Traveling to Tilton

Recently I attended the Alumni Weekend at my alma mater, Tilton School in Tilton, New Hampshire. When I attended Tilton in the 1960’s, it was a traditional boys prep school. Think of Hogwarts without the magic. Imagine “Goodbye Mr. Chips” New England style. We even had our own “Mr. Chips” a beloved master, and later headmaster, named John MacMorran, affectionately known as Mr. Mac.

It was a time of required chapel and formal dinners. Blazers and ties were the dinner attire, and tables were set with white tablecloths and cloth napkins. We learned table etiquette from the masters and wives, who sat with us and prompted us to engage in proper conversation.

2011 is not my reunion year, and so there was only one other member of my class in attendance for the weekend. I did not know him during my school years, and I did not meet him this time around. Apart from a meeting in the chapel and a meal under a tent, I spent most of my short time on campus wandering the campus buildings in the rain.

There were new buildings, of course, and the old buildings had been updated over the years. But I was surprised at how much was familiar. I was startled at how quickly the old feelings came back and how powerfully memories of my teen years returned.

The smells of the classroom building, the familiar sound of climbing the old stairwells, the arrangement of the furniture in the lobby, all brought back long-forgotten feelings. I felt like a character in a science-fiction movie who suddenly finds himself transported through time. If I looked in a mirror I thought I might see a fifteen year old with a bad haircut and acne staring back at me.

I missed the multi-media presentation on the schedule entitled “A Walk Down Memory Lane,” but I had my own personal walk. Even though it is summer, I could envision the front walk covered with snow. I could feel the weight of my tweed sport coat and long scarf with school colors.

I could hear the steam escaping from the old radiators and see the frost coating the single-paned windows. As I opened the door to my old dorm room, I half expected to see my old roommate sitting at his desk and listening to classical music on his record player.

I passed the door where I had sat on the floor of a master’s apartment while the Poetry Club analyzed T.S. Elliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” I could taste the tea and remember the sound of Mr. Mac’s voice as we played cribbage in his bachelor apartment, a one-on-one habit that undoubtedly would be forbidden in our scandal-phobic society today.

I could picture the World War I vets sitting on the front porch of the New Hampshire Veterans Home as I walked past. I remember a trip to hear Satchmo play his horn at Plymouth State College and a trip to Franklin to see the new film, “Dr. Zhivago.” I remember the loneliness of being separated from my family, the kindness of the faculty, the thrill of being intellectually challenged by the academic material.

I remember a chapel sermon by the school’s chaplain about the spiritual impact of his military service in Korea. I even remember the title after all these years: “The Razor’s Edge” (undoubtedly borrowed from Maugham.) I remember visits to the chapel by Franciscan friars recruiting brothers for the monastic life.

I remember classes on Philosophy of Religion and Ethics taught by the chaplain. (Would a school offer such classes today?) I wonder now how much those religious discussions influenced my later decision to enter Christian ministry.

I was on campus for only a few hours on a Saturday. This busy pastor had to continue on to Concord that afternoon to visit a parishioner in the hospital, and then back to Sandwich to prepare for worship the next morning. But in those four hours I traveled over forty years.

A River Runs through Me

I spent the day in the mountains today and visited our favorite spots. One is the Swift River, which runs through the lower tier of the White Mountains. We stopped at Lower Falls. It is too early in the season for tourists – except on weekends - so we had the place to ourselves. The black flies drove back the few flatlanders who ventured out of their cars.

I sat on a rock in the middle of the river and listened to the water. Actually I listened to the voice that spoke beneath and through the waters. The quiet roar enveloped and suppressed all inner and outer noise.

Later we stopped to view a panorama of mountains. The expansive vista and the deep silence had the same effect on me as the river. The Spirit that inhabits the mountains also inhabits my soul. The Spirit draws out the silence of my spirit, and they echo together through these mountain valleys.

The quiet draws me in, and I disappear. I drown in silence. Thought ceases, and I momentarily cease as well.

I have felt this way throughout my life. They are sacred times. As a child, the ocean mesmerized me. As a boy the lake haunted me – especially on early morning fishing trips. As a teen, hiking these Appalachians inspired me to write a poem, which was published in our school’s literary magazine - to the chagrin of my teammates on the football team.

When I come in contact with the depths of nature, all thinking ceases. The voice of Creation “drowns out all music but its own” as the hymn says. At such times I can see most clearly. I know myself in a way deeper than words. And when I know myself, I notice the presence of God.

I catch glimpses of this also at other times - notably in prayer, meditation and worship. Music can do it; so can art. But the silence is loudest, and my own inner chatter the lowest, when I am in the wilderness.

Norman Maclean wrote a famous short story about fly-fishing in Montana. He writes of his experience:  “Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.”

I know what he means. The river runs through all things, and it runs through me.

Pretty in Blue

In April I had surgery for skin cancer. It was originally scheduled for the middle of May, but there was a last minute cancellation. The doctor’s office called me up and asked if I could come to the office in Hanover in two days. I hesitated.

As everyone knows, Lent and holy week are important times in the church. I was not looking forward having this procedure done a couple of weeks before Easter. I did not like the thought of having a huge gash and large bandage decorating my forehead while leading the largest services of the year.

But I decided it was better to have this cancer removed sooner rather than later. After several hours in the doctor’s office and two sessions under the surgeon’s scalpel, I came home with a hole in my head, a two-inch scar and twelve stitches on my forehead (six on the inside and six on the outside.)

While the doctor was stitching me up, he asked if I was superstitious about the number six. I replied that I was glad there was not another row of six or I could be accused of having the “mark of the beast” (666) on my forehead.

The surgery was performed on a Thursday, and the pressure bandage removed on Saturday. When I took off the dressing on Saturday afternoon, the wound looked pretty bad. I debated whether to wear a large Band-Aid on my forehead during worship the next day or let the stitches show. I chose to go au naturel.

I explained during the sharing time in the service what had happened to my face. (My wife Jude had been telling people that she hit me over the head with a skillet, so I had to correct that rumor!) Before and after worship, people asked how I was doing and expressed their prayerful sympathy. 

But the best remark came after the service. As I walked out of the church, the family across the street (in the former parsonage) greeted me. I crossed the street to chat. (My daughter-in-law Sarah nannies for them, so I have gotten to know them.) Rachel was sitting on the steps while her two children, Gus and Leo, played nearby.

Five-year-old Gus took a look at my head and asked what happened. I explained the situation, and he was silent for a moment. Then he said, “It looks pretty. They’re blue!” (referring to the color of the stitches). I chuckled, thanked him, and pointed out that they matched my blue shirt. He agreed.

Only a child could look at a cancer incision and think it looked pretty. Only a child could see stitches as fashion accessories. Jesus said, “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” He who has eyes to see, let him see beyond scars to the beauty which is at the heart of all existence.

Rapture Ready

Today - May 21, 2011 – is the day the world ends, according to Harold Camping of Family Radio. To be more precise, today is supposed to be the Day of Judgment and the Rapture. The official End of the World is not supposed to happen for another five months.

Actually the Rapture is supposed to happen at exactly 6:00 PM – less than three hours from the time I am writing this blog. So if you are reading this on Saturday night or Sunday, then it didn’t happen… unless you are one of the unlucky ones left behind.

I am of mixed feelings when it comes to this much publicized event. Theologically I don’t believe it. Historically I know that the idea of the Rapture is a nineteenth century doctrine invented by a religious fringe group in England in the 1830’s. If it hadn’t found its way into the textual notes of the Scofield Reference Bible in 1909, no Christian today would have heard of the idea.

In my opinion it is a misinterpretation of the Scripture passages describing Christ’s return. But that is just my opinion. Unlike Harold Camping, who is absolutely certain that his interpretation of Scripture is correct, I am not so sure of my hermeneutical skills. I am so fallible in so many areas, that the only thing I am certain about is that I am probably wrong in my interpretation of Biblical prophecy also.

I hope I am wrong. I would love to be whisked away into heaven in a couple of hours, holding hands with my wife as we are “caught up together in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And thus we shall always be with the Lord.” But that is unlikely to happen ... at least not this day. But a part of me is watching the clock and thinking, “What if this crazy old man is right?”

In one sense it must be today. Today is all there is. It is always only today. I have never experienced a tomorrow. Nor have I lived a yesterday. These temporal concepts are just thoughts occurring today. There is only ever today. As the apostle writes, “Behold, now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation.”

As he said elsewhere, “Now it is high time to awake out of sleep; for now our salvation is nearer than when we first believed.” Jesus said to the thief dying on a cross next to him, “Assuredly, I say to you, today you will be with Me in Paradise.” Christ was right … as he always is.

One of these todays will be the day that I will be with him in Paradise. What if it were today? Why not? One day it will be today! But probably not this today. I suspect that at 6:30 PM I will be watching the ABC Evening News and there will be no reports of Christians mysteriously disappearing from airplane cockpits and living room sofas.

So I have my sermon prepared for tomorrow, and I am pretty sure I will be around to deliver it, and that I will have a congregation to deliver it to. There are no references in it to the Rapture, Judgment Day or the End of the World - just practical advice for living the spiritual life today. I am wondering that type of sermon Harold Camping will preach to his flock tomorrow. 

Nothing comes from Nothing... and Vice Versa

That which is born will die. It is a universal law. Have you ever known it to be otherwise? That which comes into existence will one day cease to exist. Humans come into existence. Therefore one day we will cease to exist.

That which exists must have its source in what is eternal. How can it be otherwise? How else could it exist? As the von Trapps taught us in The Sound of Music, “Nothing comes from nothing, nothing ever could.”

The Scriptures speak of eternal life. If we have eternal life, then we must be – or be one with - that which does not die.  The ground of our being is eternal – the One who says, “I am who I am.”

The Scriptures teach that God spoke us into existence. We are the words of God – nothing more and nothing less. God formed us as his words and breathed into us the breath of life. We are divine speech - vibrations from the mouth of God, animations of his breath.

But we forget this reality until the Word of God awakens us and redeems us from our wordlessness. He tells us who we are. “You are the salt of the earth! You are the light of the world! Let your light shine!”

The secret of meaningful life is to hold this truth in faith. The key is to experience this truth in our lives - to be who we are. When we know who we are, our eyes are open to the world as it is. We see the Kingdom of Heaven around us and within us.

Nothing comes from nothing. Being comes from being. That is eternal life. That is abundant life now.

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Art is “de nihilo nihil,” crayon and pastel, Frank Baranowski

The Mind of Christ

“For ‘who has known the mind of the LORD that he may instruct Him?’ But we have the mind of Christ.” (1 Corinthians 2:16)

The apostle does not say we will have the mind of Christ. He does not say we should have the mind of Christ or can have the mind of Christ. He says unequivocally, “We have the mind of Christ.”

It is a reality now. He contrasts it to the old understanding of God voiced by Isaiah in the first half of the verse, in which the prophet assumes that we cannot know the mind of the Lord.

But now something is different. The coming of Christ changed things. Good Friday, Easter, and Pentecost changed us. We have the mind of Christ.

In other words, I am of two minds. I am doubled-minded. I have a mind of my own, and I have the mind of Christ.

Of the two, I prefer Christ’s mind. My mind is pretty muddled sometimes. My mind gets things wrong most of the time. I do not understand things. I misunderstand things. But Christ is God. He knows the mind of God. And we have the mind of Christ.

Psychiatrists talk about left-brain and right-brain thinking, referring to the two hemispheres of the brain, which process things very differently. The same is true of our Christ mind and our own mind. Christ views things from the perspective of eternity. He sees how everything works together in perfect harmony.

“Now He who searches the hearts knows what the mind of the Spirit is, because He makes intercession for the saints according to the will of God. And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose.” (Romans 6:26-27)

The mind of Christ thinks God’s thoughts. It sees the world through God’s eyes. It feels with God’s heart.

Paul tells us elsewhere to “have this mind in you which was also in Christ Jesus….” We are invited to set aside our way of thinking and embrace Christ’s perspective – to be single-minded instead of our usual double-mindedness.

This is not far away or out of reach. It is not an ideal. It is our natural spiritual state here and now. For we have the mind of Christ.

(Art is stained glass window at Central Christian Church, Orlando, Florida)

The Wreath Police

I have been cited for a serious social infraction. This time it is not a moving violation ticketed by a local police officer or a state trooper. (Thank goodness! I have enough of those!)

This time I was sitting at a community meal in the basement of the church when I was informed of my offense. Two local members of the “wreath police” informed me that I still had a Christmas wreath hanging on our front door.

Apparently it is a serious faux pas in this community to have Christmas decorations visible beyond the first day of spring. It should have been removed by Valentines Day, I was told. Ash Wednesday would have been acceptable. But the vernal equinox is absolutely the latest permissible date for yuletide hangings.

People keep track of such things around here. They noted there are still eighteen offenders in our small community. I am one of them. My offence is particularly offensive because my home is in the center of the village for all to see. Furthermore as the local church pastor I am expected to set an example.

I pleaded for mercy. I told them that I had not been able to reach my front door since I purchased the house in January. There are still feet of snow and ice blocking my front door, prohibiting access.

I explained that it is not even my wreath. The previous owners left it on the door. I didn’t even want it! They should have taken it with them. If anybody should be blamed, it should be them. I told them that I had the former owners’ new address in Vermont if they needed it.

Nope. It is my responsibility now. Local social mores clearly state that the present owner is the responsible party for all decorative infractions.

Well it is April now, and we just got a few more inches of snow. I don’t think I will be digging out the front steps anytime soon. There is a good chance that the wreath may still be hanging there on Easter Sunday. I am wondering if the severity of the offense increases when the violation extends beyond the next Christian holy day.

But I have an idea. I am thinking of calling it an Easter Wreath. I’ll stick a few Easter lilies in it and start a new tradition. I am sure that Easter decorations are acceptable at least until Memorial Day. By then the snow ought to be melted enough to take it down. If not, I will just call it my Fourth of July Wreath. Anyone have any little American flags?