November Faith

There is something about the change of seasons that makes me contemplative. Perhaps it is the dewy web of moisture collecting in crescents on the windowpanes. Perhaps it is the nostalgic smell of wood smoke or the bittersweet ritual of putting away the outdoor furniture. Maybe it is seeing the early snow on the mountainsides.

When autumn moves toward winter, it makes me thoughtful. It might be all the funerals I have been conducting recently – funerals of old friends whom I will not see on Sunday mornings any longer. In any case November causes me to ponder things a bit more deeply.

There is a mystery in life that becomes more apparent at this time of year. The barrenness of nature is exposed. The trees lose their leaves, and suddenly we can see beyond the trees.

The world reveals a transparency. It feels like I can see deeper, further and more clearly. These are not the nice warm snapshots of summer or the colorful vistas of autumn. In November we see through things.

Through the barren trees we glimpse mystery. It is a mystery that is not acknowledged by the summery religion so popular these days.  Too often religion tries in vain to solve mysteries with doctrine and rituals. It attempts to give answers to questions that were never intended to be answered.

Some questions are simply meant to hang in the air and give voice to the depths of life. When life begins to reveal its barrenness, people ask, “Why? Why me? Why him? Why now?” There are no answers to these questions, except perhaps “Why not?” Such questions can only be met with faith.

Faith is living with questions without answers. Faith is laughing at stories told at funerals. Faith is smiling tears when you say goodbye. Faith is smelling spring while watching the first snow cover the pumpkins. Faith is living with the mystery of life.

Faith is experiencing the reality of God that is beyond the ability of words or thoughts to convey. Faith is the language of Spirit. It is wide and deep, infinite and immortal. It answers the unanswerable questions with groans and sighs.

That is why I like November. After the leaves fall, I can see the invisible.

Death of Death

A seminary student, who is a friend of mine, came to visit me today. He asked me how my new ministry in Sandwich, New Hampshire, was going after being on the job for six months. Specifically he asked what type of pastoral care issues I was dealing with in my church.

Only a colleague – especially one who had just finished a seminary course in pastoral psychology - would ask such a question. I pondered the question for a moment and then replied, “Grief.” There have been a lot of deaths in this small church in this small New Hampshire town.

We have also had personal grief. My mother-in-law passed away a couple of weeks ago. My wife and I spent an emotional weekend in Orlando for her service last weekend. In order to attend, I had to delegate a graveside service scheduled for that same day to another minister so I could officiate at my mother-in-law’s funeral.

Furthermore when we returned to New Hampshire Sunday night, we had not been home for more than a half-hour when I got a phone call from an old family friend. He had been trying to reach me all weekend to ask me to do his mother’s funeral the next day.  Of course I said I would.

Today a hospice chaplain asked me to cover for him, if needed, while he was on vacation. Again I said yes. For these reasons death has been on my mind a lot more than in my previous church, which was a younger congregation.

I have noticed that people use the word “pass” a lot nowadays to describe death. I guess it is a shortened form of the traditional phrase “pass away,” but it sounds strange to my ears. Passing is something I do on the highway while driving or playing cards or when someone at the dining table asks for the salt. I don’t think of death as passing. It sounds euphemistic.

I call death “death.” I intentionally use that dirty word “death” when talking to people who are dying and those who are grieving the loss of a loved one. Naming the enemy helps to defang him. In the Harry Potter books and films, the evil archenemy Voldemort is always referred to as “He Who Must Not Be Named.” People will not say his name because they are afraid. The same is true of death.

Another person remarked to me recently that death is “so final.” Once again, I don’t think of it that way. I just finished reading the best-selling nonfiction book, “Heaven Is For Real,” the account of a little boy’s visit to heaven during a Near Death Experience. Anyone who thinks that death is final needs to pick up that book.

Death does not seem strange, unusual, or scary for me. I know the Bible calls it “the last enemy,” but it also says that it will be destroyed. I feel that the victory is already won. Death is defanged. It has no bite.

Seventeenth century Puritan John Owen wrote a theological classic entitled, “The Death of Death in the Death of Christ.” (J. I. Packer's introduction to the book is almost as good.) Owen’s title sums up my attitude toward death. Christ’s death was a death-destroying act. Our faith in his death is a death-defying act. Death is dead. Long live life!

This past Lent I led a Bible Study about the death of Jesus. During the discussion, I made the uncensored comment that I knew what death felt like. My actual words were something like, “I know what it feels like to be dead.” The table full of people stared at me as if I had just said, “I see dead people.” (For the record, I don’t.)

What I mean is that I know what it will feel like to be dead because I know what it feels like to be eternally alive. I experience eternal life now, and I will continue to experience eternal life after the troublesome hiatus called death. I don’t hope for life after death; I live it.

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Art is “Eternal Life Energy 1” by Kim Stapleton

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