Crash and Burn

Crash and Burn

As I remember it was a cold Sunday morning in late January. Since I was no longer pastoring a church, there was no need to hurry to get there. Judy and I were scheduled to leave later in the day for a pastor and wives retreat sponsored by a friend of mine. We were looking forward to getting out of the house and spending some time with other pastor couples.

As I walked into the bathroom something out of the blue struck me, not physically but in my gut. I fell to my knees and struggled to breathe. I crawled over to the toilet feeling like I was going to vomit. My head was spinning, my body started to convulse and the dry heaves came. I knew it wasn’t the flu. Judy came running and calling out to me wondering what happened.

After about an hour of hugging the porcelain, I crawled back into bed and curled up into a ball. I heard myself moaning and feeling like I was having an out of body experience. Judy laid hands on me and started praying. I felt like I was going to die. I fell asleep only to wake up a short time later feeling worse.

Not knowing what else to do, Judy called our son Tim asking him to come over to our house because something terrible was happening to Dad. Setting a land speed record, Tim came and started praying for me. Immediately the intense pressure lifted from me. I could hardly move or speak but whatever it was lifted.

Later that afternoon I called the pastor who was hosting the retreat and told him that we would not be coming. I told him what had happened to me that morning. To my surprise he shared a similar experience he had some years before. He was at the airport ready to board a flight overseas when the attack came. He couldn't get on the plane, cancelled the trip and had someone come and take him home.

It took almost a week for me to recover from that experience. Some say it was a panic attack. Others told me I had a demonic attack. All I know is that I didn't want to ever experience it again. The Psalmist in the Bible says it right: “if you hold on to me for dear life, says God, I'll get you out of any trouble. I'll give you the best care if you'll only get to know and trust me. Call me and I'll answer…I'll rescue you.” Amen!

Overweight

Overweight

I was standing in line at the Kenya Airlines check-in counter at the Moi International Airport in Mombasa, Kenya East Africa. It was 5am local time. Our group arrived an hour early so as not to miss the connecting flight to Nairobi. We stood in the oppressive tropical heat before sunrise ready to be checked in.

The Kenyans learned well from the British during the colonial days. When it came to government regulations, they were sticklers. Every document had to be in precise order and every regulation had to be followed scrupulously. By the time I boarded the plane I had numerous stampings in my passport book.

Things started going wrong when the ticket agent told me that my return reservation was not in the computer system. After some discussion in broken English and Swahili, I produced my printed reservation documentation. When this was not enough to convince the agent, I asked if I could come behind the counter and help her find my reservation on the computer. In spite of my limited airline computer skills, we found my reservation.

Next, when asked by the agent to place my carry on suitcase on the scale, I was told it was overweight. In all my travels, I never had an overweight bag. When I asked what I should do, the agent said to lighten the bag. So, while she was printing out my boarding pass, I put my bag on the floor, took out some dirty clothes, closed the bag and placed it back on the scale. I was told I was now within the weight limit. So I took the bag off the scale onto the floor and put the dirty clothes back in, grabbed my boarding pass and headed for the gate. No questions asked.

My traveling companions were dumbfounded. They didn't pass up the opportunity to warn me that if the plane crashed on the way to Nairobi, my overweight bag would be the fault. Tongue in cheek, I quoted to them this Bible passage from the Book of Proverbs: “A just balance and scales belong to the Lord. All the weight of the bag are His concern.” By the way, the plane made it safely to Nairobi.

Monastery

Monastery

No I haven't forsaken all and run off to a monastery. I confess there are times when that quiet, secluded life has an appeal. Actually I did find myself in a monastery one summer. It was a long time ago and as you may guess there is a story attached.

When I entered the seminary, there was some question as to my academic ability. Since I fell far short of being an honor student and graduated near the bottom of my high school class, the administration mandated that I attend summer school to beef up on the Latin language and religious discipline. In those days, Latin was the language of the church and therefore my need to be proficient.

On a warm June day, while the rest of the academic world was enjoying summer vacation, I entered the Benedictine Monastery at Benet Lake, Wisconsin. Along with a dozen seminary students I attended an accelerated language class. Classes were in the morning with a lunch break and then more class time. The intricacies of Ecclesiastical Latin with its multitude of noun declensions, verb conjunctions and inflections became my daily challenge.

However, what intrigued me was the life style of the monks. The daily regime of prayer, work and study brought a rhythm into my life that I had never experienced. The simplicity and beauty of a measured life began its work on me. Even the daily struggle with Latin became more palatable. Before I knew it I was ready to sign up to become a monk!

Nearing the end of summer school, I called my dad and told him that I was not coming home. I said that I decided that being a Benedictine monk was my future.

I was not ready for his response. It went something like this: “No son of mine is going to spend his life in a monastery. You get your butt back here or I am coming down there and dragging you home.”

I am reminded of these words from the Book of Proverbs: “ A wise youth accepts his father’s rebuke. It is a wonderful heritage to have an honest father.” Thanks Dad for having kept me on track!

Orange Cords

Orange Cords

When I was in high school back in the 60’s, I got into clothes. I was tired of lined jeans and flannel shirts. The crowd I was hanging around started dressing nice: white long sleeve shirts, bell-bottom pants and white suede shoes. I think Elvis had something to do with setting our dress code. The girls started taking notice of my handsome appearance.

That Christmas I had only one wish. I wanted a pair of orange corduroy pants that I saw advertised in a department store. I could envision myself strutting down the school halls in my orange cords with everybody turning their heads wondering who was that dapperly dressed guy. In my dreams!

I started hinting to my parents about the only thing I wanted for Christmas, those orange cords. Being one of a number of siblings, I had to think of creative ways to make sure mom heard what was going to be the most important gift this Christmas. I was positive that she got the message and had my gift already bought, wrapped and under the tree.

I think everybody at some point in their life is disappointed when they unwrap a Christmas gift. I can't put into words how disappointed I was when the orange cords weren’t there. I couldn't believe it. Didn't mom hear me? I only asked for one thing and it wasn't even that expensive. I was so upset I don't even remember what present I did get.

I never got to wear orange corduroys. Of all the Christmas’ I have enjoyed, I still remember a gift desired but not received. Reflecting back on that disappointment, I see that life has a lot more to offer than an unfulfilled desire. I also have learned that often there is more joy in giving than receiving. I embrace what the Bible says: “God loves it when the giver delights in the giving.”

 Merry Christmas and a Blessed New Year.

Loading Room

Loading Room

If you are a Montanan or a gun enthusiast, you already know about a loading room. For those who are neither, a loading room is a designated area where you keep you guns, ammo and reloading equipment. It is the equivalent of a man cave. On Saturday afternoons in the cold of winter, you will find diehard rednecks there reloading ammo for next year’s hunting season.

It was a cold February Saturday afternoon when I knocked at the door of Tom’s loading room. I knew he would be there and I was in desperate need of blowing off some steam. I came in, slammed the door and threw my keys on bench. In no uncertain terms I told Tom I was done preaching, parenting and being a husband. I told him I was taking the next Amtrak train out of town and not telling anyone where I was going. I had it!

Tom, a man who was married for a long time and raised a family, didn't skip a beat. He just kept reloading while I kept venting. Finally, when I paused to take a deep breath, he told me to sit down and have a beer. Apparently there was no rush since the train wasn't due in town for a couple of hours.

No sooner had I taken a couple of swings from my Bud Light when Ed, my other friend, showed up. Sensing the seriousness of the situation he closed the door and sat down. Now I had an audience for my frustrations. You see, both Tom and Ed, were elders in church I was pastoring. They weren't about to let me get on that train.

What followed was the adult version of a trip to the woodshed. They let me have it. They spared no words to inform me that the pity party was unacceptable. They understood the pressures I was under but were unwilling to let me wallow in self-pity. Several hours later, I left the loading room, keys in hand, in better shape than when I came. The problems were not solved but I knew these guys had my back.

I have never forgotten that Saturday afternoon and the counsel given me. I shutter to think where I would be without the wise words of those men. The Bible says: “Faithful are the wounds of a friend who corrects out of love and concern…. As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens and influences another through discussion.”

NRA

NRA

Nope! Not the National Rifle Association. I am a member of that organization. I own guns and have a concealed weapons permit. I enjoy my 2^nd Amendment right to bear arms. If you ever visit our church you will be quite safe because a number of congregants are packing.

The NRA I want to talk about is Not Right Always. I have lived long enough to know that even though I would like to be right, many times I am not. Although thinking I am right has a nice feel to it, I have learned the hard way to think before I speak. On occasion I have had to rise above my strong convictions and admit that I was wrong.

My need to be right has more to do with perspective than reality. I don't always get the facts straight before I speak. That has led to egg on my face followed by apologies. My fact checker runs far behind my vocal skills. Consequently, humble pie is a frequent meal.

By adding a short suffix onto “right” you get “righteous.” Interestingly enough, the derivative of this compound word carries the meaning of right wiseness. Wisdom, a rare commodity in the public forum these days, takes into account not only truth but also relationships. I am embarrassed to admit the number of arguments with my wife that I felt I won based on the truth, at least as I understood it, did damage to our relationship. Truth without wisdom erodes relationships.

We are living in a culture where people not only have an opinion but have the freedom to express it. It’s when there is disagreement that relationships can start breaking down. Have we lost the art of agreeing to disagree without tearing the fabric of relationships? Are healthy relationships more important than my need to be right? I thought that was what civil discourse was all about.

A reminder from the Bible: “Grow a wise heart, you'll do yourself a favor. Keep a clear head, you'll find a good life.”

Crèches

Crèches

Judy and I went Christmas shopping at a gift store here in Bozeman. As we looked at the beautiful display of gifts, Judy mentioned that there were no nativity sets. In past years, at the same store, you could find at least half dozen different ones. This year there were none.

What's happening to Christmas? It comes at no surprise that retail sales have overshadowed the baby in a manger. It is now illegal in many places to display any Christian symbols on public property. Here in Bozeman a beautiful Ten Commandments monument which was prominently displayed on Main Street was removed and later relegated to an obscure corner in a community organization park.

As Christians, it is another reminder that we have to come to terms with the fact that our culture has turned a corner. No longer is the Bethlehem story heralded in the market place. We are left with the cold reality that our world has little interest in a Savior who has come to heal our hurts and fears. Without the hope that the Christ Child brings, we are left with a plastic tree laden with ornaments, colored lights, and tinsel. How sad!

What shall we do? This past week I saw a post on Facebook that challenged me. The title: Want To Keep Christ In Christmas? “Feed the hungry, clothe the naked, forgive the guilty, welcome the unwanted, care for the ill, love your enemies, and do unto others as you would have done unto you.”

It's not religious ornamentation that defines Christmas. It's Christians who are willing to put feet to their convictions and do what Jesus does. We maybe losing public appeal but there is growing opportunity to show our stuff. Into the darkness have come many shining lights: us!