago. Following Easter last year, they began to talk about increasing options and offering more for the congregation. Growth in the era of declining membership is difficult, even in a congregation that is bucking those trends. While our church continues to experience modest growth, it is hard to find budget for additional services and events. But the Department felt that the expansion was warranted from the perspective of faith and took the risk – a risk that appears to be well worth it.

Maybe the church enters new territory each time we observe Holy Week. When we take the scriptures seriously, it seems impossible that we can come face to face with Holy Week and not be changed. The week begins with an entry into Jerusalem on palm-strewn streets and continues through a cleansing of the temple to an unavoidable confrontation with death. Were the story to end there, there would be no point in continuing, but when death is squarely confronted, it loses its power and we learn that it is not the end.

We all need to be reminded of this truth – especially those who believe in God, but are skeptical about the institutions of faith. The decline of institutions is not the end. If we are to be serious about our faith in the Resurrection, we need to get over our fear of dying. That applies to the institution as well as to individuals.

The journey continues . . .

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

I am reading Alice Walker’s “The Color Purple” this week. I’m not sure how I missed reading the book earlier. I read a lot of books, but somehow this particular book remained on my “to read” list for years before I got around to it. It is a powerful story that is somehow familiar because I have read so much of the material that surrounded the movie based on the novel. I’m sure that I was reading a bit less in the time that the book came out. Our children were young, we weren’t getting as much sleep as we wanted and our lives seemed busy. Then, year after year, I had no trouble finding other books to read. It is about time. The story is compelling and I’m sure that I’ll finish it before long.

In a way it is an appropriate story for Holy Week. For me this week cuts through all of our pretenses. We might imagine some kind of a perfect world in which people aren’t abused and there is no pain, but we live in a real world where suffering and sadness, sorrow and pain greet us at every corner.

Holy Week invites us to look seriously at the simple fact that God does not somehow sweep us out of this world, but rather comes to us in the midst of the realities of this world and shares our common lot. When we sing the song of Jesus in the garden, we imagine an idyllic setting, but the truth is that Christ walks with us through the hardest and most painful times of our lives.

And life isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always pleasant. The going isn’t always smooth.

We had a wonderful Palm Sunday celebration in our church yesterday. I don’t know exactly how it looked to the members of the congregation, but from my perspective, it was dramatic. The palms waving, the children parading, the bright brass instruments and organ pipes in the choir loft – it was a pageant worth watching. The music was wonderful and stirring. We heard organ, piano, choir, brass all proclaiming loud hosannas. It was just right to begin this week.

But there was a moment later, after the pageantry, when I began to experience the journey that we will take.

After all of the people left, I spent some time preparing for the services that are yet to come. We set up the fireside room for the blues concert. I put in place some of the elements for the liturgy of the passion and checked my notes for the wake service. It is a busy week and there is a lot going on. After checking on several things, I walked into the sanctuary. The room was empty. The center aisle was littered with palm branches and streamers and the bright capes that the children left as they paraded. It is a powerful room at any time, but there was a stark beauty and presence as I paused a few minutes before picking up.

There will be a few, not many, really, who left the church yesterday and who will not return until Easter, when the room will be decked out with lilies, bright banners and filled with the music of celebration. They won’t witness the process of picking up the palm branches, stripping the altar, raising the crown of thorns, draping the cross, washing feet, sharing the stories, eating the bread and drinking the cup. They won’t hear the stories of suffering and pain and sorrow and grief.

My heart aches for those people because they don’t experience the depth of faith that goes far beyond the good times and happy faces and bright decorations. It seems sad that some only know faith for fair weather. As much as I don’t enjoy grief, as much as I wish pain didn’t have to come, I find that my faith is based not in the moments of victory and triumph as much as it is in the everyday walk with people in the midst of the realities of life. The people I know don’t have clean or perfect lives. They have mess lives with sometimes broken relationships. They make mistakes and they live with regrets. They carry pain and loss with them as daily companions. And it is in the midst of these real lives that I find the resurrected Christ sharing the journey of real humanity.

I think that the divinity of Christ is the easy part to understand. We get the “otherness” of God, we understand God’s greatness. We fathom the distance between God’s realm and our lives. We want to make everything that has to do with religion sweet and clean and without tension. But Christ is not just fully divine. Christ is also fully human. It is the humanity of Christ that causes us to struggle. We long for a God that is removed and distant from the everyday so much that we fail to see God in the midst of the commonness of our lives. We get the sacrament of Christ’s presence in the fancy chalice and plates of Holy Communion. We fail to recognize the sacrament in the everyday meals shared around our family table.

We anticipate the glory of heaven. We fail to recognize that God is no less present in the struggles of this life.

I walked down the aisle of the church yesterday, shuffling my feet, listening to the crunch of the palm branches as they slid across the floor. I though of all of the brokenness that we have witnessed in this church. Over the years, we have wheeled too many caskets down that aisle. We have said good-bye to too many good people. We have shed too many tears. I looked around the room and thought of the names of so many people who were part of our life together who now have gone before to a place where, for a little while, we cannot follow. The room was quiet. No hosannas - not even an echo.

It is a time of waiting.

But sitting with grief is not an unfamiliar feeling. The room that holds our greatest celebrations is at home with quiet.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

We were among the last homes in our neighborhood to get a television set when I was a child. Once we had a television, however, my father thought that it was an intriguing technology. So just a couple of years after a used black and white set made its way into our home, my dad was at work on a Heathkit color television. I had never seen color television. The kit arrived around Christmas time, which was a great time in our family’s life. The work at the shop slowed at the end of the year. Our dad’s birthday was between Christmas and New Years and we usually had a week that focused on family and fun. There were often adventures in the outdoors and most years a trip to one of the area’s hot springs was part of the winter fun. This year dad was engaged for several days with his soldering iron and several muffin tins of small parts as he patiently assembled circuit boards and put together the set. The picture tube was enormous and it was apparent that this was going to be a major fixture in our living room.

The set was ready for viewing on New Year’s Day. We all stood or sat around as dad made some final adjustments and there it was! The Rose Bowl parade right in our living room in color! Now it wasn’t exactly high-definition. We would be very disappointed with that picture if it were the best we could do with our modern television sets. And the set was probably 19” diagonally, which isn’t big by today’s standards. But I had never seen a color television set before. The colors weren’t brilliant, a bit muted. I remember that orange and green seemed to be a bit more common than the other colors. In a way it was a bit like black and whit television, but with a pale green replacing the white and a dark orange replacing the black. But there were a few other noticeable colors.

We spend the morning marveling at the Rose Bowl Parade. We kept commenting on the bright colors, the lovely floats, all of the flowers and the splendor and pageantry of it all. It was, for us, an amazing parade. We got to see other big parades on that television. I remember Macy’s Thanksgiving Parades and the Rose Bowl Parades best of all. We didn’t have big parades in our town. In the first place we didn’t have a very big main street, so sometimes the parades made a circle around the park and came back the other way. Our house was on Main Street and always on the parade route, so we watched them all. I marched in most of the parades once I got into high school. Our high school band was the only marching band in town. The Memorial Day parades got a bit sad as the World War I veterans aged. They lost the ability to march in step and sometimes their lines wandered. We didn’t have that many to start with, so each time one died we noticed the loss. Then one day the World War II veterans stepped in and started carrying the colors and the remaining World War I veterans all fit in the back seats of two convertibles, which was about all of the convertibles in town. Our big parade was the annual Rodeo Parade, which despite the religious convictions of the town was held on a Sunday. We’d rush off to church, which had been moved to an earlier hour and then rush back home. It was only two blocks and we still had most of an hour to wait for the beginning of the parade.

Our shop always had a “float” in the parade, even if they rarely floated. We’d hang some crape paper streamers on a delivery truck and paint a few plywood signs. Sometimes we’d decorate the largest tractor or implement we had at the shop. My dad loved the challenge of trying to fit something big down Main Street. One year, when I was young we towed an airplane in the parade and I rode on a saddle on the tail. One year we did a very similar float with a Land Leveler pulled by a 4020 John Deere. One of my brothers rode the saddle that time. A third brother got to ride the saddle around a barrel attached to the three-point hitch on a tractor what went up and down during the parade. It wasn’t a very wild ride. You get the idea.

No matter how hard we tried, we never had a parade with all of the fresh flowers and “real” floats like the Rose Bowl. We never saw giant balloons like the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in our town.

Palm Sunday at our church didn’t qualify as a parade in the first place. We didn’t have a color guard. There was no parade marshal. The best we could muster was a donkey, which put us a step up over the other churches in town because our family was the only one in town that bred donkeys. Sometimes the Lutherans would come up with a brand new horse colt, but we always had a genuine Spanish burro with the cross on the shoulders that was proof that Jesus had ridden that specific breed of donkey. At least that’s the line I used when bragging about the creatures. Our dad did try to breed so that there would be a fresh cold for Palm Sunday, but the timing was less than precise and some years all we had was a pregnant mare as we waited for the colt that was coming too late. We’d lead the animal around the front of the church. That was about it.

In the back of my head I knew there were bigger parades.

That’s how it was for Jesus, too. The Romans knew how to put on a spectacular show with their White Stallions and bright chariots. They knew how to impress the people with rank upon rank of soldiers with swords and shields. Jesus, by comparison, came into town on a small donkey, barely able to handle his weight. The people didn’t have much for decorations. They threw a few coats and some branches from the trees on the street ahead of Jesus. I’m sure that the government officials and church leaders scoffed at the pitiful little parade.

But the world was to learn that the size of the parade doesn’t determine the length of the impact. Those who were anticipating the Messiah to come in the world’s terms with military might discovered a power that is much stronger. It is love. And love never dies.

Love doesn’t demand the biggest parade around.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

I know that my sense of humor is quirky. I find things to be funny where others don’t see the humor. I am chuckling this morning over a not posted on the Rapid City Journal’s web site:

“EASTER EGG HUNT POSTPONED BY SNOW: The Optimist’s Easter Egg Hunt scheduled for 9 a.m. today at McKeague Field has been postponed one week due to weather.”

Now, you know those people are optimists. They have to postpone their hunt for a whole week and when they do hold it, it still won’t be Easter. They are such optimists that they want Easter to come more than a week early!

Joking aside, it is another sign of our impatient culture. It seems as if we Americans can’t wait for anything. As soon as Halloween is past, the stores are decked out for Christmas. On December 26, they put up Valentine’s Day displays. And they skipped Lent entirely and went straight to Easter.

It is a bit sad, however, to see a culture that is in such a rush that it has forgotten how to wait for things that are important. Because waiting is part of life and it is a skill that we need to practice. There are occasions when life and death catch us by surprise, sweeping suddenly without warning and catching us unprepared. Massive heart attacks, accidents, tragedies of war and other events are real and I don’t want to pretend that they don’t occur, but more often, in my experience, there is a process of waiting that attends the death of a person. The diagnosis comes, but the doctors can’t say how much time the person has to live. Many illnesses leave a person debilitated for some time and in need of care for a period before death comes. Families gather.

One of the blessings of my life is that I have been frequently invited to sit with families as they wait. We have sat in homes, in hospitals, in nursing homes and in the hospice house. We have gathered and talked and laughed and sung and prayed in vigils as we wait. Part of the waiting is a sense of dead and anticipation. We don’t know what the moment of death will be like. We don’t want to rush a thing. As long as there is the possibility of relationship, each moment seems like a precious treasure. Time moves at its own pace. We are allowed to move outside of clock time. Day and night merge into each other and the day of the week seems to not be as important as it once was. When I keep vigil with families, we are often quiet as we wait. Sometimes there are no words to express the sense of building grief and anticipation. Sometimes we need no words. Being together has its own value. It is a gift that gives perspective to the often over-scheduled, too-busy parts of our lives.

But there are many who come into times of vigil unprepared. I have sat in the corner of the room as family members rush about, come and go, try to run errands or set up meetings – any activity to avoid the stillness and quiet of waiting. I have seen busy, capable people, impatient with the waiting, demand that doctors and nurses tell them when things will happen when that information is not available. I have watched family members fill their hours with activities that could be postponed. And sometimes, I have witnessed as they miss the most intimate and deeply meaningful moments of the passage of their loved one because they are not able to sit with the quiet and wait.

We are not practiced at waiting.

We’d love for Easter to come on the Saturday before Palm Sunday. We think that such anticipation makes us optimists.

That makes me sad, because there is deep meaning in embracing the sadness. There is great power in waiting. There is powerful joy in allowing events to unfold along a timetable over which we have no control.

Holy Week is about practicing for the times that will come in every life. It is an invitation in our crazy-paced world; “Hey! Slow down! Come and sit for a while. Better times are coming, but they come at their own pace. If you want to feel the power of healing, experience the pain. If you want to understand resurrection, go face to face with the reality of grief.

There is good news in that little note posted on the web site. Even the optimists can’t control the weather. They had to encounter the reality that there are things in this world that are beyond their control. The schedule that they probably made up months ago can be changed. Not only is control impossible, it isn’t necessary. Life goes on. The snow is beautiful. The forest is thirsty. We need that snow much more than we need the empty calories of the candy. And the candy is packaged and sealed so tightly that it will last for more than a week.

Today is a good day for waiting.

We had planned to spend the morning splitting firewood for our neighbors, but that will have to wait. We have enough wood to split that there will be many days and if some splitting parties are missed, there will be many others. The process of helping neighbors isn’t a task that you “finish” at any rate. It is a way of living, a practice of our faith, just like waiting is a practice of faith. And practicing faith is a way of being more fully present in the realities of life.

I am not a patient person, but I am learning to grow in the practice of waiting. With the pageantry and palms of celebration tomorrow, I once again receive the invitation to slow down – to experience life one day at a time. We all know that death and pain are real. We have witnessed decline and cutback and realigned priorities. We can name the losses we have experienced. We can list the names of those who have died. Any fool can wallow in sadness.

We, however, have been once again given the opportunity to sit with grief long enough to watch the dawn of hope. This far from Easter, it may be that our hope is more arrogant than audacious, but we refuse to let hope die even in the darkest hours.

Easter will come, but let’s not rush it. We’ve much to practice before that day.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

There is a little snow on the ground this morning. It isn’t much, really, and it will soon be melted. It is one of those days when I don’t know if I need to shovel the driveway. By noon, it won’t make any difference whether I do or don’t. It should make it into the 40’s today despite the white surface and the possibility of a bit more precipitation. There is a chance of a little more snow throughout the day and overnight into Saturday.

I guess I’m just longing for an old-fashioned spring blizzard. I know, watch what you pray for and all of that, but I could sure use something that looked like real winter. You know, 24” of snow – the heavy stuff that is hard to clear from the driveway; neighbors getting stuck in the middle of the street; stories to tell you grandchildren – “I remember the spring of ’13.” That blizzard doesn’t seem to be in the works. A drought cycle is a bigger thing than a single year and we’ve really had one year since we had adequate moisture for one winter and spring.

The problem with the weather we have been having, is that there really isn’t much spring. We seem to be fading gradually from winter brown to summer brown without much of a transition in between. The last snow fall we had measured about six inches at bedtime and had melted down to 2 inches by breakfast and made a tad of mud by midday the next day. The garden was dry enough to walk without getting your shoes muddy a day later.

I know that I will not suffer the effects of drought like others. I’m not a rancher. I won’t have to make a decision about selling off part of the herd because the stock dams are all dry. I don’t have to worry about whether or not I’ll get a first, let alone a second cutting off of fields that are the only source of winter feed for the heifers who are the only hope of breaking even a year from now. There will be water in my tap all year long. Oh, we’ll complain about low water pressure if too many set their sprinkler systems to waste water in pursuit of golf course lawns, buy by the end of the summer we will probably have connected to city water and will learn to live with city restrictions and limits as we watch the level in the reservoirs drop. I have no doubts that there will be water for my garden this year.

There are people who become refugees because of drought. The drought in sub-Saharan Africa appears to be turning into a mega-drought that may last a century or more. Much land has already become incapable of sustaining life for humans. More land will dry to that point before it is over. Millions of people have no choice but to go somewhere else where they will put a strain on limited resources, cause tension and unrest and face violence. It is not a pretty picture and it makes my petty complaints pale by comparison.

But back here in South Dakota, it is hard to tell whether or not it is spring. Maybe the fact that I have a sinus infection is an indication of the changing seasons. I’ve been breathing enough dust to spawn a little congestion and I’ve been burning the candle at both ends for enough days that I fell pray to a different virus than the one that attacked a month ago. I’m not really sick, just a bit more tired than usual and taking a bit of medication to clear my head and control fever. There have been years when I didn’t take a single pill, but this one isn’t among them.

But there is more to the lack of spring fever than a little cold. It doesn’t look like spring out there. I’m not complaining about the temperatures, because we haven’t suffered from much cold this winter. My thermometer never made it to zero. Were we to have had a real deep freeze, say -20 to -30 for a week, we wouldn’t have the same bark beetle problem that we continue to face. It’s hard to have your trees dying when things are already dry all around. Despite the fact that we have no trouble finding people who need firewood, that full wood lot at the church is more a statement about the mortality of the trees in the hills than it is about our capacity to provide a sustainable energy assistance program for our neighbors.

Down in Costa Rica, they’re predicting an early rainy season this year. The Central Valley, where our sister church is located, will probably see the rainy season hit in early May. We know of years when it held off to the middle of June. The timing doesn’t seem to be as critical as the amount of rain that falls once the downpours start. The forecasters are predicting normal weather for Costa Rica, whatever that means. Perhaps their transition from summer to winter will be a bit more dramatic than our slow brown slide into summer up north.

The eyes of our Costa Rican friends will be focused close to our home this evening when the Costa Rica national soccer team takes on the U.S. Team in Commerce City, Colorado. Soccer-crazy Costa Rica will have most of the television sets in the country tuned to the game. It is a qualifying match for the 2014 World Cup, which will be held in Brazil. The U.S. Team is coming off of a loss to Honduras, which now is in first place in the North, Central America and Caribbean region. The folks in Costa Rica won’t let a little rain dampen their spirits. Several of them have headed to Denver. A plane ticket, a night in a hotel room and game tickets is probably a couple of months of income for a middle class Costa Rican, but there will be more than a few who make the pilgrimage today.

Probably watching a soccer game is far better than complaining about the weather. Both will continue despite my complaints. Life goes on. The seasons come and go.

I’m not sure which country to cheer for in the match up tonight. But I’ll probably still hold out hopes for one real blizzard before summer comes. Hope never dies.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

First of all, a brief disclaimer for those who have read my previous blogs. I’m not really a Star Trek fan. I’ve watched a few episodes. I enjoyed them. I watched some of the Star Wars movies. I enjoyed them. I never bothered to watch them all. I’m not a real big fan of science fiction.

One more bit of information: I REALLY DO WANT TO GO TO MARS. I didn’t make that part up.

Here is why I think a trip to Mars would be worth it – in 1,000 words. I am not too good with understanding the vast distances of the universe. I’m not any better with the vast amounts of time. The most distant star ever detected no longer exists, as it was detected as a supernova. ESO8802 existed at a distance of about 5 billion light years. That means the light we detect here, left that star 5 billion years ago. I’m having trouble figuring out what it means to be 60 years old. 5 billion is really beyond my comprehension. I know that is a long way off and I know that the light started traveling a long time ago, but I don’t really know what it means. Actually, I can’t figure out how to understand the number of stars there are in the universe. If there are 400 billion stars in our galaxy and a recent German supercomputer simulation estimated that there are 500 billion galaxies. I don’t even know what you call 400 billion times 500 billion. That’s a big number.

I think that part of the problem with my understanding is that the average human brain has only about 6 trillion cells. I don’t have enough brain cells to devote one cell to each object in the universe. The only thing that enables me to even think about the universe is the assumption that there must be some patterns in the universe. If it is all pure randomness, then it is literally incomprehensible.

I do love the patterns, however. And the study of the patterns is part of Cosmology.

One of the problems with too many contemporary Christians (sorry for the criticism) is that they don’t read the whole Bible. Too many people have started reading with Genesis and gotten through Exodus and stopped reading somewhere in Deuteronomy. They picked up a few Psalms and read a bit of Isaiah and Jeremiah and then skipped to the New Testament. The problem with this is that too many contemporary Christians think that Genesis and Exodus are the two big themes of the Hebrew Scriptures. I don’t think this is the case. I believe that the two big themes are Exodus and Exile. Genesis is a sub category of Exile.

Our people didn’t need a story about our origins that went deeper than “A wandering Aramean was my father and he went down to Egypt with a few people and lived there and . . . “(Deuteronomy 26:5). Then we were carried off into exile and we started to hear Babylonian and Assyrian tales of cosmology. They posited that people came from a conflict between two equally powerful gods who battled it out, forming the earth and the people within it. They used these stories to explain violence and pain and a lot of other things. Our people, however, knew that this was not true. We knew that there is only one God and that God is greater than anything else. We had experienced it in the Exodus. Our God had proven to us beyond the shadow of a doubt that we were born for freedom and justice. So we started to tell our own story. If there had never been an Exile, we would not have needed a Creation story that started, “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. . . “ (Genesis 1:1)

To read Genesis 1:1 – 2:4 as a scientific explanation of the universe is a betrayal of the stories of our people. I wish people would read the whole book.

Having said that, I want to say that the God of our people is not restrained by a human understanding of time. Our God is the God of all time. And our God is not restrained by distance. Our God is the God of the entire universe.

In the process of creation, some amazing things happened. When creatures first emerged from an aquatic environment, evolution sped up. There were so many new possibilities. That set in chain a series of events that eventually led to the development of mammals and eventually to people. And, as the stories of our people teach us, it was the emergence of people that made a relationship with God possible on a whole new level. We did not become fully conscious of the total nature of God, but we became capable of thinking of God and understanding love. It made God happy. And it made our faith possible.

Every new discovery about the vastness of the universe or the length of time gives us a small window on the nature of God. We used to think that God was constrained to a small area in the Middle East. Then we discovered that God is the God of the whole planet. It was hard to make the leap, but then we began to observe that God is much bigger, much grander, much more than just God of a single planet.

We know that God came to us in human form to reinforce the relationship. To demonstrate that there is a lot more to our relationship with God than just death. The story doesn’t end there. Love wins. And Love is bigger than the universe. And God is love.

So, it seems to me that when we (or our descendants many, many generations from now) make the transition from living on a single planet to living in the universe, our understanding of God will take a leap forward. Just as amphibians creeping from the ooze of a primordial swamp were not fully capable of relationship with God, we are very primitive in our understanding. As we grow in our capacities, we might just grow in our capability to understand – to see the patterns – to embrace the love.

And so I actually believe that going to Mars might enable humans to take a step forward in our ability to understand God’s love. It isn’t the destination, just one small step in a journey that is a lot bigger than I can imagine. So I would like to go.

So much for cosmology. I haven’t really explained the whole universe. OK, I didn’t make it in 1,000 words, either. But 1118 isn’t bad.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

I have a friend who is a fairly successful novelist. She has written and published several novels, but her novels don’t provide sufficient income for her family. She once said to me, “I don’t know if I am a novelist who preaches sermons or a minister who writes novels.” Once, not too many years ago, she commented that all it would take for her to be a successful novelist would be to have her book picked for the Oprah book club. If that is true, I’m not sad that I’m not Oprah. Imagine having 10,000 novelists all shouting, “Pick me! Pick me!” Of course the world doesn’t work that way. The definition of a successful book is not made by a single person, no matter how rich that person is or how big an audience she commands. The books on the Oprah’s Book Club lists distinguished themselves in the marketplace before they were considered.

Here is how the world really works: One person recommends a book to another. If that person is really enamored with the book it gets recommended to 10 other people. And if each of those ten recommend it to ten, then a hundred copies are sold. If each of them recommends the book to ten friends, the book begins to look like it will break even. A few more generations of recommendations and it sells enough copies to make the radar of the big lists. Get recommended often enough and the book will end up on the New York Times bestseller list. I’m not saying that there isn’t luck involved. I’m not even saying that what gets published is the best books written. I’m well aware that there is a difference between what sells well and what is the highest quality. But there is more to succeeding in the world of publishing than just being in the right place at the right time.

But this blog isn’t about the publishing business, even though I am interested in the publishing business. It is about the church.

There are some people who believe that the church is like that mistaken notion of the Oprah book club. In our town there are between 130 and 135 churches and para church organizations. Not all of us are screaming, “Pick me!” Pick me!” but some are. Some people think that all we need to do to be successful is to get picked by enough people. Some even think that whether or not you get picked is a matter of luck – or of shouting louder than all of the others.

In reality, churches don’t grow because the right person chooses them. They grow because their members learn how to invite others to participate. If ten people convince ten of their friends to come and then everyone else invited ten more the church grows to 1,000 members.

I am deeply committed to the grass roots of the church. The mission projects our congregation undertakes are the ones that our members choose. The people who are in charge are the ones who are willing to do the work. We pay attention to the comments of the people who come to church. We also listen to comments of those who attend less regularly and we share the hopes and dreams of those who imagine a different church. The church needs to continue to grow and to respond. We don’t participate in Christ’s future by repeating things we have already done.

I am far more interested in making connections that are genuine than in generating attention for something that isn’t real. Here is another example from outside of the church. There are plenty of people who think that success in the post-industrial world involves “going viral” on the Internet. A blog or a YouTube post that gets a lot of hits is deemed to be more successful than one that gets fewer. If you take that rational to its extreme, you might believe that what is most meaningful to Americans are videos of cats and kittens.

If winning is getting the most people to visit your website, I’m not particularly interested in winning. I find a single note from someone who actually read my blog post to be much more meaningful than a hundred people who clicked on it and then went on to something else before they actually read the words I have written. The truth is that I don’t think that I’ve written anything that has much mass-market appeal. I don’t know if I am able to write such a thing. But I have little interest making a big splash for the sake of the noise. There are lots of ways to get momentary notoriety for doing something stupid. More people know about America’s Funniest Home Videos than know about last week’s sermon, but that doesn’t mean that pictures of guys getting hit in the crotch with balls or bats or other objects has lasting value.

I’m not a big television fan, but an example from television might serve to illustrate. When it was on the air, The Beverly Hillbillies was one of the 20 most popular shows on television. Star Trek, on the other hand, received only mediocre ratings. In fact the show got better ratings in reruns than it did in its network run from 1966 to 1969. A dozen ideas from the show became common technologies. Did you ever notice how a Motorola flip phone looks like a Star Trek communicator? Star Trek was one of the most culturally influential television shows ever made.

Making connections that are genuine is far more important than generating attention.

That is why I’m so pleased with our recent “bring a friend to church” Sunday. We gave ourselves an opportunity to practice the basic skill of making an invitation. Not every member brought a friend. We didn’t double our attendance. But we made some lasting and meaningful connections. There are multiple people who didn’t just visit once, but who have been coming back. When a major event occurs in their lives – when they face grief or pain or an unexpected turn of events – the real connections with other people will be far more important than the biggest stadium event they ever attended.

So don’t expect me to go viral. Don’t expect our church to suddenly transform itself into a mega church. Check back in 50 years or a century to see which churches are still around and which have invested in making lasting contributions to our communities.

In the meantime, I’m sticking with the business of genuine connections.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

I think that I come by my love of traveling naturally. I am descended from a long line of people who moved from one place to another. You have to go a long ways back in my family tree to find folks who lived in the same location for more than a couple of generations. Although most of my forebears came from somewhere in Europe, they had varied journeys to the North American Continent and once here, they didn’t seem to settle in a single location for long.

My parents were in the aviation business in the post-World War II times when private aviation was booming across the United States. They owned a Beech 18 that was capable of traveling to any destination in the lower 48 in a single day. With a range of nearly 1,500 miles, only more distant destinations required a fuel stop. I grew up thinking that I would one day own and operate a plane with truly international capabilities. I expected private aviation to yield jets that would make international travel well within the reach of the average person. I didn’t figure that one quite right. While there are private airplanes that are capable of global travel, the multi-million dollar price tags put them out of my reach.

Still, I have been lucky to travel quite a bit. I’ve been to Canada more times than I can count. I’ve been to Mexico a couple of times, Costa Rica four times, Europe twice and we had a grand adventure in Australia in 2006. I think that our dream of a grand adventure to Alaska is a goal that we will make sometime in the next decade, though one has to admit that nothing is certain and our dreams and priorities for the use of time and financial resources might change.

But I have come to the age where it is safe to say that there are some grand trips and adventures that I might never take. I’m OK with that. I’ve always felt that having dreams that exceed my capabilities keeps me open to new adventures and excited about the possibilities of the future. For some reason, I’ve been thinking about places that I probably will never visit, but that seem to me to be worth the trip. If the opportunity arises, I’d be open to a trip to any of these places, but if I never make it to these destinations, I won’t feel deprived. Here is a list of places I might never visit:

Victoria Falls, also known as Mosi-oa-Tunya: the smoke that thunders, is on the Zambezi River at the border of Zambia and Zimbabwe. It is said that Dr. David Livingstone, the Scottish missionary explorer was among the first Europeans to visit the falls. The island just upstream from the falls bears his name. The falls are neither the highest nor the widest falls in the world, but they nonetheless hold a real attraction for me. It is a world heritage site and the series of gorges through which the Zambezi flows are spectacular. It probably isn’t the best river for canoeing. It is reported that in 1910 a hippo capsized a pair of canoes. The bodies of the people traveling in the canoes were severely mutilated by crocodiles. I’m OK with paddling in rivers with no hippos and no crocodiles.

New Zealand has always held an attraction for me. The two big islands and numerous small islands are the home to the Maori. It has some spectacular mountains and some incredible beaches and there are no plants that produce burs, so the sheep have wonderfully clean wool.

Zanzibar is an island off of the east coast of Tanzania. I don’t really know much about it but I’ve known the little ditty for so long that it seems like it would be worth a trip: Zanzibar, Zanzibar! Zanzibar is very far. You can’t get there in a car. Don’t take your car to Zanzibar!

I’ve always thought that a trip to Lake Baikal would be worth the effort. It is the largest, deepest and perhaps the cleanest fresh water lake in the world. It is also said to be among the oldest lakes in the world as well. It is located in the southern part of Siberia. I love lakes and have enjoyed the wonder of driving around Lake Superior. Baikal seems even bigger and more wonderful. And, while one is at it, the way to get to the lake could involve a trip on the famous trans-Siberian railway. That adventure is beyond my financial means.

And while we’re on the subject of lakes, Lake Tanganyika is the great African Lake. It probably would be best to combine a trip to this lake with a trip to Victoria Falls. It is the second deepest and second largest freshwater lake in the world. Both Tanganyika and Baikal are rift lakes, which mean that they are confined by mountain walls, making them even more dramatic in appearance.

I’m thinking that I probably won’t paddle the length of the Amazon. The Amazon basin covers nearly 40% of South America, so it takes some careful discerning to say which of the many branches is the true Amazon. Most agree that everything below the confluence of the Maranon and Ucayali rivers in Peru is fairly called the Amazon. There are a lot of dangers in paddling the Amazon and for most of the trip it is big water and slow paddling. Probably it is safer than the Zambezi, but it does have crocodiles and plenty of mosquitoes.

I probably won’t figure out how to go to Antarctica. I have no immediate plans to visit Machu Piccu or Angkor Wat, though both are trips I’d love to make. I’m thinking that I may never trek about the base of Everest.

But I’m not yet ruling out the trip to Mars. Denis Tito’s Inspiration Mars expedition is seeking a seasoned couple for a flyby in 2018. The trip will take about 16 months, so that would mean I’d get to celebrate my 65th birthday and our 45th anniversary on the trip. I think we’d be great candidates for the adventure. We get along very well, we know all about living and working together, and we’ve extensive experience sharing a small space (our pickup camper is roughly the size of the living quarters on the proposed space probe). The big problem with that trip is that I haven’t yet figured out how to apply.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

The way that I listen to radio has changed a great deal in the past few years. I used to listen to a fair amount of radio. I worked in radio for years and I became a fan of public radio before we could get clear reception in my small North Dakota town. Later, when we moved to Boise, Idaho, where we had access to multiple NPR stations, there were several programs that I listened to on a regular basis. I continued my habits when I moved to South Dakota and became a member of South Dakota Public Broadcasting. But these days I listen mostly to podcasts. I download episodes of my favorite shows to my phone and listen to them at my convenience. Using Bluetooth technology, I can listen in the car as I drive or through headphones as I work around the house. I even have a small set of speakers that I can use to listen to the podcasts wherever I like. The speakers are nice for the times when I want to share a program with someone else.

I remember reading about a presentation made at a National Association of Broadcasters convention years ago on the topic of on demand radio. At the time, it was a futuristic notion, but the basic idea was that radio listeners would be able to set their own schedules and listen to the programs they wanted to whenever they wanted to listen, not when the radio station chose to broadcast. The vision seemed wild at the time, but now it has come to pass. And it didn’t take many years for me to make the change.

I bring up the change because I have recently read of another change that may be in the works and it is one that seems to me at the present to be a bit challenging for old school folks like myself. But first a bit more background:

A while back I was listening to “Ask Me Another,” the NPR puzzle show. It features lots of word games and I enjoy trying to come up with the answers before the contestants. One of the quiz questions was to name four letters that are on the top row of a standard keyboard. Both contestants came up with four correct letters, but neither answered in order. I would have thought that anyone asked the question would begin “Q W E R.” After all, we call the letter arrangement “Qwerty.” If you think, you probably don’t have to look to know that the other letters in the top row are U, I, O, and P. I’ve been clicking the keys on a standard keyboard for a lot of years.

I made the adjustment from a typewriter to a computer easily in part because the keyboard is arranged in the same pattern. The QWERTY keyboard is arranged in its unique pattern because of a study of which letters are most used in standard English. Of course the studies are old and our vocabulary has changed, but we like to have our vowels handy. A is the only one not in the top row and it is assigned to the little finger of the left hand in its position as the first letter of the second row. Some of the most used consonants are arranged in the center of the keyboard were the pointer fingers area allowed to take charge of a bit more territory, with each of those fingers being responsible for six letters and two numbers.

I learned touch typing as a high school course, taught on manual typewriters in an office classroom. Susan and I had a single portable Olympus manual typewriter that saw us through our college and graduate school years. The first church we served bought a new electric typewriter during the time we worked there. Our second call saw the transition from typewriters to computers and while the church we currently serve does own a typewriter, it has been in storage for years. We don’t see it as a office tool these days. Susan and I still own that old portable typewriter, but I’m sure the ribbon has completely dried and it hangs around as an antique at this point. We don’t use it for practical work at all.

I have a QWERTY keyboard on my cell phone. Susan uses the 9-key numbers of a traditional phone pad to send text messages, and I know how to do that, but it seems cumbersome to have to hit the same key multiple times to come up with the right letter. I’ve seen teens that can clip along at an amazing rate sending text messages with a 9 key, however. In case you’ve forgotten, only 8 of the number keys (2 – 9) have letters assigned. The fourth row has * and # with the 0 in between, but isn’t used for alphabetic numbers.

There have been multiple attempts at developing other keyboards. I know about some of them because I did a fair amount of research on keyboards designed for one-handed typing when our son was learning to use a computer. We tried several different keyboards, but I never mastered any of them. Our son didn’t, either, and today uses a standard keyboard and types at an amazing rate of speed using only his left hand, with the right hand assisting on the shift key or space bar from time to time. He does a fair amount of two finger combinations, holding the shift key and typing a letter with the same hand, for example.

The Dvorak Simplified Keyboard was patented back in 1936, and had the letters arranged in yet another unique layout. It placed the vowels, except Y in the center row and assigned them to the left hand in this order: A, O, E, U, I. The claim is that the keyboard allows for shorter finger travels and results in fewer repetitive motion injuries. I never learned the system, but several modern operating systems, including Apple OSX and Windows, allow for a switch to such a keyboard.

But all of that is beginning to change. I have a program on my computer that takes dictation fairly reliably. Voice control is getting better and better. Now that we have switched to multi-touch track pads (oops, sorry Windows users – you’ll get them someday), we know that our devices can sense more nuanced gestures than a simple touch or jab. The 27 bones, 60 or so muscles and tendons and three major nerve groups of the human hand are so sensitive to variations in pressure, velocity, position, temperature and texture that we are bound to see new ways of inputting information into our computers.

The QUERTY keyboard may one day be replaced. I guess I’ll keep my old typewriter for a little while longer if for no other reason than to amuse my grandchildren.

Who knows, Susan and I may even replace the rotary dial telephone in our bedroom someday. Our grandson has no idea what the cord is for.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

So . . . I know I overuse the word “so” and that “so” is a poor word with which to begin a sentence, let alone a blog. So, I am trying to write part of my blog for this morning last night, only while I am writing it, it isn’t really last night, it is this evening and I am writing tomorrow morning’s blog. I’m doing this for a good reason even though it isn’t apparent at the moment.



What is so cool and beautiful and wonderful is that it is snowing. Big beautiful flakes of a spring blizzard, though we don’t have much wind, just snow. It started snowing around noon and it has been just wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. We have about 5 inches of snow on the ground and although the snowfall has tapered off quite a bit, it may keep falling until about midnight or so. As a result, I’ve decided to put of clearing the driveway until tomorrow morning. And tomorrow being Sunday, I need to do that job fairly early. Thus writing the blog tonight, though I will post it tomorrow, so I am really writing this last night. I think you get my drift.

Because the thing is that my snowblower is not exactly brand new. It is the latest 1995 model, which makes it about 17 years old, though not really because there have been a couple of winters when I didn’t use it and I’ve only used it once or twice this winter, so I think in snowblower terms it really can’t be 17 years old, because it doesn’t count the times when it is sitting, only the time when it is running. It is a bit noisy, however, so I hope I don’t annoy my neighbors too much tomorrow morning. The real deal is that I can’t pour gas into it without spilling a bit and I can’t remember if it needs gas and I don’t want to go out and check it tonight, so I will get up, clear the snow and then come back into the house for my shower before dressing and leaving for church. You get the picture – that takes a lot of time, so I am writing the blog last night – or this evening, depending on your perspective, which isn’t the same as mine.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day to you Catholic Irish folk! Being not really Irish myself, my Scotts ancestors remind me that were I Irish I’d belong to a clan that celebrated William of Orange Day and not St. Patrick’s Day. Orangeman’s Day, Orange Day or the Glorious Twelfth is a bank holiday these days, so it doesn’t always land on the 12th of July these days. This year, it will be celebrated on the 12th, which is a Friday, but in 2014, it will be observed on Monday, July 14th. Those of you who are used to the wearin’ o’ the green for St. Patrick’s, might expect Orangemen to wear orange, but that isn’t our tradition. A black suit and a black bowler hat is more the tradition. The day commemorates the Battle of Boyne, which occurred on Ireland’s east coast in 1690. What happened was that King James VII of Scotland and King James II of England and Ireland ganged up against Prince William of Orange and his followers. You might have guessed that Prince William of Orange won the battle. You might not understand that he became King William III. I think you have to be at least partly British to understand all of this.

Basically it makes as much sense as celebrating St. Patrick’s Day on March 17 as the day when St. Patrick drove all of the snakes out of Ireland, which might have been more dramatic had there actually been snakes in Ireland at the time. St. Patrick also brought Christianity to the island, which also might have been more dramatic had the Island not already had Christianity for a long time before he was born. Nonetheless he was a legitimate saint and his saint’s day is worthy of a celebration.

And every occasion is worthy of a story in Ireland.

The way I heard one of the stories is that a couple of paddies were working for the city public works department. One would dig a hole and the other would follow behind him and fill the hole in. They worked up one side of the street, then crossed over and worked their way back down. Mrs. McMillen was so impressed with their hard work that she couldn’t help but asking what they were doing: “Why do you dig a hole, only to have your partner follow behind and fill it up again?” Ah, said the hole digger. “I suppose it does look a wee bit odd, but you see we are normally a three-man team. It’s just that the lad who plants the trees called in sick today, so we’re going on without him.”

And I’m sure you heard that Shamus used to go to the pub in the States every evening and ask the tavern keeper to set three beers up on the bar. He’d drink them one by one and then leave. The barkeep asked Shamus what it was about: “Why do you always drink three?” “Oh that,” said Shamus. “It’s just that I’ve got two brothers back in the old country and I miss ‘em terribly, so each night I drink one beer for each of them before I drink my own.” The tavern man thought that was commendable and a bit touching until one day Shamus came in and ordered only 2 beers. The barkeep was alarmed and asked Shamus what was going on: “I hope that there’s nothing wrong with one of your brothers,” he said. “Oh no, not at all,” replied Shamus. “It’s just that I’ve decided to give up beer for lent.”

Yeah, you’re right. That’s enough stories for this morning. Or this evening. Or whatever time you’re reading this.

I’ve got a driveway to clear. See you in church!

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

I’m not particularly squeamish about medical procedures and events. When I donate blood, plasma and platelets, the person drawing blood always says, “If you want to look away this would be the time.” I look. There is nothing particularly mysterious or painful about watching the needle go through my skin and into the vein. I watch them draw blood at the lab when I have my annual physical. I have watched a number of medical procedures and minor surgeries over the years without any negative effects. When our children were small, I would often be the one to take them to the doctor because Susan found it difficult to have them cry over a particular procedure. Our son had some complex treatments on his legs and feet when he was tiny and he particularly did not like the sound of the cast saw when it came time to remove casts. I would hold him with my wife trying not to listen from the waiting room. It didn’t bother me.

I worked for several years as a volunteer Emergency Care Technician and ambulance driver when we lived in North Dakota. I helped pick up the victims of car accidents, people who had fallen and broken bones and shattered joints, those suffering from acute medical conditions that caused intense pain and discomfort. I’ve cleaned up vomit and blood on multiple occasions. I’ve sat with people as they died and sat with bodies after death. I’ve seen a lot of things that should not be described in this blog.

I’m not writing this out of some desire to brag or to make others feel uncomfortable, only to say that there are a lot of things that bother others that don’t seem to have a negative effect on me.

But there are a few things that I’d prefer not to look at.

I remember holding the hands of a 14-year-old girl who had made a suicide attempt as the emergency room physician carefully stitched up the cuts with tiny stitches so that the scarring would be minimal. The procedure was very neat with almost no blood in sight. It was not as gory as other procedures I had watched. But as I sat there I suddenly realized how close we had come to losing this precious young one. I sense the overwhelming depression that had overtaken her because of events in her life that were beyond her control. The particular medical procedure I was watching was not bothering me, but the total situation. I had to excuse myself and go sit in the hallway with my head between my knees to keep from fainting. I had a wave of nausea that had to pass before I could return to the room. There was no point of fainting and causing more problems for the ER staff. The doctor thought that I didn’t have the stomach to watch stitches being applied. There was more to it than that.

That event was more than three decades ago. The young woman is approaching her 50th birthday. The intervention that we pulled off that night was a success. She has gone on to help countless other people deal with stressful situations and find reasons to live. But I still get a sort of funny feeling when I think about that night and how affected I was.

For whatever reason, I have a squeamish reaction to the process of embalming. I’ve toured the preparation rooms in the funeral homes of our town. I know the funeral directors and have quite a bit of knowledge of their profession. I have cousins who are funeral directors and I am not bothered by the smells of the chemicals used and I am not unfamiliar with the tools that are employed. But I have no desire to watch the process. It is not a rational feeling, just one of those things that seems to have an impact that is a bit greater than I would expect. I have accompanied bodies to the crematorium. I have viewed the furnace and the equipment employed. I have scattered ashes on numerous occasions, including the cremated remains of loved ones. That doesn’t seem to bother me.

Yesterday I read an article about the arrival of the coffin bearing the remains of Hugo Chavez at a military museum in Caracas Venezuela. In the article it was reported the Ernesto Villegas, the country’s Information Minister, announced that the government has dropped plans to embalm Mr. Chavez for permanent display. I heaved a sigh of relief when I read that news. I’m not sure why. I never met Mr. Chavez. I know only what I have read and what I have read leads me to believe that he and I would have had some major disagreements. I don’t have much association with the grief of those who are mourning. I am sorry for anyone who dies of cancer and for his or her family. I wouldn’t wish such a thing for anyone. But in some sense Mr. Chavez was just another cancer victim who happened to be on the world stage as the leader of a wealthy oil-producing country to me.

I read, in that same article, the Mr. Chavez had said he would like to be buried in his hometown in Barinas. I think that would be nice.

In our family, it has fallen to me to take care of the pets that have died. I have buried them in our back yard. I choose a place, near the garden, where I know that there will be plenty of water to support surface plants, but where I also know I won’t be later digging. Then I dig a simple grave, wrap the pet in an old towel and bury it. We usually say a prayer and shed a tear or two as the process goes on. Then I fill in the grave and plant a few daisies.

A similar procedure when my time comes would be fine with me. But I’m sure the State of South Dakota, while allowing the burial of pets in your back yard, would frown at the burial of relatives. Still, I’d like the procedure to be as simple and plain as possible. I trust God with the elements of my body. I’d like them returned to Creation as quickly as possible when I am no longer living. I don’t like the idea of display, though I am sensitive to the needs of grieving relatives and understand that sometimes seeing is believing.

We are talking about such topics in our “5 Wishes” adult discussion group this Lent. I think it is a healthy conversation. I know it has gotten me to think.

If possible, I’d like to avoid traumatic memories for those who survive me. But I’m thinking that I’ll be beyond my squeamishness by that time.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

A bit of background is in order. The phrase, “Beware the Ides of March,” is not something that a soothsayer actually said to Julius Caesar warning him of his death. It is what a character playing the role of the soothsayer says to a character playing the role of Julius Caesar says in a Play by Shakespeare. It is a fictional scene from a play that portrays an idealized vision of history. Prior to 1601, the date was not particularly associated with death. Shakespeare was just such a good playwright that he was able to shape our culture. These days, March 15, has a particular connotation that comes, not from the murder of Caesar, but from the play that introduced that historic event to popular audiences.

And, therefore, an additional bit of background is in order. In Roman times, people did not number the days the way we did. They didn’t count 1 through 28 or 30 or 3l. Instead they counted backwards from three fixed points of the month: the Nones, the Ides, and the Kalends. The Nones was the 5th or the 7th day of the month, depending on the length of the month. The Ideas was the midpoint – the 13th or the 15th. The Kalends was the 1st day of the next month. So in the Roman way of counting, tomorrow would be 14 days before the Kalends, and the count would go backwards for the rest of the month. It is even more confusing than that because the original Roman calendar was completely lunar. On the earliest Roman calendars, the Ides of March would have been the first full moon of the New Year.

And we don’t use the Roman calendar. We use the Gregorian calendar, introduced by Pope Gregory XIII by a decree signed on 24 February 1562. The Gregorian calendar shifted the dates of Easter slightly and added leap years to keep the calendar in sync.

If you want to get more technical, this means that the Gregorian calendar is based on a year that is 365.25 days long. It works most of the time for us, but in fact that assumption is almost 11 minutes long than the actual length of a year. That means that the calendar will drift about 3 days every 400 years. That drift is corrected by not observing leap year in centennial years, but even that practice doesn’t quite work, so leap year needs to be observed in one out of every four centennial years. If you aren’t confused by now, you’re better than I. I just trust the numbers on my cell phone these days.

The point of all of this is that when we try to figure out precise dates of historic events, we can be off by a day or two. When we try to figure out precise dates of events prior to 1562, we can be off by more than that. Often attempts at establishing dates are in the wrong season and even in the wrong year. We don’t really know precisely which day Caesar died. It was recorded as the Ides of March, 44 B.C. We observe the date based on Shakespeare’s play. We probably don’t even have the year correct on Jesus’ birth, but that is a story too long for this particular posting of my blog.

What I do want to say is that March 15 is a very important day in my personal calendar. On March 15, 1981, we became parents with the birth of our son, Isaac. We don’t follow Shakespeare’s association of death with the day. In our house it is a day of celebration and joy. I have a lot of good memories of March 15.

And there were plenty of good things that happened on March 15 before our son was born.


On March 15, 1965, President Lyndon Johnson addressed a joint session of Congress to urge the passage of legislation guaranteeing voting rights for all. The Congress and the nation were sharply divided. Just over a week earlier, racial violence erupted in Selma Alabama. Rev. Martin Luther King and over 500 supporters were attacked while planning a march to Montgomery to register African-Americans to vote. Despite deep divisions in the country and strong disagreements in Congress, the legislation was prepared, debated and voted. On August 16 of the same year, President Johnson signed the Voting Rights Act which made it illegal to impose restrictions on elections that were designed to deny the vote to people because of their race.

In case you didn’t notice, in 1965, Congress tackled a controversial issue, made a new law and passed it in 5 months. If our Congress could do anything in 5 months, we’d be elated.

On March 15, 1968, construction began on the Eisenhower/Johnson Memorial Tunnel on Interstate 70 in Colorado. At the time the tunnel that is above 11,000 feet in the mountains, was the highest vehicular tunnel in the world. Over a million cars passed through the tunnel in its first four months of operation, which began in 1979. It took a while to complete the construction. Today 10 million vehicles pass through the tunnel each year. If you are a trivia buff, the North Tunnel which today handles east-bound traffic is named for Dwight Eisenhower, the 34th President of the US. The South Tunnel (west-bound) is named not for President Johnson, but for Edwin C. Johnson, a Colorado governor and US senator who was a big supporter and promoter of the interstate highway system.

March 15, 1941 was the date of the surprise blizzard in North Dakota and Minnesota. Temperatures dropped more than 20 degrees in 15 minutes. Fifty-mile-per-hour sustained winds were topped by gusts up to 85 mph in Grand Forks, ND. Drifts up to 7 feet tall piled up.

March 15, 1820 was the date that Maine was admitted into the union as the 23rd state. It was part of the Missouri Compromise between the North and South. You’ll note that a deeply divided Congress was not immobilized by controversy that year either. There may be a theme to my remarks. I’m OK with that. Wouldn’t it be nice of Congress decided to take some action this year?

Sigh . . . In the meantime, March 15 is a day of celebration in our home.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

Discerning God’s call is often a very difficult process. In my own life, recognition of the call to ministry was not particularly traumatic or dramatic. I easily came to that realization early in my life and have received regular confirmation of that call throughout my career. But knowing the specifics has been a bigger challenge. Where am I called to lead? When is the right time for me to consider a different call? Knowing that the church needs new leadership in each generation, when is the right time for me to step aside and allow new leadership to emerge? These questions are on my mind regularly as I pray and ponder what is best for the congregation that I serve. The answers to the questions do not come easily. And sometimes just raising the questions is threatening for church leaders. In our congregation, it is typical for a person to serve as moderator for two years. In recent years, several moderators have asked me to assure them that I am not going to move during the period of time that they will be leading. While I appreciate their confidence in my leadership, I hope that such expressions are not just our human tendency to choose the easiest path. I don’t want to cut off our openness to God’s call for the congregation.

So I am intrigued as I think of the selection of Pope Francis. I have had very positive relationships with Jesuits in the past. The Jesuit School of Theology at Chicago was one of the members of the Chicago Consortium of Theological Schools when I was a student at Chicago Theological Seminary. Our schools had open registration that allowed us to register for classes at other schools as a part of our education without any additional cost. Learning alongside Jesuit scholars added richness to my education for which I have been grateful. On a few occasions I had the opportunity to travel with Jesuit students and learn more about their faith and commitments.

Knowing what little bit that I do, I believed that the world would not see a Jesuit become pope in my lifetime. Jesuits take a vow not to “ambition” or to seek any ecclesiastical offices outside of the Society. No Jesuit would ever campaign or even offer his name for appointment or election to any office. And, if chosen for an office, the candidate must remind the appointing authority of his vow not to seek office. When the pope appoints a Jesuit bishop, that person will decline and remind the pope of his vow. Only when the pope commands that the Jesuit accept ordination to the office of bishop will the Jesuit accept out of loyalty to a prior and deeper vow of obedience. Jesuits take these vows very seriously. Their strict observance of the vow of poverty and a life of service often means that they are not noticed by the outside world. They are humble persons who seek to life a life of faith away from the spotlight.

Now I have hear the rumors that Cardinal Jorge Mario Bergolio was a serious contender for the papacy. I have even heard that he received the second highest number of votes when Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger was elevated to Pope Benedict XVI. But those are rumors and I have discounted them. Cardinals vow strict secrecy about the proceedings of the council as it discerns who the pope will be and rumors of what happens within the Chapel during that process are just that: rumors. I am sure that Cardinal Bergolio’s name did come up in the process of discerning papal leadership, but there are lots of names that are offered. His name wasn’t on any of the lists of “top possibilities” that I read in recent weeks.

All I am really trying to say is that I suspect that the cardinals are as surprised by the selection as are many members of the church and we casual observers who belong to other Christian communions. I don’t think it is easy to select a pope.

From reading the Bible, we imagine that God spoke to Moses from the burning bush in a way that he could not be ignored. Isaiah saw the Lord sitting on a throne and one believes that he had no trouble recognizing what he was seeing. At least by the time the burning coal touched his lips, he must have been pretty certain about his call. Jeremiah tried to talk his way out of his call to be a prophet, but his arguments didn’t hold much sway. I imagine that the descent of the dove and the voice from heaven left no uncertainty in Jesus’ mind about his role and vocation.

But for most of us, that call isn’t quite as clear. We sense directions and we weigh options. Even when I have been actively seeking a new position within the church, I have done so with no small amount of doubt. And I know, in advance, that I will never be asked to be the leader of a denomination. I can’t imagine what went through the mind of Cardinal Bergolio when it became apparent that he would be selected. I imagine that if I had been in his shoes, I would have wanted to go to the restroom and vomit rather than walk through the red curtains out onto that balcony.

I am not a member of the Roman Catholic Church. But I will pray for this pope, as I have prayed for others before him. I do not pretend to understand the process of vocation and selection, but I know that it is not an easy process. And I know that the mantle of leadership is a heavy burden.

I know that I am not the only one who is surprised by the selection of Pope Francis. The news sites and blogs are filled with expressions of amazement. What is more, I believe that the Pope himself is surprised and shocked by the turn of events. I doubt that the feeling will fade quickly.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

I was born into a household of women. My father was the sole male in the house with his wife and three daughters when I was brought home from the hospital. I did not want for attention, although it is possible that my oldest sisters saw me as a sort of complex plaything rather than a sibling. You’d have to ask them to get the whole picture. Whatever they thought of me, I grew up surrounded by very capable women. I have known from my earliest days that women could do anything. There were brothers to follow me and I am also grateful for them, but I now know that being younger brother to three sisters was a position of privilege in the family.

As a result, when women accomplish big things in life it doesn’t surprise me. I was not surprised by Hillary Clinton’s serious bid for the Presidency. I am only surprised that I have lived to this age and we still have not had a woman president in the United States. I am thinking that by the time it happens, it will be a bit anti-climactic, a sort of “it’s about time” moment.

Yesterday, I had the opportunity to watch the power of amazing women at work. First of all, it is rummage sale week at our church. Twice each year our Women’s Fellowship puts on a gigantic rummage sale. When I say gigantic – I mean really, really big. The entire fellowship hall and entryway of the church is filled with tables and racks of used items. The merchandise overflows outside of the building with displays of furniture and lawn equipment. Everything is reasonably priced and when the sale opens Friday morning, there will be crowds of bargain hunters lined up. The Women’s Fellowship directs all of their income into direct mission projects, supporting outreach into the community in partnerships with a dozen other agencies as well as the work of the church to extend its mission and ministry.

Although there are a lot of women working hard at the church every day, you might not know that this was a women’s fellowship project if you were unaware of the great power that women have to recruit men to share the work. The work force includes several dedicated men who chip in and help to make the sale a success.

In the middle of the afternoon, I stopped by Hospice House to visit the mother of a colleague. I met Jim Wood in the late 1980’s when he was an Intern at another UCC congregation in Boise, Idaho. I served a sister congregation across town. Jim was a laid back and natural pastor who understood both the academic rigors of theology and the practical aspects of hands-on ministry. We enjoyed spending time together talking about the ministry and the people we served. I knew of his family from his stories, but did not meet his parents or siblings. Decades later, when I moved to Rapid City, I met his sister, who lives in our town. Then, on a couple of occasions I had the opportunity to meet his mother who eventually came to live with the sister. So, when I heard his mother was in hospice house, I paid a visit, partly hoping that there might be another family member around with whom to visit and share the journey of the end of life of a loved one. His mom was alone in her room when I entered. I introduced myself. Her face brightened and she immediately recalled that I had known her son in Boise when he was an Intern and then proceeded to tell a nurse who stopped by to check on her about a dinner at her daughter’s house where my wife, my mother and I were entertained. What a memory! What an amazing woman! What a joy to pay a visit. During my visit she complimented the staff of the Hospice House for their competence, medical attention and care. She said, “I’ve just got one more corner to turn. I can’t see around the corner, yet, but I think I may be beginning to turn.” That is an image I’ll never forget. With luck, I might even be able to share it with others. I won’t be waiting until I am in my ‘90’s an on my deathbed to do so, however. I’m not sure that I will retain the clarity, or enthusiasm that I witnessed yesterday.

From hospice house I headed to the hospital to visit another 90+ year-old woman who belongs to our church and who broke her hip last week. Less than a week after a long and complicated surgery to repair the shattered joint, she had left the medical floor and now was at the rehabilitation center working on physical therapy in anticipation of release from the hospital before the end of this week. I recalled my visit to her last Thursday, the day after her surgery and how I thought as I entered the room, “She looks like the surgery was a week ago, not just a day ago.” Every visit she has amazed me with the speed of her recovery, her enthusiasm for life and her joy in visiting with friends. I’ve visited lots of 70-somethings who don’t recover from surgery with as much energy and enthusiasm.

I was raised among amazing women. I grew up expecting women to be brilliant, capable and leaders. And there are still plenty of women who surprise me.

I was reading recently of the Nuns of New Skete, a group of Eastern Orthodox monastic women who live in a Cambridge, New York, close to the Vermont border. Most of the members of the small community are in their ‘80’s having lived simple, modest lives of prayer. The community is self-sufficient, believing that nuns and monks should support themselves by their own labor. The New Skete Nuns support themselves with a commercial bakery that is famous for its gourmet cheesecake. Heavenly Cakes sells cheesecakes and fruitcakes through restaurants, a store at the monastery, and over the Internet. Were I not a bit too heavy, I’d be seriously tempted by the cheesecake of the month club.

I am thinking of the amazing women I’ve met as the Cardinals begin their second day of deliberation seeking discernment of who the next Pope will be. I am confident that the Holy Spirit will work through their deliberations. However, I have no doubt that we would be amazed and delighted if they were enabled to choose from all of the great leaders of the Roman Catholic Church, instead of limiting their search to just one of the genders of their faith.

I probably won’t live long enough to witness the first woman pope. I may not live long enough to witness the first woman priest of the Roman Catholic Church. But whenever it happens, I’ll guarantee you that it will be an amazing woman.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

According to archaeologists and ethno historians, Siouan language speakers once occupied the lower Mississippi River region and later migrated into the Ohio Valley. They were, for the most part, farmers and may have been part of the mound builders. By the late 16th century, Dakota-Lakota-Nakota speakers lived in the upper Mississippi region. That area today is known as Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa and the Dakotas. The Siouan people then moved westward, probably in response to pressures and battles with Anishnaabe and Cree peoples who themselves were receiving pressure from the east as European settlers moved onto the American continent.

It was another European-introduced phenomenon that allowed bands of Lakota to cross the Missouri River, however. The great smallpox epidemic of 1772-1780 killed nearly 75% of the Arikara, Mandan and Hidatsa who had formerly prevented the westward expansion of the tribe. It was likely in 1765 when Standing Bear first came to the land we call the Black Hills. A decade later, Oglaa and Brule were living west of the Missouri. They called the hills Paha Sapa and declared them to be sacred, not without some protest from the Cheyenne who once claimed the area after having taken it from the Kiowa. The Cheyenne moved into the Powder River country where they live today.

The name Sioux wasn’t the name chosen by the people. It was an adaptation of a Cree word made by French explorers who learned to speak Cree, but added their own spelling to a language that formerly was not written.

Depending on which dialect was spoken, the name chosen by the people was Dakota, Lakota or Nakota. It means “friends” or “allies.” The bands were never a single “nation” in terms of government, but rather a confederation of tribes or bands who could speak a common language and who agreed to work together for common protection and the accomplishment of shared goals.

It seems that from the very beginnings of time these people were fiercely independent and not easily subjected by structures and authorities. That independence may have been one of the reasons that the Oglala people were the last to be brought into the reservation system and the names of their great leaders are so well known to this day: Crazy Horse, Red Cloud, Black Elk, and Spotted Tail.

These days, members of the Siouan language group live primarily in South Dakota, North Dakota, Manitoba and Saskatchewan. The seven bands of the Lakota are often confused with the seven tribes of the great Sioux nation. The confederation known as the Ochethi Sakowin (Seven Council Fires) includes all of the bands of the Lakota plus the Yankton Nakota and the Santee Dakota.

Because of the effects of the attempt to destroy the culture, language, traditions and stories of the Lakota, Dakota, and Nakota people and because of the devastation of the reservation system, the seven council fires have been divided into many different groupings. According to Bryan Brewer, President-Elect of the Oglala Tribe, there are now 22 distinct tribes that are a part of the great Sioux nation.

The tradition of independence continues today. The people are not known for drawing together and working together. But they are beginning to write new history together. Last week for four days, council representatives from four of the Sioux tribes met in Rapid City and laid the groundwork to work together as a single nation. There hasn’t been such a meeting in my lifetime, perhaps not in the last century. The meeting was, from all reports, tremendously productive. Nearly 60 people signed a proclamation declaring their intent to work together as the official Ochethi Sakowin of the great Lakota/Dakota/Nakota people. They adopted bylaws and a mission statement and made plans for commissions to address the most pressing issues of the people.

It might be easy for outsiders to be cynical of the meeting. Not every band was represented. The language coming out of the meeting is distinctly European. Terms such as “position papers,” “commissions,” “mission statements,” and the like are not traditional indigenous terms. The future of the people will probably not be forged in position papers. But the cynicism is, in my opinion, misplaced. And it can get in the way of what seems to be an historic new beginning. The attempt of the people to gather together and to speak with a united voice is something that we have not seen in this generation. The strategy of “divide and conquer” not only produced the conquering of the natives of our land, it also produced divisions that persist more than a century after the Calvary was pursuing what amounted to a policy of genocide against tribal members.

I am an outsider. I am not a member of any tribe. My people have been nomadic for many generations so we claim a heritage that is vaguely European with German, Russian, Scottish and English strains. We are uniquely American in our blending of many different ethnicities and heritages. We probably can’t claim the title “native” or “indigenous” in any of the areas where we have drifted. It has been a long time since we have occupied the same piece of territory for more than a generation or two. So I watch the developments among the indigenous people of this land with an outsider’s eye. From that perspective, however, it does seem that the meetings last week were momentous.

The press wanted to cover the 40th anniversary of the Wounded Knee occupation. They were looking for protest banners and listening for gunshots and hoping for something exciting to report to the world. But the real changes that are taking place probably were no occurring out in the open with the reporters gathered around. The real changes were heartfelt conversations taking place behind closed doors, with prayers offered in the lyrical tones of Lakota and Dakota. I am not sure how many Nakota speakers were present. Perhaps their dialect was also heard as well, it is simply less familiar to my outsider’s ears.

I believe that there is reason for hope from this meeting. I am impressed with this new coalition. It may well be the beginnings of the recovery of the old alliances – a return of working together as allies, as friends, as Lakota/Dakota/Nakota.

The history will not be made by people like me, but perhaps we will be witness to a new thing that is happening here in the hills, on the sacred land called Paha Sapa.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City contains an incalculable treasure of artwork. There are so many paintings, sculptures, prints, pottery, enamels, household items and other works of art that it would be impossible to take in the entire collection. And the rumor persists that the Metropolitan is not capable of displaying all of its treasures. For every gallery of public display there are vaults and vaults of artworks that are not on display. I do not know what percentage of the treasures of the Metropolitan are on display. But there are individual pieces of art on display with values that cannot be calculated.

The metropolitan Museum of Art’s earliest roots date back to 1866 in Paris, France, when a group of Americans agreed to create a national institution and gallery of art to bring art and art education to the American people. The main building, on Fifth Avenue in New York and the Cloisters Museum and Gardens are two physical spaces that are the focus of the collection, but the reach of the museum extends beyond these physical spaces in New York. It is constantly engaged in collecting, exchanging and exhibiting artwork around the world.

Consider Rembrandt, for example. The artist did all of his work in two cities in Holland, Leiden and Amsterdam. He never traveled outside of Holland, though he did study the work of Northern artists who had lived in Italy, like Lastman, van Honthorst, van Dyck, Elsheimer and Rubens. He was a prolific painter, draftsman, and etcher. Though Rembrandt never traveled abroad, his paintings have. The Metropolitan owns so many Rembrandts that they don’t all fit in one room. The permanent Rembrandt display extends out of the main gallery, around a corner and into an antechamber as well. I don’t know how many Rembrandts the Metropolitan owns, but the number is more than thirty. They were probably acquired for prices in the hundreds of thousands of dollars up to several million. In today’s art world, the value of each of the paintings is probably many millions. You could make a study of the artist without leaving the shores of the United States.

Consider just one of the paintings: Aristotle with a Bust of Homer is an imaginary portrait of Aristotle, the Greek philosopher. In the painting, his right hand rests on the head of a bust of Homer, the epic poet of an earlier age. In the painting, Aristotle has a medallion depicting Alexander the Great hanging from an elaborate gold chain that wraps around his body. When you look at the painting, your eyes immediately go to the brilliant chain. The chain is supposed to depict earthly honor and wealth. In the painting it certainly makes the philosopher appear to be a man of wealth and substance. The eye is also drawn to the ring on the little finger of Aristotle’s left hand. I have studied the history of philosophy, but I never contemplated Aristotle’s earthly wealth. It has always seemed to me that wealth wasn’t important to the philosopher. The painting, in a sense, shocks me.

Less apparent in the painting is the expression on Aristotle’s face. His dark beard almost blends into the dark cloak he is wearing and his eyes are not looking at the painter, but rather the bust of Homer. In the painting, of course. Homer is dead and Aristotle still living. The painting doesn’t depict a real event, but rather an event of the imagination. And my imagination can run away with the scene. Is Aristotle comparing the value of earthly wealth to eternal recognition? Is he wondering about his own contributions to the long-term body of human knowledge and understanding? Is he wondering how he will be remembered? Is he aware that the “bling” does not give meaning or depth to his life? Is he aware of the vast difference between spiritual values and worldly success?

In the painting shadows descend over Aristotle’s brow and eyes while his hands are bathed in light, especially the right hand. I think that I could spend a lot of time contemplating the painting.

I have never seen the painting. In fact, I have never been to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I have only toured the collection with the aid of my computer and the Museum’s easy-to-use online resource. I’ve zoomed in and examined the detail of the paining, backed off and looked at it as if from a distance. I’ve imagined what it might be like to stand in the gallery and look at the actual painting. It is something that I might one day do. I’ve been to New York. I could go again. I could find Gallery 618 and have a look.

Likely, I would be overwhelmed with all of the other Rembrandts and all of the other paintings. Were I to go to the museum, it would be difficult to know what to view first. Should I look at the works of Leonardo or a van Eyck? Would I be amazed to look at Renoir’s “By the Seashore?” Would a day be long enough to contemplate Cezanne’s “Man with a Straw Hat?” I’m told it doesn’t hang far from Monet’s “La Grenouillere.” How could I go to the museum without spending time in front of Degas’s “Women with Chrysanthemums?” Any one of the paintings is worthy of a lifetime of viewing. The collection, taken as a whole, is like that gold chain around Aristotle in the Rembrandt painting – a luxury of wealth that is so stunning it is overwhelming. Its worth cannot be contemplated. And it fades when compared to the eternal.

The paintings survive much longer than the artists who create them. They outlast the curators who collect them. They are around after the funerals of the donors who gave millions. They are remembered when the names of the others are forgotten. But they too are ethereal in the vastness of history. They exist in a physical sense for just a small amount of time. Perhaps Homer’s words will remain after the paintings have disappeared into the depths of time. Perhaps the words will also have been forgotten. Nothing human is permanent.

But the encounter between that which is permanent and that which is passing is somehow represented in a painting in a powerful way. I sense it and yet I haven’t even seen that painting.

How much more in this life is there that deserves a second and a third look?

In fact, I don’t need a museum. Above the desk where I am writing is an east-facing window. In a little while the sun will rise with a glory that is quickly passing and yet at the same time eternal. There is enough in that view for a lifetime of contemplation.

My time in this life is short and the timing is critical. Still I have been given the opportunity to contemplate the eternal. The sun will rise whether or not I look at it. Perhaps, just perhaps one of the ideas that Aristotle contemplated has come, for a brief moment, to my consciousness.

But our thoughts, too, are fleeting. They are soon gone and we are gone with them. And in the brief moments that we have we are given the opportunity to look at the sunrise, a glory that exists beyond anything that we can imagine. How fortunate to have eyes to see and a mind to contemplate!

Glory!

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

Hyder Akbar is a citizen of the United States and also a citizen of Afghanistan. He is a Yale-educated young man who grew up in the United States, but returned to Afghanistan with his father after the United States overthrew the Taliban government. His father served as governor of the Kunar Province. Akbar assisted US forces in Afghanistan as a translator. He is author, with Susan Burton, of a book about his experiences in Afghanistan, called “Come Back to Afghanistan.” The book has received several honors including the San Francisco Chronicle Book of the Year, New York Times Editor’s Pick, USA Today’s Top 10 Memoirs, and the ALA Top 10 Books for Young Readers.

Hyder returned to Afghanistan to help with the rebuilding of the country. He has strong political aspirations and hopes to one day be involved in the ruling of a new Afghanistan. He is a regular contributor to WBEZ’s “This American Life,” and was the focus of a dramatic story in early December in which he told of a trip to Kunar Province in Eastern Afghanistan to report on activities there. On his way home from the trip, he came under attack and Hyder’s car took a round from a RPG and was destroyed. Hyder and his companion narrowly escaped.

Hyder Akbar does not plan to leave Afghanistan to return to the United States. He wants to be a part of the building of the future of that country. And so, he is engaged in recruiting a personal militia – a group of armed guards who can protect him from the other militias that roam his country while he works for reform and change.

By any standards, Hyder Akbar lives a dangerous life. It is uncertain whether or not he will survive to become a political success in that turbulent country.

But I didn’t intend for this blog to be about Hyder Akbar, only to have Hyder be an illustration of what life is like in a country where everyone is armed to the teeth. It is dangerous, and the only way to survive is to have more armament than the opposition. And when the people who are out to get you have rocket-propelled grenades, you have to have some pretty sophisticated weapons, and a large amount of luck, to survive.

Unlike Hyder, I have no connections to Afghanistan. I won’t be involved in the on the ground rebuilding of that country.

I do, however, live in South Dakota. And South Dakota is a place where some legislators at least believe that everyone should be packing heat. We made world headlines last week as the first state in the nation that allows teachers to be armed in the classroom. There was more coverage of the action of our legislature in the BBC than there was in our local newspaper. Around the world, people are scratching their heads at the thought of armed teachers in the classroom. Here, in a state where a lot of regular citizens carry weapons all of the time, it seems a bit less of an issue.

I know that some of the people behind the legislation had good intentions. They are aware, in the wake of the killings in New Town Connecticut, that schools can be vulnerable and dangerous places when attacked by a highly armed person seeking to create a lot of victims. The experience in Afghanistan demonstrates, however, that there are situations where answering violence with violence, force with force, gunfire with gunfire sometimes simply escalates the danger to the place where there are no more schools.

The risk isn’t what a teacher would do with a gun. The risk is what happens when that gun falls into the wrong hands. It could happen. In a state with nearly double the national average of death by suicide, where some of our rural and isolated counties top three times the national average, we know that depressed people and firearms are a deadly combination. We know that easy access to firearms makes death by suicide much more likely. In the case of most adolescent suicides, delay is sufficient to prevent the death. Emotions run amok and firearms make a deadly combination.

The folks in Whitefish, Montana know that. Last week Gregory Rodriguez, host of “A Rifleman’s Journal” on the Sportsman Channel, was sitting at the kitchen table in a private home having a glass of wine with a woman he met at a trade show. Although police do not believe their relationship was romantic, it aroused the jealousy of the woman’s husband. Wayne Bengston, in a fit of jealous rage, burst into the home, shot and killed Rodriguez, beat his wife, took his two-year-old son to the home of a relative, then went home and shot himself in the head. Rage and firearms is a deadly combination.

And we have plenty of firearms in our country. There are over 300 million firearms owned by civilians in the United States. That’s quite a few for a country with a population of 307 million. When you figure that between 55% and 60% of US households do not have guns, those that do usually have multiple guns.

Once you get to the point where everyone is armed, the arms race accelerates to include multiple weapons, larger weapons, and eventually, as is the case in Afghanistan, the need to surround yourself with a militia in order to be able to sleep at night.

It is clear that the majority of South Dakotans are opposed to arming teachers. The legislature, however, has a pretty well-established record of ignoring the majority. South Dakotans often have to employ recall and initiative in order to get the laws we want. Were we to rely on the legislature alone we’d have a lot of laws of which we don’t approve. It is one of the quirks of politics that while Republicans hold about a 10% advantage in voter registration, they control all but five counties in the state. While it is typical for about 40% of the state to vote for the Democratic candidate for President, Republicans hold 80% of the seats in the state legislature. The result is a state legislature where representatives are more likely to be influenced by out of state funders and lobbyists than they are by their constituents.

They pass laws despite the wishes of their constituents. They’ve done it again. We don’t want our teachers to have to pack heat. We don’t want our schools to be loaded with guns.

In their defense, the lawmakers say their bill doesn’t require teachers to carry weapons. It allows for individual school districts to set their own policies on weapons. I’m sure most school districts will continue to ban weapons from schools except those carried by law enforcement officers.

In the meantime the legislature didn’t seem compelled to increase funding for education enough to support fair salaries for teachers. It didn’t seem to think that student nutrition was a crisis in a state where thousands of children go to school hungry every day. It didn’t see funding for textbooks or teacher aids to be a priority. It didn’t provide sufficient funding for school districts to afford adequate counselors for students.

Let’s hope they don’t pass a bill allowing for weapons in the legislature. There are too many angry people for that to be a good idea.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

It is natural and, I believe right, to think about death during the season of Lent. We live in a society that has many mistaken notions bout death. According to psychologists, death is one of the top fears that people experience. But we rarely talk about death in a calm and sensible manner. People avoid the topic, even when attending funerals. There is something about death and dying that we seek to avoid. But death is a universal human phenomenon. We will all one day die from this life. And being alive means experiencing, at some point or another, the grief that comes from the death of a loved one. It is a topic that we do well to confront if, for no other reason, to practice for the bigger conversations we need to have.

This year our church has a discussion group that is working its way through the five wishes document. 5 Wishes is a combined durable power of attorney for health care decisions, living will, and advance directive for family members. It gives a person the opportunity to leave written instructions about five important topics:

1. The person I want to make care decisions for me when I can’t.
   2 The kind of medical treatment I want or don’t want.
   3 How comfortable I want to be.
   4 How I want people to treat me.
   5 What I want my loved ones to know.
   

The conversations have, so far, been rich and meaningful and non-threatening. People seem eager to express their thoughts and wishes and to discuss the things that they don’t understand. One of the topics that has already come up and that will come up again is how a person wants the physical remains of their body to be dealt with after their death. The conversation usually takes the form of whether cremation or burial is the best. The answer is that cremation and burial are two options, but one is not necessarily better than the other. I am sometimes asked, as I am about other subjects, “What does the Bible teach about it?” The Bible doesn’t really teach anything about cremation vs burial to my knowledge. Burial was more common in Biblical times and cremation doesn’t seem to be a big issue.

Sometimes people believe that the phrase “ashes to ashes and dust to dust” comes directly from the Bible and ask me to tell them where it appears. The phrase, however, isn’t a direct quote from the bible, but rather an adaptation of a Biblical concept. Giving instructions to Adam and Eve after their expulsion from the Garden of Eden, God says, “In the sweat of thy face shall thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.” (Genesis 3:19). I use a part of that phrase as a reminder when imposing ashes on Ash Wednesday, “Remember that from dust you have come and to dust you will return.”

I think that what people are looking for is something more like the words that come from the Book of Common Prayer for the time of committal:

Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother (sister) here departed, we therefore commit his (her) body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change our vile body, that it may be like unto his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.”

That prayer is simplified and shortened a bit in most contemporary Christian burial services, but it often contains the line, “earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

When making a decision about a funeral there are more choices than simply cremation or burial. If cremation is chosen, the family will also need to decide whether or not to have the body embalmed. If it isn’t embalmed, the body needs to be cremated quickly. In most cases where there will be a public viewing of the body it is embalmed and prepared for the viewing. It is possible, in some areas, to have a burial without embalming, but this must be done within a short period of time after the death. Rules vary state by state and sometimes cemetery by cemetery.

But there is one funerary practice that I do not understand. Some societies and cultures attempt to preserve the body for permanent viewing. The practice of mummification in ancient Egypt is quite well known in contemporary times and could well have been known to Biblical writers. The topic comes to mind because I read that there will be an attempt to preserve the body of Hugo Chavez of Venezuela for permanent display. “We have decided to prepare the body of our ‘Comandante President,’ to embalm it so that it remains open for all time for the people,” said Vice President Nicolas Maduro. They have a glass-topped casket that will be placed in a glass tomb in a military museum.

I don’t think I would prefer to become a museum display.

There are others who have been preserved in a similar manner. Vladimir Lenin’s body is still preserved in the former Soviet Union. The tomb, near the Kremlin is kept at a steady 61 degrees and a regimen of mild bleaching and soaking in glycerol and potassium acetate keep the body looking fresh. Wife of Argentinian president Juan Peron, Eva Peron had the moisture in her body replaced with wax. Her body isn’t quite complete. It is missing a finger that was removed when the junta overthrew her husband. They cut off the finger to see if the body was a fake. The body of Soviet dictator Joseph Stalin was on display next to Lenin from 1953 to 1961. Then it was buried during a period of “de-Stalinization.” Mao Zedong lies on permanent display in a Memorial Hall in Tiananmen Square. Former North Korean leaders Kim Il Sung and Kim John Il have their bodies embalmed and displayed. Ferdinand Marcos died in 1989 and his body was kept and returned to the Philippines in 1993 where it is on display in an airtight glass box in a crypt.

I confess I don’t understand these practices. I know that part of loving someone is loving his or her body as well as the rest of that person, but when death occurs, it seems to me that it is time to allow God’s natural processes to occur. God can use the elements of our bodies for new creation.

God, however, is infinitely patient. In God’s eyes, these “permanent” displays are only temporary.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

It is common for books of worship to include instructions to “allow silence for prayer” or to direct people to “pray silently.” I guess that what these books mean by silence is “no talking.” Because times when there is no one talking are far from what I would consider silence. The building where we worship makes all kinds of noises. There are big fans that move air around within the building. The hot water that it pumped through the building makes gurgling noises and the pumps whir. The building makes a lot of creaking noises as it changes temperature. Even the glass in the windows makes a certain noise as the building heats and cools.

I spend a fair amount of time in the building when I am the only one inside. Sometimes I speak because one of the things that I do when I am along in the building is to practice sermons. But most of the time when I am alone in the building, I do not speak. I know how noisy the building can be. I listen to it nearly every day.

There are also lots of noises that come into the building from outside. The building is particularly susceptible to wind noise – far more so than our home. The wind whistles through the glass doors at the main entryway, rattles over the shingles and roars past the building. We can hear sirens from emergency vehicles and airliners and aircraft from the Air Force base taking off and flying over the city. The sound of traffic on Mount Rushmore Road can be heard when the wind isn’t blowing to strongly. And during the rally the roar of motorcycles is easy to hear inside the building.

I don’t put the term “silent prayer” in our church bulletins. Neither do I invite people to pray “in silence.” Instead, I prefer the term quiet prayer. One of the things that I do during such times of prayer is to listen to the congregation. Babies gurgle. An elder might sigh. Teens fidget. There are all kinds of noises that come into the building with the people. I have no desire to suppress those noises. Members of our congregation use supplemental oxygen for medical reasons. The machines that they carry to concentrate oxygen for their breathing make quiet swishing noises. From my point of view such noises are most welcome. Children are rarely completely silent. The noise of children in the room is something that I never want to eliminate. We are a gathering of people. The sounds that people make are welcome when we gather to worship.

Most of my life is far from silent. When I lie in my bed at night, I hear all kinds of night noises. I prefer to sleep with a window slightly opened except on the coldest nights of winter. I can hear the wind in the trees. Sometimes the turkeys make their noises when settling themselves in the trees. I love the sounds of the coyotes singing in the distant hills. These days the traffic is never still on Sheridan Lake Road, so there is a fair amount of automobile noise. I once commented that there must be someone on a night shift who has a bad muffler, because there is one car that has become familiar, though I can’t tell you what it looks like, or who drives it – it simply has a distinctive noise as it climbs the hill between 2 and 3 am. Maybe it belongs to a bar tender. I think it is too regular to belong to a reveler, but that is possible, too.

Even when I walk deep in the woods, it is not silent. These days the ground is so dry that my footsteps make the duff crackle. It is very hard to walk quietly in the woods. The forest has its own sounds as well.

There are several specially designed rooms, usually at universities, where engineers have used what they know to reduce sound as much as possible. They build the chamber with a great deal of sound insulation. On the interior of the chamber they install a variety of different sound baffles to make the chamber as echo free as possible. Leo Beranek coined the term Anechoic Chamber for these rooms describing their echo-free nature. The rooms are used in the study of acoustics and also to test antennas, radars or electromagnetic interference. Several of these chambers claim to be the quietest room in the world, including the chamber at University College London and the chamber at Meyer Sound in Berkeley, California. According to the Guinness Book of World’s Records, the quietest room on the planet is the chamber at Orfield Laboratories in Minneapolis.

Sound researchers tell us that the quieter it gets the more your ears adapt. Sounds of which you are normally unaware become evident when there is less external sound. In an anechoic chamber you become the sound. You hear your lungs, your stomach gurgling, your heart beating. Some people can hear the blood coursing through their vessels and the sound of joints as they move their head or other body parts. The ear will even make its own sounds when it doesn’t detect sound from other sources.

According to researchers at Orfield Laboratories the longest any person has ever been alone in their chamber is 45 minutes. NASA has done research in the chamber because they are very interested in sensory deprivation and its effects on humans. Space itself is though to be a very quiet place and space travel might require long amounts of time with minimal sensory experience. It has been known for some time that people who are exposed to nearly silent rooms begin to hallucinate. It is unknown whether or not people can work through those hallucinations.

It seems to me that the opportunity to sit in such a room would be an experience not to pass up. I don’t know if I would hallucinate, but I suspect that I am no different from others. But there is an appeal to a time of pure silence. It seems like I could easily take an hour of such, though research would indicate otherwise.

Maybe tranquility is more exciting than we thought.

In the meantime, we don’t offer silent prayer at our church. We don’t have an anechoic chamber. A bit of peace and quiet, however, is within our reach.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

There is some controversy among Christians about whether or not, and if so, when it is appropriate for Christians to observe the entire Passover meal known as the Seder. Each year many churches offer a “Christian” Seder, usually by modifying the Haggadah liturgy and adding a communion service around the ritual eating of matzos and raising of the cup. From a Christian perspective, there are plenty of Biblical references to the Seder meal, most notably Luke 22:15: “I have earnestly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer.” From a Jewish perspective, it may seem more like Christians are adopting a ceremony from their tradition and modifying it.

Earlier in my career I did officiate at a number of Seder meals, observing the practices outlined in the Haggadah. I even recited prayers in Hebrew to add to the effect. But these days, I believe that it is probably only appropriate to observe the Seder in a Jewish context. If invited by my Jewish friends, I attend and participate. But I don’t try to modify the ceremony or presume to be a leader in my own context. Instead, we use the rites and traditions of the church for the celebration of the sacrament of communion, making appropriate references to the Exodus tradition and the Passover.

During Holy Week our calendars line up. Passover 2013 officially begins with sundown on Tuesday March 26, and continues through sundown on Monday, April 1. During that time, Christians will observe Holy Week and Easter. There are may traditions associated with the observation of Passover, and most involve the recounting of the Biblical story of God rescuing the Hebrew slaves from Egypt under the leadership of Moses.

Part of the storytelling is the recalling of the 10 plagues that are visited upon Pharaoh and Egypt:
1. Water is turned into blood.
2. Frogs
3. Gnats or Lice
4. Flies
5. Livestock Disease
6. Boils
7. Thunder and Hail
8. Locusts
9. Darkness
10. Death of the Firstborn

It appears that there is a plague of devastating proportions going on in Israel right now. Huge swarms of locusts are darkening the skies over southern Israel and Gaza, migrating from neighboring Egypt. The locusts can be devastating to agriculture. Farmers near the border with Egypt are reporting crop losses that exceed 33%.

Unlike the plague in the Bible, however, the response to the swarms of locusts is decidedly high tech. Pesticides are being sprayed from the ground and from aircraft in order to kill the locusts and save the crops from further devastation.

Some, however, are taking a different approach. Orthodox Jews have been coming from the north down to the southern part of the country to collect the insects for eating. They get up early in the morning. Locusts don’t fly at night and they are easy to capture before the sun warms them. Then the insects are gathered into bags and bottles. According to those who are collecting the insects to eat, they are Kosher according to scripture. They simply put the bugs into the oven and roast them lightly. They come out crispy and crunchy. I understand that a bit of barbecue sauce really make them tasty. Others prefer to fry the insects for a tasty treat. I haven’t ever eaten locusts to my knowledge. I would, however, recommend that the locust harvesters at least be aware of the spraying in the area. I wouldn’t recommend eating the bugs once they have had contact with pesticides.

Even though the numbers of locusts are high, it doesn’t appear that they will be as terrible as those mentioned in Exodus: “And they shall cover the face of the earth, that one cannot be able to see the earth: and they shall eat the residue of that which is escaped, which remains unto you from the hall, and shall eat every tree which grows for you out of the field.” (Ex.10:5)

And, as far as I know, there are no contemporary sages who are interpreting the current infestation as a sign of God. Then again, Pharaoh doesn’t get it in the book of Exodus. It takes two more plagues before he agrees to let the people go and once he does release the slaves, he quickly rethinks his decision and sends his army to recover them and return them to slavery. The story is dramatic enough to be a movie script. Then again that movie has already been made.

Periodic infestations of locusts in the region are relatively common. These locusts probably hatched in the deserts of Sudan and moved north in search of food. By the time they reach Israel, they encounter weather that is decidedly cooler and the reproduction rates slow with the colder nights.

According to the Egyptian Ministry of Agriculture, the infestation has been a real problem in that country as well especially in Cairo, Upper Egypt, the Canal area, the Red Sea area and El Arish as well as the border areas on the Sinai Peninsula.

And we still have three weeks before Passover. The timing of the insects seems to be off a bit. By that time the pesticides, the weather and those who collect the insects for food will have done their work. There probably won’t be an unusually high number of locusts crossing the borders in the Middle East.

It is probably just as well this way. After all, lamb is the traditional main dish of the Seder meal. It needs to be specially prepared with great care. There are plenty of rules governing the slaughter, cooking and eating of the Passover lamb in the Bible. And there are rules about teaching our children the story of Exodus and rules about making sure that our people never forget the events of slavery and the power of God that brought us out of the land of Egypt and into the place that God promised.

A quick check of my Bible this morning, however, didn’t reveal any recipes for cooking locusts.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

I can go for a nice slice of blueberry pie now and then, but the truth is that I like blueberries plain. They are every bit as good raw as they are cooked in a pastry. I’m that way with apples, too. I don’t mind a baked apple now and then, but it is hard to improve on simply eating an apple. It tastes good. I’ve read that eating your vegetables raw helps preserve their vitamins and that many vegetables are even better for you raw than they are cooked. And there are a lot of vegetables that I enjoy raw. I don’t mind a few glazed carrots from time to time, but most of the time I just eat my carrots raw. The same goes for broccoli. It is every bit as good raw as it is cooked. OK, I prefer potatoes cooked. And the only way I enjoy Brussels sprouts is roasted. There really isn’t that much flavor raw.

I’m not much for raw fish, though I’ve had some. And aside from a bit of tiger meat (not meat from a tiger, meat spiced by a German) and a bite or two of heart on a hunting trip, I never have gone in for raw meat. I guess that like many things in life there needs to be a balance between cooked and raw food. While cooking or reheating foods can diminish their nutritional value because some vitamins are degraded by heat, there are some foods that we probably wouldn’t eat raw that retain enough vitamins to give us nutritional value. Potatoes are an excellent example. Even if a potato loses 50% of its food value when cooked, that leaves 50% that I might not eat otherwise. I eat a few bites of raw potato, but don’t really care for them as much as I like cooked potatoes.

Primatologist Richard Wrangham wrote a book, “Catching Fire: How Cooking Made Us Human,” in which he argues that cooking gave early humans an advantage over other primates, leading to larger brains and more free time.

But there are some things that I prefer raw.

Mountain blueberries are tiny. It takes several minutes to gather enough to cover the bottom of a sierra cup. But they have a flavor that cannot be improved upon. They do not need to be cooked. They require no additional ingredients. They are absolutely the best when simply eaten as they are.

If you read my blog several times a week, you must have a bit of a like of the raw. The writing I do for the blog is raw – unedited. I simply write off of the top of my head on whatever topic strikes me on a particular day. I started out keeping a faith journal, but that quickly evolved into many other topics and the blog these days is a window on the type of thinking I do when I am not engaging in re-writing, editing, and trying to refine my ideas. I don’t serve my ideas raw in other settings very often.

Of course there are occasions when I speak off the top of my head in conversation with others. And I can be caught off guard and need to improvise when situations arise in my ministry. I can be at the hospital and find myself in the midst of a crisis that I didn’t imagine would occur. I can make a home visit and walk into circumstances that I didn’t expect. These things happen on a regular basis. But there are plenty of times when my words are carefully chosen.

I’m working on a short piece of writing that will be read by members of other congregations at the moment. I prepared a rough draft, did a self edit, asked Susan to read and comment, re-wrote it again, and am still making subtle changes. I’ve corrected the grammar, tweaked my ideas a bit, taken out some unnecessary words and tried to find the words to say express the idea as well as I can. I enjoy that type of writing. Prior to the explosion of the Internet and the rise of self-published books nearly all writing was subject to intense editing. When we prepare educational curricula, for example, our words go through at least two editors before they are published. Sometimes magazine articles go through only one editor, but that is a relatively recent phenomenon. Prior to the last few years virtually all magazine articles were edited by two different people before being printed.

When I preach, I start working on the basic concepts weeks and even months in advance. The week of the sermon begins with a discussion of the concepts with the church staff. I run ideas by them and try to formulate the concepts. Then I meet with a group of ministers to study the scripture and refine the ideas. We are in the habit of asking each other about the general directions of our sermons, trying to understand what our colleagues will be doing and expressing our ideas in ways that they will understand. Then I rework the concepts again for a couple of days. On the day that I am preaching I prefer to run all the way through the sermon twice in an empty church. When preaching at home, I arrive at the church a couple of hours ahead of others and go through the sermon to make sure I have the order and the words down. I work hard at the distinction between written and oral language. When I am traveling, I often run through my sermons while taking a walk or in front of a motel room mirror.

I use a full manuscript for funerals. I want to make sure that every word has been carefully chosen. The occasion is too important for anything less.

But you get my blog raw – unedited – unfiltered. And sometimes the words are awkward. Sometimes the ideas are silly. Sometimes the thoughts are poorly developed.

And, occasionally, they are delicious.

I guess life demands a bit of balance. If my blog strikes you like so many uncooked potatoes, there are more refined words available in other publications and worship. Not all of my ideas are half-cooked.

If, however, you occasionally like to sink your teeth into a few raw concepts, keep reading.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

I guess I have never been afraid of the dark. I’ve been startled on occasion. I probably had the usual fears of childhood, but I can’t remember a time when I felt afraid of being out on a dark night. Of course, with the recent full moon, we have plenty of light out right now, so there isn’t much that can’t be seen. But I know that there are people who are nervous about the darkness. I don’t share their fear. We live in a neighborhood that doesn’t have streetlights. Most of us have post lights in our front yards and we have porch lights that we can turn on and off. But I prefer to have my lights off most of the time.

It is one of those things that it seems as if I have always known, but in reality I suppose someone taught me the lesson at some point. Here’s how I teach the lesson to sometimes-frightened teenagers at camp: Go outside on a very dark night with a flashlight. Take a short walk. Notice what you can see and what you cannot see. Then find a secure place and turn off the flashlight. Now wait. In a few minutes your eyes will adjust. Whereas with the flashlight turned on you were only able to see what was in the beam of the flashlight, now with the light turned off you can see things that are farther away. The shadows no longer contain unknown trip hazards because your eyes adjust. It is often easier to walk in the woods at night without a light than with one.

Still, I like to have a flashlight handy. When I spend the night out in the woods, I carry a light source with me just in case I need to read something or want to catch some detail that eludes me in the darkness.

But I love the night sky. I’m no astronomer. I don’t own a telescope and I can’t name many of the objects in the night sky. Still there are a few planets and constellations that are familiar to me and I like to watch the phases of the moon. We take for granted views of the night sky that are denied to city dwellers around the world. I recently read of a man who lives in an urban apartment who can read a newspaper in his living room at all hours of the day and night without turning on any of his own lights because there is enough light coming in his windows even at night to make the room bright.

That’s simply too much light for comfort, in my opinion. I like living in a place where it gets dark at night.

The call Paris the City of Light, but beginning this July, a new law will require not only Paris, but all of France to reduce the level of outdoor lighting. Window lighting in commercial buildings and the lights on building facades will be turned off after 1 am and interior lighting in office buildings must be turned off one hour after the employees have left. The new law boasts a reduction in carbon emissions, but more importantly, it reduces light pollution.

I don’t think we need a law, but I’d sure like to see the lights turned down. Parking lots and gas stations are now 10 times brighter than they were just 20 years ago. We have a good example of that in our neighborhood. 17 years ago when we moved to this neighborhood there were no businesses out here. Then a convenience store was built just around the hill from our home. They didn’t just build a store, they light it up to city standards all night long. There is a continual glow on the horizon that once was not there.

You can read articles about how all of this light pollution is connected to sleep disorders, cancer and even diabetes. Light pollution destroys animal habitat as surely as does a bulldozer.

Recently I have been seeing studies that back up that truth I have known for all of my light. Bright lights make people feel safer, but they do not actually increase safety. In fact it is possible that too much light decreases safety. In 2008, PG&E Corporation in San Francisco reviewed the research and found “either there is no link between lighting and crime, or that any link is too subtle or complex to have been evident in the data.” Australian Barry Clark said, “advocating lighting for crime prevention is like advocating use of a flammable liquid to try to put out a fire.”

In England, Northumberland National Park is the northernmost national park, just south of the Scottish Border to just south of Hadrian’s Wall. It is a place of rolling hills and sheltered valleys and rural landscapes. It is also the place in England where there is the least amount of light pollution. The night sky above Northumberland National Park is so spectacular that local authorities are bidding for it to become the largest Dark Sky Reserve in Europe. If successful the park will be given special protection so that stargazers can continue to observe the skies without the threat of light pollution.

I know that the city is moving out to our neighborhood. Talks about being annexed into the city are underway. I know that each year there are more houses and more businesses and more light in our neighborhood. I can’t stop progress, nor should I be able to. But I grieve the loss of the dark night skies.

Still, I know where it does get dark at night. The northwestern corner of South Dakota is a place where there aren’t too many people. You can go up highway 79 and get away from the lights of the cities. These days there is too much traffic on Highway 85, but I still know how to find the dark places. If you want to see the night sky, take a night hike in the Slim Buttes or pay a visit to Camp Crook. You might even see things that are so spectacular you’ll be tempted to turn off the lights when you get home.

I’m not afraid of the dark. But I do worry about my neighborhood becoming a place with too much light.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

The people who know me probably also know that I return to certain scriptures more often than others. There are some parts of the Bible that are better known by me. I have snippets of scripture memorized, and the things that are in my memory come to me more quickly than other passages. And there are certain passages that get quoted more often than others. If you hang out with me for long, you will hear me quote Psalm 90 quite a bit. The starting and ending lines of the psalm resonate with the way I think about God and see the world. It begins, “Lord, thou has been our dwelling place in all generations.” And the ending is equally dramatic: “Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us, and establish thou the work of our hands upon us, yea, the work of our hands establish thou it.”

I’ve preached many a funeral meditation with those two ideas, often reversing their order. I comment on the work of the hands of the person we are remembering. I speak of the things that those hands have done. Then I remind people that we have a home that has been known and recognized by generations of our people. Our home is not a building. It is our faith. We dwell in God. And when you dwell in God the transition from this life to what comes next is not as dramatic as it sometimes seems.

In the middle of that psalm is a reflection on the nature of time. Like many other places in the bible, Psalm 90 reminds us that our ways of measuring time are not the same as God’s perspective: “For a thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, or as a watch in the night.” Later the psalm puts a human life in perspective: “The years of our life are threescore and ten, or even by reason of strength fourscore; yet their span is but toil and trouble; they are soon gone, and we fly away.” A score is 20 years. Every kid in our school knew that because we were encouraged to memorize Lincoln’s Gettysburg address. If you have to memorize a speech, it is good to pick a short one. Lincoln uses the same way of counting in the opening of that speech: “Four score and seven years ago our father brought for on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.” I’ve wondered what Lincoln meant by counting the years. Was he saying that this new nation was a recent creation – only a little more than one lifetime - ago? Or was he saying that our forefathers brought forth this nation a long time – more than a lifetime – ago?

Four score years ago today – March 4, 1933, the nation was in the grips of the Great Depression. It was the day that Franklin Delano Roosevelt was inaugurated as the 32nd president of the United States. You can still find people who think of that day as a positive moment in history and others who think of it as a negative time. It was, I am sure, a moment of personal triumph for a man who nine years earlier had been struck with poliomyelitis, the virus that causes polio. He suffered nearly total paralysis and used braces and a wheelchair for mobility for the rest of his life. But on that day four score years ago today he delivered a powerful address to the nation, outlining a “New Deal” – an expansion of the role of the federal government and told Americans that “the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”

Franklin Roosevelt was born into a wealthy family. He personally – and all of the people in his immediate family – had the wealth to weather the depression. They weren’t the kind of people who were standing in the soup lines or riding the rails in search of work. Whether or not you agree with his vision for the role of government, you can agree that the man didn’t come from poverty. He was motivated in his thinking by a concern for other people.

Over the years, we Americans have received significant leadership from some pretty wealthy people. Many of our presidents didn’t come from common stock. They haven’t, on average, been middle class.

50 years ago we had another president who came from significant wealth. President John F. Kennedy came from a family that no one thought of as impoverished. Early in 1963 – a year that would prove to be tragic in many ways – President Kennedy proposed a $13.6 billion tax cut. (Note to those who today think that tax cuts are a strictly partisan cause – we haven’t always been divided along the same lines that are currently drawn in congress. Kennedy was a democrat.) The tax cut, he surmised, would increase economic growth, promote fuller employment (the unemployment rate was about 4 percent in those days) and reduce or eliminate recessions. The tax cut proposed by President Kennedy wasn’t passed until 1964 – after has assassination. The result was not positive in terms of the federal budget. It set in motion the cycles of deficit spending that have continued to this day. In fact, there have only been 5 balanced federal budgets since that tax cut was made: in 1969, when Richard Nixon was president; 1998, 1999 and 2000 under President Clinton and the first year of the George W. Bush administration, 2001.

I suppose that if you are a Republican you’d like to point out that the source of the current budget crisis was an action of a Democrat president. If you’re a Democrat, perhaps you like to point out that the origin of federal deficits was a tax cut.

But I didn’t mean to write this blog about contemporary federal budget issues. What I meant to do was to reflect on what can happen in four score years. And one thing that has happened in that span in the United States is that we have totally redefined wealth and the distribution of money. According to a Harvard survey of 5,000 Americans, most Americans believe that the richest people in the country should be 10 to 15 times richer than the poorest folk. These days 80 percent of Americans have only 7 percent of the wealth. The middle class is barely distinguishable from the poverty class. The average CEO earns 380 times what the average employee (not the lowest paid employee) in his or her company earns. In 1976 the richest one percent of our country took home about 9% of the total wealth each year. Today that one percent takes 24%. The bottom line is that within a decade we won’t be able to afford the richest 1% even by having everyone else below the poverty line. The number at the top has to get smaller in order for their wealth to continue to grow.

But I am addicted to the psalms and I am reminded by the 90th psalm that our perspective is short compared to God’s. What happens this year in Washington DC with the sequester debate and whatever crisis the politicians devise to follow up is tiny in the bigger scheme of things. I’m no policy-maker, nor should I be, but I’m thinking we need to give this young country a few more score years to sort out our priorities. As much as I feel at home as a citizen of this country I am reminded that I have another home: “Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place in all generations.”

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

I’ve blogged before about the simple fact that I don’t watch too much TV. I like to watch British sit-coms on Saturday night, but if you count the number of Saturdays when public TV is raising money and therefore airing “specials,” add in the weekends when the station broadcasts high school sports tournaments, and throw in a few weeks when I have other activities on Saturday nights, I’m pretty sure that I don’t watch television more than 25 or 30 hours a year.

I watched part of one episode of “Survivor” at the home of our children. I caught an episode of “Are You Smarter than a 5th Grader?” while staying in a motel once. I have never seen “The Voice,” “The Apprentice” (is that the one that ends with “You’re Fired!” each episode?) “Shark Tank,” or “The Job.” So it would be safe to say that I don’t know much about the work of Mark Burnett. They say that he is the king of reality television, but I don’t think that there is very much that is real about reality television.

So even though I am a religious person and I love the Bible and invest a lot of hours studying it, I am not particularly excited to learn that Mark Burnett is busy producing a 10-hour mini-series that is supposed to tell the story of the Bible. It is going to air on the History Channel. We don’t have cable TV, and so can’t watch tonight, but the History Channel posts a fair amount of its programming on YouTube so I may one day watch at least part of the series.

There have been a lot of attempts in the past to use audio-visual media to portray parts of the Bible. I’ve watched The Ten Commandments several times. I liked The Prince of Egypt. The Greatest Story Ever Told gave John Wayne the line, “Surely that man was the Son of God.” I thought The Passion of the Christ was a bit over the top with blood and violence. These projects, however, each took a portion of the Bible. If I understand the Burnett project, he is attempting to use 10 hours of television to portray the Bible as a single narrative story.

I’ll be blunt. I’m not impressed. The Bible is not a single narrative. It contains many different voices and many different types of literature. It is complete and whole, but it is not a single story. The attempt to treat the Bible as one grand story makes assumptions about the Bible that not only run contrary to history, but are not supported by the Bible itself. One of the reviews of the show that I read says it starts with Noah preparing the ark as the waters rise. When his family is fearful, he tells them the story of Adam and Eve. There have been plenty of attempts to put the Bible into a single chronological narrative. Each treats creation as an event. In the Bible creation is a continual aspect of God. There are multiple creation stories told from multiple angles. The theme of creation shows up in the historical books, but also in the Psalms and the prophets.

I could go on and on. Here is the truth. 10 hours of TV can’t show the entire book of Leviticus, (potentially a very boring program) let alone the entire Bible. So they left things out. Some of those things, I’m willing to speculate, are very important.

What is worse, in my opinion, is that they also added things in. That was Mel Gibson’s mistake in the making of The Passion of the Christ. He took incredible liberties in adding in dialogue and visual effects that simply aren’t indicated in a serious reading of the Bible. That didn’t stop him from grossing more than $600 million and becoming the highest grossing R-rated film of all time. I bought a ticket and watched the movie, and I’m a skeptic.

So Mark Burnett is likely to make the same mistake and add in elements that are not in the Bible. However, he may have a successful TV show in the works. He’s certainly achieved a lot of success with other efforts. And getting people to think about and talk about the Bible is a good thing.

I remember watching the movie “The Perfect Storm.” I went out the next day and bought the book and read it. I thought the book was better than the movie. Now if that would work for Burnett’s show, I’m all for it. I haven’t seen the mini-series, but I’m willing to bet that the book is better than the movie.

And the book isn’t the complete story. I know that sounds like heresy, and perhaps it is, but the truth is that the stories of our people are all about the relationship with God. The key element is the relationship, not the words on paper. The Bible is deeply valuable to bring people into relationship with God. And it has great worth to deepen that relationship through regular study and prayer. But to worship the book is to miss the truth.

Our people carried the stories of the Bible for generations by oral tradition. Throughout most of the history of the Christian church the majority of Christians were illiterate – they couldn’t read. But they knew the stories because they repeated them over and over again. It is only since the invention of the printing press that we have valued printed words over those spoken.

And our faith isn’t based on the words, but on the truth beyond the words.

It is a mistake for anyone, even an academically honored Biblical scholar, to assume that one can ever fully understand the Bible. You can study the Bible. It can become familiar. It can become a friend. But it is never fully known.

So I hope a lot of people watch Burnett’s show. I don’t know yet whether or not I will. But I don’t expect the show to be the final interpretation of the Bible. It is just one more element in a long history of people in relationship with God. Art is an important part of that relationship. Not every painting or statue is accurate, but they add to the total observance of faith. A television program is another piece of religious art. If it inspires a deeper relationship, I’m all in favor of it.

One of my teachers devoted most of his academic life to the study of the Book of Daniel. He translated it from Hebrew into Flemish, French and English. He wrote several commentaries. He once told me, “A lifetime is too short to understand even one book of the Bible.” He was, of course, right.

Mark Burnett may be the king of reality television, but he doesn’t fully understand the Bible. Maybe making the mini series will get Burnett to spend even more time studying the Bible. That would be a good thing.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

These days a lot of people know the story. Marco’s father instructs him to keep his eyes peeled for interesting sights on the way to and from school, but all Marco sees is a boring old horse and a wagon. It would be more exciting if he could report that he saw a zebra pulling a wagon. No, better yet, a zebra pulling a blue and gold chariot. Or how about a reindeer, which might be happier pulling a sled. Or how about an elephant with a ruby-bedecked rajah on the top? “Say! That makes a story that no one can beat, when I say that I saw it on Mulberry Street.”

It is a classic book. It was rejected by over two dozen publishers before it finally made it into print in 1937. It was the beginning of a children’s book career that took off, but it was a slow start. It was twenty more years, before readers could open the book and read: “The sun did not shine. It was too wet to play. So we sat in the house all that cold, cold, wet day. I sat there with Sally, we sat there we two. And I said, ‘How I wish we had something to do!’” The Cat in the Hat was more than a children’s book. It was a classic. I still have the copy that was in our house for reading to the smaller children. Ours isn’t the 1957 version, but one from a Dr. Seuss young readers book club.

I’m guessing that my parent’s didn’t know the origin of Dr. Seuss’ pen name. Theodor Seuss Geisel was named for his parents. His father was Theodor Robert Geisel. The senior Geisel was a successful brewmaster. The younger Geisel got his mother’s maiden name for a middle name. Henrietta Seuss Geisel isn’t a name that easily rolls of the tongue, but you can see how someone with that name might think that Theodor Seuss Geisel is a perfect moniker for a son. The boy was very intelligent and as soon as he completed high school he headed off to college at Dartmouth.

Did I mention that his father was a brewmaster? Did I mention that it was during prohibition? Those two facts came together in an awkward moment – one that is so common in contemporary college that it might not be remembered. Geisel was a gifted writer and soon he ascended to the position of editor of the Dartmouth College humor magazine, Jack-O-Lantern. But he was a college student. And his father was a brewmaster and it was during prohibition. So when he and a few of his friends were caught drinking in his dorm room it was a scandal. Drinking was illegal! He lost his position as editor of the magazine. In fact he was kicked off of the magazine staff and prohibited from participating in it in any way. Creative guy that he was, he began to contribute articles under the name “Seuss.” The name stuck.

After he graduated from Dartmouth, he went off to England to study at Oxford University. His plan was to become a professor. Life plans sometimes don’t take in to account the details. The detail in Geisel’s life was that he fell in love with Helen Palmer. They were married, he dropped out of Oxford and the couple returned to the United States. He had stories and articles published in Life and Vanity Fair. In the July 1927 issue of The Saturday Evening Post there appeared one of his cartoons under the name “Seuss.” That cartoon got him a job with the New York weekly, Judge. From there he went to the advertising department of Standard Oil, which provided steady income for him for then next 15 years.

By then Vanguard Press decided to take a chance on “And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street,” after 27 other publishers turned it down.

During the War, Geisel served with the Signal Corps, making animated training films and drawing posters for the Treasury Department and the War Production Board. After the war, he and Helen purchased an old observation tower in La Jolla, California. It was there that he settled into full-time writing, working a minimum of eight hours a day with occasional breaks to tend his garden. He published “If I Ran the Zoo” and “Horton Hears a Who.”

Concern was raised over the ability of children to read in the early 1950’s. The baby boomers didn’t seem to have the vocabulary needed. Life magazine ran an article criticizing children’s reading levels and blamed in part the tired old readers that were in use. I know. I was one of those kids: “See Dick Run. Run Dick Run.”

Using 220 vocabulary words chosen by educators, Geisel put together “The Cat in the Hat.” After that book was a success, followed by “The Cat in the Hat Comes Back,” Dr. Seuss was off and running. There were lots of classic lines to follow:

“I do not like them in a box. I do not like them with a fox. I do not like them in a house. I do not like them with a mouse. I do not like them here or there. I do not like them anywhere. I do not like green eggs and ham. I do not like them, Sam-I-am.”

“’All mine!’ Yertle cried. ‘Oh, the things I now rule! I’m the king of a cow! And I’m the king of a mule! I’m the king of a house! And, what’s more, beyond that I’m the king of a blueberry bush and a cat! I’m Yertle the Turtle! O marvelous me! For I am the ruler of all that I see!”

“No wait a minute Mr. Socks Fox! When a fox is in the bottle where the tweetle beetles battle with the paddles in a puddle on a noodle-eating poodle. This is what they call . . . a tweetle beetle noodle poodle bottles paddled muddied duddied fuddied wuddied fox in sockx, sir!”

Say that quickly three times. I know. I used to practice Seuss so I could read it quickly to our children. That just might be the magic of Seuss. He wrote text that is simply fun to read out loud. The adults got hooked on saying the words, the children got hooked on looking at the illustrations and together the read the books over and over again.

I practically memorized, “One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish, black fish, blue fish, old fish, new fish. This one has a little car. This one has a little star. Say! What a lot of fish there are.”

“How the Grinch Stole Christmas!” and “Horton Hears a Who!” became television specials and “Oh, the Places You’ll Go!” was a very popular graduation gift a few years ago.

Anyway, Happy Birthday Dr. Seuss! There is a bit more joy in this world since you were born. And I, for one, don’t think it is the end of the world that they caught you drinking beer with your buddies.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.

In my home state, Montana, most people refer to three adjacent wilderness areas, Scapegoat, Great Bear and Bob Marshall as simply, “the Bob.” It is about a million and a half acres of rugged peaks and forest that can be accessed on foot or horseback. Montanans can argue long and loud about wilderness designation, the management practices of the Forest Service. They can argue about the politics of land use and the role of the federal government. They are not of one mind on a wide variety of topics. The northwest corner of the state is not what one might call a hotbed of liberal politics. But the people in Montana agree that the Bob is a magnificent piece of ground. It is an incredible place for recreation. The 40 mile, 1,000 foot high Chinese Wall is magnificent. The Bob is filled with waterfalls, lakes, and dense forests of larch and spruce and Douglas fir. It is the best region in the lower 48 to view grizzly bears and prime country for moose, elk, black bear, mountain goats, bighorn sheep, wolverines, mountain lions, bobcats and wolves. If you like to look up, bald eagles, osprey, pelicans and trumpeter swans split the air with their wings.

Montanans disagree about a lot of things, but they all know that the Bob is a treasure.

I think that the fact that the place is known simply as “the Bob” is a great tribute to Robert Marshall. Bob Marshall wasn’t a formal guy. Knowing him was being on a first name basis with him. The bob is no place for suits and fancy clothing. Although it receives its share of visitors who are outfitted at Cabellas or Bass Pro Shops and who have matched outfits from Lands End or L.L. Bean, it is really more of a place for the duct tape and jeans crowd and no matter how people look when they head into the area, they all look about the same when they come down from the high country. You no longer care about their clothing. Neither do they. The glow on their faces tells the story of people who have witnessed grandeur.

I’m reading some of Bob Marshall’s writing this week. For some time know I have been harboring fantasies of a trip to Alaska. It is likely a retirement venture, but it doesn’t hurt to plan. Every couple of years or so I pour over the Milepost and plan all sorts of side trips and adventures that would take more time and money than I possess. And I’ve read most of the classics by Margaret Murie and John McPhee. I’ve discovered Seth Kantner and, of course I read Arctic Village by Bob Marshall. This week I’ve been reading Alaska Wilderness, a collection of escerpts from Bob’s journals pulled together and published by his brother George after his death.

Bob died young. He might have died from one of the many dangers of wilderness trekking hundreds of miles from other humans, but he didn’t. He died while riding a train from Washington, D.C. to New York City. His heart stopped. He was only 38 years old. As far as anyone knew he was at the peak of physical fitness.

He left behind the legacy of the Wilderness Society, an organization founded by many different lovers of wild places than now has more than 300,000 members and is dedicated to protecting wilderness and fostering a land ethic. At one point in the early years of organizing the society, it received an anonymous donation of $1,000. That was big money in those days and the gift probably kept the organization from going under. Although the gift was supposed to be anonymous, everyone knew it came from Bob.

Bob came off as an ordinary guy. Of course he wasn’t really all that ordinary. He had an exceptional intellect. He earned a PhD from Harvard. He was raised in New York City, but he had an exceptional love of the outdoors. His father, the son of Jewish immigrants, was a noted constitutional lawyer and human rights activist. When his father died, Bob became independently wealthy. But he never behaved like a rich kid in the wild places. Bob was willing to shoulder his pack and slog through the mud and water and endure the wind and rain and mosquitos that are a part of going to the wild places. He became a friend of the Alaskan natives and the prospectors and trappers that lived in the remote places and had a reputation for being hard to get along with. He worked for the forest service and served as chief of forestry in the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Later he became head of recreation management for the U.S. Forest Service.

But my, oh, my! did the man cram a lot of adventures into his short life! He went to Alaska again and again. He hiked the Adirondack trail. And he explored wild places in Montana, Idaho, Wyoming and other places as well. He didn’t ever get around to getting married, but he was beloved by all who knew him. His brother George became the curator of his writings and added many eloquent phrases to Bob’s works as he published them. George describes their joint adventures in the Adirondacks as a time when they “entered a world of freedom and informality, of living plants and spaces, of fresh greens and exhilarating blues, of giant, slender pines and delicate pink twinflowers, of deer and mosquitoes, of fishing and guide boats and tramps through the woods.”

It takes a special kind of person to remember to mention the mosquitoes when writing about freedom, but I know what he means. I don’t want to live in a world that is so sanitized that I never experience discomfort or even annoying insects. I know that the experience of beauty is often accompanied by hard work and occasionally short rations and unpredictable weather and dirt and bugs.

And these days, when I need to keep my nose to the grindstone and Alaska is only a dream for one who isn’t, like Bob, independently wealthy, I have the joy of reading the words of a man who not only walked into the wilderness, but who also wrote so eloquently that I can experience his trips while sitting in my chair in my study.

This life is too short for all of the adventures one can imagine. I, for one, am grateful for the books that extend my range and expand my world.

Copyright © 2013 by Ted Huffman. I wrote this. If you want to copy it, please ask for permission. There is a contact me button at the bottom of this page. If you want to share my blog a friend, please direct your friend to my web site.