Russellings of the Spirit

This one is for the daughter
Of the sister
Of the man who
Oversees the operation
Of the pressing machine
That squeezes the two slabs of wood
Together
Around the dowel rod of black graphite
At the pencil factory
Where this particular pencil first
Came to life.

May she one day discover our connection.
May I awaken to our kinship.
May we together
Discover a world made rich
With unexpectedness
And mercy
And popsicles.

May the wonder of the universe
Shine brightly in our eyes.
And may our children’s children’s children
Reap a harvest of peace.

This morning, while sitting at a red stoplight waiting for it to turn green, I stole a quick glance to my right. A largish commercial panel truck had pulled into the lane beside me and I was curious to discover the nature of its business.

I mean, what else do you do while you’re sitting at a stoplight?

The sign on the side of the truck read, “Steller Landscaping, Inc.” and then provided a short description of their services, a phone number, and a web address where I could find out more, had I been inclined.

“Steller,” I thought to myself, was probably the last name of one of the owners of the company.

But then… since it was a rather long light and I had nothing better to do… I did some additional pondering. I thought, “You know… if they just changed one letter of their company’s name, they could be STELLAR Landscaping. Then they could bill themselves as THE STARS OF THE YARD!”
And then – mercifully – the light turned green. I got back to the business of driving and forgot all about trying to help Mr. Steller market his landscaping company.

It was only much later that I realized I owed a huge debt of gratitude to Mrs. Helen Duncan for that little stoplight epiphany.

Mrs. Duncan, you see, was my eighth grade Latin teacher. Helen Duncan… all 4 feet 10.5 inches of her… was the spritely little lady who worked her fingers to the bone every day to try and transmit a tiny spark of her limitless passion for the Latin language into her sullen eighth grade charges. Meanwhile we students did everything in our power to resist her beckonings and pleadings… content just to pass the tests and move on with our lives.

It was in Mrs. Duncan’s class where I first learned that the Latin word stella meant “star.” I also learned that it was the root word in the word “constellation,” and that when you call something stellar you are saying it is “star-like.”

And then I began to think about similar linguistic tid-bits that have stuck with me through the years… most of which can probably be traced back to Mrs. Duncan’s eighth grade Latin class. I can tell you – with nary a glace at the Etymology On-Line Dictionary – that the word “doxology,” for example, means “praise words.” I can also tell you that when we call something “dilapidated,” we are basing that on the Latin word lapis (stone) to say that it is in a state of being “de-stoned.”

And on and on… ad infinitum. Which, incidentally, is Latin for “to infinity.”

Today I like to think of myself as something of a word-lover. I love exploring their meaning, seeing the way they unlock new mysteries and create others. I am endlessly fascinated at the power of words to persuade and to change hearts and minds. And it may not be too far-fetched to say that my choice of profession (United Methodist pastor) is fundamentally derived from this love of words.

And it is also entirely possible that I have Mrs. Helen Duncan to thank for all of that.

Sadly, however, it is too late for me to thank her face-to-face. She died in 1988 after a long and happy life imparting her singular passion for a dead language to reluctant middle-schoolers.

And so as I look out and see parents all around me sending their children off for a first day of school, I bow and say a prayer of gratitude for the teachers who will be receiving those children. I know they will encounter all manner of obstacles and challenges as they pour passion, knowledge, insight, and humor into the young brains assembled there before them. I know that many will complete their first day and first week utterly exhausted… wondering how they will make it through the year (forgetting, of course, that they just had three months of vacation!)… questioning whether they are making any difference whatsoever.

And so while I cannot say thank you to Mrs. Duncan anymore, let me say “thank you” to the men and women who are teaching my grandchildren, your children, and all the children of the world today.

Your work changes lives in ways you may not ever realize.

You are a blessing.

A couple of weeks ago I was in the midtown Kansas City area with a friend. It was evening. We had just attended an event together and were on our way home.

Suddenly he noticed that his car was low on gas. The needle was down WAY past “E”, so trying to limp back to the suburbs on fumes was not going to be an option.

We pulled in to a filling station and he began the task of swiping his credit card, pulling out the hose, and filling up.

As I sat there idly looking out of my open car window, I suddenly noticed a somewhat shabbily dressed man walk up to my friend while he waited for the tank to fill. I had a strong intuition that there would be a greeting of some kind followed immediately by a request for money.

BINGO! I was right. The exchange went something like this:

SDM: (shabbily dressed man) “Hey man… how’s it going?”

MF: (My friend) “Pretty good. How about you?”

SDM: “It’s all right. But hey… I’m a little down on my luck and could use a couple of bucks. Know what I mean?”

Now at this point, I began to project myself into my friend’s shoes. I heard the thoughts in my mind saying, “If I give this guy money, he’s probably just going to use it for booze or drugs. I’ll just tell him ‘NO’ and get back to pumping my gas. And then we’ll hightail it out of here!”

Oddly my friend did not follow the script in my head. Instead he reached into his back pocket, took out his wallet and said, “Let me see what I’ve got here.” He then pulled out a $1 bill, handed it to the guy and said, “Here you go. It looks like this is all I’ve got. Hope it helps!”

And then, the other guy (the guy who had asked for the money) said, “Hey, man… that’s cool. You know actually, I just need it to buy me a cold beer. It’s been a long day and I really need a beer.”

“Well… at least he’s honest,” I thought to myself.

But then something even more odd happened; they kept talking! My friend asked the man what his name was (he said, “Daryl”), and then told him his name. After shaking hands, he asked Daryl to tell him his story. He listened as Daryl explained that he actually works on a road crew, but doesn’t get paid until the end of next week. So right now, Daryl explained, he is strapped for cash and craving a beer.

They commiserated for a minute or two about the delights of a cold beer after a hard day of work, shook hands, and parted company.

As we pulled away from the gas station, I let a couple of minutes pass in silence, but then could hold back no longer. “Dude…,” I began. “Didn’t you feel weird about giving that guy money? I mean he TOLD YOU he was going to spend it on beer! He didn’t even try to say he needed food for his baby or anything noble like that. So what’s the deal?”

My friend thought a minute and then said, “Yeah, that was a little different. But you know what? I decided that the thing that probably meant a lot more than the dollar I gave him was the simple connection we made. I know that most people he hits up for money probably just turn their backs, ignore him, and tell him to get lost. It wasn’t the money that mattered to me as much as the fact that I was able to look him in the eye and say, ‘Hey, man… I see you. You are somebody. You matter.’”

It reminded me of the story of Hagar and Ishmael when Abraham sent them out into the desert with only one skin of water (the whole story is told in Genesis 21). Hagar was certain that she and her infant son would surely die, alone and forgotten in the harsh Israeli desert. But then God noticed her, provided for her and promised to look after them both.

In the end, when it comes to the basic necessities of life, I am not sure that I would ever put beer on that list. And so in that sense, you couldn’t say that the dollar bill my friend pulled from his wallet provided any of life’s necessities for Daryl.

But I think I came to see that the other gift my friend gave Daryl was much more valuable than any gift of money might have been.

The other gift he gave Daryl was the gift of CONNECTION. And hopefully in that gift of connection, he also gave him the gift of hope.

Dear God… help me make a connection today with someone who currently feels disconnected and alone. AMEN.

“He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation…” – Colossians 1:15, NRSV

“Who wants to go first?”

In my heart of hearts, I almost always want to respond to this question with an enthusiastic “Not me!”

This despite the fact that I am the firstborn of five children and, as a consequence, have weathered more than my share of firsts over the years. First to help smooth out the wrinkles in mom and dad’s parenting techniques, first set of braces, first to fall off a bike, first to go away to summer camp, first non-voluntary recipient of piano lessons, first to experience the business end of dad’s fraternity paddle, first to know teen love and teen heartbreak. First to leave the safety and security of home.

Can I be a little more direct? Going first sucks.

When you are first, there are no tracks in the snow for you to step in… no one has gone ahead and tested the water for you or triggered the booby traps or flipped the coin and headed down the wrong path.

When you are first, there is no “benefit of experience” to call upon. You ARE the experience.

The first person at anything is much more likely to be remembered for their mistakes than for their achievements. Others will likely point to your pioneering example and say, “Look there… see what he did? Now go out there and do exactly the opposite.”

In gatherings of large groups of aligned people, homage is often paid to “those upon whose shoulders we stand.” But rarely, it seems, is their groundbreakingness appreciated in the heat of the moment. Pioneers are usually laughed at. They are called names.

And yet, in any of people, SOMEONE has to go first. Someone has to break the ice.

While I have not studied this species rigorously or scientifically, I’ve discovered that there is a very particular spirit that epitomizes those who belong to the Fellowship of First-Goers. It is a curious combination of a boldness that responds to the call of adventure, and a humility that knows going in that toes will be surely be stubbed in the process.

I will also posit that first-goers are probably not that great with detail and documentation. They rationalize this deficiency by saying that when they are out there on the prow of the ship with the winds of history blowing wildly in their faces they can’t be bothered taking notes. Let others tend to that kind of stuff. “We’re too busy pioneering!” they shout.

Interesting related fact: no matter which way the November presidential election goes, we will all experience an historic first. Either the first woman president will lead our country, or the first reality TV star with zero elected office experience.

As the above passage from Colossians reminds us, Jesus went first… boldly and humbly. The only roadmap he had to go by was the one created by his rich prayer life and his attentive listening to the voice of the Spirit. His trailblazing was wholly sacrificial in nature, his body laid down as a bridge between God and humanity… the temporal and the eternal… heaven and earth… life and death.

As Paul reminded us, in his ultimate act of first-going Jesus, “… emptied himself, taking the form of a slave…” and, “… humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death.” (Phil. 2:7-8, NRSV).

Sometimes people get ribbons, medals, or plaques for going first. Sometimes they don’t.

Jesus knew his reward for going first would be the cross.

And he went first anyway.