ILLUME

About 15 years ago my grandmother was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver. She had been heavily medicated for a chronic illness for many years that finally cooked her liver, and she was given about six months to live. Hope of recovery was lost. The family grieved deeply. Children and older grandchildren began taking a rotation of caring for her so she could remain at home for her last months of life. 

A few years ago I moved to a new appointment, assuming the responsibility as pastor of a two-point charge. My first hospital visit was to a man who had been battling lung cancer for years, and was in the final stages. Tests were run more for the purposes of tracking the cancer’s progress than fighting the illness. It had consumed his life for years, and he had given up hope. He was medicated and sent home. The goal was to make him as comfortable as possible for as long as possible while the disease took its course.

About 18 months after my grandmother’s diagnosis, she fell ill with a perforated bowel (another complication from her medication) and died in the hospital from related complications. Although she was only 62, she had lived much longer than expected. During my grandmother’s hospitalization, tests were run on her liver to track the disease’s progress. Her liver was fine. They could find nothing wrong with it. 

Likewise, when I called the gentleman at home to offer a prayer of comfort and receive the report of his test results he said, “You are not going to believe this, but they can’t find any cancer anywhere. It’s gone. It’s a miracle I guess. No one can explain it.”  He spoke as though he was convincing himself. There really was no medical explanation.

Maybe their doctors had no idea what they were doing. Or maybe unexplained things just happened. After all, I believe in the birth of Jesus, don’t I? I believe a virgin gave birth to the Son of God. I believe that angels sang alleluias, and I believe shepherds saw and heard them with their own eyes. I believe a star appeared that prompted a following from around the world. If I believe in all of those things, why wouldn’t I believe that God answered my prayers, that miracles are more than metaphors, and that those kinds of things, phenomenal things, still happen today?

So my prayer for you this week is you will find hope, light in the darkness, a song in the night. May you hear the voices of angels, experience new life in the shadows, and sing your own alleluias from the depths of your heart.

About 20 years ago my mother finally broke down to much begging and allowed me to have my first pair of high heeled shoes. They were not a tall heel, but permission to wear any kind of heel was a rite of passage. I sported them proudly for the first time to a very special event. Our young band was asked to play with the high school for their Christmas concert. I was adorned in a beautiful full, white, knee-length dress with a pair of black heels (because back then you didn’t wear white shoes in the winter). It was a fashion faux pas … and yes, I totally had to look up how to spell that word in the dictionary.

As I was tuning my trumpet I became keenly aware of the percussion section. Eron Harding was a drummer, and he made my heart race. Every year of elementary school he became my boyfriend. And within a week, he would crush my heart, shamelessly dumping me for one of my friends. 

I nonchalantly wandered around until I had weasled my way into a spot just behind him. I was star-struck, staring into the back of his head like a deer in the headlights, only my mouth was open. Finally I came to myself and realized a few of my friends were watching me. So behind his back I jokingly began to entertain them. I did the bunny ears and funny faces, you know, all the childish things children who are showing off do. Then I pretended I was going to kick him. As I swung my right heel-adorned leg, my left heel went with it. Both legs went up into the air with my pretty white dress spread over my head. As if that wasn’t bad enough, my trumpet broke my fall. My back hurt so badly I thought I might have given birth to something, like my kidney. Sprawled on the spit-stained band room floor, Eron turned around, looked down on me with disgust and proclaimed as though I were a complete idiot, “What are you doing!?” I crawled off in pain to hide in the corner. What was worse, I had damaged my trumpet so badly that it wouldn’t work at all. My poor band teacher pulled me into his office, calmed this slobbering, hyperventilating little girl down, loaned me his trumpet, and the show went on. That was the last year I pursued the attention of Eron Harding.

About 10 years ago, before I became a pastor, a man I went to church with lost his father. His parents happened to be from my hometown, so I decided to make the trip for the funeral. I left my son with my mother, confirmed with her the correct funeral home and address, and made off to offer my condolences. I made my way to the front for the viewing prior to the service. I scanned the family seating area to locate Steve, but could not spot his face in the large crowd. However, I did spot a familiar, confused-looking face in the back row. It was Eron Harding. I must have turned three shades of red in the three seconds it took me to realize I was at the wrong funeral home. My mother was going to owe me big time.

Having made eye contact, I felt I had to say something. He asked me what I was doing there. By that point, I had no idea. I mumbled something about the deceased being related to someone from my church, expressed my sorrow for his family, and scrambled out of there as quickly as I could. Of course, I couldn’t go on living knowing he thought I was there just for him. So I forced myself to track down his email address from a mutual friend, and shared with him that I was at the wrong funeral. He laughed … and laughed … and laughed. I actually appreciated his adult response much better than his childhood one.

Things like this happen to me a lot actually. I learned a long time ago to stop asking, “Why me?” and just thank God not for periodic humiliation, but for the humility it ensures. I prefer to think of myself as small and human, small enough, in fact, to fit safely into the palm of God’s hand.

During worship recently my son wrote me a poem. It goes like this:

My Mom
She’s a blossom,
She is also awesome,
and she never forgets to feed me.
Plant a seed,
kill a weed,
give me what I need,
and clean fuzz from mold on the shower,
Just because she loves me.

Written by Cole Remington

Isn’t that the coolest poem ever?

This past Sunday I told a story about two phenomenal ladies, Perpetua and Felicitas. They were among the earliest members of the church, having lived in the third century. During their imprisonment, Perpetua was a nursing mother, and Felicitas was an expectant mother.  Both were imprisoned and executed for their refusal to deny their faith in Jesus Christ. Both left their little ones behind, but found the strength to face their executions knowing that their children belonged to the Church, and that they would be raised by this faith community. 

As a parent, if I knew I had to leave this world before my children were grown, I might find great comfort in knowing my church had that kind of resolve and commitment to my family. After all, it would be consistent with the covenant we make to them in their baptisms.

I don’t just want to belong to a church like that. I want to be a church like that. I want every person in my church to know that whether they are biological parents are not, that our children belong to them. In God’s eyes, the members of the faith community are as much responsible for raising my little ones as I am. 

Our little ones are not only the church of tomorrow, they are the church of today.

This past Sunday we celebrated our heritage by remembering the visionaries within our church history and how their resolve shaped where we are today. 

Over the summer I broke away to spend some very special time with my grandparents. My grandmother and I sat on the porch swing in front of their old farm house and looked through old photo albums. I saw pictures of two sets of my great-great-great grandparents. I held in my hands the document my great-great-great grandfather signed when he abandoned his allegiance to the Queen of England to come to America along with several of his siblings. Imagine how exhilarating and frightening a change like that would be! All of the siblings save one left everything for the unknown of America. The other brother went to Australia instead, and was never heard from again. I would love to see a movie on his story. But everybody’s story is interesting if it is told right. 

Our Wesleyan heritage runs deep in our family. I did not learn how deep until I became a United Methodist pastor almost eight years ago. I was appointed to this beautiful, old white country church. It sits on a gravel road in the middle of rolling hills that stretch for miles. The ditches are full of Black-eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s lace amid tangles of wild roses. It is so beautiful and peaceful there. The view from the church steps is as much a sanctuary as the church itself.

I was preparing for my first church’s Homecoming celebration, and had been appointed there about three months. A church member handed me some historical documents the morning of the event for my review. I never expected what I would learn from those old charter papers and bills … my great-great grandfather and his brother, the sons of the visionaries who crossed the Atlantic in the nineteenth century, were among six charter members who acquired the land and built the church all those years ago.

Not only would I not be here today, I would not be a pastor today if not for the work of my forefathers and mothers who lived by blind faith, passing both word and example of that faith down to me through the generations. My arms would not have held the many beautiful babies I’ve baptized. I would have not been there for the families whose mothers, and fathers and children I’ve buried. I do not know what tomorrow will bring for me, but I am surely thankful for all the yesterdays I have already experienced. Being a pastor has been the most humbling and gracious gift.

I am amazed by the courage it would take to heed the calling to leave the familiar for the unknown. I admire the vision it would take to birth a church and cast it into the future. I am honored to know that the blood of these visionaries runs in my veins. If God will only call my name, I will leave a story that will inspire my own great-great-great grandchildren someday.

On our last night out in Barcelona, Patrick and I slipped into this little hole-in-the-wall bar close to our hotel to watch soccer and eat some pub grub. An Indian man (meaning, from India) appeared at the door with a bouquet of red roses. A smile crept across my face. My knee-jerk thought was that he was delivering them to someone, which melts about any bloom-loving female’s heart on this side of the sun. The romantic in me scanned the room to guess who might be the lucky lady. But then I caught the deadness in his eyes as he made his way toward me, and in the transformation of one second realized he was selling them. He immediately began to speak to me in English. I was disappointed really, that I so fit the “dumb American tourist” profile that he could coin me in one look. If he would have even pretended not to be able to tell, I might have obliged! He was quite stubborn. Desperate really. I told him they were beautiful, but no thank you. And then I told him firmly no. And then I turned my back to him. He was ruthless. I even had to put my arm up to keep him from hitting me in the face with them as he reached around me to shove them under my nose. The bar tender gave him a look and he finally left.

On our walk back I began to share my thoughts with Patrick. I wondered how this grown, tri-lingual man could be reduced to selling flowers on the streets of Barcelona to survive. I wish I would have asked him something personal, like, “Are you married?” And then if he said yes, I would have bought the whole bouquet on his word that he would take them home to her and take the rest of the night off.

But right now there are a ton of very qualified, brilliant people in the world just like him, even in our church, who are selling themselves short. They have that same dead feeling on the inside that he had in his eyes. I think we get that when we lose sight of who we are. We are carefully sculpted by our Creator’s hands, and we are made for glory. When life falls short, it rightfully leaves an empty space, a gap that was never meant to be.

My prayer for you this week is that the gift of each new day unfolds with splendor, like the petals of a deep red rose. May you remember that you were made for glory, and then may the possibilities open wide as you step into that glory. Sometimes fulfilling God’s plan for our lives is not simply in what we accomplish, but in living with such limitless audacity that it awakens something deep within others … a dream … a calling … an identity … a truth … that fills the empty space … and makes it full.

Don’t sell yourself short. Live the only life you have. Let God inspire you.

Chase your dreams.

I have been out of the office for 17 days. Three days were for travel, and the other 14 were spent with Patrick Moore, the most beautiful man I know. During his two weeks of leave, we met in Barcelona, Spain. We had the most amazing time. The weather was fantastic, temperature in the 70s most days. We traveled through the mountains along the Mediterranean coast, visiting churches and monasteries along the way. We went eight hours inland to the medieval walled city of Avila. We visited Salvador Dali’s museum. We ate, and ate, and ate, and watched lots of soccer. My favorite part of all, of course, was his company.
 
We hit some pretty heavy rain driving through the mountains one afternoon. Just as we reached the bottom of the mountain range the sky seemed to just open wide up ahead of us. Feeling the black sky over my shoulders and the bright sun gleaming ahead, I knew this was the perfect combination … and sure enough, I was right. I love rainbows. Not copies, or pictures, or keychains of rainbows, but I love seeing the real thing. Sure enough, there were four rainbows over that next hour’s drive. They lit up like neon against that dark grey sky. It was so beautiful.

I love rainbows because one appeared to me a long time ago in the middle of a prayer. It was one of those heart-wrenching, groveling, God-my-heart-is-so-broken kinds of prayers. My first marriage was falling apart and I felt worthless. I felt like I was letting my children down, my parents down and God down. I was driving, on my way home to the mess I so dreaded to return to, when suddenly this rainbow swept over the sky - a deep peace swept over me and a voice spoke clearly to my heart that said, “But Stephanie, you are still my child.”

So every time I see a rainbow I remember that day. I remember that God’s love is far bigger than all the failures even I can pull off in a lifetime. I am reminded of God’s willingness to make promises from the beginning of time. I remember that God is faithful to God’s promises, even when I fail to keep mine. And I remember God’s word spoken through the Apostle Paul in his letter to the Romans: “For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

by Guest Contributor, Pastor David Hutchison
Last Tuesday I walked into a local bookstore and wandered back into the Christian books section just to see what kind of things folks are reading right now. Not exactly to my surprise, the majority of the books were either Bibles or books on spiritual growth. If there is one thing that people are striving for right now, it is spiritual growth - to grow in their relationship with Jesus Christ and in their understanding of our loving and compassionate God. The books are flying off the shelves; and speakers are finding careers in helping people “learn” how to do their own devotionals, to study the Bible on their own, and to experience God alone, in nature or in the sanctity of their own homes. This is all with good cause! The scriptures repeatedly teach us to be in constant prayer and devotion with our Lord, and the Apostle Paul more than once mentions the need to grow in our walk with Christ. John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, referred to this as the process of sanctification, the continual and lifelong process of growing in our relationship with Jesus Christ.

But something tells me that a lot of this “stuff” has really missed the mark. The key words for me here are: alone, on your own, by yourself. It’s all about developing faith by yourself. My thing is this … we don’t have to do this on our own! There is certainly something to be said for personal prayer and devotion time, but we don’t have to do all the growing on our own. We can share the load, and for that matter share the journey with others! One of God’s great gifts to humanity happened on the day of Pentecost. You know the story, with the tongues of fire on their shoulders and the speaking in tongues. These “flash-bangs” in the skillet often overshadow the more important occurrence of that day, and that was the birth of the Church through the power of the Holy Spirit. God granted us the common fellowship of other brothers and sisters in Christ so that we could grow in our faith with each other so we wouldn’t have to go it alone. Remember Christ said that wherever two or more of us gather in His name, there he will be. When we come together to know and experience the presence of Christ, the experience is all the more powerful and moving.

When I have related this to people before, their response is usually something like: “I don’t want to go to no boring Bible study. I can do that on my own,” or, “my time to grow with other Christians is on Sunday morning in worship.” Well, there’s nothing wrong with being in worship, it’s an absolutely crucial part of the life of a Christian. And they’re right in saying that this is a time to grow with others. But is 52 hours a year enough? And that’s assuming you don’t miss a week. Think of it this way: You go to college to learn and grow and mature. Most of us spent between 12 and 18 hours a week in class in order to do that, with plenty of hours spent learning on our own in between to supplement that community learning time. How much growing do you think you would have done if you had only had to go to one hour of class a week, and the rest was on your own? My guess is not much. I know I would have spent the majority of my time listening to music and running to the local Wendy’s for late night frosties and cheeseburgers.

So why is it that we think that we can get all that we need in one hour a week? Why do we think that spiritual growth and learning is something we should, or even can do completely on our own? If we try that, we miss out on the community, the love and friendship we gain from being with other devoted Christians, and we lose their insights and conversation that informs our own. Yes, our personal devotional time is important, extremely so! But not so important that it should replace an equally important need for us to grow in faith in community with others. I would pray this week that you consider, if you are not already doing so, finding a way to share your faith journey with someone else. Maybe that means that you form a small Bible study in your home or at the local java joint. Maybe it means you join a Sunday School class, a prayer group, or a small group that meets in someone’s home. Whatever it is, I guarantee you that in sharing your faith walk with someone else will not only make the load seem lighter, but it will make the journey all the more enjoyable and fulfilling.

My grandparents are so cute. I know, getting older doesn’t feel so cute, but the way they make things work sure is. I guess between their lifelong occupations and gravity, their joints are just sort of wearing out. When I ask my grandpa how he’s doing, he says as long as the doctor can keep “replacing” parts,” he’s doing fine (he was a mechanic). Between the two of them they get the laundry done. Grandma loads the washer. Grandpa puts the clothes in the dryer. Grandma folds. Grandpa puts away. Neither of them can handle the whole project by themselves, but when they work as a team, they are a well-oiled machine.

In addition to being a mechanic, my grandfather also was (and still is) a farmer. Their three children grew up, got married, and built houses within four miles of home. All three kids refuse to let him give it up. They say he needs something constructive to do to keep him young. He still has a garden, bails hay and keeps a few calves. He can barely get to the end of the driveway for the paper some days - I have no idea how he gets on the tractor - but the kids all work together to keep his parts movin’ so he can get the job done.

My grandfather used to keep sheep and shear them for the wool. Have you ever tried to catch a sheep? It’s pretty tricky, especially because they run in flocks. Not only is it mass confusion, if you’re not careful you’re liable to get run over! They are pretty slick about keeping you from getting any kind of job done!

The Church is like an aging couple carrying each other through the ordinary stuff of life; like extensions of family encouraging one another to not give up. The Church is like a flock of sheep, not because it is a place of mass confusion where we are liable to get run over, but because it is a people who flock together to provide protection for one another and a safe place for little lambs to play. 

My prayer for you this week is that you will remember we are all members of Christ’s flock, and the Shepherd will go to the ends of the earth in search of you. Remember that our Shepherd gathers us together for protection and refuge. Remember that since being in a flock involves persons, not parts, we can never really be replaced. Finally, may we remember that our Shepherd has his eye on us. May we find comfort in knowing he will never let us wander far.

Integrity is defined as an “adherence to moral and ethical principle … ” but it seems to me, at least as we understand it from a functional standpoint in the Church, is that the perception of others matters as much as the actuality. 

For example, Pastor Jim expects his pastoral staff not to be alone in a car or a public setting with a member of the opposite sex unless it is your spouse. I struggle with this expectation because I have male friends and colleagues I would have shared lunch with, with or without my spouse, and thought nothing of it before coming to this church. The rule in our house is that our spouse always knows and is always invited! However, I feel Pastor Jim is not only trying to protect our integrity, but others’ perceptions of our integrity.

While I understand there are behavioral expectations of me as a church leader and staff member, I still want to address a common misconception—that Christians should always have integrity. This is the ideal, but not the reality. The good news is that Jesus has never expected the church to be perfect, but that we be “moving on toward perfection” as John Wesley would say. If we were capable of making all the right decisions at all the right times (having our hearts always aligned with God’s), our Savior would be unnecessary. 

The role of the church is to welcome every hypocrite, every adulterer, every thief on this side of the sun. The church is where broken people gather together for strength, accountability and hope for change. Like Jesus said, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.” We are rarely pleased with ourselves when our values get screwed up. The good news is that God does not give up on us. Integrity is not just about character, it is a test of our spiritual health. As a community of faith may our goal be progress as we trust the care of our Healer.

I am so excited I can hardly contain myself. It has been almost seven months since my husband deployed for his second tour to Iraq. Beginning next week he will have two weeks of leave, and we are meeting in Barcelona, Spain. That I will be with him in just a few days is surreal.

Have you ever noticed how much work it is to go on vacation? There is all the shopping, and packing, and finding someone to care for the lizard, and the cat, and mow, and pay bills, and the assignments for school that have to be turned in early; and then there is all the stuff at work you leave behind … yada, yada, yada.

Imagine you are planning for an international trip. You’ve paid $1200 for your plane ticket. You have a list of things to do, but run out of time before you get everything done. You realize at this point that you have to begin prioritizing. Do you go to the store to buy deodorant and miss your flight, or do you make your flight and buy deodorant the day after your arrival? Which is more important? Deodorant or vacation?

Did you know that in Jesus’ time (and still for the Jews today) the Sabbath was sundown Friday to sundown Saturday? Sunday was actually the first day of the week when everyone went back to work. Since Jesus was resurrected on a Sunday, we (most Christians) now have our day of worship on Sundays instead of Saturdays. Every Sunday is considered a “mini-Easter,” a day of celebration for the Church (which is a people, not a building). So we plan our week and get stuff done so we can get to the party, the day that reminds us that we are truly alive in Christ.

Most of us do not live to work, but we work to live. We do the tasks of six days out of the week so we can get to the vacation, the party, the day we celebrate Life. Missing it to mow the lawn or pick up groceries is like missing the plane to pick up deodorant. It’s not that deodorant is not important, it is just not AS important. There is a difference. 

My prayer for you this week is that you find your seventh day. Did you catch that? YOUR seventh day. This is not the day that you have set apart for God, but the day God has set apart for you. It is a gift. I hope you will receive it.