Here's A Chance to Experience Van Gogh's Spirituality

Those of us of a certain age might deem a popular song of 1972 as a touch stone of our youth and the nativity of our fascination with all things “Vincent.” Don McClean’s paen to the artist Van Gogh is also known by its opening line, “Starry, Starry Night,” referencing the artist’s 1889 masterpiece THE STARRY NIGHT. Van Gogh’s paintings inspire a devotion that is unmatchable and his life story is so mirrored in his art that one is inseparable from the other. His work is so rife with the ebbs and flows of the artist’s spirituality, that as one stands before one of his paintings the observer becomes rapt and transformed. Van Gogh’s spirituality was rooted in the Dutch Reforn theology of his childhood faith. Judgement and condemnation took a back seat to consolation and solace. For the artist, Christ is the ultimate comforter whose gaze is directed to the broken in body and spirit. So compelled was Van Gogh to share this message that he felt called to follow in his father’s foot steps as a preacher. Finding himself delivering his first sermon in a Methodist pulpit in the English village of Richmond , he spoke with great passion regarding the Christian life even as his sermon may have overwhelmed his hearers as he spoke in broken English. His struggle to live out a Christian vocation was marked by rejection and disappointment. The solace he found in the hymnody and music of the faith sustained him in the face of these trials. He stated that he desired for his art , “to say something comforting as music is comforting ….something of the eternal.” The Museum of Modern Art in New York houses his masterpiece THE STARRY NIGHT. To see the painting there is unforgettable at every level. It is not only the painting itself that moves one but bearing witness to those who have made the pilgrimage there to see it. Painted in June of 1889 the mystical qualities of the painting reflect the revolutionary hermeneutic that ultimately was so unique in Van Gogh’s vision. While the church may have rejected him, the Creator not only embraced him but enabled him to transcend his own suffering and redeem it on canvas. As Steven Naifeh and Gregory White Smith remind us in their majestic and enthralling biography of Van Gogh, “In his reading, in his thinking, in his seeing, Vincent had long looked past the “real” night sky-the tiny, static specks and sallow light of the night paintings he detested - in something truer to the vision of limitless possibilities and inextinguishable light- the ultimate serenity….” Naifeh and White’s pioneering treatment of Van Gogh sheds new light on his tragic death and enables us to see the artist in remarkable new ways. And to see this artist’s work is indeed a privilege that we who live in the proximity of the Columbia Museum of Art will now be able to exercise, “Van Gogh and His Inspirations” opening October 4 and organized by the museum in partnership with Steven Naifeh will include twelve paintings and drawings by Van Gogh as well as over thirty works by artists who helped shape Van Gogh’s vision. This unparalleled exhibit will include lectures by Steven Naifeh and many events connected to the exhibition. Further details are available online at columbiamuseum.org Several books in addition to Van Gogh The Life by Steven Naifeh and Gregory White Smith have been invaluable additions to my personal library including Cliff Edward’s fascinating study Van Gogh and God, A Creative Spiritual Quest and Kathleen Powers Erickson’s At Eternity’s Gate: The Spiritual Vision of Vincent Van Gogh. In this age in which we need the transcendent to help us see anew the world around us, I urge you to make your pilgrimage to Columbia and get more than a glimpse of the eternal,

LIVING NATIVITY The ramshackle Victorian house was situated outside of town and by all appearances all her pride was long lost. Many of her windows were missing and in their place crumpled up faded newspapers were her only defense from the elements. Her front porch was warped from neglect and lack of paint and like Boo Radley’s scary house in To Kill A Mockingbird , it shouted STAY AWAY! As we meandered up the dirt road drive up to the house in the back seat of our Sunday school teacher’s station wagon on that cold December Day, he reminded us of why we were there. WE were there “to bring Christmas “ to those inside. The back of the station wagon was filled with carefully and colorfully wrapped packages and Piggly Wiggly bags filled with groceries collected from the congregation. A Cedar tree was tied to our vehicle’s roof and as the tree bounced up and down as we hit the washed out gully that was the drive up to the house ,“The Little Drummer Boy” kept rhythm on the radio. The boys in the front seat of the Station Wagon were soon to play shepherds in our church’s Living Nativity that coming Sabbath night. I had been chosen as one of the three Wisemen and “we three kings” found ourselves in the back seat with the only girl accompanying us on our mission of mercy. Appropriately, she had been chosen to be an angel and as her carefully rolled long blonde tresses framed her face it was obvious why. Reaching our destination as we got out of the station wagon while our teacher made his way up the front steps ,the angel in our midst made a pronouncement to the shepherds and we three kings, “Mom says this family are poor white trash.” Her snobby words lingered in the air as we made our way up the front steps. Our Sunday School teacher’s knock at the door echoed throughout the house as the the sound was overcome by the sudden rush of children's footsteps. As the door creaked open their unwashed but beaming faces welcomed us in. The smell in the house was the same barnyard smell that permeated the air when the station wagon doors had been flung open. Out of the group of five children, a little girl’s voice was heard to say, “Daddy's outback feeding the goats. and the donkey and Mama said to come on in because Santa Clause is coming tonight.” Bearing the tree, as we made our way to the back of the house, the dimly lit hallway echoed with a baby’s cry. Entering the room where the fireplace humbly offered the only heat in the house, the baby lay wrapped in a tattered blanket in his mother’s lap. She smiled at us as our Sunday school teacher introduced each one of us and asked where we could situate the Christmas Tree. While we placed it in the opposite corner from where she sat cradling the baby, the five children watched in wonder as we began to attach the multicolored lights to the trees branches. “We never had a Christmas Tree before ,” the little girl who had greeted us upon our arrival confessed. As the angel unpacked the ornaments, the shepherds and wisemen assisted the five children in placing them on tree. Finally it was time to crown the tree with its star and we all watched as little Billy the youngest of the five stood on the shoulders of one of the wisemen and placed the star at its pinnacle and as one of the shepherds plugged in the lights. The tree worked its magic as a hush fell across that room and the only sound heard was the happy sounds of the baby still wrapped up in his mother’s arms. “ Why does that tree have a star on top of it ?” little Charlie asked. And for the first time the mother who had sat quietly with baby in arms spoke up and said “ Cause Charlie that star was how everybody knew where to find the Baby Jesus.” And her words had barely been spoken before little Charlie chimed in “So the baby Jesus got here tonight before Santie Claus did.” And his mother looking at we three kings, the shepherds, and the angel with blonde hair and back at her 5 little ones and the baby in her lap all gazing up at that star replied “ Oh yes he did Charlie….yes he did.” Our Sunday School Teacher who had disappeared briefly suddenly appeared and before he could say a word without hesitation, our friend the angel whose harsh and judgmental words had by now turned to tears began singing as we all began to one by one join her, “Silent Night Holy, Holy night all is calm all is bright, Round young virgin mother and child, Holy infant so tender and mild, Sleep in heavenly peace , Sleep in heavenly peace….” The house echoed with the carol’s words as our Sunday school teacher who was now joined by the Daddy entered the song filled room. They had secretly unloaded the gifts and groceries at the front of the house. The Daddy, his hands smelling of his goats approached each one of us. He humbly grips the hands of the wisemen, shepherds and the angel and thanked us for coming. And the angel without hesitation enthusiastically said,” Oh no sir. Thank you sir, Thank you.” The children followed us to the door and told us to come back soon. As our station wagon wound its way down that dirt driveway that December night, one bright Star looming through the vehicle’s windshield seemed to light the way for we three kings, the shepherds, the angel and our Sunday School Teacher. And as we made our way home that chilly December night, in the silence and the holy hush there was not a doubt in any of our minds as to who had brought Christmas to whom.

ALL EASTERED UP!

ALL EASTERED UP! Getting all EASTERED UP use to mean that every lady had to have the perfect hat and real men could wear pink. The Easter Parade still takes place on Easter Sunday on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. Starting as a spontaneous event in the 1870’s, the parade grew to such popularity that in 1947 over a million processed up the avenue. While the stroll may not have all the panache it had when Fred Astaire and Judy Garland made the avenue their runway in the Irving Berlin film musical EASTER PARADE, it annually draws a crowd and the strollers still make their bold fashion statements and the more colorful the better. Do they realize they are actually participating in a ritual that dates back to the Roman Emperor Constantine who in the 4th century instructed the empire’s citizenry to wear their finest and parade in honor of Jesus’ resurrection? We read in the Gospel of Luke of another Easter parade. The women who had attended to Jesus’ burial go to the tomb on a mission of mercy. They know they can not change the dark shadow cast by Good Friday but the went there carrying with them spices to preserve his body . And so their procession that first Easter morning was less than festive. In their state of mourning, the women’s clothing blended with the shadows cast amongst the tombs. There were no spectators for this sad little parade. No gawkers. The women make their way determined, yet weighed down with grief. And what do they find? A stone cold sepulcher greeted them with the shock of emptiness. Robbed of the beloved’s body, it must have echoed their cries. Turning away from its emptiness, only to be greeted by two men in “gleaming bright clothing” , the mourners we are told “didn’t know what to make of this”. If their garb wasn’t startling enough, the men dare to ask the real question of the day, “Why seek you the living among the dead?” Obviously these two would have flunked out as grief counsellors ,but their question does give pause to Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and Mary the mother of James and the other women as it should us. That dark day that was Calvary had so overwhelmed them they had forgotten what he had said when he said ,” I must be handed over to sinners, be crucified, and on the third day rise again.” Even then hearing him say “I must be crucified” would have been all they heard him say. Stunned as they are, we are told “they remembered his words.” While they nor anyone else witnessed Jesus being resurrected what they did see changed their lives forever. They looked away from a grave no longer seeking the living among the dead and faced a day like no other . A new day in a new world. And what a different parade it was as they returned from the tomb. All EASTERED UP, they make their way radiant with good news. Their faces had to tell the story as they reached the disciples. But they encounter resistance and doubting disciples do all they can to rain on the Easter parade. And they still do. Luke tells us they think the women’s words “nonsense.” Yes, the women might have asked of themselves, “why seek we the living among the dead?” The disciples desperately needed to get all EASTERED UP. And so de we. Even as we have been reminded this Holy Week, suffering and the unfathomable deaths of innocents are never far from us these days. All the more we need to get all EASTERED UP and join the throng to announce that death is the real loser, as are those who seek to thrive by inflicting it. SO get out your feathers, your beads, your buckles and bows. Get all Eastered up and if someone tries to run you out of town for doing so, get out in front and make it a parade.

CHRISTMAS WITH THE GOAT MAN

CHRISTMAS WITH THE GOAT MAN The well traveled road upon which my childhood home is situated, bore witness to me as a boy, that people are always headed somewhere. Night and day it mattered not, determined travelers were constantly making their trek. Their passing vehicles would often give me pause to wonder who they were and where their pilgrimage was taking them. One Christmas, a different kind of traveller made his way through our town and he found his way on the path in front of our home. His chariot was not splendid, but it mattered not to me as I heard his approach heralded with the clanking of bells and a chorus of whining sounds. The Goat Man set up his encampment within a throw of our front yard. As his goat pulled ramshackle wagon found its resting place, he stepped down dressed in an animal skin coat looking like the shepherds in the dime store manger scene I’d admired at Darling’s 5 and 10. I was sure he would smell like them too. His greying beard came to a point somewhere around his navel and he had obviously missed his Saturday night bath. The twenty two goats infused the chilled December air with his same scent. Bible in hand, I watched as he tacked a sign on one of the tall slender pines next to the road. The sign pronounced to those slowing down to take note of the sight of him and his entourage, PREPARE TO MEET THY GOD! After nailing the placard in place, he stood up on a stump. He then proceeded to open his tattered Bible and as he channeled the words of John The Baptist, he read “Prepare ye the way of the Lord!” By now onlookers had pulled off the road to form a congregation of curious witnesses. Many in the crowd muttered under their breath like they new who he was. The bleating goats offered their chorus in glad reply to his proclamation, forming his amen corner. His fiery message was not like any Sunday sermon I had ever heard at First Methodist. He offered not only his message to us, but a taste of goat’s milk which made the Welch’s Grape Juice served at the communion rail at my church pale in comparison. Situating myself close to the iron wheel of his wagon, I could see its contents. Looking closely I spied a paperback copy of one of my favorite books, Robinson Crusoe. “Read that book boy?” he quipped. “Yes sir I shyly replied. “ “ I got Crusoe’s itch for wandering . My goats and me want to see all 48 states, and Alaska and Canada. All them places better get ready to meet the Lord. He’s a coming soon and next time it won’t be as as little ole baby. These here goats will recognize him sooner than a lot of these here people in brick houses that go to them tall steeples on Sunday morn. I’m just gonna keep on wandering every where I can til he gets here.” ‘Where you from?” I asked. “Oh all over the place, but Twiggs County is where I hung my hat the longest. But I got to keep moving till He comes back. I had to admit to myself that there was a secret longing in me to join up with his band, to hitch my wagon to his. That night as I pulled up the quilt on my bed, I could see his kerosene lanterns illumining that chilly night through my bedroom window and the goats were bleating a lullaby that soon lulled me to sleep. The days waned fast and my own wanderings found me in Macon, Georgia as a robed and collar clad preacher. Those days had receded in my memory, although when I ran up on John the Baptist in the Bible, clad in animal skins and living off locust and honey, something would take me back to that December day. I had heard that in 1970 Charles McCartney known as The Goat Man had been attacked by three young men while he slept in his cart. Two of his favorite goats were killed. The Goat Man had retired to Jeffersonville. And then on another waning December afternoon I found myself serving communion to residents and members of Mulberry Street Church at a local nursing home. After praying over the communion elements, I began to move around the circle of wheel chairs serving the gathering one by one, when before I could intone the words ‘The Body…The Blood of Christ” a blue haired messenger whispered to me, “That’s The Goat Man next to me.” And there he was. Shorn of his beard. Goatless. Made respectable in a flannel shirt, yet his dog eared Bible in his lap, I bent toward him. Before I could speak a word his eyes though aged with cataracts looked into mine and as if I were being transported back to that December afternoon of my boyhood , I heard him say “He’s coming back.” And he was right. You see, that December afternoon He had for me.

OCTOBER LIGHT

OCTOBER LIGHT Summer’s solstice has ended and October’s light gives us all a chance for new perspective. Even as that light brings a fresh clarity to my thinking, it also foreshadows what the Apostle Paul characterized as “the partial passing away.” The passing away of much that seemed permanent but was only partial has been accelerated in this world where that we thought was built to last is actually an illusion. The One who sits on the throne in The Revelation given to Saint John announces “Behold I make all things new!” We would do well to look to how nature’s patterns echo that promise. Summer’s excesses are pared down as her days wane and just as the harvest is gathered in so we have need to gather up what the waning year has shown us. Most of our days are consumed with the now. What was fulness to us ,what seemed so complete was actually only the partial, for as Paul so aptly puts it “now we see through a mirror dimly, then we shall see face to face.” How can we be shed of that? Autumn forces us to confront in nature’s dance of shedding her clothes an ending that bespeaks a new beginning and the promise of the complete. As the poet Keats aptly puts it in his poem To Autumn, “Thou (Autumn) hast thy music too.” How we need to stop and listen to it! Even as we wind the back roads and circumnavigate the high places on desperate pilgrimages to glimpse the colors of autumn leaves, we know they will soon be driven and tossed by the wind. In a flurry of color, the trees will release their foliage without hesitation. For us this seems the dreaded end. But, we see only the partial. Looking out the picture windows on the front of my home as a child , I would watch the trees on our front lawn in their Fall litany. The leaves would change from green to yellow. Finally, the day would arrive in late October when my brother and I, rakes in hand, would pile the frosted brown leaves on our front lawn while the air hung heavy with the incense of burning leaves in our neighborhood. The smoke would send its signals heavenward, as if we needed to let the Creator know we knew winter was soon upon us. But the falling leaves were not indiscriminately sacrificed. They met their end as a gift to the very earth that gave them life. As Lewis Thomas the biologist and writer reminds us , “we have always had a strong hunch about our beginnings, thus we took the word for earth humus and came to know our selves as human” and one might add, hopefully humble ones at that. It is in these patterns of Autumn that we can see our own life patterns and humbled we must be. As a pastor and hospice chaplain I am a witness every day to the truth that “to every thing there is season.” Our souls need and require this time of gathering in . As nature knows her time has come to settle in, we should know by now the sign when that Fall morning arrives a little sharper and we greet with gladness the woodpile mom remembered to have stacked up beside the house. And so we build the fire, we sip the cider, and we settle in so all can be made complete.

BEYOND THE PEW

BEYOND THE PEW The gurus are scrambling. The recent Pew Report documenting the decline in our nation’s Christian population from 78 per cent to 70 percent is sure to stir up those who busy themselves crunching the numbers and pushing the paper work. My generation of clergy were dazzled by the pyrotechnics of the church growth gurus who admonished us as we approached the new millennium that we needed more mocha with Messiah and Cappuccino with Christ and less doctrine and dogma. So we built believing they would come. The mega church outfitted with all of its technology and pleasure dome aesthetics was the new Oz. Church architecture became about erecting structures that demolished tradition and embraced entertainment. Sacred spaces were stripped of their symbolism and the dominant concern became where do we put the projector and screen. Worship was severed from its historical roots and hymnody displaced by what one church growth specialist called a “soundtrack” for worship “that is determined by what the worship guests listen to on ITunes.” What should cause all of us to set up and take note is what The Pew Report reveals about “generational change.” Many of the shifts outlined above were seen as being necessary for our churches to attract children, youth, and young adults. I myself am a survivor of the “worship wars” that resulted in countless of our congregations dividing their congregations up and defining them as “traditional” and “contemporary” worshippers. As one growth specialist advised “where a congregation is aging and possibly declining it might be best to create two kinds of service, one of them traditional and the other “culturally relevant.” But it is among the population characterized as requiring “cultural relevance” that the rise of “nones” is taking place - those who are less likely to belong to any Christian (or other religious) body. The failure of our churches to pass on the faith to the next generation has to be at the heart of this trend. Worship life and teaching spaces within our faith communities cannot bypass the substance of Christ’s teachings and be driven by the values that define popular entertainment. The exhaustion and burnout seen in many of our clergy and worship leaders is directly tied to their continual quest to remain “culturally relevant.” Spiritual formation takes a back seat to insuring that the image of our churches is “relevant.” Could it be that the decline of the church might be due to our younger generations seeking something beyond what they find at the Apple Store? In our branding of the Church as a commodity that must compete with Silicon Valley, the young who are trying to find the meaning of why we are all here might well be looking for what makes the church different from their I Phone. In the techno driven world they are inheriting might they be craving authentic community versus simulated reality? Jesus chose a real body (the church) here, imperfect and human to carry his message and he assured us that with the Holy Spirit we had everything we needed to do just that. The truth of the Gospel will never rise or fall because of institutional growth or decline. It will live and breathe in and through us or in spite of us and it will never power down. Tweet that.

Pierced Darkness

PIERCED DARKNESS “He thrown everything off balance. If he did what he say he did, there’s nothing for you to do but to throw away everything and follow him. If he did’t, then enjoy the minutes you have left the best you can.” From A GOOD MAN IS HARD TO FIND, Flannery O’Connor William Styron the novelist and author of Sophie’s Choice suffered a crippling depression that he thoughtfully chronicles in his memoir Darkness Visible. On the eve of a contemplated suicide attempt he finds himself sitting in his home in the darkness of what seems an interminable night when the music of Brahms pierces the darkness: “this sound which like all music-indeed all pleasure- I had been numbly unresponsive to for many months, pierced my heart like a dagger, and in a flood of swift recollection I thought of all the joys this house had known …All this I realized was more than I could inflict on these memories, and upon those, so close to me with whom those memories were bound. And just as powerfully I realized I could not commit this desecration on myself….” Styron had dared to face the darkness and lived on because he did. The Gospel of John records the story of a depressed Mary Magdalene going to the tomb of Jesus early on the first day of the week, and then John tellingly says, ”While it was still dark…” Mary the dedicated follower had not abandoned him. But putting one foot in front of the other she forced herself to face the darkness. She had witnessed his miracles and heard the cruel words of his enemies. She had seen love lavished upon him when he entered Jerusalem as well as the lashes unleashed on his burdened back. She had stood in the shadow of his cross and heard his final words. And now she came to honor him with a proper burial….”while it was still dark.” As the poet Milton put it , “no light but darkness visible.” Mary in facing the darkness was actually profoundly living into her faith in a way that my friend and truth teller Barbara Brown Taylor speaks to in her latest book Learning to Walk in the Dark. She dares to ask, “When we run from darkness, how much do we really know about what we are running from? If we turn away from darkness on principle, doing everything we can to avoid it….isn’t there a chance we are running from God?” What will happen next? Mary had to be thinking. Or is there a next? And then reaching the tomb she finds it empty. In the darkness , isn’t it enough to face her loss and now to know that His body is absent?! Is it not enough that he suffered the most degrading of deaths, now his grave has been robbed? She had heard of others who had claimed to be messiah. They too were no more. Like the stone cold memorials of the Roman gods, his tomb was silent and empty. She turns and runs in the darkness to the disciples so they might share in her sadness. Running to the tomb as the light gradually illuminates the scene , John and Peter see what Mary had been unable to see in the darkness. And to her surprise they rejoice. Mary still weeping finally through the blurred vision of her tears and the light of the new day sees Jesus’ garments and two angels sitting where he had been laid in the darkness. That darkness had been pierced by God working even when Mary could not see and could not know. God had thrown death off balance in the shadows. She turns with the angels’ words “He is not here He is risen” lifting her feet from ground only to meet Jesus face to face. The darkness in Mary’s heart has been pierced and her life transformed as Jesus appoints her to preach the good news to his followers: Death is no more… don’t be afraid of the dark! Easter you see means throwing it all away….all our fears….and following him, even in the darkness.

Forty Shades of Purple

FORTY SHADES OF PURPLE Love hurts. At least that seems to be the message of the day. As I write this column the culture is being inundated by a film based on a book that’s subject matter a decade ago would have rarely seen the light of day much less the top of the New York Times Bestseller list. The media frenzy surrounding the film’s release has meant that watching the Today show in the presence of your mother isn’t advisable. A British hotel recently replaced their Gideon Bibles with the bestseller as more suitable reading for their guests because quoting the manager “What ’s the sense of providing a book that no one likes and no one reads.” Underneath this “phenomenon” are deeper issues. In a world daily marred by brutality and violence, we are increasingly numb and desensitized. Violence has become the new pornography in our terror torn world. Those who terrorize us heap upon us that which we seem to pleasure ourselves with the most. “Love” has taken a brutal battering in this society and tragically the very people who bear the scars for it just can’t seem to get enough. Perhaps this is a teachable moment that the Church must not ignore. The love at the heart of the Christian faith has many shades, but none of them are inclusive of domination and violence. Even as the misuse of religion throughout the world’s history and unto this day is obvious, the way of love as seen in Jesus is the way of true liberation. As Christians who have marked the beginning of the season of Lent this week, let us remember that Jesus’ death and passion are not at the hands of an abusive Father/Creator God, but are reflective of God’s giving up of his own heart for the loveless and the unloved. The excesses of violence that debased the truth of Jesus’ death in Mel Gibson’s The Passion of Christ graphically proclaimed that love hurts. This grace through gore approach is not unlike the love through pain message currently being embraced. The theologian Jurgen Moltmann reminds us ” by the cross of Golgotha, God’s being and God’s life is open to we the human.” So to love as Christ loves is never about diminishing another but liberating and elevating the other. The power of this love is the power of new life. To embrace domination and brutality is to dishonor that love and sicken the soul. Lent, the forty days prior to Easter has historically presented the believer with a season of reflection and self discovery in the context of Jesus’s journey to the cross. Lent from an olde English word meaning “spring” corresponds to the forty days of Jesus’ trials and temptations in the desert prior to the beginning of his ministry. Traditionally the season is marked by devotion and fasting. Perhaps the best fast for many of us is a fast from all depictions of brutality and violence. To turn away from viewing violence is not to deny its reality but to deny its power to shape the way we see others and the world. Not coincidentally these forty days have their own palette :The grey of winter gradually gives way to the profusion of spring’s brilliant hues. While we wait in the mean time, purple and its many shades might best color our point of view. You see the color purple has traditionally been associated with mourning and royalty. And it was the color that the Romans dressed Jesus in with their attempt to mock and humiliate him. But, it certainly makes for a better statement than grey.

THE ART OF ADVENT There is an art to Advent: to keeping it. Advent means : “to come” and thus implies “not yet.” The four weeks of Advent are counter-cultural. We don’t do well with the “not yets,” or longing for what we want: we want it now. Longing takes a back seat to wish fulfillment. It is rather ironic that keeping Christ in Christmas has become the rallying cry for those who fear its many secular expressions, because there is no Christ in Christmas without the Christ of Advent. Even in the heyday of Christendom before the secular age, those who depicted the story of the coming of the Messiah in art encoded their images with the longing of Advent: for Christ’s ultimate coming and not just his birth. Longing infuses their images.These visionaries were painting the story of Christ’s first coming with a longing and sense of urgency for a kingdom not of this world because of the rampant injustices of their day. The magnificence of these images lies not only in the technique and the perspective of the artists, but in the way the paintings were grounded in the real stuff of human experience. Leonardo Da Vinci’s painting Virgin of The Rocks in not only considered Da Vinci’s greatest masterpiece it is also one of the most mysterious of paintings. Choosing to present Mary not with The Christ Child seated in her lap, he instead gives us a Madonna enraptured with two infants. Her right arm enfolds a child who is focused not on her as one would expect, but instead who kneels in adoration of the other infant. And with equally intensity that infant’s gaze is directed toward him. The dynamic rapport is natural between the two: the infant John the Baptist under Mary’s right arm knows the one he gazes upon is the one longed for, The Christ. And Christ in turn blesses John. This mystical fellowship is presided over by an angel whose gaze is directed to us as she gestures toward John as if to say to us “do as he doing: kneel in adoration.” And where does Da Vinci depict this divine fellowship? The landscape reflects the drama of the figures. Neither prettified nor softened ,the jagged rocks and craggy formations cloister them while also capturing the whole of creation’s longing. We can almost hear The John the Baptist we will hear from on the Sundays of Advent reminding us as he quotes the prophet Isaiah: “Every Valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made straight….” (Luke 3: 5). Perhaps so many have become so disillusioned with Christmas not just because of its blatant consumerism and profit driven impulses but because we have lost the ART of ADVENT- the art of longing. Recovering its meaning might well mean opening our eyes to the truth of our own longing….”O COME…O COME EMMANUEL…..”

GREAT BOOKS PREACHING SERIES THIS FALL I cannot imagine preaching without reading and I cannot imagine preaching from Scripture without the Great Books. Reading has shaped my life journey. The word disciple best translates “learner” and my spiritual journey is daily interwoven with my being a “life learner.” The classics owe a massive debt to the Bible yet we seldom hear this from the pulpit or otherwise. Biblical illiteracy is at an all time high thus resulting in the Bible fading from our cultural life as well. There can be no real study of the Western Canon of literature without reading the Bible just as Shakespeare and The King James Bible should be read side by side. Nearly every work of great literature is filled with references to Scripture. Adam Nicolson in THE BIBLE OF KING JAMES reminds us: “First printed 400 years ago, it molded the English language, ‘buttressed the powers that be’-one of its famous phrases- and yet enshrined a gospel of individual freedom. No other book has given more to the English-speaking world.” On Sunday September 14 with BIBLE SUNDAY I will begin THE GREAT BOOKS PREACHING SERIES with a sermon on the role of THE KING JAMES BIBLE in culture. We will then be looking at CLASSIC BOOKS throughout the year that reflect the link between THE BIBLE and THE GREAT BOOKS. We will begin with Saint Augustine’s Confessions on September 21. I hope you will join me in this journey and invite others to be a part of our celebration of these GREAT BOOKS that as the writer Marilynne Robinson has reminded us “put flesh on Scripture and doctrine.” Grace and peace, Sonny

Doc's Hands

“If having a soul means being able to feel love and loyalty and gratitude, then animals are better off than a lot of humans.” James Herriot, ALL CREATURES GREAT AND SMALL Knowing my Daddy as I do, if the Heavenly Hosts are not inclusive of “all creatures great and small,” he might ask for a ticket to the other place. I hope this past Monday dispelled any doubts he could have had. Mine certainly were as my family met me at the entrance into The Georgia War Veteran’s Home here in Augusta so that “Doc” as my Daddy has been known in his hometown of Swainsboro, might enter a new phase of his life journey. It was no small “God Thing” that as the caring nursing staff were helping my Daddy out of his vehicle, a happy parade of dogs of every sort were heralding “Doc’s’” arrival. The word of this new resident’s fifty years plus of attending “creatures great and small” obviously had gotten around. As my mother, brother and I wheeled my daddy through the portals , I watched his hands reach out to stroke the coat of yet one more canine. You see as the Creator would have it, Doc’s arrival coincided with the very day that pet therapy is scheduled at The Georgia War Veteran’s Home. Watching my Daddy reach out to stroke a new found friend on Monday is not the first time I’ve seen his hands graciously at work. His 58 year old truth seeking son has held a holy curiosity all of his life and sometimes I might add to my detriment. On a family vacation to St. Augustine, Florida ten year old me had narrated our journey by reading aloud every billboard advertising a road side zoo that would soon be conveniently stationed up ahead. As soon as the station wagon pulled into the zoo’s parking lot ,my car door opened wide and I dashed toward the elephant’s cage that beckoned beside the entrance into the menagerie. The elephant’s trunk was eagerly extended to me and supposing he was extending an invitation for me to take it in hand, I did as he did me in a like manner, but without the intention of letting me go. I can still see my Daddy’s hands coaxing the elephant to let go of his little boy: unwrapping with dexterity yet with strength and tenderness the elephant’s long snout from around my lanky arm. The hands of the country vet were put to good use that unforgettable day. Through the years when my life has been held in the grip of what seemed insurmountable, I haven’t forgotten how I was set free. And on a more difficult day as we waited for all the paper work to be filled out and the meeting with the team of nurses and doctors to take place , we the anxious had our own doubts and fears calmed as we witnessed the mystical communion taking place between the residents and the dogs nestled in their laps and eagerly standing guard by their wheel chairs. We’d seen this before, but yet somehow never in this way. On this day my daddy was joining the rank of this remnant of The Greatest Generation who has guarded our freedoms and preserved our liberties and were now making this place home. And I realized that day that while Doc’s hands might not be utilized in the practice of veterinary medicine, their strength and lovingkindness would be no less. Even now it’s proven to me as he reaches over to pat me on the leg to make sure I am alright. I’m that lanky little boy with the holy curiosity all over again and it couldn’t be more obvious that Doc’s hands haven’t lost their touch . (In honor of my Father, Dr. Raymond H. Mason, DVM)

THE GOSPEL GOES TO BROADWAY

THE GOSPEL GOES TO BROADWAY The Gospel gets heard in many different places but if you love music like I do you may have heard it in a theater and listening to the music of Broadway. Some of the most beautiful and prayerful words get sung by Maria in THE SOUND OF MUSIC, Tevye in FIDDLER ON THE ROOF, and Tony and Maria in WESTSIDE STORY. Hatred and prejudice are confronted in the sermon in song of “You’ve Got to Be Perfectly Taught” from SOUTH PACIFIC. And even the musically inclined flim flam man Harold Hill in THE MUSIC MAN can’t keep from preaching with “Right Here In River City.” I have fond memories of directing a production of the Stephen Schwartz’s Broadway hit GODSPELL starring a group of youth from my home church in Swainsboro during my college years and each performance was like a revival meeting! Sitting in a theater on Broadway in 1985 and hearing “I Dream a Dream” sung in the original production of Les Miserables was one of the most spiritually exalting experiences of my life. The ancients knew the power of theater and their amphitheaters were like temples with the masks of tragedy and comedy donned by the actors reflecting the realities of their life journeys. The earliest dramas were not only depictions of ancient myths but with the dawn of Judaism and Christianity, theater and faith were forever intertwined. The Book of Job is a marvelous example of drama in holy scriptures and it as well as the Nativity and Passion plays were annually enacted beginning in the eleventh century in the churches and city squares of medieval Europe. Music often played key roles in these depictions. The Gospel and stories of faith were proclaimed through theater as indelibly as in the glimmering stained glass of the Gothic Cathedrals. Musical theater’s ties to issues of faith and belief are never far from the surface in many of the great works of Rodgers and Hammerstein and most notably in The Sound of Music. Based on the life journey of Maria Augusta Von Trapp who was born in Vienna , Austria on January 26, 1905, Maria’s life began with loss and tragedy. Her mother’s sudden death when Maria was three precipitated her being placed in a foster home by her father who seemed incapable of understanding let alone caring for the little girl. “How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?” was thus grounded in a painful reality in Maria’s biography. Sent to live with a distant relative known as Uncle Franz, Maria found solace in hiking and mountain climbing and her true passion- the music she could hear spilling out of Vienna’s churches and echoing amongst the spires and surrounding mountains. One day after her high school graduation, Maria was hiking in the Alps with a guide when God spoke to her as she stood on a peak. In her 1972 memoir MARIA she writes of that moment: Suddenly, I had to spread my arms wide and shout, “Thank you God, for this great and wonderful creation of Yours. What can I give you back for it?” Boarding a train for Salzburg the tomboyish young lady with a backpack and carrying a guitar climbed the 144 steps of the beautiful and baroque Nonnberg Abbey and demanded to see the Reverend Mother Abess. And the rest is not only history as they say, but inspired the glorious THE SOUND OF MUSIC. Rodgers and Hammerstein might not have ever given us THE SOUND OF MUSIC if they had not been compelled to do so by the great Mary Martin who had starred in their SOUTH PACIFIC. Martin was urged by her agent to view Maria’s story as depicted in a German film based on Maria’s memoirs. And as she was later to say, “I was born in Texas and she was born in Austria, but underneath, we were the same Maria.” The musical premiered November 16, 1959 at Broadway’s Lunt-Fontanne Theater and was performed 1,433 times in its first production. In 1965 the beloved Robert Wise directed film starring Julie Andrews became the Best Picture of the Year and Maria’s story of faith now forever lives on in the sound of its music. The Gospel does go to Broadway it seems and because it does I will begin leading a series of services this Sunday inspired by it and other musicals. Let the hills be ALIVE..... Maria’s story of faith now forever lives on in the sound of its music.

CITY ON THE HILL

CITY ON THE HILL Enter the Chapel at Blenheim Palace birthplace of Winston Churchill located outside of Oxford, England and you get the message. Your eyes immediately focus on its baroque altar that ornately depicts the Churchill family being transported into heaven. And you know in a moment that its not a paradise you are invited into. You feel like an intruder here and you really are because it's a veritable museum now: Sacred space for the elite. We erect our own altars. Connect the dots in our cities and you can trace the abandonment of our inner cities to the mantra, "location ... location." When church gets reduced to real estate isolating ourselves insures that our interactions are with those who "think like us" and "look like us." The “great impostor” who posed as “Clark” Rockefeller wanted to gain entrance into the upper echelons of American society so he skipped the country club and headed right to the church. Not only did he know how to choose the ones that would look good on his resume, charlatan that he was, he knew that churches make for great networking with the "right kinds of people." The insularity of the church is a much more serious issue than those that threaten to divide us and in fact our failure to see one another through the eyes of Christ has put us in this crucible. Our lack of love for one another within our own walls feeds our myopia. Most of our churches are cloistered not unlike the gated communities and secured homes we live in, making it unnecessary for us to encounter poverty, homelessness, and the marginalized. Our churches have developed ministries that pleasure ourselves and insulate us. We the clergy have become in our kept roles , "keepers of the castle." As a sufferer of neuropathy resulting from chemotherapy, I often utilize our transit system and now see this city through different eyes. The route between my home and Mann Memorial echoes the Stations of the Cross : abandonment, indifference, betrayal, compassion, mourning... and down from The "Hill,” a different kind of Calvary. Street after street bears testimony to neglect and poverty. Meanwhile the imposing sanctuaries and ascending steeples of our houses of worship line the way up and down the hill. But are their closed doors and secured gates to let in or to keep out? It would probably be easier to negotiate entrance into The Augusta National than enter therein. John Winthrop in 1630 delivered his famous sermon to remind the early settlers of their covenant with God and with one another: We must delight in each other, make one another’s conditions our own, rejoice together, mourn together, labor and suffer together ... For we must consider that we shall be as a city upon a hill, the eyes of all people are upon us.” In this city on a hill what are we standing guard over? Our church signs proclaim we are here but one has to wonder how much "here" is really "here." John Wesley the founder of my own tradition spent little time in the safety of sanctuaries. Insisting that the "world is my parish" he embraced the coal mines and city squares. Scorned by his own church and the religious vanguard, he made the jails and prisons his cathedrals. His “beloved community” was the world. How can we love the world with the love of God when we who are cloistered and separated from that very world abandon one another? Every mainline denomination today seems consumed in its own internal struggles and many of the issues appear to revolve around the church being open to all persons or not. Caucuses have developed and petitions are being circulated and in the mean time the Kmart bus day after day climbs and descends the hill en route along its own Via Dolorosa and Jesus weeps over this Jerusalem we call Augusta.

EASTER EVERLASTING!

Easter Everlasting! It was a Spring day not unlike recent ones. Taking a turn into piney woods down a dirt road outside of Norristown, Georgia our family station wagon meandered amongst the Georgia pines with wisteria, dogwood, and wild azalea infusing the air and bringing a palette of pastels to the sojourn. We’d come prepared with our rakes , hoes, tools, and scrub brushes to clear out the family cemetery. Looming before us in the clearing before us the tomb stones and graves were cloistered amidst the trees. To me we seemed like intruders in the hush that hung there like the wisteria in the pines. My grandmother was the guide, calling the roll of those who lay there, reconnecting us to our ken. The small graves were the most compelling as she shared that these little ones were victims of an influenza out break. While the others hoed and raked, I lingered there as she knelt with devotion with her scrub brush and she directed me to pour into the tin bucket the concoction that would restore the tombs to their alabaster glory. Gradually with her efforts the inscribed text emblazoned there became legible and I read aloud its words: Behold you who pass by, As I am now so you must be, Prepare for death.... And follow me. This MOMENTO MORI ( “remember that you will die”) is an inscription that dates back to pre-Christian times and throughout the ages served to remind those who read it of the inevitability of death. Here on that spring day of my early youth it seemed unfathomable. But life would instruct me otherwise. Death would come. That cemetery lesson regarding my own immortality would only be “owned” in the context of my faith journey and the sealing of my identity as one who lives as Easter people must live. For Easter people every Sunday is another Easter. We gather every Sabbath because Christ is Risen and it is because He is risen that we worship and “move and have our being.” Without Easter every Sunday would be a MOMENTO MORI... a remembrance of one who had lived and like us met death. Easter people gather because all death has been conquered... not only death as in the end of our lives here, but the death of all the principalities and powers that would rob all of creation of hope and the promise of the everlasting. So much of what we assume will last forever soon comes to an end. Long after the lilies have faded and lost their scent the everlasting in Easter thrives and blossoms forth. The composer Natalie Sleeth gifted the church with her beautiful HYMN OF PROMISE with the publishing of The United Methodist Hymnal in 1989. Composed during the terminal illness of her husband Dr. Ronald Sleeth the hymn beautifully illustrates why Easter is everlasting and why this is a more fitting inscription for Easter people: IN OUR END IS OUR BEGINNING; IN OUR TIME, INFINITY; IN OUR DOUBT THERE IS BELIEVING; IN OUR LIFE, ETERNITY. IN OUR DEATH, A RESURRECTION; AT THE LAST, A VICTORY, UNREVEALED UNTIL ITS SEASON, SOMETHING GOD ALONE CAN SEE. In the summer of 1990 I first heard the glorious hymn sung by a choir of children’s voices at Lake Junaluska as we celebrated that Easter is EVERLASTING. The hymn living in the voices of the children that beautiful summer day has never been forgotten and ever reminds me of the power and promise of Easter. May all our Sundays be everlasting Easters!

SEEING PURPLE

SEEING PURPLE American writer and Eatonton , Georgia native Alice Walker wisely pointed out in her most famous novel that it doesn’t set well with God when in the course of our going to and fro we aren’t observant of his awesome handiwork and we the self absorbed pass the color purple by. The season of Lent takes care of that. By turning us inward Lent turns us outward. Like Jesus facing his own desert days (forty the Bible recounts) we confront the many forces competing for our souls and our sanity. It takes the absence of color for us to get the sheer luster of the color purple. Thats why the early church fathers and mothers took to the deserts of Egypt and Palestine...retreated from the clutter and clamor of the “church” and embraced lives of desperate simplicity. Desert spirituality of the fourth and fifth centuries was an intentional movement away from “self” toward the “Other.” That OTHER was the Divine, the Creator and was for the desert sojourner the focus of his or her love as it was centered on the great commandment, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment. And a second is like it, You shall love your neighbor as yourself( Matthew 22: 37-40). The movement toward this love began with examination of the self, a peeling away of one’s pretensions so that in that turning inward the soul ultimately could be turned toward God and neighbor... could not only glimpse the color purple but luxuriate in it. That Lent is so tied to the seasonal transition of winter to spring affords us the opportunity to see creation itself be “recreated”- our grey gardens begin to be infused with their lavenders and purples until they dare profess their radiant palettes. Winter is so crucial to the transition and maybe we will all the more appreciate what spring brings after those hours many of us recently faced hibernation and darkness. Like our fathers and mothers in the desert many of us stripped of all means of communication with the outside world did what we needed to do - we turned inward, we were quietened even as the long nights were punctuated by the sounds of the groaning creation around us. That journey inward is generative...even in the desert there is the gift of garden and oasis. One has only to look at the artistic process to know the stripping away of the self is redemptive and transforming. The genius of an artist like Martha Graham majestically mirrors this process. Graham made dance a soul project. Her works like Appalachian Spring being presented here tonight by her company for first time in Augusta’s history (thank you Augusta Ballet), transformed movement so that the body reveals the soul and in the words she so often quoted “I did not choose to be a dancer. I was chosen.” Just how chosen she was is revealed in her work Lamentation. Seated on a low bench dressed in gray jersey, Graham’s knees were projected widely to each side. With only her hands, face, and feet visible she moved upward and downward tracing the movement of a soul as it culminates in a cry of anguish: her hands clasped together as she allowed her movements to telegraph the depths of her soul’s sorrow. On the night of January 8, 1930 a woman in the audience at Lamentation’s premiere asked to see Martha backstage. Weeping profusely she explained to Martha that her nine year old son had been killed by a car months ago. Unable to express her emotion, imprisoned by her own grief watching the dancer rocking with anguish and baring her soul, the mother was released and she confessed as she cried out through her tears and collapsed in the dancer’s arms, “You will never know what you have done for me tonight.” Seeing purple can do that to a soul.SEEING PURPLE

THE CRAVING

THE CRAVING I crave Advent. Maybe it’s a midlife motivation. Or has this compulsion just gone unnoticed? I think not. More likely I’ve been afraid to admit it. After all it goes against the grain. Waiting that is. No one waits for anything anymore. Life comes to us speedily and the very notion of waiting seems barbaric. Besides, if I embrace Advent I’m sure to isolate myself... retreat from everything. It’s just barbaric. Like the ancients putting their farm tools away as they gave in to the change in seasons as the daylight grew shorter. The sun seemed to be taking leave and these unenlightened ones grew fearful. So they hibernated. They waited. Disengaging themselves , they dared to become self reflective. In the chill of those winter nights, they dared to see themselves and time stood still. They told stories. They waited....expectantly. Craving the light they removed the wheels from their carts, pulled evergreen branches from the trees heavy with snow and festooned the spokes of the wheels with flaming candles. Slowly without anxiety or fear, it dawned upon them as they gazed upon these circles of light that the darkness was dissipating. Hope could be born. And so we come to the first Sunday of Advent in a series of four. In our warm and well lit sanctuaries someone stands and lights an evergreen wheel and in fear and trembling invites us to slow down, to be quiet, to wait. Where are the Christmas carols?, we ask. Advent is viewed as an assault upon Christmas. We can’t wait and we won’t. Meanwhile that which longs to be born in us needs to take its time. But no one has the time for such. Assaulted by commercials featuring kamikaze shoppers we are seduced by the madness. We need and secretly crave to be quietened as Isaiah, Jeremiah, John the Baptist and the very Christ himself announce God’s reign over all the noise. But these intruders dare to “comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.” Advent goes against the grain as it compels me to slow down....to be quiet...to wait for Immanuel- God With Us-as it empties me and readies me so Christ will be born in me. The creative process for the artist is much like Advent. When I need a sojourn I travel over to Milledgeville, Georgia and walk the grounds of Andalusia the home of the writer Flannery O’Connor. The sense of place is so strong there like it is in her stories. Her faith and her spiritual journey were generative of her art and no one ever goes away from reading her without knowing it. A Prayer Journal written by the budding artist between 1946 and 1947 while she was a student far from Georgia at the University of Iowa allows us to glimpse in on the nativity of her art. Craving, she writes, “My dear God how stupid we people are until You give us something. Even in praying it is YOU who have to pray in us. I would like to write a beautiful prayer but I have nothing to do it from. There is a whole sensible world around me that I should be able to turn to your praise; but I cannot do it. Yet at some insipid moment when I may be possibly thinking of pigeon eggs, the opening of a beautiful prayer may come up from my subconscious and lead me to write something exalted.” Craving more elsewhere she writes, “I do not know you God, because I am in the way. Please help me push myself aside...Dear God, I cannot love Thee the way I want to. You are the slim crescent of a moon that I see and my self is the earth’s shadow that keeps me from seeing all the moon...” It appears that I’m in excellent company. I’m not alone in my craving.

Re-INKLINGS

In the summer of 1988 I was gifted with the opportunity of studying abroad amidst the dreaming spires of Oxford University . Wandering the streets of Oxford I came upon THE EAGLE AND CHILD PUB on St. Giles Street and re-immersed myself in all things Lewis.  The writer CS Lewis had become a touch stone for me in my college days and I brought with me my love for English literature as well as an ample Bridesheadian romanticism. What still fascinates this devotee is how a group of writers formed a circle that gave rise to a renaissance in religious thought and culture.  The writers who formed the circle that came to be known as THE INKLINGS gathered twice a week to listen to each other's work and to consider the great ideas woven throughout mythology and Christianity. Joining Lewis were JRR Tolkein of THE HOBBIT and THE LORD OF THE RINGS and Charles Williams whose ALL HALLOWS EVE  forms a perfect backdrop for THE RE-INKLINGS first gathering at THE BOOK TAVERN on the evening of October 10 at 7:00 p.m. as we begin a discussion based on C. S. Lewis's THE SCREWTAPE LETTERS. THE RE-INKLINGS will seek to echo those evenings at THE EAGLE and CHILD PUB in Oxford when wafting in the air where not only the words of these fascinating writers but an exchange of ideas that enriched the twentieth century.

MORE JESUS

Recent news stories featured on CNN, The TODAY Show, and in CHRISTIANITY TODAY might seem shocking as they reveal that close to 60% of Young Adults (the millenial generation as they are referred to) no longer identify themselves as having ANY religious affiliation. Some 55% of the same young adults did say that they USE to attend church or they had some religious afiliation. This would seem to indicate a mass exodus from the church amongst young adults. Many of the responses to the survey conducted by CHRISTIANITY TODAY indicated that what young adults are looking for is less MOCHA WITH MESSIAH and CAPPUCINO WITH CHRIST and more JESUS. As I look around Augusta I see a city that is filled with students who come here for higher education and job opportunities. I know there are many who are seeking not only to grow intellectually and to prepare for their professional lives. Many are wanting their lives to mean something more than their ability to OBTAIN the latest high tech toys and reload their Starbuck's cards. I hope that every member of Mann will make a commitment to reach out to every YOUNG ADULT they encounter and invite them to the GET REAL series based on the parables in the Gospel of Luke that I will be preaching beginning in September. Young Adults are indicating that they left churches not because of JESUS but because they didnt see JESUS in the church. One of the resources for GET REAL will be our Fall Bible Study where the goal will be for the church to be a safe place for ALL of us to ask the BIG QUESTIONS without fear( Who is GOD? Where is Jesus in the world today? What does it mean to be saved?) It is time for our churches to get real with Jesus...to strip away our attempts to market our churches with THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO STARBUCKS and get back to the JESUS of THE GOSPELS. More questions about Jesus are better for us than more MOCHA anyway.

BACK TO SCHOOL!!!

I just read the most delightful story featuring an United Methodist Church's BACK TO SCHOOL ministry in Pace , Florida that reaches out to children who would not normally go to school their first day with a new pair of shoes, a fresh haircut or styling, or new school supplies. The church opens its fellowship hall and transforms the space into a BACK TO SCHOOL paradise for children to be able to put their best foot forward on the first day of a new school day. Tutors are available to provide pointers regarding good study habits. Every child gets to pick his or her new backpack with fresh supplies. And most important of all the children are prayed with and reminded of the important link between our churches and our schools.  I pray the we at Mann can establish a ministering relationship with the schools within our neighborhood. I remember as a child  walking from Swainsboro Primary to attend Good Friday services on the lawn of First United Methodist. While things have changed in the culture, we as the church MUST find creative ways to reconnect with the schools in our towns and cities. I am very privileged to substitute teach on occasion at The Episcopal Day School here in Augusta. It keeps me youthful in my perspective and increases my desire for learning and enrichment in my own life. I will always be a lifetime learner. But come to think about WE ALL SHOULD BE. You see the best translation for the word DISCIPLE is LEARNER. Everyday I want to be a better LEARNER. As we anticipate the new school year, lets rededicate ourselves to LEARNING more!

CHILDREN OF VIOLENCE

The recent verdict regarding George Zimmerman and Trayvon Martin is so indicative of a society where violence reigns supreme . Both parties in this tragedy reacted as we are now schooling individuals to ... React instead of respond   And when in doubt maim or kill. ! The games we play , real and pretend  , the ways we relate and communicate, and our very demeanors are marred with the violence we not only relish but celebrate! Violence begats violence ... We now hope and anticipate! Our children are as the great Nobel prize winning novelist Doris Lessing  deemed CHILDREN OF VIOLENCE . In our world everyday is a parents worst nightmare ... Littleton or around the corner and up the street in our own neighborhoods ! As the body of Christ we must stand against ALL forms of violence and follow in the way of Christians throughout the centuries who refused to allow violence to shape their behaviors. We need to model conflict resolution in our mission and ministry and    Teach our children the Beatitudes and the great commandment.  We know the better way and its time we lived it ! We will continue to mourn for our children as long as we allow violence to shape the ways we live with one another .