Monday, April 29, 2019

Silence


Silence

I didn’t grow up in a quiet home. With seven siblings there was more than enough noise to go around. Between arguing over chores and who forgot to do what, there was little room for peace and quiet. The busyness of large family was not conducive to a sense of tranquility and reflection.

It wasn’t until I entered the seminary that I was introduced to silence. Every evening at 10pm without exception, the rule of Grand Silence was enforced. That meant there was no talking, no radio, no noise: all doors closed, all lights off and all mouths shut until breakfast the following morning.

The purpose of the Grand Silence, a carry-over from the monastic Middle Ages, was to instill the discipline of contemplation in those of us who were in training to be priests. Separation from the demands and distractions of the outside world was seen as an important ingredient for religious life.

Somehow, I took to this discipline. Coming from a quite different environment I found the enforced silence a challenge. It took a while, but I started to look forward to those uninterrupted hours of silence. It wasn’t long before this discipline of silence became an integral part of my life.

Years later, I still embrace the silence. Not like those seminary years but preferring quiet to the noise of TV or background music. Every once in a while, Judy will comment on my quirky silence: “Do you think you are still in the seminary?” That forces me to snap of silence mode.

I find the best silent time is early morning before the sun comes up. I don’t have any trouble rising early, brewing a cup of coffee and settling down to some quiet time. There is no one to enforce the Grand Silence on me anymore. The mold is set, and I am very thankful for the gift of this discipline in my life.

There is “a time to be silent and a time to speak.”

Monday, April 22, 2019

Jelly Beans


Jelly Beans

I write this blog on Good Friday afternoon surrounded by multicolored plastic Easter eggs filled with jelly beans. After filling the eggs with the help of the grandchildren, we are ready for the annual Easter egg hunt following the Easter Sunday service at church.

I was hoping that we could pass on this year’s hunt since the number of children who can participate has diminished. But the Easter egg mom (Judy) said we are definitely having it! It’s not that I don’t like watching the kids run all over the church lawn looking for plastic eggs. It’s what happens when I start filling those eggs with jelly beans.

I am a confessed sugar-holic. It takes about twelve bags of jelly beans to fill the plastic eggs. So, there is time and tasting involved. Each year I tell myself that I am going to exercise discipline and not eat one jelly bean. Well, you know how that works. The night before we started the project, I kept eying the bags of jelly beans. After struggling with my conscience, I grabbed a bag, brought in the TV room and told Judy this was our dessert. So much for self-control.

Oh, I forgot to mention that we couldn’t find the tub of plastic eggs that we recycle each year. I looked all over the church and couldn’t find it. I later discovered that the tub was destroyed in the shed fire at church last fall. For sure I thought that was divine intervention. Miss Judy said no problem, Walmart has a huge selection.

When I was a child, our family spend most of Good Friday in church. It was my parent’s insistence that we be good Christians and focus on the suffering of Jesus. That service lasted three hours. For a child that is a long time to spend in church. All these years later, I confess that it was time well spent. At least in comparison to gouging myself with jelly beans.

A Blessed Easter to all. I hope you all went to church of Easter Sunday. Don’t forget to eat your jelly beans.

Monday, April 15, 2019

Twaddle


Twaddle

For some time, I have been searching for a word that adequately describes much of what I read in social media and hear on TV. It’s not that I am a prude or intellectual snob. It’s that my ears are tired of hearing opinions of talking heads who feel they have more to say than anyone else.

This disease extends wider than politics. Our culture has encouraged a sense of expertise that is invading every aspect of our lives. No longer is it necessary to be educated in a specialized field when all I have to do is Google search and I am an expert.

I found the word twaddle while preparing a sermon on the resurrection of Jesus. When the women told the disciples that the tomb was empty, they said that this was nonsense and did not believe them. When I traced the Greek word and it’s equivalent, I found twaddle. Simply defined, the word means silly or idle talk; language, behavior or ideas that are absurd and contrary to good sense.

These mighty men of God interpreted the eye witness of the women as baloney, blarney, claptrap, hogwash, malarkey and poppycock. Simply said how could a few women who went to the tomb to anoint the body of Jesus come back to report such a wild tale as the dead coming back to life. The disciples were about to embark on a rather large learning curve.

It’s getting more difficult to discern truth. Lies are perceived as truth and truth as lies. Simply said, there is a lot of twaddle going on. I am reminded of these words of Jesus: “If you continue in My word, then you are truly disciples of Mine; and you will know the truth and the truth will make you free.”

Good news and that’s no twaddle!




Monday, April 8, 2019

Name


Name

I like my name. I should, I’ve had it for a long time. I’m talking about my first name, the name given me at birth by my parents: Dan. Not the formal Daniel or Danny and certainly not Danny boy. I remember by grandmother Eileen. She would grab me by the shirt, thrust me into her bosom, hug me and call me Danny boy. The smothering effect coupled with the lavender perfume made me allergic to that variation of my name.

Unfortunately, we live in a world where numbers are replacing names. Social Security, license, passport, insurance are but a few examples where names come in second. The computer world is slowly replacing my identity with passwords that need to have numbers to be valid. I am a person not a number.

The Bible is full of people’s names that have meaning and purpose. My own name appears prominently in the Old Testament. Daniel in Hebrew means God is my Judge. That alone has put the fear of God in me. Who wants to walk around with the label God Is My Judge?

Then there is that part where Daniel is thrown in the lion’s den for disobeying the king. To everyone’s surprise Daniel came out unscathed. Having been in a number of lion den situations in my years as a pastor, I can’t say that I always came out unscathed. I can say that God has been faithful to keep me from bleeding to death.

Here is a quote I read in a book by Eugene Peterson Run with the Horses. “No child is just a child. Each is a creature in whom God intends to do something glorious and great. No one is only a product of the genes contributed by parents. Who we are and will be is compounded with who God is and what he does.
God’s love and providence and salvation are comprised in the reality of our existence along with our metabolism and blood type and fingerprints.”

Like I said, I like my name: God is my Judge!

Monday, April 1, 2019

Titles


Titles

I am not a big fan of titles. I recognize their importance, but I also understand their abuse. When a person is addressed as Reverend, Doctor, Judge or Professor it is a recognition of a particular profession that is attained after significant education. Unfortunately, it doesn’t always indicate the character or the maturity of the person.

I clearly remember the conversation my father had with me the day of my ordination as a Catholic priest. He ushered me into his study and explained to me that I now have a title with the education to back it up. What I didn’t yet have was the life experience to go with it. He went on to explain that when he finished medical school and was bestowed the title “doctor” he had all the medical knowledge but little human experience in healing. A sobering word of advice on the cusp of my upcoming ministry

After almost fifty years of ministry I have not forgotten those words of wisdom from my father. Countless times I found myself giving the textbook answer to a complex spiritual or emotional problem. People will listen to the counsel coming from a titled person, but they instinctively know when they are words that have been tested by life experience.

Looking back, I see that I was ill prepared to carry the title of priest or reverend. Maybe that is why I had such difficulty with the label knowing that I was wrestling with the same life issues as those who I was charged to shepherd. The pedestal was so precarious that it didn’t take much time “in the trenches” for me to wobble and fall. What I had acquired in seminary education I was way short in life skills.

It is only by the grace of God that I still wear the title of pastor. Life experience continues to teach me that a title does not the man make. I am thankful for my academic education. It has served me well along life’s path. But I am more thankful for the wise words of a seasoned doctor who was my father.