Planes, Trains, and Automobiles...

... and ships. No, it's not an update of the Steve Martin/John Candy movie. It's how Nancy and I (and my parents) made our way around the Pacific Northwest for over ten days. We flew to Chicago, entrained to Seattle, ferried to Victoria, BC and back to Seattle, entrained to Eugene, OR, automobiled up the Oregon coast and through the Columbia Gorge, and flew back home. Quite a journey -- magnificent scenery, great times with friends and family, and the joy of seeing new things (such as sea lions swimming wild in the ocean).

But, being one of those people who think too much, I couldn't help but reflect on the fact that no matter how we traveled, our route was pretty much determined for us. The train, obviously, followed the tracks. The ferry followed the shipping channels. The car followed the roads from Eugene to Florence and then up the coast. The plane followed air routes established by the FAA. The way was determined for us. Which is unlike our way through life to God. No meandering on planes, trains, ships, or roads for those of us who are traveling commercially. Which is probably one reason why our way to God is more of a hiking pilgrimage than a tour.

On a hike we can stay on the road, walk the rails, swim a while, or just wander off the path and see what we want to see. Or we can nap in the meadow, climb a tree in the woods, or get lost. A hike is not quite as safe and comfortable as a plane (even in economy), train (even while waiting on a siding for a passing freight), or ferryboat (with free champagne breakfast). But we see and feel and learn things we can't any other way.

So here's to hiking through life, experiencing the joys and sorrows of the way. And here's to happy feet!
--Brent

Books, Books, and More Books

I just got back from the Southern Kentucky Book Fest (http://www.sokybookfest.org/index.htm). Held in April in Bowling Green, Kentucky, it's a great festival. I mean, what's better than being surrounded by books and the people who write them and read them? It was a good time to meet new friends and renew acquaintances with old ones. And to buy books.

Since Nancy and I are boarding a train shortly for a week of travel and relaxation, I stocked up on reading material. Here are just some of the eclectic titles (by some of my writer friends, I must admit) I picked up (mostly at the book fest) that you might want to look at.

Sufficient Grace by Darnell Arnoult. One quiet spring day, Gracie Hollaman hears voices in her head that tell her to get in her car and leave her entire life behind -- her home, her husband, her daughter, her very identity. Gracie's subsequent journey releases her genius for painting and effects profound changes in the lives of everyone around her. Ultimately, her quest leads her into the home of Mama Toot and Mattie, two strong, accomplished women going through life changes of their own. As the bonds between these women grow stronger, and the family Gracie left behind come to terms with their own loss, both worlds slowly and inevitably collide, revealing a long-buried secret that they share.

Savannah Comes Undone by Denise Hildreth. Book two of the Savannah series, Savannah's mother has chained herself to a monument of the Ten Commandments in front of a federal courthouse in this lighthearted but lackluster follow-up to Savannah from Savannah. Savannah spends most of her time trying to avoid both her mother and the TV cameras aimed in her mother's direction. The standoff between mom, the courts and the ACLU becomes the subject of two newspaper articles in fulfillment of Savannah's new role as human-interest columnist at the Savannah Chronicle. Nancy a fan of Savannah - the town and the heroine.

Grave Intent by Deborah LeBlanc. During a chaotic gypsy burial service at the funeral parlor of Michael and Janet Savoy, a ritual gold coin is stolen from the corpse of the teenage daughter of an egomaniacal Roma gypsy chief. The theft unleashes a curse on the Savoys, unwitting unbelievers who come to realize their own five-year-old child is doomed to a gruesome death if they can't unravel a foreign culture's arcane mysteries.

Kabul Beauty School by Deborah Rodriguez with Kristin Ohlson. the story of one Michigan woman's quest to help women in Afghanistan after the fall of the Taliban the best way she knows how: by opening a beauty school. Indeed, when beautician Rodriguez opens her salon and school, she doesn't realize how desperately Kabul, especially the women of Kabul, need her.

How's that for a potpourri? And what are you reading?

--Brent

Slaughter of the Innocence...

I've been reminded these past few sadness filled days following the shootings at Virginia Tech of the early Quaker George Fox's phrase, "I saw... that there was an ocean of darkness and death...." It certainly feels like that's true. The sheer horror of watching the aftereffects of desperate acts by a desperate man destroying life indiscriminately has been sad, sickening, and a host of other emotions all blended together in a bewildering mass of confusion. While the Indiana sky is clear blue and sunlight streams down, the world seems darker -- the joy of living and the goodness of creation somehow dimmed.

Which brings me to the second part of George Fox's quote -- "but [I also saw] an infinite ocean of light and love, which flowed over the ocean of darkness. In that also I saw the infinite love of God..."

This is a time to stand for this "infinite love of God" and remember Jesus' beatitude, "Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called the children of God." (Matthew 9:5). How can we bring peace -- to countries, to cities, to troubled young men and women? We need to be active in the cause of peace -- mourning without diminishment those students and faculty whose lives were tragically and unjustly cut short, but also praying for those whose desperation would cause them to commit such acts. Let us stand with people of faith and goodwill while praying and working actively for peace in the world and our own relationships.

It is time to remember that the God of all creation sustains our souls in the depths of tragedies and calls us his children as we work to bring peace -- that God is the source of an "infinite ocean of light and love" which will overcome the ocean of darkness.


--Brent

What a Friend We Have in Jesus?

Our local Friends Meeting has a problem. We’re always looking for new members, but one application came in recently that has us a bit concerned. His answers to our membership application are the ones in parentheses.

· He might be homeless. (Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man has nowhere to lay his head.)
· He seems to be a pan-handler who exists on handouts. (At that time Jesus went through the grainfields on the sabbath; his disciples were hungry, and they began to pluck ears of grain and to eat.)
· He might be substance abuser. (The Son of man came eating and drinking, and they say, ‘Behold a glutton and a drunkard...”)
· He has the wrong kind of friends – probably not the kind of people we’d want hanging around here on a regular basis. (Now the tax collectors and sinners were all drawing near to hear him. And the Pharisees and the scribes murmured, saying, “This man receives sinners and eats with them.”)
· He speaks in service. I don’t mean occasionally, but any time he’s in worship he has to talk. And it’s usually very pointed or ego-centric. (And he came to Nazareth, where he had been brought up; and he went to the synagogue, as his custom was, on the sabbath day. And he stood up to read; and there was given to him the book of the prophet Isaiah. He opened the book and found the place where it was written, ‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovering of sight to the blind, to set a liberty those who are oppressed, to proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord.’ And he closed the book, and gave it back to attendant, and sat down, and the yes of all in the synagogue were fixed on him. And he began to say to them, ‘Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.’ ... When they heard this, all in the synagogue were filled with wrath. And they rose up and put him out of the city...”)
· He might be schizophrenic. (“Do not think that I have come to bring peace on earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword” “Then Jesus said to him, ‘Put your sword back into its place; for all who take the sword will perish by the sword.’”)
· He hears voices. (And when he came up out of the water, immediately he saw the heavens opened and the Spirit descending upon him like a dove; and a voice spoke from heaven “Thou art my beloved Son; with thee I am well pleased.”
· He disregards those testimonies of the faith that he feels don’t apply to him (But when the Pharisees saw it, they said to him, ‘Look, your disciples are doing what is not lawful on the sabbath.’...’I tell you...the Son of man is lord of the sabbath.’)
· He doesn’t have a very high view of family values. (For I have come to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law...He who loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me; and he who loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me.)
· He is a fanatic. His demands for how Christians should live are impossible to meet. (You must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect.)

These are just the things a cursory examination about this person turned up. They weren’t hard to find, they’re a matter of public record. As I said at the beginning, I am very concerned about this matter.

So I ask you: “What kind of Friend would we have in Jesus?”

-- Brent

Pounding Nails -- A Good Friday Meditation

Silence, especially in life’s busyness, leads us through the whitewater of life to gentle pools of stillness and calm. 400 years of Quaker silence have pointed us back to the center within. Interior silence takes us to a place where we are living St. Paul’s injunction to pray without ceasing, even when we are not consciously aware that we are doing so. That happened to me on a recent Good Friday. I spent the day hammering the nails out of pieces of wood that made up the pallets that the outside walls of our new house had come on. Our home is made of timbers recycled from old factories and exterior walls constructed on jigs on the factory floor. These were then put on pallets and shipped on semis from New Hampshire to our Indiana home site. “The wood we use in the pallets is better than most builders use in their homes,” said one of the people building our house. “You’ll want to salvage as much of it as you can. Don’t let the framers burn it up.”

Quakers are strong on grace and redemption. If something can be saved and used again, it is. I hoped to see these used 2x4’s born-again as a woodshed or workshop. So, the sun blazed and I pounded nails out instead of in. A few yards away, four framers worked at pounding nails in, hanging the walls and roof panels. While I drove 16 commons out of 2x4s, they drove 10 and 12-inch spikes through 2x6 walls into 6” posts and beams with 3 pound sledges. The sound of hammers on nails rang through the Good Friday afternoon. That ringing was accompanied by the church bells from St. Thomas More Catholic Church just a couple of miles away, drifting on the spring breeze.

This symmetry with the holy day was not lost on me, even though Friends, being non-liturgical, don’t celebrate holy days or seasons. Still it was easy to recall other nails driven long ago – not through walls into posts, but through outstretched hands into rough wood. Even while carpenters yelled to each other, rough voices calling out measurements and grunting and cursing to set panels in place, I found silence in my soul. I was not sitting in a congregation listening to the last words of Jesus. Nor was I following the Stations of the Cross. But I was, in my soul, remembering, alongside those congregants. My arms grew weary of pounding and pulling nails. In, but at the same time apart from, the noise I pondered Jesus’ tiring journey that day. In spite of the noise, silence swathed my soul. Here I am, I thought, spending Good Friday in the company of carpenters. How fitting. I prayed for them. I prayed for me. I prayed for the world.

I heard a car pull up our long lane. It was my friend Aaron. A rabbi. My soul laughed – how right, how good. Carpenters and a rabbi on Good Friday. I thanked God for the silence of my soul that helped me see that day that was holy because God breathed life into it.
I was led into the holy that day, while hammering out nails and visiting with rabbis and framers. Arms weary, back bent from stacking reclaimed wood, it was a Good Friday.

I hope yours is, too.

Blessed Easter -- Brent

Of Chocolate Crosses

My friend Nancy Armstrong, knowing my affinity for really tacky religious stuff (my collection contains "Wash Away Your Sins" soap, "Seeds of Samson" seeds and nut bar -- Kosher and "inspired by Scripture," and other, even tackier things) bought me something seasonal the other day -- a chocolate cross. To me this was beyond tacky -- almost sacrilegious. I mean, I'm a guy who grew up singing songs like "The Old Rugged Cross."

On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross,

The emblem of suffering and shame;

And I love that old cross where the dearest and best

For a world of lost sinners was slain.

The scandal of the cross still has a strong hold on me and I don't really see any room in it for chocolate crosses. To hand out chocolate eggs on Easter gives me no pause. That's about the Easter Bunny, who is eventually exposed to be Mom or Dad or Grandma or Grandpa. But the story of the Cross of Calvary is more than some Springtime myth and the thought of handing it to a kid and saying "Take, and eat" seems both a sorry parody of holy communion and a mockery of the sacrifice we remember this season.

So I accepted the chocolate cross in the spirit of smart-assness in which it was given -- and then gave it to someone else, who I'm certain threw it away. It was too much even for my twisted humour, because --

When I survey the wondrous cross

On which the Prince of glory died,

My richest gain I count but loss,

And pour contempt on all my pride.

See from His head, His hands, His feet,

Sorrow and love flow mingled down!

Did e’er such love and sorrow meet,

Or thorns compose so rich a crown?

--Brent

Let Your License Plate Speak...

Sitting at the lone traffic light on my way to the freeway this morning (ah, the joy of country life), I could see a car coming up the road on my right pause, wondering if she could turn right on red before the light changed for me. I motioned her through and then the light went green for me. Immediately the yahoo behind me honked -- upset, I guess, that somebody got in front of us for our last 1/2 mile to the Interstate. She moved right along, not holding anybody up, but this guy in his Mercedes sat on my bumper the whole way. As we moved onto the ramp, I sped up ... 50 ... 55... 60... it's not like I'm known for driving slow... 65 ... 70... C230 right on my bumper. Then he pulled out on the right, zoomed past me, and entered the freeway a car ahead of me. As he flew by, I noticed his shiny new Indiana specialty plate -- "In God We Trust."

You'd better trust God, I thought, because the way you're driving, to quote an old Harry Chapin song,"He's the only one who can you now."

Uncharitable, I know.

It's not that I have anything against specialty plates. I have one myself, touting protecting the environment. For the rest of the trip in I pondered what bugged me about this guy and his vanity plate. And it's just this ... it's me. Besides being a Quaker type who eschews outward symbols of faith, I'm adverse to "In God We Trust" plates, fish decals or chromed symbols, clergy badges on my car because I know I wouldn't live up to the advertisements. My license plate would proclaim my trust in God, but my driving would, at times, reflect less than Christian values implicit in such a claim of trust. Just like Mr. Mercedes did this morning.

There's a Quaker saying that we are to let our lives speak. I have hard enough time making sure that my life is saying something positive -- I don't need to add my license plate into the mix.

--Brent

The Art of Living

Living is an art. It calls for imagination and spirit. One thing that shows it’s an art, not a science, or even a craft, is that there is no one way, no set formula to follow. Living into “as way opens” is understanding that the “way” that opens is unique to each person. God uses our life experiences to open the way, a way that we can perceive as we move through life, if we believe that our lives are more than our own and that we are moving through life with a holy purpose and safe in a Divine promise.

Yes, we may be flawed and confused. In that case we have good company in the Bible – David and his lusty heart, Noah and his getting falling down drunk after docking the ark, and others. But these were all folks chosen to do God’s work. God’s funny that way – choosing the goofiest of those among us to accomplish His purposes. In doing God’s work in spite of their shortcomings, these people stand as symbols of the holiness to which each of us is called. They encourage us to see that way opens to follow God in life’s messiness, including our self-made messiness.

Learning to see the ways of our life opening means that we need to be authentic people who live life as fully human, not as perfectly pious professional religious persons. What will then make our faith genuine for ourselves and others is that we are aware of the circumstances through which we have passed. We, and they, see our flaws and frailties, and still know that we are people who hunger after, and are loved by, God.

--Brent

Signs of Spring

Ah, the first day of spring! It feels like it here in Indiana -- sunny, bright, mid-50s, muddy. And all around are signs of spring and signs of God at work. The former are fairly obvious at Ploughshares -- crocus creeping up through the mulch, the bald eagles adding to their nest as they get ready for (hopefully) another hatchling or two, buds popping on all the saplings we planted last summer, the normally sedate, meandering creek at times a raging river whisking huge logs and other debris downstream (or leaving it littering our field).

The latter -- signs of God -- are usually a little less obvious, although those of us who attend worship services will hear lots of (mostly children's) sermon allusions to seeds sprouting et al as spiritual analogies of the resurrection. While those are good, and true, the signs of God I'm speaking of are obvious only if we pay attention in love, obvious only when we let our hearts and minds be open to the mysterious workings of God around us. I tend to notice those signs by using my senses. When I see the eagles soaring on the windy days, held aloft by the strong spring breezes and their mighty wings, I'm reminded how God sustains us -- "they who wait for the LORD shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles" (Isaiah 40). When gather up broken branches from the many thorny locust trees and a thorn pierces my glove or shoots up through my boot, I'm reminded of a crown of thorns worn in love and agony thousands of years ago -- and it becomes real today. I could go on with smells, and sounds, and taste, but you get the idea.

I hope you'll take this time to "taste and see that the Lord is good." To savor the "sweet smelling sacrifices." And to listen with your ears and heart for signs of spring and signs of the everliving and everloving God. For, as poet Gerald Manley Hopkins, says "Christ plays in ten thousand places." Where is He playing around you?

--Brent

A Lenten Thought -- or Two

“What is happening?” That’s what Peter had to have been wondering. Just a few hours earlier Jesus had called Peter his rock, upon whom his church would be built. Now he’s calling him the Devil. Not even the son of the Devil, but the Devil himself. Peter may have pushed his way gruffly through the crowd. Maybe he’d had enough of this nonsense, Jesus always speaking in riddles. Peter had been faithful. He’d worked as hard as anybody of the disciple band to usher in the kingdom. He had walked upon the water -- well, at least part way. Until he forgot to forget where he was and keep his eyes fixed on Jesus. When he remembered that he was walking on the water and that men, even brave Galilaeans, can’t do that, then he began to sink.

Perhaps he shook his head in wonder. Everything he had ever thought or believed in had been turned upside down by Jesus. Men don’t walk on water. But Jesus showed him they could. Five loaves and two fishes are a nice meal for a young lad or two, but Jesus fed 5,000 with that meager meal. And had more left over when he was finished than when he began. The impossible was not the impossible with Jesus. It wasn’t even just possible. It was the norm. It was what was expected.

Preposterous. Unless… unless… unless, perhaps Peter thought, Jesus was right and my interests really are on man’s interests instead of God’s.

You just have to love impetuous Peter. At least I do. He tries so hard to be a person of faith. And frequently fails. Because his idea of faith is what he wants, not necessarily what God wants.
I find Peter’s life with Jesus’ an encouragement to my own spiritual walk. He reminds me that when I am surest about having a handle on the things of the spirit and God’s will, that that’s when I best check my leadings and make sure it is God’s voice I’m hearing and not my own. That is God’s side I’m on, not my own.

Perhaps Peter, while reflecting on Jesus’ words, found himself struggling with confusing his will with God’s? And wondering how he could learn to tell the difference between the two – between his interests and God’s. How could he determine if they were one and the same? Can anyone know the will of God? Or do you just have to act in faith and step out and try the path that seems good? But that’s hard to do when the Son of Man turns your notions of possible and impossible, power and poverty and everything else on their heads.

Certainly the life of Christian discipleship is difficult at times. Sometimes the stuff Jesus talks about seems crystal clear. At others, though, it muddles our mind.

Peter needed to learn to let go and relax a bit into God’s will, to trust that God had a better idea of what needed to happen than did he. When Peter quit striving and trying to force the outcome of things, he found himself turning into the Rock that Jesus had called him.

That’s a hard lesson for me. I am, by nature, a striver – and a worrier. I have a hard time letting go and letting God do God’s work. I feel much more comfortable letting God know what God’s will is than I do waiting and listening. And sometimes, I must confess, I hear Jesus’ words on the wind -- "You do not have in mind the things of God, but the things of men." Actually, not “men” but “man” – Brent.

I hear Jesus rebuking me as he did Peter. Which is a good thing. We all need correction every now and then – some of us more often than others. And when we hear those chastening words, we need to remember that God said “Those whom I love I rebuke and discipline. So be earnest, and repent.” If you’ve not heard God’s rebuke lately it may be because you are doing exactly what God has called you to do. On the other hand, it may be because you have stopped listening and grown spiritually smug . Even those, maybe even especially those, of us who haven’t heard God’s voice for a while and certainly feel that there is nothing we need to seek repentance for.
Repentance is a word we don’t bandy around much in our common lives. And yet we often put it into to practice in our relations with others. When we do something that hurts someone we love, we say we’re sorry and resolve to not do it again. We go a new direction with our behavior. And that’s what repentance is – turning a new direction. For Peter, and for many of us, it means turning from our direction (our will) to God’s direction (God’s will). Especially during those times of spiritual clarity in which we hear Jesus’ voice whispering down the Spirit wind, “You do not have in mind the things of God, but the things of men.”

The Lenten Season is, for many Christians, a time of reminding us to be penitent, to be sorry for missing the mark, for reflecting the folly of man rather than the glory of God. Today’s scripture lesson reminds us that our spiritual ears may need unclogged so that we can hear the voice of the one who calls us through all time and eternity. As Jesus himself urges us “He who has ears to hear, let him hear.”

Peter heard. The playful wind flew up the hillside, tousling his hair and beard. He grinned, ruefully remembering other words of Jesus. “The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.” In the breeze he heard two questions. Satan or Spirit? God’s interests or man’s?
His mind made up, Peter gave the rock one last kick, headed back into the crowd, threaded his way back next to Jesus side and set his face toward Jerusalem.

Toward what will we set our faces – during Lent and our lives?

--Brent

Fame...

Last night I made my local television debut. Our local PBS station (WFYI, channel 20) sent a crew to tape an event Phil Gulley, Carrie Newcomer, Scott Russell Sanders and I did last November for Indianapolis' "Spirit and Place" festival. The one hour special that aired last night featured highlights of the concert interspersed with scenes shot at each of our homes and us together at an old Quaker meetinghouse. Judging from my emails today, "Festival of Friends" was a hit.

I know that I was feeling pretty good about it. Thanks to good photography, fine sound, and excellent editing, I didn't come across as a major doofus on screen. In fact, I looked and sounded fairly confident and at time downright articulate and a little bit deep. It felt good. Real good. And I headed to bed last night feeling pretty darn fine about myself and wondering if this television show would lead to even more readings and book sales.

And then my dog barked. In the garage for the night, she didn't care if I'd been on television or not. Has that major doofus forgotten to give me water? was what she was thinking. Likewise, the cats curled up on the screen porch were not impressed with my wit and charm in HD 1080. Where's the Purina Cat Chow? And when I showed up at work, I sat and authorized expenditures the same as I do every Wednesday morning. "Fame, I'm going to live forever!" Not.

Which is a good thing for me. It would be far too easy for me to fall into the trap of acclamation. Pride has been a spiritual struggle for me my entire life. And I have, for the past fifteen years, really been trying to say I don't care about that. I don't need the acclaim. And I occasionally get it right.

Last night, Princess' bark reminded me that I write, I read, I muse on television occasionally for the glory of God. At least that's what I try to do. Last night's show reflected a little bit of that glory on me, reminding me of what a great gift I've been given -- the gift of sharing a bit of light, a bit of hope, in an often dark and hopeless world. And that should be enough for anybody.

Now the television star needs to go walk his dog.

--Brent

The Power of Words

I received an email this morning that really shook me. Fifteen years ago I wrote a piece about my best friend Greg committing suicide at my house. I was the one who found him. I wrote that piece twenty years after it happened -- it took that long to be able to write about it. That piece has been updated for various audiences (teenagers, young adults, parents, youth workers) and has appeared various places. It's now available on the Internet.

The email I received was from someone who'd found that article -- while looking for methods of committing suicide. He went on to relate how reading the piece "changed a direction I was heading in" and why. The why is not important to this blog -- though it obviously is to the email writer and me.

What is important to this blog is that those of us who write as a form of ministry often never know what difference, if any, our words make. Unlike preaching or speaking, where the congregation's reaction can be seen, we writers cast our words like bread upon the water hoping they find those who need sustenance. That seems to have happened in a most miraculous way with this piece. I sit here this morning awed and humbled.

It reminded me of the truth of my friend Scott Russell Sander's words -- “James (the biblical epistle writer) knew the risk and responsibility that come with the power of speech. ‘And the tongue is fire,’ he wrote. ‘With it we bless the Lord and Father, and with it we curse men, who are made in the likeness of God.’ Whether breathed into the air or inscribed on paper or broadcast into the depths of space, our words may curse or bless. The work of language deserves our greatest care, for the tongue’s fire may devour the world, or may light the way.”

That my words may light the way in some small way is my prayer, along with a prayer for my new friend who sent me that email.
--Brent

Judged by Their Poorest Representatives

I've written before about my friend who bag's groceries at the supermarket next to our office. He's one of those people that I used to try to ignore -- he's odd, he bags groceries, almost always wears a ball cap, rarely acknowledges me on the street (I'm often visible only in the supermarket), and he often seems distracted. But somehow, and I really can't remember how, we began talking as I'd got through the line with my lunch on those days I ate in at the office. I do remember it started with theology and most of our conversations today remain on that subject -- though occasionally they veer over into politics (on which we agree -- a left-leaning bag boy!) and astronomy and math -- about which I can barely converse intelligently. He takes great delight in my being a Quaker and thinks I'm some sort of theologian so calls me "Robert Barclay's much younger cousin." The other day, while in the store, he asked me if I knew Daniel Defoe's very short story "The Hams and the Quaker." I had not, so my friend said he'd get me a copy.

Today, true to his word, I received that copy -- hand printed in very fine lettering, with an accompanying page of annotations that he thought would help me appreciate the story. Included in those thoughts was information on the what the monetary figure spoken of in the story would be in today's currency (considering inflation and the fact that a dollar did not exist when the story was written) and Biblical allusions that I should know, but might miss. His last note was about how "blackguard," which "originally meant the lowest servants of a large household, in charge of pots and pans" came to mean scoundrel or villian. His final comment was "this seems another instance where a whole class of people are judged by their poorest representatives."

His insight, and whimy, are helping me learn how to judge a "whole class of people" -- in this case downtown grocery baggers -- by their best representative. Thanks, Roger.

-- Brent

And When I Die...

I've been thinking about death a lot lately. Not so much because I'm old (though the reality that I'm not 20 with my whole life ahead of me has been hitting me in the face a lot lately), but because of a book I just finished reading. I picked up A Brief History of the Dead by Kevin Brockmeier after the holidays and have been recommending it to folks since I finished it.

In Brockmeier's book, the dead populate "the city," a Dali-esque sort of place where they "live" almost normal lives (eat out, make friends, but never age) so long as, well so long as what? The dead come up with the hypothesis that they live their so long as someone on really alive remembers them. When they are no longer remembered, they vanish from the city and go to ... Well, we don't know. What we do learn is that a wildlife specialist in Antarctica named Laura may be the last person alive on Earth. Which is of grave consequence to "the city's" populace. It's a good book, disturbing, affirming, and raises lots of questions -- not least of which is "so what happens after, after all."

So what happens after, after all is a question that has occupied humankind since the first fella or gal passed on and the those left behind realized that someday they'd be joining their companion. My wife Nancy tends to hold with the great theologian Iris DeMent who sings:

Everybody's wonderin' what and where they all came from.

Everybody's worryin' 'bout where they're gonna go when the whole thing's done.

But no one knows for certain and so it's all the same to me.

I think I'll just let the mystery be.

(from the song "Let the Mystery Be" on "Infamous Angel")

Me, I'm a bit more orthodox -- the resurrection of the dead, Heaven, the whole thing. Still, what comes after, after all? The Brief History of the Dead helps me think about that question which I'll be facing more and more each day.

--Brent

Nice Guys Finish First

The city of Indianapolis and its environs are deep in the grip of icy cold weather and Colts fever. Blue and white (some provided by Mother Nature) is in evidence everywhere. Colts flags whip in the wind as cars sprout them from clip on flagholders. Downtown buildings leave specific office lights on so giant horseshoes appear in the night. One of my rural neighbors has festooned his front yard trees and house with blue and white lights. And even conservative dressing me has dumped my button-down and tie for long-sleeved white Colts t-shirt -- at the office even. The game is taking on almost mythic status for our little town.

Much has been made, regarding this Superbowl, that the two head coaches are African-American. And rightly so. This is an historic moment and it's wonderful that Dungy and Smith are the ones to crack that racial barrier. But what pleases me even more is that these are two men of faith. They speak of their faith openly. More than that they live their faith -- it's more than words. They let their lives speak, as we Quakers say, putting their faith into practice in daily life. They don't confuse their belief in God with being some kind of mandate from God -- to either win the Superbowl or, like some politicians, start a war in a far off country.

So, it appears that no matter which team winds up victorious , contrary to Leo Duroucher's famous dictum, a nice guy will finish first. Which is great. But, truth be told, I hope it's our nice guy -- Tony Dungy of the Colts.

So to that end, I share with you this prayer, offered by my little Jewish brother, Rabbi Aaron Spiegel, which was given on-air this morning on a local station --

"Our God and God of our ancestors – we give thanks to You for all miracles in our lives. While we are not so presumptuous to think you were on OUR side in the AFC Championship, the Colts’ defeat of the Patriots was a miracle, and we’ll take the win!

Dear God, we come to you again to ask your favors for our Indianapolis Colts. God, this is the Superbowl. This is it – the show – all the marbles – Peyton’s chance at redemption. For us humble, mortal citizens of Indianapolis – this is a big deal!

Dear God, my last appeal included requests for wisdom for Coach Dungy and his staff, fleetness of foot and sureness of hand for Marvin, Reggie, Ben and Dallas, superhuman strength for Tarik, Raheem, Antoine, Bugar, and Dwight, and the depths of passionate play for Nick and Bob. God, forgive me for repeating myself – but we need all these again, and more! And I know I said Manning only needed to get Viniteiri in field goal range – but they both need Your favors to beat the Bears.

Lord – this is the Superbowl (did I say that already?). Chicago is a wonderful city and their fans deserve our admiration and praise. But this is the Superbowl – and they are now our enemy (at least until Sunday). Frustrate the hopes and designs of those who plot against us. Be merciful to the righteous people of Indianapolis – and let our Colts pound those Bears.

Let all the players stay safe and healthy. Let all those who travel to the game do so safely and return home in peace. May it be Your will our God and God of our ancestors to bring our Colts home victorious. Amen, Go Colts!"

--Brent

It's Just A Game

"It's just a game." That's often heard after an athletic competition. And it's usually uttered morosely by fans of the losing team. I thought a lot about that phrase this past week as our beloved Colts were heading into the AFC championship to meet their dreaded nemesis, the New England Patriots. In the Indianapolis environs, the game took on almost mythic overtones. People wore Colts blue to work, attended pep rallies, and asked questions. Could the Colts beat the Patriots in the playoffs? They never had before. And the Patriots often seemed to rise up like a phoenix out of the ashes of almost certain defeat in earlier games only to win. Could the nice Midwesterners finish first? Was it our time? And that was the real question -- "our time." As if we were going out their on the field to lay our bodies on the goal line. Or would we be saying, come Monday morning, "Well, it's just a game."

But the Colts did win. They did what had never been done before and came from 18 points down to win the game in the last minute. Suddenly they were headed for the Super Bowl. And we wouldn't have to mope and call our friends in New England and mumble, "It's only a game." At least that's how I felt until -- until the post-game press conference.

While meeting with the press, the Colt's coach Tony Dungy, in response to a question, replied that "The Lord has been testing us." He didn't just say it once. The subtle implication was that God must have been on the Colts side. That caused me to sit up and mumble, "It's just a game." It was a great game, to be sure. Thrilling with all sorts of crazy goings-on (linemen scoring three touchdowns?!), but I doubt that God was really on anybody's side. Because it's just a game -- it's not Darfur, the Mideast, Iraq, the slums of a major city, a ramshackle hut in Appalachia, or any place else where life is no game, it's a battle for survival, where God's beloved are hurting and dying. Could God really care about the outcome of a football game more than these other things?

Now I know Tony Dungy is a man of deep faith. And I think he meant that God was teaching the Colts some important lessons through the difficulties that life had handed them. At least that's what I chose to think he meant. And I would concur. God can teach us through all the stuff of life -- good, bad, ugly, beautiful.

It's just a game -- but, boy, am I glad the Colts won!

Brent

All The Nose That's Fit to Print

I love getting mail. And the other day I received package -- the best kind of mail! From Oregon! I opened it up and it was a nice presentation box containing a booklet entitled "The Red Nose Training Manual" and two red foam clown noses. Now I've rarely been accused of being too serious (usually it's the reverse), but this Red Nose humor called for a different slant on things than my usual sly, sarcastic, smart-aleck self is used to. While I have no trouble making the joke on me, the instructions in the "training manual" made it obvious to me that the joke was on the joke. The nose is about being in a spirit of fun. So I popped it on the end of my nose for the rest of that day and here's what I found.

1) It's hard to read a computer screen with a big red out of focus blob moving around the text;

2) It's hard to drink water wearing a big red nose;

3) It's hard to act like work decisions are life and death while discussing them with colleagues when you're wearing a big red nose;

4) People you think would stop in their tracks when they see you wearing a big red nose often don't miss a beat and a walk on by (often whilst muttering some comment like "I always knew you were a Bozo") while others just can't get by it;

5) Strangers on the street want to look at you, but won't (at least here in the Midwest -- that politeness thing, I guess) and so are really obvious about looking elsewhere;

6) Clothes don't make the man -- the nose makes the man. A fine, grey window-pane wool-cashmere suit and shirt and tie become invisible if you're wearing a clown nose;

7) Nothing you wear or do surprises your spouse;

8) Wearing a clown nose, after the initial self-consciousness wears off, is actually very freeing and relaxing.

I discovered that last item while wearing the nose through rush hour traffic on the way home. It's normally a very uptight time for me -- people getting in my way (how dare them!), going slow in the speed lane, cutting in front of me, tailgating me, me pushing the speedlimit. But, with the clown nose on, I found myself slowing down, allowing people to zoom by, cut in, change lanes without signalling, and various other crap without getting all bent by it. It's hard to get bent out of shape when your face is already out of shape! It's hard to glare at somebody while wearing a big red nose. In fact, the nose enlarged my soul for that period that I wore it. That sounds silly, I know, but I think that's the point. The silly shows us our true place in this life -- we are not the center of the universe, though, as the "Red Nose Training Manual" say, we can see it from where we are. The silly says, "Slow down, enjoy, be kind, be caring, be not-caring about yourself, and smile on the outside and the inside."

And that's all the nose from my hometown.

--Brent

Touching Jesus

I was in my usual in the car hurry this morning on the way to the office when I spied a big, black SUV sitting in the curb lane. The no parking lane. The lane I use. The light I was approaching turned red and I stopped and glared at the back end of the SUV, brake lights gleaming a half a block ahead. Just sitting there. What a doofus, I thought. Now, I'll either have to race ahead of the guy next to me and get in front of him or creep through the light, wait for the line of cars on my right to pass me and then fall in behind them and probably not make it through the lights. One nice thing about downtown Indianapolis is that the lights are synchronized. If you make one, you make them all. One bad thing about downtown Indianapolis is that the lights are synchronized. If you miss one, you miss them all. Sitting there I got more and more upset with this person who was blocking my way -- my important way -- down the street.

Then just as the light changed, the big, black evil SUV took a hard right across all four lanes of traffic and pulled into a parking spot. A man climbed out of the driver's side and bounded up the steps of St. Mary Catholic Church where he stood in front of the church's statue of Jesus. He reached up and began touching its face, its hair, the folds of the robe. My anger drained. Embarrased, I turned at the light heading for my parking lot. I looked in the rearview mirror. The man was still standing there, touching, caressing Jesus. I felt like a fool. I also felt humbled. I rush by that statue everyday. Sometimes I see it; sometimes not. But here was a man who stopped just to touch Jesus. I don't know his story. Perhaps he just wanted to see how the sculptor had formed the statue. But something tells me he had some deeper reason for stopping for that touch.

As I turned into the parking lot, I was reminded of the biblical story of the woman who was ill and felt she would be healed if she could just touch the hem of Jesus' robe. And that touch did heal her. Perhaps this man needed some healing -- a cure that came from a caress. I need that, too. A healing from my need to hurry. A cure for conditions that nobody but Jesus knows. A touch. It seems so simple and yet so hard to remember. Thank you, Mr. Big Black SUV for teaching me today.

-- Brent

Laughing Pilgrims: Humor and the Spiritual Journey -- A Book Recommendation

“Walk cheerfully over the world answering that of God in everyone,” urged George Fox. We Friends are pretty good at the second part of that suggestion, but often could use some work on the first. Which is good reason to give thanks for Howard Macy’s new book. Laughing Pilgrims is a much needed reminder that, while the life of the spirit is often serious, it’s not something to be undertaken in grim earnestness. Macy, Professor of Religion and Biblical Studies at George Fox, has given us a book that is less a study of spirituality and humor than it is a “how-to” for holy humor.

In a book filled with humor (subtle and not so), Macy does present some wonderfully accessible analyses of the uses of humor in the Bible, a book we rarely think of as funny. These helpful examples remind us that the biblical stories are about, and meant for, people like us. “The Bible is often funny, just as we should expect it to be,” writes Macy, “if it truly reflects the full range of faith and life.” He goes on to point out the jokes, riddles, comic stories, satire, and word play.

The truly helpful parts of the book, though, are those that show us ways to walk cheerfully. He urges us to remember that our spiritual journeys have “to do with all of life, not just with consecrated chunks set of in a corner… if Brother Lawrence could experience God fully while peeling potatoes, perhaps we can learn to love God amid peals of laughter.” The book encourages readers to discover ourselves through laughter (the Klutz Factor chapter is especially delightful) and then provides instruction in “walking cheerfully day to day.” Macy is careful to offer up advice for making sure our holy humor is just that – and not harmful, hateful humor. He gives guidance for how to live in a spirit of fun and how to cultivate a joyful attitude in the midst of family, work, and our other personal experiences. The book concludes, not with a list a jokes or compendium of funny stories, but with questions and activities that can be used to help us walk cheerfully. All in all the book is geared toward learning to enjoy a “life of holy hilarity.”

Say, did you hear the one about the two Quakers who…

Laughing Pilgrims: Humor and the Spiritual Journey

Howard M. Macy
Paternoster, 2006, 133 pages, paperback, $14.99

laughingpilgrims.com

The Very Tall Boy -- A Children's Story?

The very tall boy was having a very bad day. It started when his mom made him get out of beds before he wanted to. Then, after breakfast, his dad asked him if he was going to just sit around the house all day. And finally his sister told him to get lost.

He’d have liked to do that. But he couldn’t. Because the very tall boy was so very tall that no matter where he went, he could always see his house.

It was hard being a very tall boy.

He hadn’t always been a very tall boy. Once he was a very small boy. He’d been the smallest boy in town. Which meant he was always picked last for sports. And that he could barely see the 4th of July parade through town. And that kids made fun of him and called him names. “Shorty.” “PeeWee.” “Baby.”

So every night when he went to bed he wished the same wish. He wished he’d wake up in the morning as a very tall boy. One morning his wish came true.

He was sound asleep and dreaming. It wasn’t a good dream. He dreamed that his sister was pouring water on his feet. She kept pouring and pouring and pouring … And then he opened his eyes. He couldn’t believe what he saw. His feet were wet – because it was raining and his feet were sticking out the windows at the other end of the bedroom. His head was up against one wall and his shoulders were wedged between the other two walls.

“Help!” he hollered, blowing his bedroom ceiling off. Now he was getting wet all over. His mom and dad came running. His dad said, “Oh my” and fainted. His mother just stood there and cried. His sister couldn’t think of anything to say for once. And he began to find out that being a very tall boy wasn’t any better than being a very small boy.

He was still picked last for sports – because now he was too tall. And he could see the 4th of July parade but it looked like a parade of ants. And the kids still called him names – “King Kong.” “Cloudscaper.” “Skyboy.”

So on the day the very tall boy was having a very bad day, he decided to do what his sister wanted him to do. He’d get lost. Or at least he’d try. The very tall boy took very long steps and soon he was very far from home. He walked by two cities, over three rivers, and right into a forest. He turned around and looked back the way he walked. He could still see his house. He sighed. But then he found he could see other things, too. Things that normal sized people didn’t often see. He saw how the farmers’ fields were laid out in squares of corn and beans and hay. They looked like the quilt on his grandma’s bed. His heart started to smile just a little bit. He heard chirping and looked down. That’s when he saw a bird’s nest. The mommy bird was sitting on a limb feeding the baby birds inside. It was like when he was little and his mom had feed him. His smile started to spread from his heart. He looked around and saw a cloud floating by. He stuck his head inside it. It swirled softly all around him and smelled fresh and clean. He remembered how his dad used to give him a bath and wrap him in a clean towel. His smile started making its way to his mouth.

He looked around and saw the river winding away to the sea and the trees in the forest waving in the wind. It was peaceful and quiet where he stood. His smile went to his eyes. So he decided to not be lost. He went home. And told his mom and dad and sister about the neat things he had seen. His smile was so big that it wrapped around his mom and dad. And his sister, too.

That night, when he went to beds, he didn’t wish to be a very small boy, a very normal sized boy, or a very tall boy. He just fell asleep happy to be who he was.