What's In Your Rain Gauge?

It was exactly 4” tall, made out of sheet metal, painted white, stamped with a Fort Dodge, Iowa feed store label, and housed a test-tube like glass cylinder, about 5/8” wide with a flat bottom. It was Dad’s old rain gauge that had been with him since the early ‘70s. It had traveled from “the old house” to “the new house” in rural Fort Dodge, Iowa. He had carefully packed it in a box and it moved with us to Emma, Missouri. And, three years later, it was packed up again and hauled to Walburg, Texas. Dad had it mounted to our clothes line post with a hose clamp that he tightly fastened to prevent wind or driving rain from holding it true and upright. The name of the feed store has faded from my memory, as had the label by the time I realized what a rain gauge was and what it meant.

By today’s standards, this rain gauge was dark-ages simple. Today’s rain gauges are digitized, computerized, micro-sized units that will tell you the entire outdoor weather spectrum from the comfort of the living room, measuring rain to the hundredths of an inch and tracking rainfall. Today’s units, battery powered and back-lit, will describe rain fall rates and totals almost as accurately as Tim Ross could do with his professional instruments at KVUE channel 24 in Austin in 1982. But Dad’s gauge was as low-tech as it could be, sheet metal and glass, and was marked in inches, down to merely the sixteenth of an inch. “Was” is a key word – the same paint that was used to identify the feed store was also used to mark the measurements along the side of the glass tube. If digital units were available for the home owner, he eschewed most tech –indoor or outdoor – and wanted none of that stuff. There were no lights, screens, or digital read-outs that tracked weekly volume and hourly rainfall rates.  I don’t know how Dad could correctly and accurately read that gauge, given its faded lines, but he could, and he did – with all the precision he could muster. That rain gauge told a story – before, during and after a rainstorm. And brother, did it speak volumes to Dad.

After a rain storm, Dad would begin the next journal entry to the story. Dad would go out to the gauge – with rain jacket and mud boots on, if necessary - and carefully, deliberately precisely read that glass tube. Adjusting the angle of his head to match up with his bifocals, he would study the meniscus of the water as carefully as a chemist and take his reading of the rain volume: “Right at inch and five-sixteenths,” he would declare. Then, he would reach up, gently extract the tube of water, and with a firm and expert grip, he would whip the cylinder twice, mouth downward, to fling the rainwater from the gauge with centripetal force. Twice was key – one fling might not get all of the water out and throw off the next reading; three flings was unnecessary. With a quick peek to confirm that it was dry enough (it was…always), he would then slide the tube into the gauge frame, ready to receive another chapter in the narrative. He would then turn, go back inside the house, and carefully record the rainfall on a “gimme” calendar – either from Mickan Motor Company or from the Eugene Buchhorn Germania Insurtance Agency – that he kept in the utility room for just such a purpose.

The story was usually not a long one, neither in quantity or quality. Literally, it was measured in fractions of an inch, up to four inches in depth; it took only a minute or two, from reading to writing. But that brief-moment-of-a-story was a microcosm of a greater story. 

For Dad, I think the rain gauge was a physical reminder of the truths taught in the Small Catechism. From the 9^th and 10^th Commandments and contentment, to the Creed’s enumerations of First Article gifts, to the Lord’s Prayer teaching us about daily bread, the rain gauge encompassed the waiting-in-faith truth of the Christian life. As the mouth of the rain gauge stood always open, looking heaven-ward and waiting to be filled, the Christian stands ready to receive the blessings of God when and as He distributes them. The gauge stood as a visible and tangible reminder of all the blessings God showered upon our family - both physical and spiritual. Whether the gauge had a sixteenth of an inch or three inches, Dad was grateful for each drop of rain. And when days turned into weeks and weeks into months where the gauge sat unused and gathered dust debris, Dad would flick the detritus from the tube and blow the dust out, look to the heavens, and pray, trusting that the gauge would soon be washed clean with fresh rain water and filled again.

And, there was even a reminder of the Christian-as-sinner in this gauge. Well, it wasn’t as much “in” it as “as a result” of it: bragging. On Sunday, Dad was part of the group of good ol’ boys (also known as “old timers,” even though some of them weren’t that old) who, when they got together, would compare those stories. It would usually start with someone who thought he had received a “good” rain – say ¾” of an inch. You could tell pretty quick who had more and who had less. The ones who had less would mumble their readings of a half inch, or five-eighths of an inch, but the ones who had more rain kinda swelled up a bit and crow that they had durn near a full inch of rain, and that was before he went to bed that night. When the totals were shared, and the discussion wrapped, up, the old timers would say something like “glad you got that much, but I hope I get it next time. The tank is drying up and the maize is gonna turn toxic if it doesn’t get some water on it soon.” And, with a collective look to the heavens, the old timers would say a silent prayer that God would fill the rain gauges soon.

This all came to mind this past week. A heavy rain storm blew through Mission Valley on Saturday. Sunday morning, the old timers were swapping their rain gauge totals. Lots of folks reported about 2” worth of rain. Sure enough, just like 1981, one quiet fellow reported “just shy of three eighths” and another fellow – with just a touch of pride – declared almost two and a half inches of rain fell on his place. And then, with true gentleness, the fellow who had just a shower said, with truth and genuineness in his voice, “Sure glad y’all got that rain. Lord knows we all need it. Hopefully I get it next time.”  And, just as true and genuine, the fellow who got over two inches said, “Yeah, but y’all need it just as bad. I pray you get some more rain soon, too.”

Yesterday, I was given a rain gauge. It’s not as classic as Dad’s. Mine is plastic, not sheet metal, and I doubt it would survive multiple moves. But it’ll do the job. It’ll read rainfall – to the eighth of an inch – and let me keep track of the blessings God showers (literally) upon the earth in rain. It’ll remind me to give thanks to God for all of His blessings, both what I can see and count, and what I cannot see or measure. I hope I can be generous and genuine in rejoicing with others who get rain I don’t, and it’ll remind me to be humble when we receive rain others missed. And, when there is nothing in it but dust and dry grass, I hope it teaches me faithfulness in trusting the Lord will provide, both now and into eternity.

All that from a gimme rain gauge. Now, I have to find a gimme calendar to keep track of the blessings of rain God sends to this house.

After the Fear - Matthew 10:21-22

Last week was a lot of fun, wasn’t it? You were excited that you finally got to hear what your new pastor sounded like in the pulpit and in bible class. You had eagerly anticipated my arrival and you finally were able to say “Here is our new pastor.” But it wasn’t just you. I felt like a kid at Christmas, just as excited and eager to stand here and preach as I have ever been. We had good company. You remember in last week’s Gospel lesson, Jesus sent out the disciples into the world to do His continued work of compassion, healing the sick, driving out demons, and doing all things in His name.

You might imagine their excitement. They’ve been with Jesus for quite some time – probably a year or so. They’ve seen and heard the incredible things Jesus has done. Just in Capernaum alone, Jesus healed Peter’s mother-in-law, raised Jairus’ daughter from the dead, and He had calmed a terrifying storm as they tried to cross the Sea of Galilee. Truly, this was God who dwelled among them and His power, His wisdom, His strength was phenomenal. And, now He was giving His authority to distribute His compassion to the crowds, the shepherd-less people of Israel – their own countrymen! – and deliver the news that the Kingdom of heaven is at hand. In short, they are to tell the Israelites that the Messiah whom John the Baptist had been preaching about was here in the person of Jesus, the Christ. What could go wrong?

Have you had that experience where you have been given something exciting to do – perhaps a new job, a new responsibility, or even a new level of a game. You’re fired up, ready to go, and then someone holds their hand up and says, “How hold on a second…there are a few things I need to tell you about…” and they proceed to give you a list of warnings, pitfalls, and things that can all go wrong. It’s amazing how fast your excitement can disappear in the face of all that cautioning.

Jesus is doing exactly that to His disciples. Jesus warns that persecution will certainly come, and it will be as if they have bullseyes on their tunics. Immediately before our Gospel text began, Jesus said, “Behold, I am sending you out as sheep in the midst of wolves… Beware of men, for they will deliver you over to courts and flog you in their synagogues and you will be dragged before governors and kings for my sake to bear witness before them and the gentiles. When they deliver you over, do not be anxious how you are to speak or what you are to say, for what you are to say will be given to you in that hour.” Then, He goes on to say, “Brother will deliver brother over to death and the father his child and children will rise against parents and have them put to death, and you will be hated by all for my name’s sake.”

It’s a cup of cold water to the face, isn’t it? He gives a double-barrel blast of harsh reality to the disciples as they prepare to leave. Jesus knows what will happen to His disciples – immediately, these things will happen to a certain degree, but even more so after He ascends. Jesus knows that His disciples will be facing every type of persecution from His message being passively ignored, to the men physically thrown out of town, to being beaten, eventually even being martyred --- all because they will dare to preach Jesus.

In the midst of these warnings, Jesus speaks a very clear word of assurance: Do not be afraid. Three times, Jesus uses those words in this morning’s Gospel reading. “Do not be afraid.”

The first time, he says “Do not be afraid, for nothing is covered that will not be revealed or hidden that will not be known.” The disciples are armed with His Gospel message, and it will both cut like a razor into the darkness of sin and bind up the hearts that have been crushed by the burden of guilt. His Word is powerful and it will not be stopped, no matter what the devil might throw against the disciples.

Yet, to them He says, “Do not be afraid” again a second time. “Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell.”  Their deepest fear, love and trust is directed to the Father – what is taught in the First Commandment – not anyone else. It is “Far better to be rejected and killed by enemies who themselves are mortal than to find out that, because of your unbelief and apostasy, the Father had become your eternal enemy,” (Gibbs, Matthew 1:1-11:1: 529).

Jesus’ third “do not be afraid,” acts as a final end to all excuses. I wonder if the disciples were all standing there with their hands in the air, ready to offer their final reasons – excuses – why this wouldn’t work. Some had families to take care of, some had businesses, some had homes they were responsible to manage. To close off all excuses, Jesus uses a sparrow as his object lesson: two for a penny, Jesus says – that’s all they’re worth on the market. Yet, the Father knows when one of these little birds falls to the ground. If that’s true of one half of a two-for-a-penny deal, how much more will he care for you? Do you think He doesn’t know about your family? Your house? Your business? Of course He does! And He will provide for you, both now and into eternity, so that not even the hairs on your head will be lost.

There is one thing that we do need to draw attention to: Jesus says we need not be afraid because of God’s mercy and love for us will take care of us into eternity. Jesus never says that evil won’t come to His disciples. In fact, if anything, Jesus promises that suffering, difficulty, persecution, and even martyrdom will come for those who follow Him. But, out of the Father’s loving care, He will be with the disciples even if they are suffering and dying.

Do we really believe that? Last week, we left this holy hill of Zion to go back down to the valley. We were excited, encouraged, and energized, ready to – figuratively, at least – charge hell with a bucket of Baptismal water. But what happened as the week went on? Were you bold for Jesus? Did you dare to speak His name publically and confess faith in Him as your savior?

Maybe…maybe not. As a modern North American society, we – we being “the church” or perhaps, more simply, Christians – have bought into the notion that it’s not polite to talk about religion. We use the phrase, “I’m afraid” as a political correctness shield of why we can’t or won’t talk openly about Jesus and we try to hide behind it with phrases like “I’m afraid I’ll offend someone if I tell them about Jesus.” We try to pass our own fear, our own angst, our own worry off in such a casual way, but in reality, that is, if we’re honest with ourselves, we are probably saying something like this:

·       I’m afraid they will think I’m a religious nut.

·       I’m afraid HR will call me into the office for a lecture. I can’t afford anymore marks in my file.

·       I’m afraid my friends will stop talking to me.

·       I’m afraid my family will be embarrassed.

·       I’m afraid my business might suffer if I’m too open about my faith.

·       I’m afraid my boss will find out and he’ll shame me in front of my colleagues.

·       I’m afraid I can’t answer people’s questions.

·       I’m afraid I’ll be embarrassed and look like a fool.

Fear is a powerful emotion and motivator. It’s so powerful that sociologists and pollsters now believe that fear led potential Republican voters to lie about who they would vote for in last fall’s presidential election, lest it become known they were Trump supporters and it produce negative results in their personal or professional lives. Imagine that – to be so afraid of what could happen after casting a secret ballot that they tried to lie.

But perhaps are wrong on two levels. It’s not that strange at all. After all, the Christian church has been doing something like that for centuries. Think about it: we confess loudly on Sunday mornings, “I believe in God the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth,” but on Tuesday when the discussion turns to evolution and how “Everyone knows it is true that the world evolved from a spec of dust and a cosmic electrostatic charge…”, we remain mum instead of defending the 7 day creation account of the Bible. On Thursday, a television show has a so-called expert saying that all religions basically believe the same thing and we are intolerant if we don’t accept that, and we don’t write or call the station to complain. Saturday morning, the other members of your golf foursome start using some rather rough language and, when you say something about not appreciating the words they are using, they sigh, roll their eyes, and become obnoxious. So, after a few holes, you make a schmarmy comment about “Aw, my pastor isn’t here…” and you join right in.

“Do not be afraid”…but we are. And our fear, at times, keeps us from being bold disciples.

So, what are we to do?

Repent. Repent of the times we have been too afraid to speak. Repent of the times we have been afraid to confess Jesus. Repent of the times we have taken the easy way out instead of engaging those who need to hear. Repent of the times we have loved our own comfort and earthly safety and first article gifts more than the eternal gifts Christ died to give us.

Repent. And believe Jesus’ words: do not be afraid. And be His apostles. Remember, Jesus doesn’t say “Don’t be afraid, I was just kidding about going out into the world.” No, even with His words of prophetic warning, He still sends them out into the world, armed with His Word, His Spirit, and His comfort: do not be afraid. Last week, He showed compassion to the many people by sending them pastors. This week, He shows compassion by speaking to the apostles, do not be afraid.

He is able to say that because He knows He will face worse fears than anyone can ever imagine. What the disciples will experience at the hands of the wicked and sinful men will be multiplied against Jesus as He is seized, beaten and drug before a – quote – “court of justice.” Set up on a sham charge, He is convicted of a capitol crime and sentenced to death by one of the most cruel instrument of torture the world has ever devised. There, separated from both heaven and earth, He experiences hell on earth, taking into and onto Himself the entire, eternal, damnable punishment that our sins deserve. In that moment on the cross, Jesus died for all of the times we were too afraid to speak His name, to embarrassed to say He is the only way to eternal salvation, too “afraid to offend” by living the Christian faith, too afraid to be compassionate.

It always amazes me to read the Easter narrative. The disciples were afraid. Seems that they spend a lot of time doing that, doesn’t it? Huddled together for fear of the Jews, Jesus nevertheless appears to them, standing right in their midst. He comes to them in their fears, not leaving them abandoned. He comes to them, to rescue. He comes to them so they do not stay enwrapped in their fears which prevented them from apostling. And do you remember what He said to them? Peace. Stop being doubters and believe. In other words, do not be afraid. 

That promise is true for us, the saints of God in this place. In His compassion, Christ Jesus strengthens us as He sends us from this Zion hilltop to the valley around us. You have all of His gifts: He made you His in baptismal waters. He strengthens us with body and blood, given and shed for you. He reminds you over and over that you have been forgiven all of your sins in His name. He joins you with brothers and sisters in Christ to encourage each other and remind each other, “do not be afraid.” And then he places you in your vocation where He works through you in Christian service and witness to those around you.

In that vocation, you will have God-given opportunities to speak to others who do not know, believe in, and have eternal salvation in Christ Jesus. It might be happen with the contractor who comes to your house and asks about the crosses hanging on your wall, or the mechanic who asks you about what you did over the weekend, or the server who brings you your plate of food this afternoon, or the surgeon who asks how you can be so calm. Do not be afraid. Take a deep breath. And you, empowered by the Spirit of Christ, given His Word and His promise and His blessing of “Do not be afraid,” you open your mouth and you begin to speak.

In the name of Jesus. Amen.

He Had Compassion - Matt 9:36

Initial sermon at Zion Lutheran Church, Mission Valley TX, 6-18-17, Pentecost 2.

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

It is good to be here, among you, the saints of God at Zion Lutheran Church in Mission Valley. In many ways, this already feels like home.

I’ve said it over and over, and I want to say it one more time: Thank you. Thank you for the warm welcome, the kind words, the prayerful support, and the home you have provided for us. Thank you for making us feel so welcome already. Thank you for letting our kids go along to Camp Lone Star this past week and for the invitations to be part of your own family lives. It is exciting to be here and I pray God blesses this relationship of pastor and people, of people and pastor.

Had I known what a good job my brother would have done preaching last Sunday, I would have picked someone else who would have set the bar far lower. In fact, he told me that someone talked to him about coming here, too, and as he said it to me, you could have had Pastor Meyer the Older and Pastor Meyer the Handsome.

Nevertheless, here we are. God bless us as we serve our neighbors in this place.

The text for this morning is the Gospel reading that was read a few moments ago, especially these words: “When Jesus saw the crowds, He had compassion on them.”

I think for many people, compassion is a synonym of kindness. Not really. It’s much, much more than kindness. Compassion is mercy put into flesh-and-blood action. Compassion is a visceral reaction, meaning it’s what makes your guts hurt when you see something and just have to respond. Compassion is a gut-testing thing and it usually means getting dirty, getting down on someone’s level where they are. Compassion moves you from inaction and into action and it leads you in the dirt – figuratively or literally – down in the ditch in the dust or the muck. Compassion inserts you into their pain, in their misery, whether it’s in the unemployment office, in Christ’s kitchen, at the death-bed, or in the funeral home as they stare down the valley of the shadow – getting down eyeball to eyeball with them and be with them in that hard, difficult place and time. Compassion puts you on their level. Compassion says “I’m not better than you…I’m with you, and I won’t let you be alone.” Compassion is visceral.

The Greek word for compassion is “splancthon.” When the word was first used in ancient literature, it had to do with the offal – the miscellaneous organs – of the animal that was butchered. As the word’s usage evolved, however, it moved from a generic term for guts to the gut reaction that happened at the sight of people’s suffering.

The reason I tell you all of this is that it is hugely significant that St. Matthew says that Jesus has compassion when he sees the shepherd-less people. Do you get it? This isn’t some distant, far-off and aloof Divinity. This Jesus is God-in-flesh, perfect God who comes to dwell among His own dear people. This same Jesus, who was with God from the beginning, now stands as a man among people and what He sees hurts.  His pain is so deep that His guts hurt.

Think of all the things that cause you to have compassion and react: the attempted mass murder at a baseball game makes you take a position on guns and you write your congressman; seeing the forgotten people abandoned in a nursing home leads you to spend an afternoon a week playing board games with a couple of residents; news of wildfires in West Texas lead you to donate hay to starving cattle; people who stand at the corner with “Will Work for Food” signs motivate you to work at Christ Kitchen next Saturday. These are all good, noble, and appropriate responses for the Christian who struggles with life in this world.

For Jesus, His compasison comes from a different set of circumstances. In fact, Matthew lets us know that these kind of first article needs – food, illness, even death – these have all already met the compassion of Jesus. He’s been performing miracles all through Capernaum and the surrounding area, from healing Peter’s mother in law, to calming the storm threatening to sink the disciples’ ship, to raising Jairus’ daughter from the dead. All of these needs caused Jesus to act and react. But, St. Matthew never says that these things – not even the death of the little girl – cause His guts to hurt.

What makes Jesus feel compassion is this: the people were like sheep without a shepherd. They were a congregation without a pastor – not because the pastors weren’t there. Oh, no – they were there, alright. All of the people whose responsibilities include caring for the eternal souls and welfare of the people, feeding them God’s Word, blessing them with His name, imparting and delivering the gifts of God day in and day out, praying and interceding for them – all of these shepherds stood by and abandoned their flocks to be consumed by the wolves and bears and lions of the devil, the world, and their own sinful flesh.

And, meanwhile, as the sheep were devoured one by one by being led to take their eyes off of the promise of the coming Messiah, now fulfilled in Jesus, the shepherds got fat and sassy. They debated the fine intricacies of the Law and argued ways people were guilty of breaking the Law…all the while holding themselves up as high, and great, and holy men. They proffered themselves as near divine with practically sinless lives all the while looking down their pharaisaical noses at sinners, tax collectors and prostitutes. Instead of having compassion of their own for these people of God, these sheep, who were wandering and in danger of being forever lost and damned, they passed by, lest they dirty themselves in the process. They were compassion-less for those who needed compassion.

This is what causes Jesus to have compassion: these sheep were shepherdless.

How Jesus demonstrates His compassion is a bit surprising to us. Put yourself in that situation and, honestly, consider if you were Him, what might you do? Make political maneuvers, move to a different church, start a whispering campaign? Jesus doesn’t do any of these things. But it’s not just that His guts hurt. His compassion is so powerful that He is moved to do something to help. But how Jesus demonstrates compassion might be a bit surprising.

He tells His disciples to pray. He tells them to pray --- He, Jesus, who – as King Herod said at Jesus’ birth – is the “Ruler who will indeed shepherd my people, Israel.” He is the Good Shepherd, the faithful shepherd, the self-sacrificing shepherd who will give Himself for the sake of His Sheep. He, the Good Shepherd who will risk everything in order to seek and save the lost; He the Good Shepherd who seeks out each single lamb – He, Jesus, speaks to His disciples and urges them to pray to the Father that He sends out workers into the harvest field.

And, then to further demonstrate His compassion, He sends out the 12 disciples – for the first time identified as apostles, meaning “sent ones” – out into the harvest field. They are to be instruments and vehicles of His compassion, delivering it to those who were shepherdless. “And He called to Him His twelve disciples and gave them authority over unclean spirits, to cast them out, and to heal every disease and every affliction.” The miracles they perform, the raising from the dead, the exorcisms, and the healing will all be demonstrations of His power, yes – but more than that, of His compassion.

Yet, His compassion is found, chiefly, not in miracles, or exorcisms, or even the raising from the dead in this life. His compassion is found in the cross. The Kingdom is at hand, Jesus said – the time for His Cross is drawing closer. Because of His great compassion, He will suffer and die and rise for the entire world. His guts will hurt – so much so that he sweats great drops of blood. But it’s not just his guts…it’ll be his back from the whips, and his face from the slaps, and his head from the crown of thorns, and his spirit…his spirit as He realizes that even His Father in heaven has abandoned him in the face of hell on earth as the entire sin-filled burden of the world is emptied out upon Him. He takes it all, out of His great compassion for you.

You – the saints of God at Zion – you ought to understand this text because this has been you. Pastor Judge has been a gift of Christ’s great compassion for you, caring for you during this long vacancy, faithfully calling, gathering and encouraging you. And, having been recipients of Christ’s compassion, you shared His compassion with others. Think of all of the ministry that has gone on in this place for the last 4 years.  Think of all the people who received the compassion of Jesus through your hands, your voices and your feet. When you visited an elderly member, when you sent a card to someone who was ill, when you prayed for your tired congregational leaders you were sharing Christ’s compassion. You were His disciples.

I know it’s been a long vacancy and I know many of you are tired. Take a break…catch your breath. Soak up Christ’s great compassion for you. In His own good time, He has provided a full-time, called and ordained pastor for you again. But, I do want you to understand one very important thing: you are continuing the perfect track record of a church calling a sinful man to serve as your pastor. And, unfortunately, the time will come – sooner or later – when you will experience that first-hand. And, I want you to know that I am continuing the perfect track record of pastors who serve among sinners. And the time will come, sooner or later, when I will experience that, too. And when that happens, when we hurt each other, here is what we will do: we will turn back to this passage and we will remember this, the compassion of Jesus. We will remember that in His great compassion He has united us together as pastor and people who are called to demonstrate His compassion to each other and to those around us.

You know what…Let’s not wait for that day to come. Commit to that today: that we demonstrate Christ’s compassion. In His compassion, we will pray for those around us. In His compassion, we will speak the name of Jesus without shame and without bashfulness. In His compassion, we will speak the truth that there is salvation in no other name under heaven. In His compassion, we will be bold to invite those who are like sheep without a shepherd so that they, too, may receive the compassion of Jesus in Word and Sacrament.

By God’s grace, Zion will be known as a compassionate congregation in this community, concerned with the eternal welfare of people that we live among. God grant it for Jesus' sake.
Amen.

What do I say? – Romans 8:26-27

I wrote this in the fall of 2015, in the depths of my depression (see a previous post, "The Devil is in the Dumbassery"). I knew something was wrong, but not what it was. This was me trying to write it out.

Likewise the Spirit also helps in our weaknesses. For we do not know what we should pray for as we ought, but the Spirit Himself makes intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered. Now He who searches the hearts knows what the mind of the Spirit is, because He makes intercession for the saints according to the will of God. (Romans 8:26-27 NIV)

Words fail me.
My guts churn, hot tears burn my eyes.
My heart slogs in my chest.
Fists, clenched, pound my knees.
Hurt, unexplainable; pain, insufferable;
Wounded where no one can see.
Sleep teases me, no comfort even in rest.

“Take it to the Lord in prayer”? 
If I could laugh, I would -
I can’t even explain it to myself!

My thoughts bounce like flotsam caught in the surf -
Abandoned…alone…fearful -
Tossed to-and-fro, making no headway.
At least the surf roars and says its peace,
Foaming out its frustration and anger,
Pounding the shore,
Retreating to attack again.
But Me?  A crest of hope carries me high
Only to fall out from under me,
Crushing me into the depths.
A whirlpool of darkness sucks me into its depths.

Who can understand this?
I can barely describe it to myself
How can I possibly explain it to others?
How can I cry out when I can’t speak!

Who will rescue me?

Lord, in Your mercy…
   hear my prayer –
-Even though I don’t know what it is.
   hear my prayer –
-Even when I can’t plead for help.
   hear my prayer –
-Even when I don’t know how to pray.
Lord, in Your mercy…
   hear my prayer…
…of silence.

The Scriptures promise this,  I and here I trust,
That the Spirit cries out for me;
The paraclete intercedes on my behalf:
   Saying what I can’t say;
   Praying what I can’t pray;
   Giving words to my groans.
Perfect prayers spoken for an imperfect person;
Prayed in the name of the One who understands our need.

The Lord hears my prayer.
He knows my need.

What do I say?
“Amen.”

- Rev. Jonathan F. Meyer
Crosby, Texas

A Home is Where the Heart Is

Today we said farewell to our house that we've owned - with help from the bank - for the last 13 years.

There are a lot of good memories there. From first steps to first dates, from laughter to love, there are wonderful memories contained within those walls. Yes, there are sorrows, too, and any honest conversation will admit and own them...but not right now, please. Thanks be to God, He blessed us with each joy and carried us through each sorrow that we shared within the walls of our house and home.

When we arrived in the house in May, 2004, Alyssa was 6 1/2, Megan was 3, and we were BC, that is, Before Christopher, who arrived in December. Laura and I were only married seven years, but the move from an apartment off of Golf Club Drive into the house on Dover Cliff Court marked our 8th move. The longest we had lived in any place was the first two years of marriage when I was at Seminary; the shortest was 11 months for my vicarage (internship).

So, we joked, at first, that we should save the moving boxes because - given our track record - we would be moving soon. But as months turned into years, the boxes - with a dozen exceptions on the garage shelf - all disappeared and we made the house our home.

We adjusted with the arrival of our son. We adjusted again as the girls grew and each needed their own space. We adjusted again when our son needed his own space. Colors were changed. Layouts were adapted. Carpet was replaced - and so were three toilets (who knew toilet water tanks randomly crack in the middle of the night after 20 plus years of no problems? Me either...until it did!).

And, now it's time to adjust again. With a turn of the key as the dead-bolt thunked into place, we were done. And, taking a last look, I climbed into my car. Feeling a little like the Clampetts, with our cars' nooks and crannies stuffed tight,  I followed Laura, two kids and three cats down the driveway, out of the subdivision, and to the highway. 

As I write this, I am five hours gone from Dover Cliff Court in Crosby and I am about two hours into our new house on FM 236 in Mission Valley. It's the house we will be living in, and it will become our home - but it's not quite there, yet. As our things arrive tomorrow and get placed in the days ahead, that will help. As we get used to the new sounds and smells  (not bad smells, just different smells) that will help. And as the memories build, that will help, too.

And, God willing, this house will become our new home.

The Devil is in the Dumbassery

Dr. Amie sat, waiting patiently. I was mid-story, pausing to get my thoughts and emotions under control. Recently diagnosed as being moderately depressed, I was in her office for counseling. My mind had gotten so twisted that I was actually my own worst enemy.   My conscience, my inner voice, was so ugly, convicting and damning, it was as if nothing I did was good enough.

"Enough." That is a very powerful word and, depending on it's context, it can either good or bad, it can help or destroy. For me, it was a self-imposed branding of a scarlet letter of F for failure upon my chest. My inner voice said I wasn't a good enough pastor, a loving enough husband, a patient enough father, a handsome enough man. Enough, enough, enough! In every vocation I tried to fulfill, my conscience condemned me as a failure, and it did so in the ugliest and most brutal language you can imagine.

Dr. Amie interrupted my silence with two simple, direct questions: "What is this dumbassery?" I snorted at her creative use of such professional, diagnostic, and therapeutic terminology. She added, "Why are you doing this to yourself?"

The answer to that question was as much theological as medical. The medical diagnosis was depression. The theological diagnosis was that the devil was in the dumbassery going on in my head.

A Christian conscience is supposed to be like an umpire, telling you when actions are right and wrong. My conscience was telling me that I was bad, aweful and not very nice...and, as the great philosopher Dr. Seuss once penned, I felt "those were my good points, to be quite precise!"

Dr. Amie was helpful in getting to the root of the problem, and she offered very good counsel on dealing with and fighting against these kind of thoughts. In particular, she helped me separate behavior (making a good or bad choice) from my identity (I am good or bad because of this choice.). But, it was my pastors who helped to apply the cure for my "enoughness." Instead of letting me fester in my self-loading, they pointed me to Jesus.

Where my voice said I wasn't good enough, they reminded me that Christ was perfectly good enough in my place. Where I felt I was a failure, they showed me where Christ succeeded in conquering sin, death and the grave for me.  Where my voice declared me  "Unworthy!" like a masculine Hester Prinn, they reminded me of the baptismal promise showered on me as an infant and repeated every Sunday in the words of absolution: all of my sins were washed away in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.

In those conversations, I learned the power of Romans 8:1 - "There is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus." And, with my conscience absolved and restored, my inner voice was calmed and soothed.

The devil's dumbassery is the greatest and most dangerous dumbassery of all: that we doubt that we are forgiven for Christ’s sake.

Enough with enough! Deny the dumbassery and instead cling to Christ. Baptized into Jesus, His perfection is yours. Join me in reveling in that blessed comfort, for there is no condemnation for those who are in Him.

Pastoral Ministry 101, a Dollar of Gas & Check the Oil, Please

I graduated high school on a beautiful Saturday night in May of 1992. The following Monday I reported for duty, 8am, at Mickan Motor and Implement Company in Walburg, Texas. Mickan's is the local car garage, gas station, tire sales & service shop, and tractor repair place. It's also a hang-out for old timers - the men, not the pocket knives, although we sold those as well (the knives, not the men) - to tell stories over a cool one at the end of the day.

Mr. Mickan, the owner, gave me my first job. My very first task was driving a push broom, sweeping under shelves and around stacks of stuff, but it was my second task that has forever massaged my name into the tender undersides of three generations of Mickan feet: I was on sticker burr patrol. Armed with an old hunting knife and a 5 gallon bucket, I coursed the acre-sized yard, stalking and digging out sticker burrs like I was auditioning for The Hurt Locker. My diligence paid off. Only now, 25 years later, have a couple of sticker burrs appeared. Too bad: the warranty expired last summer.

While my theological education came in the seminary classroom and parish, working for Mr. Mickan taught me three important things about ministry that the Seminary just didn't prepare me for.

I learned to get dirty. I went home every night an absolutely smelly, filthy mess. Dirt, oil and grease were part of the daily pallet of blacks and browns that spread across my jeans and shirts. Dirt was always present - so, to do the job right you got dirty. This is true of ministry, albeit more of a figurative dirt. Ministry with people is dirty work: broken marriages, shattered families, unemployment, suicide of loved ones, death of children...it's messy business. A pastor cannot be timid - although he better be patient and careful - when entering into Satan's pain-filled cacophony armed only with God's Word, His Spirit, and prayer. Pastors get dirty when working with couples on the verge of divorce, or teens dabbling in the occult, and at the bedside of a dying man. It's dirty, but necessary, work so that the living water of Christ's words wash the dirt away. I learned to not be afraid to get dirty from Mr. Mickan.

I learned how to listen as the old timers told their stories. Good ol' boys like Martin, Bud, Gus, Harry, Irvin and Mr. Mickan himself would sit in the breezeway and talk. If I wasn't busy, I would sit with them. God blessed me with the good sense to just be quiet, so I listened. More than that, I learned to listen between the words to hear what he was really saying. It wasn't so much a story about gardening, for example, as it was remembering how his wife made pickles...and he only had one jar left since she passed on last spring, so he wasn't sure if he could plant cucumbers again or not. That ability to listen and discern has served me well, over the years - sometimes it's what's not being said that's most important. I learned to sit down and listen, not be in a hurry, and to get the full story. Also, I learned that just because I've heard the story once or twice before, it doesn't really hurt to listen again. This is especially true of shut-ins or people who don't get many visitors. They appreciate simply having a listening audience. I learned to listen from Mr. Mickan.

I also learned that mistakes will happen, but when they happen it's best to admit it and learn from it so it doesn't happen again. Pete, a tough-as-old-saddle-leather customer came to the shop to get a new set of tires. As he chewed his cigar down from a nub to a stub, I finished installing the tires on his truck, put the lug nuts on, set the truck down, reported the job finished and that I was heading home to lunch. I had barely gotten home when the phone rang - it was Mr. Mickan wanting to know if I had forgotten to put the hubcaps back on this fellow's truck, since there were 4 sets sitting where the truck had been. Instantly, I knew that not only did I forget the hub caps, I also failed to use an air gun to snug the lug nuts - they were only finger tight! I told Mr. Mickan my mistake. As I was quickly driving back to the shop, in the meantime Pete had returned as well, his truck wobbling and jerking from wheels just barely hanging onto the hubs. My mistake cost the shop four sets of lugs and nuts and the labor to install them. The rims were salvageable. Most important, other than eating the rest of his cigar in anger, the customer was fine. My mistake didn't cause any permanent harm. While we can joke about it now, Mr. Mickan told me later that day that had I lied or tried to cover up my mistake when he called, I would have been fired immediately. Instead, having admitted my mistake, he gave me another chance. In the ministry, this is called confession. I've made plenty of mistakes - some were accidents, some were outright sins against others - in my ministry. It's not easy, or comfortable, or enjoyable to confess my errors. But, with deep humility and in the hope of a shower of grace, I strive to admit and confess when I am wrong. I learned to confess from Mr. Mickan. (And, very gratefully, I learned about receiving mercy. I did not get what I deserved; instead, I was forgiven my mistake and given a second chance that stretched to four more summers of employment.)

I learned other things about being a faithful employee, treating a customer fairly, honoring the boss's authority, and doing the best one can. It was hard work, hit work, and sometimes dangerous work but I loved it all and I loved the Mickan family, most especially Mr. Mickan. Mr. Mickan is retired now, but he's still around the place. If you're able, and he's there and in the mood, ask him to tell you a story. Sit down, slow down a notch or two, and learn to listen.

On Saying "Goodbye"

Two weeks ago I delivered the last  of more than 800 sermons at Our Shepherd Lutheran Church in Crosby, Texas. Over the course of thirteen years and four months I united 42 souls, including my son, with Christ through holy Baptism; 72 people, including my two daughters, were confirmed in their Baptismal faith by the power of the Spirit of God; 12 couples were joined as husband and wife through holy matrimony; 3 couples reaffirmed their wedding vows on their anniversary; and 45 souls fell asleep in Jesus. 

Those are all quantitative ways to measure ministry. Page counts, names on a memorial plaque, and calendar changes have their purpose. Useful, yes - to a degree. They serve as sanctified markers on the memory's scenic drive: A story unfolds/as each name passes/to remember the story/of lads and lasses - Berma Shave!

But there is part of ministry that cannot be quantified. How can I express in magnitude, or breadth, or depth the feelings that covered the entire emotional spectrum from the sudden, joyful fullness of the baby basinett holding a vibrant, loud newborn child to the terribly sudden fullness of the cold, steel coffin where the almost-but-not-quite-lifelike face of a loved one waits in silent repose. I've been in hospice rooms where a child said, "Pastor...no one will answer me...is my daddy gonna die?" I've visited a hospital room where the doctors used the wonderful word, "remission," only moments earlier. I sat with a grieving mother where we simply couldn't speak; I've prayed where only the Holy Spirit could understand the muttered rumbles; I've sung the Great Doxology with gusto and I've sung the Nunc Dimmittis with my own heart, broken.

When you get a sense of those things, you understand why saying "goodbye" is so hard. These aren't just people who go to my church. These are saints of God, whose lives and souls were entrusted to my spiritual care. I lived, served, laughed and cried among them, with them. As each of us are joined to Christ, as individuals, we are united through Christ to each other. That means that these aren't just people. They...no, we --- we are Christ's people, making us brothers and sisters in Christ. And, having been joined together through joy and sorrow - and it was even money sometimes which category some meetings fell in - it's now time to say goodbye.

                                    Sunset at Our Shepherd Lutheran Church - May 31, 2017

Goodbye comes from Old English, a contraction of the phrase, "God be with you." It is, in part, a blessing as one invokes God's name upon the departing people.  You see, when God's name is invoked, His gifts are delivered, particularly peace. So the blessing also Its also serves as a prayer. May God grant us His peace until we see each other again. 

That peace is a great comfort to me these days as I prepare to move away to serve a new congregation. I have no doubt - zero - that accepting the call to Zion, Mission Valley, is the right choice. My concerns have been calmed, one by one, as each piece of this transition clicked into place like my kids' Legos. 

I'm excited and eager to begin. But there is that touch of sadness, nevertheless. So, my blessing and my prayer is a simple one, yet as heartfelt as can be, both for the saints of Our Shepherd and for me and my family: God be with you. Goodbye. 

Words, Crosses & Wood Shavings

Words, Crosses & Wood Shavings

This is a new adventure for me: creating a blog where my writing is available in the public forum. It’s a bit daunting: there are so many blogs on the internet, what makes me think I have anything unique to offer? Frankly, I lay the blame at the feet of those around me – a very dear high school English teacher who has remained a friend and has encouraged my writing; a published poet who submitted one of my poems for publication; my wife who is a constant source of support; a sainted professor of English who took me under his wing; and some of the saints of God at my previous parish who thought I had a knack for the written word. So, with a modicum of encouragement, and the knowledge that I write a weekly sermon (granted – to be heard, not read), I’ll take the plunge and see how things turn out.

As a bit of introduction, by vocation, I am a Lutheran pastor, husband, father and neighbor. Words are a huge part of each of those pieces of my life. On any given day, I’m reading my kid's homework pages, helping create – I mean, edit - assignments, helping my wife with her classwork, or working on my weekly sermon. There are lots of words that get put down on paper or a computer screen each week in my house and study. Or, when not putting words in paper, I will often have words in front of me, reading to continue learning, growing, and thinking. Theology is always worth reading, and I spend a great deal of time with professional – that is to say, pastoral – reading. I’m in the process of moving, and while I cannot tell you the number of books I have, I  can tell you that my pastoral library is approximately 81 linear feet of books. That’s a lot of whiskey boxes – I assure you. In the evenings, I enjoy mystery and suspense novels, historical non-fiction, and other things that strike my fancy. I prefer to read, rather than watch, the news, and I keep a couple books loaded on my phone so if I’m stuck somewhere, I have something to read.

By avocation, I enjoy working with my hands. I am an amateur wood worker and dabble in all sorts of wood projects. I have a full woodshop and am getting pretty good at making toothpicks, sawdust, and boards that are too short. While I have plenty of power tools (insert Tim “The Tool Man” Taylor grunts here) I find great satisfaction in taking a sharp hand plane and, sliding it along the edge of a  a board, watching freshly cut, thin strips of wood curl into tight ribbons.

So, with an interest in words – especially words that tell the story of Jesus as Savior – and in making big pieces of wood into unique, small pieces of wood, I humbly enter the blogosphere with this blog titled “Crosses and Wood Shavings.” I intend to discuss theology, life in South Texas, family, ideas, woodworking, and living as a forgiven child of God.

Thanks for stopping by the shop.

And do be careful…slivers – whether of ideas or wood – have a way of sticking around a while.