And Deliver Us from Eagles

Two favorite hymns of people are “On Eagles’ Wings” and “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.”  The two hymns are both about birds.  Interesting isn’t it?  They are totally opposite variations of bird species.  The hymns reflect that difference.  “On Eagles’ Wings” sings of the Good Lord who is strong and valiant holding his children in the palm of his strong hand.  “His Eye is on the Sparrow” is a more pastoral message caring for all the little, helpless sparrows like a loving mother.  Eagles and sparrows certainly become an odd couple, don’t they?

Many moons ago when I was a baby pastor a colleague told the parable of eagles and sparrows in the church. I may embellish a little.  (The analogy fits most volunteer groups because it is about human nature.)  He said there are eagles and there are sparrows.  Eagles make the place look splendid.  Their noble stature becomes a reflection of the institution. Everyone driving by sees the eagles and takes pictures of the eagles.  Sparrows are in the background flittering around also needing to be fed.  Without ceremony they get their job done being fed and feeding one another.  But then the cameras are put away and the eagles end up scaring away the sparrows.  The sparrows begin to wonder if it is a safe place anymore.

I would say this is a universal condition whenever we gather.  It happens at St. Philomena’s Catholic Church, at Generic Lutheran Church, at the Grand Order of Buffaloes, at the Loyal Daughters of Jupiter, and at Suburbia Elementary PTA.

Oh, I have seen my share of eagles over the years. In my case, it has been at Generic Lutheran Church.  I’ve seen eagles scare sparrows out of study groups that were designed with the sparrow in mind.  I’ve seen eagles scare sparrows out of the choir loft; scare sparrows from junior leadership positions; scare sparrows out of kitchens, sacristies, parking lots, and garden spots.  The sparrows begin to wonder if it is a safe place anymore.

Enter the emerging church:  those are the untraditional communities of faith that don’t look like their parents’ iconic churches.  They are the communities made up of Gen-Xers, Millennial Agers and a scattering of Boomers, students and hipsters, social activists and unchurched people in search of community.  They are sparrows who have nested together.  If someone begins to sound like their eagle parent, they are called out for their offense to the nature of the community.  They are committed sparrows.  Sparrows rock!

We need eagles.  Eagles take on necessary leadership roles.  Eagles initiate programs.  Eagles know the history. Eagles might be bankrolling the organization.  But eagles need to be reminded that they are eagles.  Eagles need to soar humbly and lovingly otherwise they become too “eagle-icious.”

Why can’t we all be robins?

The Sound of Kaleidoscopes

I like to think I have a colorful personality.  Maybe there is a neurological quirk that explains it.  Some months ago while listening to Public Radio, there was a segment about  synesthesia.  It is a neurological condition by which the stimulation of one sensory system involuntarily stimulates a secondary sensory system.  I might be a dumb guy because I never heard of the condition but now, I find it extremely exciting.  Synesthesia is not a troublesome condition unless it goes to an extreme in an individual.  In fact, synesthesia can aid a person in their creativity and productivity.

I find the thingamabob intriguing.  I will call it a thingamabob because “condition” makes it sound like there should be a telethon or a 12-step program for synesthesia.  It is intriguing because I think as a child I experienced it.  For my 6^th or 7^th birthday I received two striped t-shirts.  One was blue and yellow and the other was red and green.  The blue and yellow shirt I called my 6+4 shirt and the other was my 7+3 shirt because those were the number that the colors represented for me.  Being the ever-transparent schoolboy, I explained the correlation to my family.  The explanation was received immediately with laughter and scoffing.  Thus, I repressed any further synesthetic connection between colors and numbers.

People with full-blown synesthesia tell of their mental processes.  As I have mentioned, some people might think of it as a malady.  I think the possibilities are endless. Usually thesecondary sense stimulated is color. In the radio interview I listened to, a young man told how music is a kaleidoscope of color.  Composing music for him is also a coordination of colors.  It raises the question if some of the master composers of the ages were also synesthetes. This makes me wonder if those people who play by ear (a talent I would kill for) have a form of synesthesia.  Golly, have those electric keyboards with color-coded keys screwed up any synesthete who could have been the next Liberace?

Other synesthetes connect numbers and colors.  These are people who do rainbow mathematics in far more advanced forms than my banal 6+4 and 7+3 t-shirts. The complexity of advanced mathematics must look like the largest box of Crayola crayons possible within their minds.  That would mean to me that an abstract subject like math becomes a little more concrete and visual.  On the flip side, there are synesthetes who see art (abstract and traditional) as numbers developing a pattern or a formula.  Again, may some of the great master painters have had a correlation of color and numbers.

Still other synesthetes give color associations to their sense of taste.  Different foods or tastes stimulate visions of color for the individual.  Broccoli may be green but will taste “violet.” Apples may be sky blue. One interviewee sampled a glass of chardonnay and said it was aqua. I could see an individual being a picky eater because they do not want their foods to clash.

Here’s my point:  synesthesia is a thingamabob far more than a condition.  Unless the thingamabob gets out of hand I would think synesthesia might really be a real enhancement to a person’s perception of life.  Meanwhile, I regret that my erstwhile visit to synesthesia had not been repressed.  It would have made balancing the checkbook much prettier.

Requiem aeternum--or something like that

It is interesting how we honor our dead within our culture and how we shy away from the discussion of death.  I beg your pardon, but let me rattle that cage just a little.

In my current commute I drive past the Lone Rock Cemetery.  It is an apt name because I see it as a very lonely looking cemetery. The grass struggles against the weed growth and the weeds are winning.  Some of the graves are decorated with plastic flowers that are faded and wind-blown.  Flags on the graves of veterans desperately wait to be replaced by an auxiliary this coming Memorial Day.  Cemeteries by nature are sad.  That cemetery by its very neglect is sadder.

Halfway Creek Lutheran Church Cemetery, Holmen, Wisconsin, on the other hand, is a place of beauty and reverence.  I spent my first 9 years as a pastor of that congregation.  The cemetery remains a source of pride among the people.  The arbor vitae are pruned every year.  The grass is mowed with precision.  Floral tributes, real or artificial, are disposed of after they reach their peak.  A walk through the cemetery is an unfolding history lesson.  Luther College spent its inaugural year, 1861, on that site before settling in Decorah, Iowa, which adds to the sense of pride the congregation places on this garden of remembrance.  Meanwhile, the church council would expend a great amount of time and energy each month discussing the needs of the cemetery.  I often wondered if we were ministering more to the dead than to the living.

We certainly dispose of the dead in various ways.  Sometimes it is done with pomp and formality.  Sometimes it is done with cool casualness.  Sometimes it happens as a callous afterthought.  Disposition may be accompanied with overt grief or quiet resignation.  Burial may take place with six strong men carrying a fine piece of cabinetry to a grave surrounded by astro-turf that denies the reality of dirt. The deceased’s final resting place may be in an above ground mausoleum for whom, in life, may not have liked the feel of soil.  With an increased choice of cremation, some churches have designated areas on their property for a memorial garden where cremains (I love that word) may be inurned (I love that word, too). I see ads in professional magazines for columbariums that are located in a quiet spot in the church so that Grandpa’s ashes are placed in a little niche in the wall for eternity. I can imagine, however, Grandpa always checked his watch and sputtered when worship lasted more than an hour.

Pardon my irreverence but this has been a frequent topic of conversation for me. My mother was the community funeral singer and my dad was president of the local cemetery association.  The subject of death and funereal customs were commonplace at our dinner table.  My mother had definite opinions about what she wanted at her funeral and we abided by those desires.  “One step above a county funeral” was the direction that we were given.  Being a farmer, my dad lived within the “circle of life” recognizing death as a part of life. He understood that he came from dust and ashes and to dust and ashes he would return.  He just wanted to make sure he would become good topsoil.

For me, I have not gotten around to determining my wishes.  I, too, shall return to dust and ashes.  Shall I delay the inevitable with a hermetically sealed casket and waterproof vault?  Or shall I, in the words of a sainted custodian, “hurry up the process” by way of cremation.  The one thing I know for sure, don’t let them put that horrible lipstick on me!

Here’s the point:  We remember those who have gone before us with reverence and affection.  We may do so with lavish symbols and significant physical memorials.  Or, we may do so with very few markers and reminders because the memory is most important.  I simply ask that whatever choice is ours; it is done tastefully and honorably:  no faded, sleazy arrangements, no tattered flags.  Let them say, “He is at peace.”

We Need More Lerts--Be Alert!

Yes, we all know that I am a geezer and a curmudgeon.  Because of that I confess my sin of self-righteousness.  But, by jingo, there are some things that this geezer sees that are observations of the world around us.

I remember those days when television was in its infancy.  Call me uppity but in northeast Wisconsin we had 3 channels.  Watching the “Noon Show” was very important for farmers with the latest market reports and the entertainment of the little combo that would play live music.  Local news at supper time was sacrosanct.  The weather report by Bobby Nelson required reverent silence.  The sports segment concluded with Big Al Sampson pouring a glass of Schlitz beer into a glass so that it would foam to perfection.  That impressed this kid whose family never had a bottle of beer in the house.

During college years students had to decide if they would eat supper before or after the evening news.  Of course, those were the “war years.”  I don’t remember if it was Vietnam or the War of 1812; it was a while ago.  There were fist fights in the library over the newspapers.

Technology has since expanded.  I do not need to enumerate the myriad ways to communicate from when I depended on jungle drums as a lad.  Despite the instantaneous communication I posit that we have a different perspective.  Where there was once a period that people were excited about getting information and anticipated the next release of news, our society is blasé.  There are way more options at 5:30 p.m. than watching the network news.   At 5:30 p.m. we now give our attention to a sports channel, an oldies channel, the cooking channels, ad nauseum.  In other words, we have narrowed our focus to those things that satisfy and interest us (emphasis on "us").  As a result I think we have limited our Weltanschauung (I love to flaunt my German vocabulary).  Weltanschauung means our vision of the world.  We have lost our global perspective and I think that is sad.  Has instant global communication become so commonplace that we have lost excitement about what is happening in the world?  Have we lost the sense of what is exotic?  Have we become arrogant in how we relate to the world?

I love my computer and I love my smart phone and I love my expanded cable.  But I also love the smell of ink on newsprint as I spread a newspaper across the kitchen table.  I love hearing a local radio newscaster stumble over the names of foreign diplomats and then read the local news.  I love receiving a first-class letter from someone I know that I can read again and again.

There was once a bumper sticker that said, “We Need More Lerts—Be Alert!”  That would be what I am preaching:  expand the vision, see what’s going on in the world.

Can We Talk?

My “brush with celebrity” includes 1) a snapshot of Tennessee Ernie Ford at the Seymour fair and 2) Marissa Myer, the new CEO of Yahoo grew up in one of my interim congregations.  Bless his pea pickin’ heart, Tennessee Ernie Ford is no longer with us.  Marissa Myer on the other hand has been making business news.  She recently reversed the privilege of working from home for Yahoo employees.  Whenever a policy change occurs in business there will be dissent and so it was with this decision.

I’d like to think Ms. Myer’s decision stemmed from her strong confessional background and the influence of Luther and Melanchthon.  But, my guess is that it is purely business theory.  The policy appears to discourage isolationism in the workplace and to encourage communication and teamwork.

For being a sexagenarian I think that I am fairly tech savvy. I text message and depend on email.  I send attachments.  Not to mention, I blog and have two different Facebook pages.  However, nothing compares to live human communication.  Electronic communication will never (in my lifetime) pick up the nuances of human communication.  As far as I know there is not a font for sarcasm or sincerity, skepticism or concern.

The human condition depends on community.  Without some sense of community we slowly weaken.  The human spirit erodes into something that simply goes through the motions of life. There is a certain kind of energy when we come together for a purpose.  As Christians we believe the words of Jesus, “Whenever two or three are gathered in my name I am in the midst of them.”  I think it happens in the secular realms as well.  When we are in cooperative work relationships the results are greater than the sum of the parts.

It’s more fun when we do stuff together, too.  A few years ago I was an interim in a parish where I often had no human connection from Sunday to Sunday.  I had no secretary to kid with, no custodian to kvetch to.  When Christmas came I decided to have a staff party at Culver’s.  I bought an eggnog shake at the drive through.

I hear of people whose religious connection is watching a preacher or two on TV while sitting in jammies and a bathrobe. It may be entertaining but where is the human connection?

From my pastoral perspective or maybe my sexagenarian perspective, in a time of growing isolation, we need those moments to celebrate community.  We need to talk to one another.  We need to wait in lines together.  We need to gather around the water cooler.  We need to be assigned to work together as a team.  We need to initiate dialog.  The human family will only be made strong when it is linked together.  Families are made healthy by authentic communication.  Congregations are healthy when people are in genuine conversation.  Workplaces are productive when face-to-face contact leads to cooperation.

Talk among yourselves!

Lutheran Nuns, Or What?

On one of my church calendars the other day it reminded me of the commemoration of Elizabeth Fedde.  Sadly, Elizabeth Fedde is not especially memorable in church history books.  She was significant in the development of the deaconess movement in the 19^th century.  The notification, however, brought me to a moment of nostalgia and something that modern church members hardly know anything about.  Deaconesses are part of the American church special to the post-immigrant years.

Back in college I participated in the Semester Abroad program spending a semester of my Junior year in Germany.  University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point arranged the month of travel before settling in for the academic term in Munich.  One of our first stops was a stay in Kaiserswerth, a village outside of Dusseldorf.  Kaiserswerth was the motherhouse for a very large deaconess community.  I knew nothing about deaconesses and in retrospect I wish I would have taken greater note.  Deaconesses are women of the Lutheran church dedicated to the social ministry of the church:  nursing, teaching, social work, etc.  Yes, there are similarities to Roman Catholic nuns.  Deaconesses wear a “habit” but not like the medieval garments formerly worn by nuns.  The deaconesses in Germany wore a modest black or gray dress.  Some of the older deaconesses wore a white cap similar to a nurse’s cap.

When I started seminary I was introduced to Sister Arnetta Beyer who was the bursar (bookkeeper) at Wartburg Seminary.  My Kaiserswerth experience gave me heads up but other seminary students were clueless about Lutheran women called “sister.”  Sister Arnetta was from the Milwaukee motherhouse of Lutheran deaconesses.  She and another deaconess were working in Dubuque, Iowa.  Sister Arnetta was from North Dakota and became a deaconess because she was influenced in her youth by another deaconess. 

Deaconess Hospital in Milwaukee, which has long since been merged with another hospital, was the center of ministry for the Milwaukee deaconesses. Unless she was a parish worker, a deaconess worked at the hospital.  Stories were told that if a Wartburg Seminary student became ill and needed hospitalization (days before health insurance), they would be put on the train in Dubuque and sent to Milwaukee to be cared for by the deaconesses.

Because of dwindling numbers of new deaconesses, the Milwaukee motherhouse disbanded as an organization.  The remaining deaconesses working in secular fields continued their tasks.  The consecrated women in their light blue jumpers and white blouses became a ministry of the past.

There are still some deaconess communities within the United States.  Diaconal ministers are recognized within the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America.  Valparaiso University in Indiana has been a training center for deaconesses in the Missouri Synod and the ELCA.

Here’s my point:  Ever since the early days of the Church, diaconal ministry was vital to the church:  Stephan who was martyred, women like Priscilla and Agrippa, Lois and Eunice tended to the details of serving widows and orphans.  There has always been a spot in the life of the church for those blessed deacons and deaconesses who literally touch the lives of the people of God.  Maybe there still is a place for those communities of similar spirited people dedicated to prayer and healing and teaching.

Interim Time

“Interim Time”

When near the end of day, life has drained
Out of light, and it is too soon
For the mind of night to have darkened things,

No place looks like itself, loss of outline
Makes everything look strangely in-between,
Unsure of what has been, or what might come.

In this wan light, even trees seem groundless.
In a while it will be night, but nothing
Here seems to believe the relief of darkness.

You are in this time of the interim
Where everything seems withheld.

The path you took to get here has washed out;
The way forward is still concealed from you.

“The old is not old enough to have died away;
The new is still too young to be born.”

You cannot lay claim to anything;
In this place of dusk,
Your eyes are blurred;
And there is no mirror.

Everyone else has lost sight of your heart
And you can see nowhere to put your trust;
You know you have to make your own way through.

As far as you can, hold your confidence.
Do not allow confusion to squander
This call which is loosening
Your roots in false ground,
That you might come free
From all you have outgrown.

What is being transfigured here in your mind,
And it is difficult and slow to become new.
The more faithfully you can endure here,
The more refined your heart will become
For your arrival in the new dawn.

John O’Donohue, from To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings, 2008.