A Bad Egg

 “He was a bad egg, that man at the pool of Bethesda.”

That’s the thought I had after listening to his story from John 5 on Tuesday.

Before Tuesday, I’d always felt sorry for the man—

An invalid for 38 years with no friends to get him to the water and no way to be healed.

But on Tuesday it struck me:

There must have been a reason that the man had not been healed after so long.

 

If he and many other disabled, probably homeless, people lay there together day after day,

Then it seems that they would have gotten to know one another.  

And if they had gotten to know one another, then it seems that they would have wanted to help one another.

Yet this man claims that he has no one.

And he makes the excuse that someone always gets to the waters before him.

That is his response when Jesus asks if he wants to be healed.

He doesn’t say yes.

He doesn’t take responsibility for his own wishes or desires.

He simply makes an excuse and places the blame for his condition outside himself.

But Jesus, in Jesus’ infinite love and compassion, sees something in the man and heals him anyway.

Jesus, in Jesus’ way of believing in people beyond themselves, tells the man to take up his mat and walk.

 

When confronted about carrying his mat on the Sabbath,

The man doesn’t testify that he’s just been healed and that it’s the first time he’s been able to walk in 38 years and that he would like to ask forgiveness for breaking the law on such a momentous occasion.

Instead, he places blame on Jesus.

He throws Jesus under the bus for telling him to get up and walk!

He just doesn’t know who Jesus is.

 

And when he finds out who Jesus is, he doesn’t thank him.

He doesn’t ponder the information in his heart and celebrate his healing.

Instead, he goes straight to the authorities to tell them who had healed him on the Sabbath…

Thus beginning Jesus’ persecution by the Jewish leaders.

 

As if all this weren’t enough to let me know that the man at Bethesda was a bad egg,

Jesus himself hints at the fact when he tells him,

“Stop sinning or something worse may happen to you.”

At first, I was confused by this statement.

Is Jesus saying that the man’s condition was caused by his sin?

But then I realized:

Maybe the man’s sin was his grumpiness, or his judgmentalism, or his foul language, or his excuse making, or his refusal to accept help, or his desire to stay where he was rather than to move forward.

Stop doing those things, Jesus said, or something worse than being healed may happen to you.  

Maybe the man was so set in being who he was—someone, who, ultimately had no responsibility in life but to beg and depend on others, that he didn’t want to accept the responsibility of being healed.

 

I don’t know what Jesus saw in this man.

I don’t know why Jesus took such a big risk as to heal him on the Sabbath.

I don’t know what part of love compelled Jesus to love the unlovable.

But he did.

And instead of being thanked for it, he was thrown under the bus and hurt.

 

This is the Jesus that I love.

 

Dear God: Forgive us when we, like the man at Bethesda, are the bad egg. And help us, always, to find the courage and compassion to love the bad eggs that surround us. Amen. 

Brains

 I had the opportunity to lead the music for a women’s retreat on Saturday morning.

 

One of the day’s scripture passages was Psalm 23.

 

I found a new hymn called “Surely Goodness and Mercy” that fit with the passage.

 

When I first looked at it, I was able to sightread it without any trouble.

 

I figured that if I could sing it without having to play it, then it wouldn’t be too hard for everyone else.

 

So I added it to the order of worship.

 

When I mentioned this new hymn to my mom and dad, they both immediately told me that we used to sing it all the time in Tabor City.

 

What?

 

I grew up singing “Surely Goodness and Mercy?”

 

Why did I have no recollection of it?

 

Or did I?

 

Was the music deeply filed in the archives of my brain, just waiting to be accessed again?

 

Is that why I sightread it so easily?

 

I think that it was.

 

Our brains are amazing things.

 

For our brains, God, we give you thanks.

For songs foundational to our lives, we give you thanks.

For information stored that we didn’t even know we had, we give you thanks.

Help the good memories come to us when we need them, and help the bad ones stay filed away.

We love you, and your goodness, and your mercy.

Amen. 

Happy Little Accident

 Earlier in the year, Shauna-The-Art-Teacher procured a grant to install a large-scale mural in one of the main hallways at school. As part of the project, every student and staff member at Greenwood will decorate a ceramic tile using an alcohol ink process.

 

Alcohol ink art is fluid art. Fluid art is when you take a medium in liquid form and let the pigments run wild, creating abstract pieces of art. The beauty of alcohol ink, though, is that it can also be used to create realistic pieces—if you know how to manipulate the dye.  

 

During Monday’s workday, Shauna hosted two art sessions for the staff to decorate our tiles. None of us had ever worked with alcohol ink and therefore had no idea what we were doing. Some of us had visions of what we wanted to create. Others did not. Regardless, with Shauna’s guidance, the tiles turned out uniquely beautiful!

 

You won’t be surprised to know that I wanted to create an orange fish. I quickly realized, though, that intentionally creating anything was going to be next to impossible without having more experience manipulating the ink. And so…I abandoned the idea of making an orange fish and gave in to the abstract nature of alcohol inks’ simplest form.

 

But then it happened. An orange fish appeared! I have no idea how it happened, and I couldn’t do it again if I tried, but as certain as I am an orange fish collector, an orange fish swam out of the ink and made its face perfectly clear! I was so excited! (I’m still excited!) In a paraphrase of Bob Ross, it was a happy little accident!

 

Isn’t that life sometimes? We have plans. We abandon plans. And then something just as good as, if not better than, our plan occurs. No. This doesn’t always happen. But doesn’t it happen more often than we give it credit for? Happy little accidents?

 

Doesn’t life, with God’s unending grace, create moments of happiness and joy in the midst of sadness and heartache? Doesn’t life, with God’s creative goodness, create moments of surprise in the midst of monotonous routine? Doesn’t life, with God’s boundless love, create moments of belonging in the midst of harsh loneliness? Doesn’t life, with God’s unexplainable peace, create moments of light in the midst of darkness?  

 

In a society that teaches us that we must be in control to be okay, maybe we need to learn from fluid art. Maybe we need to sometimes surrender to the process, and to the Creator of the process, and simply see what happens.

 

Dear God: Thank you for happy little accidents. May we see your nature and character in all that is good—planned or unplanned—controlled or surrendered. Amen. 

Words

 At the beginning of the year, one of my colleagues was teaching about Martin Luther King, Jr. When she introduced him and explained that his birthday was on January 15^th, one of her second grade students raised his hand and said, “My daddy says to f#$% Martin Luther King, Jr.”

 

Children pay attention to our words.

 

On Saturday night, I was watching the NCAA tournament. To fill time, four commentators talked. When asked who he thought would win the game, one of the commentators gave his opinion. He simply stated who he wanted to win. That’s it. The other commentators picked on him for not saying more. But he didn’t have more to say. So why waste words?

 

We waste a lot of words.

 

Words are everywhere.

And they’re all the time.

People are paid to talk.

People are paid to commentate.

People are paid to share their opinions.

People are paid to create buzz stories.

 

A headline in yesterday’s paper asked if bold, outspoken, far from respectful politicians were the new face of politics—people whose thoughts have been unleashed by an abundance of words and a seeming freedom to share those words whenever they want, to whomever they want, without consequence or thought of who those words might affect.

 

Words have power.

 

I read a meme the other day that said: “The more confident you are, the quieter you become. Confidence whispers, insecurity roars. Confident people are not attention seekers. Their mere presence is loud enough for the world to see. Contrarily, the insecure ones are the loudest, drawing the most attention to themselves.”

 

Could it be that we live in a time of such unrest and insecurity that words simply bluster?

 

In the 1600s, John Heerman penned these words:

“Keep me from saying words that later need recalling.

Guard me, lest idle speech may from my lips be falling.

But when within my place, I must and ought to speak,

Then to my words give grace, lest I offend the weak.”

 

Sometimes to move forward, we need to go back.

Maybe we need to go back to talking, writing, and sharing less,

Listening more,

And giving our words weight,

Rather than haphazardly spewing hate.

 

God, help us. Amen.

God As A Chicken?!

 Did you know that God is compared to a chicken in Luke 13?

 

In speaking to Jerusalem, Jesus says, “How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!”

 

And did you know that there is a hymn called “When Twilight Comes” that builds upon this passage?

 

“When twilight comes and the sun sets, mother hen prepares for night’s rest

As her brood shelters under her wings, she gives the love of God to her nest

Oh what joy to feel her warm heartbeat and be near her all night long

So the young can find repose, then renew tomorrow’s song.

 

One day the Rabbi, Lord Jesus, called the twelve to share his last meal.

As the hen tends her young, so for them he spent himself to seek and to heal.

Oh what joy to be with Christ Jesus, hear his voice, oh! Sheer delight

And receive his servant care: all before the coming night.”

 

I’ve heard of God as lion.

I’ve heard of God as lamb.

I’ve heard of God as eagle.

I’ve heard of God as mother and father.

And I suppose I’ve heard of God as chicken—

I’ve read the entirety of the Bible—

But I didn’t remember the chicken part until Sunday.

And now I can’t forget it.

 

A chicken.

An ordinary animal.

A staple of life all over the world.

An animal with approximately three years of active egg-laying,

An animal that can reproduce time and time again.

 

Jesus desires to be a chicken.

 

Oh God: You are God of all and yet you came to earth as a humble man who likened himself to a female chicken. You never cease to amaze. Thank you. Amen.  

Strange Peace

 It almost seems surreal,

Those days and months when the world shut down.

The last thing we did at school before sending our students home was to celebrate Pi Day.

Today is Pi Day.

Today we hold a friendly competition to see which student can memorize the most numbers of Pi.

The winner gets to pie administration in the face.

The excitement of pieing our current principal in the face was the excitement that we left school with on that Friday two years ago.

I have often wondered when that excitement will return. 

Maybe today is the day?

Maybe today is one more step toward “normal?”

Then again, what is normal anyway?

 

With as much fear as pervaded society in those early days of Covid,

There was an equal amount of strange peace.

With less human travel and gas use, the earth began to heal itself a bit,

And people’s souls began to rest.

The rest wasn’t easy for many of us because we’d forgotten how to be still,

And yet there we were, many of us,

Still:

Activities cancelled,

Games sidelined,

Family gatherings postponed,

Restaurants closed, and

Church meetings halted.

We were suddenly forced to stay home,

To make new games,

To create new ways of connecting,

To cook new meals, and

To worship with new expression.

 

Those of us in the education world scrambled to adjust—

We made the unheard-of switch to online learning—

And we were applauded as heroes as people began to realize just how difficult the education world really is.

 

There was, in so many ways, strange peace.

 

But now?

As life returns back to “normal,”

We are far from peace.

Teachers (amongst others) are doubted, scrutinized, questioned, and disrespected through conduct and lack of pay

And life has sped back up,

Expecting us to keep up while

Nursing the whiplash that we received two years ago.

 

Pi is an infinite number.

God is in infinite God.

I don’t understand either

And yet I believe in the latter as the creator of strange peace.

 

Dear God: Grant us strange peace today. Amen. 

Drinking Terrible Things Quickly

 Well. If I didn’t know it before, then I know it now:

I wouldn’t do well on the Amazing Race.

Not only do I have a terrible sense of direction with struggling map skills,

And not only could I not run very far without needing oxygen,

And not only do I have trouble memorizing things on demand,

But I’ve also learned that

I don’t have the ability to drink terrible things quickly.

For instance,

The two containers of barium that one must drink before having a CT scan with contrast.

I did it.

But the consistency and taste combined were enough to make me do odd dances, gag, and cry.

I even made my mom tear up because the look on my face was so pained.

And while you’d think that taking the last sip would be the easiest,

I had to coach myself to do it because it was just so bad.

I asked myself if I could do it for a million dollars.

I thought maybe I could…but then I sat there for a few more minutes.

And there went my million dollars :-p!

 

I suppose that if I were on The Amazing Race,

Then I wouldn’t be feeling terrible.

I’ve been feeling bad since Friday evening, February 25^th.

I began passing a kidney stone that afternoon…

And over the course of the next week and a half,

That one, ridiculously painful event, evolved into

A feverish internal infection that sent me to 2 rounds of lab-work, 1 X-ray, 2 CT scans, 1 IV for contrast fluid, my primary care doctor who thankfully answers texts and makes house calls, and a specialist in Raleigh who thankfully fit me into her schedule.

Because of my doctors’ hard work, I’ve been able to avoid the hospital.

I’m currently taking three strong antibiotics,

Including one that requires a shot every day,

And I will follow-up with more testing in two weeks.

 

I was supposed to be celebrating a major life event with a friend on that Friday night when the kidney stone began to make its move.

I was supposed to be going to my nephew’s last high school basketball game that next day.

I was supposed to sing in the choir that Sunday,

And teach lessons that I’d already planned that next week.

I was supposed to have coffee with a friend and go to choir practice.

I was supposed to go to Asheville to celebrate a friend’s upcoming album release.

I was not supposed to be doubled over in pain for over a week,

Spending my life savings on medical procedures that I never imagined needing.

 

And yet…

I am one of the fortunate ones who has friends and family who sat doubled over with me and understood when I canceled plans.

I am one of the fortunate ones who has a doctor who cares about me as an individual rather than as a number or case.

I am one of the fortunate ones who has health insurance to help pay for unforeseen medical expenses and has savings from which to withdraw.

I am one of the fortunate ones who, at least in the last week, has chosen Peace over constant anxiety and worry over something beyond my control.

 

Dear God: When things don’t go as planned—when sickness gets in the way of life—when dreams, however small, get shattered—You are there. You are there in the presence of friends, family, doctors, nurses, medical technicians, and an indescribable mystery that can only be explained as You. Thank you. Thank you for giving us humor to push us through the most serious of circumstances. And thank you for giving us medicine to heal sick bodies. May we not hoard the good gifts that you’ve given. And may we be good stewards of all that we have—including our bodies. Amen. 

Sometimes

 Sometimes, when we don’t know what to say,

It’s better to say nothing at all.

But sometimes, when we don’t know what to say,

It’s good to say something simple like

I’m sorry you’re going through this or

This must be hard or

I’m sending thoughts and prayers your way.

 

I suppose it’s hard to know what to do when.

I suppose the default of saying nothing at all is better than saying too much.

I suppose that we all have our own issues and that sometimes other people’s issues overwhelm us.

I suppose that caring is sometimes difficult, not because we don’t want to care, but because we’re in survival mode and we forget to care.

I suppose this isn’t God’s design for us.

I suppose that insulated, tunnel-vision survival mode isn’t how God desires us to live,

Even when it’s hard,

Or it hurts,

Or it causes us to have to care about someone other than ourselves.

 

This world is a hurting place.

An aching place.

War abounds.

Families are torn apart.

Bellies are hungering.

Bones are breaking.

Bodies are shutting down.

Knowing how to respond is confusing,

Knowing how to help is daunting,

And yet we must respond.

We must help.

Somehow.

Someway.

Through giving.

Through going.

Through saying something simple or

Simply listening and saying nothing at all.

But not through ignoring.

Not through avoiding.

Not through pretending.

Not through overlooking.

 

There is too much

Heartache,

Pain,

Sickness,

Disease,

Loneliness,

Hurt

To overlook.

 

So, yes,

Sometimes, when we don’t know what to say,

It’s good to say nothing at all.

But sometimes, when we don’t know what to say,

It’s better to say something simple like

I’m sorry you’re going through this or

This must be hard or

I’m sending thoughts and prayers your way.

 

Dear God: Help us to know what to say when. Help us to know what to do when. Help us to not be so insulated and tunnel-visioned that we forget to care about life outside our own. Help us to live into Your design for us—loving You, and loving our neighbors, near and far, as ourselves. And forgive us, God, when we fall short. Amen. 

Art That Makes Me Smile

 A couple of years ago, thanks to Antiques Roadshow, I started visiting thrift stores in the hopes of finding treasures.

 

It was during this time that I started my Gallery of Abandoned Inspiration (an art gallery in my bathroom that consists of original, abandoned works) and that I found today’s piece of art.

 

I don’t know what drew me to this piece. I’m not even sure what technique was used to make it. But something about the piece spoke to me—it made me smile—I liked it—and so I bought it…for G-mama to put in her apartment at her assisted living facility.

 

A few years ago, while cleaning out G-mama’s house, I stumbled upon a small lighthouse painting in her hallway. I’d seen it for almost 40 years, but I’d not started my love affair with art until later in those 40 years, so I’d never discussed the piece with G-mama.

 

When I asked her about it, she didn’t have much to tell me. She didn’t know the artist. She didn’t know the place or year of origin. All she knew was that the painting made her smile.

 

I guess maybe that’s why I chose this piece for her: it made me smile.

 

Two weeks ago, as we were sorting through G-mama’s affects for the last time, I carefully tucked away this piece so that I could bring it home and hang it in on my wall.

 

I won’t hang it in the Gallery of Abandoned Inspiration, or the Orange Fish Gallery, or the Fabio Napoleoni Gallery, or the Jesus Wall, or the Barb-the-Art-Teacher Wall, rather I will hang it in my hallway gallery of various and sundry pieces—pieces that I just like—right above the lighthouse painting.

 

Dear God: Thank you for art that makes us smile. You are the God of Creation and you allow us to create alongside you with art. Thank you. Help us to create…to appreciate…to smile. Amen.