Brother Rufus

Brother Rufus

At this stage of my life, I have the luxury of looking back and calling to mind people God has placed in my path. It is mind boggling as I realize that my life has been touched by of all kinds of people. There are those who greatly impacted my life and ministry and others who walked with me just for a season.

Brother Rufus is one of those people. I met Rufus when I was pastoring a small Episcopal church in a multi racial neighborhood of Minneapolis. Having moved from rural Montana to the inner city was more than a cultural shock. Having extended family nearby was some comfort but it was a whole new world of ministry.

I don’t remember how I met Rufus. It must have been at some local clergy gathering. He reached out to me and we became friends. Rufus, had recently started an inner city church not far from ours. As we got to know each other, he invited me to a midweek service. Since they did not have a church building they meet in an abandoned movie theatre.

Well, I tell you that service was quite different from the starched order of service I was used to. People were jumping up and down, clapping and shouting Halleluiahs and Amens. I saw people slayed in the Spirit, demons delivered and bodies healed. I was the only white guy in church that night. It was a real eye opener for Pastor Dan!

 Years later after Brother Rufus and I lost touch, I showed up at a Sunday morning service. They were now meeting in a regular church building. When Rufus spotted me, he jumped off the platform and welcomes me as a long lost brother. He introduced me to the saints and I felt right at home in an all black church.

God sure does work in mysterious ways. I wonder what Brother Rufus and his wife Diane are doing now. I’ll bet they are doing just what the Lord has for them: praising Him with all their might and bringing hope and healing to hurting people. Thanks Rufus for being my friend.

Birdbath

Birdbath

There is an old cement birdbath sitting in Judy’s garden. There is nothing attractive about it. It is scared and chipped with a rust-grey mold lining the bowl. With all the colorful birdbaths on the market, you would think my birdbath is beyond salvation. Except for the fact that it is a family heirloom and my inheritance.

This birdbath goes back some sixty years. I remember the day my dad brought it home. Back then it was new and beautiful. It became the centerpiece of the large horseshoe garden in our yard. How do I remember? Because my siblings and I were the slave labor that weeded this garden and kept the birdbath clean and filled.

As I moved on in life, I forgot about the birdbath. When my parents moved from one home to another, the birdbath followed. I am not sure how it came into my possession. But I do remember some conversation among family members wanting to get rid of the eyesore. Because I was old enough to remember its origin, I said I would take it. I figured it would be a visible reminder of my youth.

It has been in my possession now for some time. It has accompanied me on several moves to and from Montana. No worse for wear; it is an oasis for birds, deer, and bear in our neighborhood. Our grandkids love to splash each other with its water and float flowers from the garden there as well. When I turn on my computer, there is a photo of our garden in full bloom with the old birdbath in the middle.

On the warm summer afternoons, I sit on the patio under the colorful awning and watch the robins, wrens, chickadees, western tanagers, and humming birds stop by for a free drink or a quick bath. I am reminded of the old hymn: “All things bright and beautiful, al creatures great and small, all things wise and wonderful, the Lord God made them all. He gave us eyes to see them, and lips that we might tell how great is God Almighty, who has made all things well.” Amen!

Be Prepared

Be Prepared

I am thankful that my parents encouraged me to join the Boy Scouts. Early on they saw that I had a need to be active in something other than getting in trouble. It didn’t take me long to catch on that scouting was fun and a safe place to explore life in the great outdoors. I started out as Cub Scout then a Boy Scout and an Explorer Scout.

When I wasn’t in school, I was scouting. Along with the weekly meetings, there were summer and winter campouts. I learned how to tie knots, shoot a gun, make a fire, use Morse Code, portage a canoe, pack a Duluth Pack, cook with a Dutch Oven, track animals, recognize flora and fauna, find the Big Dipper, basic First Aid, sharpen a knife, chop with an ax and a myriad of other practical life skills.

When I was in Boy Scouts I advanced as far as Star Scout and earned the honor of Order Of The Arrow. As I matured, I became Assistant Troop Leader. During my summers off from the seminary I worked at a large Boy Scout Reservation as a Camp Director and finally as Personal Director. I say all of this not to brag but to acknowledge the role Scouting had in teaching me life skills but also the opportunity to grow in leadership skills.

The motto of the Boy Scout Movement is “Be Prepared.” For an overly responsible person like myself, this was meat to eat. I didn’t realize it at the time, but this motto has defined my life. I have come to realize that life doesn’t allow you to be prepared for everything but it does give you plenty of opportunity to be physically, emotionally and spiritually prepared for life’s surprises.

Recently, I woke up in the middle of the night with a song running through my head. It was one I had not sung for over fifty years. In fact, the last time I sang it was around a campfire. “Softly falls the light of day while our campfire fades away; silently each Scout should ask, ‘Have I done my daily task? Have I kept my honor bright? Can I guiltless sleep tonight? Have I done and have I dared everything to Be Prepared.’” Scout Vesper Prayer

A Red Jeep

A Red Jeep

Some years ago when I was a pastor in Havre, Montana, I gave oversight to two other churches in the state. On occasion I would visit these churches, meet with the elders and sometimes preach on Sunday morning. Over the years, my relationship with these churches grew and eventually I became the lead pastor at one of them.

At one point, a pastor resigned and the church started a search for a new leader. This church was mostly home school families. They were in need of a pastor who understood and embraced their convictions. The elders asked if I would meet with them. When I did, I said that the Lord would provide a shepherd who shared their beliefs. In addition, I said that they did not need to search for this person but that God would bring him to them.

As time passed, I received a phone call from a pastor friend in a different state who was aware of this church’s need. He confirmed what I had previously told the elders and then said that the man would come to the elders driving a red jeep! To be honest with you I thought that was a little far out. Nonetheless, I passed this information on to the leadership. They also were somewhat skeptical.

Several months later, I received a call from one of the elders. He informed me that indeed the Lord had brought them a pastor. In fact, it was a man who had previously served a church in the same city but had moved away for a year and only recently returned. I was afraid to ask what kind of vehicle he was driving but I did anyway. To my amazement and that of the elders this man drove a red jeep!

I have been walking with the Lord for some time and know that He knows everything there is to know about me. I just didn’t realize that he even know what kind of a car I drive. If you ever see a red jeep pull up in your driveway, it may be the Lord coming to check on you.

The Bible says, “Give your entire attention to what God is doing right now, and don’t get worked up about what may or may not happen tomorrow. God will help you deal with whatever hard things come up when the time comes.”

Grandpa Clohessy

Grandpa Clohessy

This past St. Patrick’s Day brought to mind my Irish heritage. It is interesting that in our pluralistic society the only day everybody is of one nationality is on the 17^th of March. I wonder what our world would look like if we had that commonality the rest of the year.

I remember my grandfather, Thomas Clohessy, saying with some distain that on St. Patrick’s Day everybody is Irish. Being a native born Irishman he steadily refused to wear the green on this day; instead he wore orange. An Irishman wearing orange mean only one thing: you were Protestant not Catholic. The ironic thing was my grandfather was Catholic!

I don’t remember a whole lot about my grandfather but I do remember he was short in stature and always smelled of Old Spice and tobacco. He was a Passenger Agent for the Santa Fe Railroad. He had a quick temper and was fond of alcohol. He married a Polish lady who immigrated as a child. If you know anything about nationalities, you recognize that their marriage was a volatile mix.

His daughter, my mother, often told the story of the time my grandfather got on the streetcar heading home after work and a visit to the bar. For some reason he got in an argument with a gentleman. My grandfather hauled off and slugged the man giving him a black eye. As it turned out that gentleman was the Episcopal Bishop!

Today not much stock is given to our roots. We are all Americans even though we all come from immigrants. More than looks are passed down from generation to generation. Family traditions, personal temperaments and worldviews make up a family tree. It is the diversity of family roots that gives flavor and color to the melting pot of our nation.

I don’t smoke anymore but every once in awhile I put on a splash of Old Spice After Shave to remind myself that I have more in common with Grandpa Clohessy than just looks.

Erin Go Bragh

The Shack

The Shack

Once in a great while a Christian book finds itself on the national bestseller list. In my opinion, some religious books are not much more than self-help manuals with a religious veneer. Is it no wonder that non-churched people are easily turned off by platitudes and promises that are hard to swallow in the real world?

About ten years ago a Christian book did make the national bestseller list. An author by the name of William Paul Young wrote The Shack. He wrote it as a story for his children. Little did he know that his work would upset the apple cart of evangelical theology. He portrayed the Godhead as a trilogy of characters that stretched our rigid dogma.

The reaction within the church was swift and harsh. Although there were many who relished the fictional portrayal of Father, Son and Holy Spirit, others were crying heresy. In the flurry that followed, many a pulpit warned of blatant errors and ordered their people not to read it. The subsequent free publicity kept this book in the public eye for a long time.

What it is within the character of the American church that cries wolf whenever someone starts coloring outside the lines of our theological borders? Whatever it is, it conveys that there is not much wiggle room for creativity and imagination within the walls of the church.

I confess I enjoyed The Shack. I read it twice. I also used it as a focus for our weekly home group. How refreshing it was to hear people express their personal epiphanies. How exciting it was to see believers engaged in critical thinking about their faith. There are rewards for challenging petrified mindsets.

If you have not read The Shack, I encourage you to get a copy. It is still in print. Some people believe it is anathema. Others of us are enriched in knowing that God is real!

Graveyards

Graveyards

I hope the title doesn’t sound too dismal. One of things that my father taught me to appreciate was a graveyard. Even as a small child I remember him taking me to the family plot in La Crosse, Wisconsin. Nested in a wooded area close to the Mississippi River bluffs, he showed me the final resting place of my ancestors.

Now, we call these places cemeteries and many people don’t like to go there unless forced to by the circumstances of death: their own, a friend or a loved one. My dad told me there is a lot of history to be found there. He would take me around the place and read the quotations on headstones and even laugh at some of them.

Since I’m in the business of burying people and grieving with ones left behind, I do not share the fear of walking among the dead. As I travel around Montana, I find all kinds of graveyards. Some are beautiful with trees and green grass. Others are long forgotten and unkempt. You find them along the back roads and next to freeways. Some are encircled by the sprawl of growing cities and others hidden in quiet hollows.

I remember the burial of a friend on Boot Hill in Virginia City, Montana. He was buried in a pine box that was lowered into the ground by ropes. The pallbearers were cowboys standing tall in their rain slickers. The sky was grey and cold that March morning. After we shoveled dirt into the grave, I walked around and read the tombstones of some of the toughest hombres in the West. My friend was laid to rest in the midst of a lot of Montana history.

Thomas Grey, a 20^th century English poet wrote an “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.” One stanza comes to mind as I come to the end of this musing: “Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, the rude forefathers on the hamlet sleep.”                      

The Bible reminds us: “But as for me, I know my Redeemer lives, and he will stand upon the earth at last. And after my body has decayed, yet in my body I will see God.”