In Those Days...

Here it is, a few days before Christmas.  I have been lighting the candles and saying the prayers and going about my duties and my days, meeting with people and reading but not taking as much time for intentional reflection as I'd like.

A couple of days ago I went to visit a shut-in, and I brought my old confirmation Bible along with me instead of the newer, shinier translation.  It's still in pretty good shape, even though it is about 50 years old.  And I read out of that old translation, about Caesar Augustus and swaddling cloths, and I remembered back to when I made it my mission to memorize Luke chapter 2, out of this very translation.

I think I was ten or eleven years old, and I don't remember why I took up the challenge to memorize these passages.  It wasn't required for a Christmas pageant; my parents were not encouraging me to memorize scripture passages.  I didn't go to a parochial school either.  But somehow, one December I decided that this was what I would like to do:  memorize as much of the Christmas story as I could.

Every day I would crunch through the snow on the way to school, and I would start out with chapter 2, verse 1, and see how far I could get.  I didn't know who Quirinius was, or where Syria was, and I didn't know that the word "Caesar" meant "Emperor", but I plowed through the verses, understanding more or less, getting a little farther every day.

"In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be enrolled.  this was the first enrollment, when Quirinius was governor of Syria."

I think I may have made it all the way to verse 14, in the end.  Every day I walked and recited, I recited and walked.  It was December.

I suppose it was my Advent discipline, although I would not have said so at the time.  At the time, I don't think I knew what an Advent discipline was.   And I'm not sure that the process of memorization itself yielded any special insights into the scriptures -- at least not at the time.

I think back to that year.  I have been a pastor now for twenty-five years.  At the time I tried to memorize the Christmas story I had no idea how my life would turn out.  I had not an inkling that I would be doing this work, that I would be reciting the story myself every single year.

A few years ago, in another congregation, I was visiting a shut-in just a few days before Christmas.  He was a retired pastor who had served our congregation.  Recently he had had a stroke, and this hearty active man was now in a nursing home, barely able to speak.

I came with communion and the Christmas story.  His wife joined us.  She was there every day, all day, just staying with him.  And when I began to read from Luke chapter 2, he started saying the words along with me.

By heart.

Every once in awhile he would fade out, but he always came back strongly on three words, "in a manger".  And while we were speaking together, reciting together, I noticed that those three words, "in a manger" -- were repeated three times in that one chapter.  How could I have been reading those words all these years and not noticed this.

There is so much in the Christmas story -- the shepherds and the angels, the long journey to Bethlehem, "Glory to God in the highest!"  And in the middle of it all is the manger.  The child is lying in a manger.

This is the sign.  This is the sign of Christmas.  It is the manger that carries the child.

All those years ago, I trudged up and down the streets, and I memorized the words, not knowing where the words really led.  And then one day, many years later, they led to the manger.  The lowly place.

And the words became food:  the bread of life.  In a manger.

In Memory of Jean

I was going through boxes in my office this morning, and a sermon fell out.  It was from a funeral I officiated at one year ago today.  Jean was a member of my church, a friend, a reflection of Christ.  I loved how she would stop by my office to ask me questions about a particular passage of the Bible.  I loved how she and her family would all help with communion together.  I still miss her.  Here is the pastoral reflection I wrote for that day:

          July 2, 2014

            My last pastoral visit with Jean was a week ago Monday, at her home. 

            She was sitting in a chair near the hospital bed you had put up near the back window.

             The back yard was so green and full of life, and when I remarked on the view, Jean said, “Well, it’s Honduras out there.” 

            We had a good conversation, talking about her decision to start hospice care, the peace she had,  what she was still seeking, life in general. 

            We talked about big things, some little things, how glad she was that Allison was home, that her family was together.  

            She asked about my family too – she did things like that.   

            After awhile I asked her if she wanted to have communion, so she and I and Gary sat down and shared communion together.

            I remember having this little conversation with myself – what scripture reading should I share? – and I immediately thought, I didn’t want to share the Sunday gospel, which had been some of Jesus’ hard sayings about discipleship.

             “So have no fear of them,” Jesus begins. 

            He is talking about discipleship and persecution  and hard times and division, and I thought those verses just couldn’t be applicable on this particular day.

             I just didn’t want to read those words. 

            But then I remembered that there were those verses about God watching over the sparrows, so I decided to read part of the Sunday lesson anyway. 

            I remember getting to the part of the gospel reading where Jesus says, “Do not fear those who kill the body, but cannot kill the soul….”

            Right after this Jesus reminds his disciples about the sparrows…. And says again, “Do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows.”

            Well, we talked about that for awhile; we talked about death and life and not being afraid, and about always being in God’s hands.  

            We talked about sparrows and how much God loves us and numbers the hairs on our heads. 

            We talked about the fact that Jesus doesn’t promise us that nothing bad will ever happen to us.  He just doesn’t. 

            But when I left, I still thought that I would see Jean again. 

            I was surprised and heart-broken when I got the message that she had died on Thursday morning.

            In the gospel reading that you chose, Allison, Jesus tells his disciples, “I came  that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” 

            I can’t think of any verse more appropriate for your mother – for our sister in Christ, Jean, than this verse that reminds us of Jesus’ promise of abundant life.     Appropriate and heart-breaking, because we are here today to celebrate Jean’s life and to mourn her death. 

            We are here today to remember her, to give thanks for her, and to give thanks for the promises of God for her. 

            And one of those promises, a promise that Jean embodied, is this one:  “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”

            How can I say this? 

            How can I say it about one who I am sure died too soon? 

            She died even though I am sure if she had her way she would still be baking bars for funerals, still be working in her garden,

            still be giving good advice to her children,  

            still be working and living together with her good husband, still be helping to nurture healing with patients,

            still be discussing scripture in Bible studies with good friends.  

            She loved you and she treasured her life, and she knew what was important, she knew what was precious. 

            “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”

             It’s hard to read this and not to think, just a little, that this particular life should have been a little longer, a little more abundant. 

            It’s hard to read this and not wonder a little about what Jesus means by abundance.

             I will tell you one thing:  it is not exactly what our culture often means when we talk about abundance.

             It’s not just about “more” – whether it’s more space, or more ‘stuff’, more success or more popularity. 

            Abundant life is not about what you can acquire. 

            But it is about loving and being loved.  It is about believing you have a purpose in life, and that your purpose is to reflect your creator.

             It is about living not for yourself, but for something bigger for yourself – for other people, for God.

             It is about knowing that each day, each moment, is a gift – both that you receive – and that you give.

            Perhaps Jean came by it naturally – as she was raised on a farm near Stewart Minnesota, and surrounded by life in many forms. 

            She entered nursing school, where she learned both the skill and the compassion needed to be a healer, and where she developed enduring friendships.           She practiced hospitality (I have a couple of her recipes), she nurtured gardens of beauty and deliciousness (raspberries, yes?), and she treasured relationships above everything – with her parents, her husband, her children, her extended family -- her friends.

             A good conversation was worth its weight in gold to her.  

            Jesus said, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” 

            Right before, he calls himself the gate – the gate for the sheep, where they can go in and go out and find life. 

            He calls himself the gate – but the sheep don’t just follow him into the pen – they follow him out into the world, where there is adventure and pasture and life and freedom.

            They follow him out into the world, and they go where he is – because the truth is – wherever he is – there is life. 

            Where-ever he is, there is life.

             Abundant life.  Eternal life. 

            Here in this world that Jean loved, that Jesus loves so much, there is life. 

            And there, in the world where he welcomes us, in the new world where there will be no more cancer and no pain, no hunger and no homelessness.  

            Where-ever he is, there is love.  Abundant love. 

            Eternal love. 

            Love that looks to the horizon and counts the cost and never looks back.  Love that knows the value of sparrows and sheep and every single one of us.   

            Love that is willing to die.  Love that is willing to live.

            About a year ago, I visited Jean in the hospital. 

            She was there to receive a stem cell transplant.  It was a Sunday afternoon and I brought a church bulletin, again. 

            We visited, talked about the future, the present.  She talked about what was going to happen to her, the risks, the possible outcomes.

             It was all very technical to me, and I didn’t understand a lot, but I knew one thing:  once you begin, you can’t go back. 

            You begin the course of treatment, and your put your hopes, and your life, in other hands. 

            You can only go forward, putting your hope, your trust in those hands. 

            And talking to Jean that afternoon, I realized the truth:  this is what the life of faith is like. 

            It is putting our lives in God’s hands, trusting the one who loves sparrows, and us, knowing that our hope, and all of our healing in his hands. 

            This is what the life of faith is like, day by day, until we, like Jean, stand in the presence of God.

            “I came that you have life, and have it abundantly,” Jesus says to Jean today.  And then he opens his arms and raises her up to join the feast, the abundant and eternal feast of light, of love, of home.

AMEN

Memory Loss

Earlier this fall, I was invited to attend a workshop hosted by our local Council of Churches.  The subject was Alzheimers and other forms of dementia.  I wanted to go despite the fact that it's not easy to find time when juggling a busy pastoral schedule.  There are the workshops about Alzheimers and then there are people to visit who are struggling with their own, or their spouse's, or one of their parents'  memory loss.  When I think of the shut-ins in my one congregation, when I go down the list and name them and remember them, the number who are experiencing some form of memory loss startles me.  In funeral sermons, it often becomes a theme:  God remembers, even when we do not.  God has inscribed us on the palms of God's hands.  God keeps our days and our deeds in God's peace.

The workshop, however, was not so interested in the theological themes of my funeral sermons.  The workshop was interested in care and in advocacy.  The workshop was interested in early diagnosis, sanctuary, and care.  What makes a congregation a safe place for those experiencing memory loss?  Do we know our members well enough to know when they begin to lose their memory?

I was startled to learn that Alzheimers, as well as other forms of dementia, is considered a public health crisis.  It is a public health crisis, although I don't remember hearing anything about it before I went to this workshop.  Even afterwards, I listen for a mention on the news and don't hear anything.  There are plenty of stories about Ebola, but nothing about Alzheimers.   I am not good at statistics, but I remember at the workshop that they said it is a public health crisis now, and that it is going to get worse.  It is worse in communities of color.

The other thing I remember is this:  There are some forms of memory loss that are natural as we age.  But Alzheimers is not a part of the normal aging process.  It is a disease.

I remember back to the days when we were told that if we kept our minds active, doing crossword puzzles and reading and thinking, we could keep memory loss at bay.   There are things we could do to reduce our chances.  But when I look at my congregation, I know there are former avid readers and cross-word do-ers among those who are losing their memory.

There is one woman I visit who does not remember that her husband died thirty years ago.  She thinks he died last year.  Or last month.  However, every time I mention the name of our church, she beams.  "I go to that church," she tells me.  Another woman imagines herself a little girl again, playing with her dolls.  Sometimes she has long conversations with her husband, who has been dead for many years.  One man became violent and his daughter had to remove him from one nursing home to another.  But then, in the car, he suddenly said, 'I love you', something she had never heard him say.  She almost drove off the road.

I remember visiting a lovely retired couple in their home.  Every month I would bring them communion.  He had ALS; she was legally blind.  We had these wonderful conversations about music, art and travel until he became unable to speak; he could only blink his eyes yes, and no.  After he died, I continued to visit her for a time.  I remember how excited she was when she got one of those reading contraptions and she could suddenly read the Bible and her devotional books again for the first time.  She was an active participant in a Bible study, and loved it.

And then, suddenly, and very quickly, she lost her memory.  She became unable to care for herself, and finally, to speak.

At her funeral, I saw a picture of her in a nurse's uniform, during World War II, and realized how little I knew about her life.  How little we know about each other's lives.

I'm struggling with this:  that I do believe that it is our responsibility, part of the church's responsibility, to pay attention, to remember, to keep safe the vulnerable ones among us.

But how can we, if we are all losing our memory?

If I Don't Write it Down, I Might Forget

Not long after I arrived at this current congregation many years ago, we began to get a phone call every Saturday afternoon.  The caller always asked who was preaching that weekend.

The Saturday receptionist started getting curious, so the phone calls got a little longer.  The caller was an elderly gentleman who usually came to the early service on Sunday morning.  He wanted to know if the associate pastor was preaching.  He liked the preaching of the associate pastor, and would make sure to come she was the one who was preaching.

We had a little joke about it.  The receptionist called him my "fan."  It is nice to have a fan, I decided.  If I was in the office when he called, sometimes she would transfer the call back to me.  When I saw him on Sunday morning, I would say hello to him and ask him how he was doing.   He had a round face and thick glasses and a great smile.  He looked like an elderly scholar.

I know that he had a family, because he talked about them, but I didn't know them.  I never met them.  He came to church by myself.  There were a few other widowers who liked to come to the early service.  They always sat together.

I don't remember his name any more.

At some point, the Saturday afternoon calls stopped.

We did a little checking, and found out that he was in a nursing home nearby.  We put him on our shut-in list.  I asked to visit him, but we had a seminary intern at the time, and the other pastor felt that it was better for the seminary intern to be the regular visitor, since he made other visits at the same nursing home.

Even so, I did stop by on occasion, especially when I was leading a church service at the facility.  He seemed to move around a lot in the nursing home.  Or, maybe I just didn't visit as often as I should have.

One day, when I came into his room to visit with him, he looked at me over his thick glasses and said, "Who are you?"

It broke my heart, just a little.

And then, one day, I went to visit him and he wasn't there.  He had died.

No one called us.

I don't remember his name any more.

I'm writing this so that I don't forget.  And if I do, maybe someone else will tell the story.

Writing a Sermon

It is Friday morning:  a beautiful day.  It's not too hot and there's a little breeze.  I brought my dog Scout in because every once in awhile on a Friday, I do bring her in:  she helps me write my sermon.  (That's what I say, anyway.)

It's the last day of Vacation Bible School around here.  The dog gets to meet all of the children before I go into my office to begin writing the sermon.  She's a great procrastination tool; I stand around for a while, letting groups of children pet her and talk about their own dogs.  Then I go into my office and begin writing.

(My sermon-writing practice is not awfully linear, although I do try.  I make folders of the Scripture readings and try to look ahead for the whole season.  I read the lessons early in the week.  And I read them aloud too.  I carry the words of the scripture readings along with me where I go:  to the hospital, walking the dog.  I journal my first impressions.  I exegete, and muse and remember and read.)

All week I had been thinking about putting my hand to the plow and not looking back.  Or looking back.  Either way.  All week that particular verse from the Gospel had just sort of been niggling at me, as well as a passage from Isaiah 43:  "Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old...."

Now it is Friday, and I am sitting in my office typing, writing a sermon and seeing where it went.  The windows are small in my office, but the shades are up and the light is coming in.  The dog sprawled on the floor, doing her 'world's laziest dog' impression.  The children are out on the lawn, playing.  I can hear them in the background, a light buzz.  But I am on a mission, writing furiously, trying to get a beginning, a middle, and an end before my computer runs out of power.  I have my hand to the plow and I am not looking back, although I 'm not really looking forward either.

The buzz gets nearer, as I am thinking about memory and imagination:  the foundations of our memories, how hard it is to imagine the future.  (Behold I am doing a new thing.  Really?)

I look up.  There is a group of children who are not playing any more.  They are just staring in the window, looking at me, looking at my dog.  There they are, their fresh faces looking at this odd woman who is just sitting and typing on a beautiful, breezy day.  And I am looking at them.  We are looking through the small window at one another.

(Behold.  I am doing a new thing.)

I consider the window that looks out onto the church lawn, green and growing this time of year.  I consider the window that looks out on to the children playing, the neighborhood, the school across the street.  And I think of the light and the children looking in at me, and at my life and at my dog.

And I think:  looking in and looking out are both part of the sermon-writing process.  Looking into the scriptures.  looking out at the world.  Looking into my own life.  Looking out at the children's faces, and at the sorrows and hopes around me.  Remembering and imagining:  a window that goes both ways.

The children's faces get into the sermon, somehow.

(Behold.  I am doing a new thing.)

The Tennessee Waltz

My dad is out of the hospital now, and in another nursing home. My mom was not at all happy with the first one.

Now, he is in a memory care unit.

This one is a little jaunt from home, so the stay here will probably not be permanent. However, we are adjusting to the possibility that a nursing home will be my dad's permanent residence from now on.

He moved in on Friday evening. I saw him on Sunday afternoon, and he was in pretty good spirits. He could answer most of our questions, if we could get him to concentrate.

My mom relayed to me the story of his first encounter with his physical therapist. She asked him, "How do you feel?" He answered, "With my fingers."

She said in all her years, no one has ever given her that answer before.

I paid a visit this afternoon again. It turned out that my mom was visiting as well. My dad seemed quieter than on Sunday. I couldn't tell if he was just being thoughtful, or if he was down. He didn't talk to us as much. It was a cloudy day, though, and one of the aides remarked that it seemed that everyone was a little quieter than usual.

My dad's next-door neighbor is a retired United Church of Christ minister. He seems like the right company for my dad, and he has a good sense of humor about his memory loss. He told my mom that he used to work for a governor, but he couldn't remember which one. "But he must have been a Democrat," he said, "because I'm a Democrat!"

The big event this afternoon was a young woman with a guitar. She came in to sing some of the old songs with the residents, songs like "Ain't She Sweet?" and "Has Anybody Seen My Gal?" The guitar player also handed out rhythm instruments; my dad got one of those little egg instruments. He was singing half-heartedly on some of the songs; then she started to sing "When You're Smiling/When You're Smiling/The Whole World Smiles with You." That's always been my dad's trademark: he's always the one to tell us to accentuate the positive, to look on the bright side, to consider the glass half-full. He has had a joke or a pun for every occasion (though we heard some of the same ones several times).

It was good to see him smile and hear him sing that song.

Then they started singing one of my dad's favorite songs, The Tennesee Waltz. He told me once that it was popular around the time that he was in the Army, stationed in the South. The guitar player attributed it to Roy Rogers (turns out that it was written and recorded by Roy Acuff), but the version my mom and dad both remembered was recorded by Patti Page in 1951.

I remember the night and the Tennesee Waltz
Now I know just how much I have lost
Yes I lost my little darlin' the night they were playing
The Beautiful Tennesee Waltz

Timing

Last March was my dad's 80th birthday. My parents were down in Arizona at the time, and my dad asked if we would have a big birthday bash for him when when they returned. I assured him that we would, although in my mind I was thinking (well, not a BIG bash, like their 50th wedding anniversary, just a modest bash, with some of his old friends.)

When they returned from Arizona, it was the end of April, not long after my father-in-law's death. Right away there was the annual Mother's Day Luncheon, and then there was Stepson Number 2's graduation and a great-neice's birthday, and then there was the Father's Day celebration.

Then it was summer.

My mother and I talked a few times about a party for my dad, even started to put together the list of people we wanted to invite.

But we never quite got it planned.

Thursday, the social worker asked him what year it was. He told her he was born in 1929. My mom and I asked him how old he was.

He didn't know.