Getting Loose

Preaching at the Seminary

I think a secret, latent desire of some clergy is to be invited back to the seminary to deliver a sermon. Show the profs, the colleagues, and those know-it-all rookie seminarians how well we are doing, how much better we’ve gotten since the days of theology school.

That will probably never happen to me. I graduated from the seminary at SMU in Dallas. The people invited to do sermons there are accomplished authors or big name preachers.

But . . . I did get to preach to a seminary crowd—St. Mary’s Roman Catholic Seminary in Houston. I was invited by the Rector to address the assembled congregation for the Liturgy of the Hours Evening Prayer on a Sunday evening. I used as my text the first few verses of 1 John 1 and basically pointed out the enthusiasm that John had about his relationship with Jesus, and sort of wondered out loud where our passion, our enthusiasm might lie?

The theologues listened intently, much more so than the normal Sunday morning crowd who may often interpret my musings as something they have to put up with in order to get to the end of the worship hour. The seminarians wanted to see my manuscript. They noticed that I hardly looked at it. How had I arranged it? Look at the enlarged font I had used. Where did I come up with such a novel way of proclaiming the word? Did I know how closely that reading fit in with the gospel reading for that selected day, etc.

All in all it was a very heady occasion for me. I loved it. It fed my soul. It was neat preaching to such a younger, thirsty set of men (and Betsy!)

Wisconsin Death Trip

My wife and I saw Wisconsin Death Trip tonight. I did not know what to expect.

It pulls you in, is shot in somewhat of a documentary style, is based on true stories, and teaches you that some things never change—unrequited love, depression, despair, tragedy, the older generation trying to transmit values to the younger generation, and the lengths to which people will go to cope with the vagaries of life.  

I discovered that the context in which we live in the 21st century is not all that different than it was in a remote backwater area of Wisconsin some 110 years ago.

It was haunting, but nor horrific. Sad, but not pitiful. Contemplative, but not overbearing.

ENTP

Yup. That’s my pigeonhole, my personality type according to Meyers-Briggs.

I had 8 members of my staff go for a workshop assessing our types. I understood many things as a result.

One staff member always moans when asked to do something. But that is what that "type" does! To get information out of me, you have to ask the right question.

According to Marina Margaret Heiss, my letters mean that my type are usually verbally as well as cerebrally quick, and generally love to argue—both for its own sake, and to show off. We tend to have a perverse sense of humor as well, and enjoy playing devil's advocate. We sometimes confuse, even inadvertently hurt, those who don't understand or accept the concept of argument as a sport.

My type are as innovative and ingenious at problem-solving as they are at verbal gymnastics. We have been known to cut corners without regard to the rules if it's expedient.

My group is basically optimistic, however, we tend to become extremely petulant about small setbacks and inconveniences.

In terms of our relationships with others, ENTPs are capable of bonding very closely and, initially, suddenly, with their loved ones. Some appear to be deceptively offhand with their nearest and dearest; others are so demonstrative that they succeed in shocking co-workers who've only seen their professional side. ENTPs tend to be oblivious of the rest of humanity, except as an audience—good, bad, or potential.

Humph.

Just So

I first noticed it when our children were young.  In trying to feed them in their weaning process, I would open my mouth with my eyes wide open trying to get them to open their mouth, so I could shovel the food in.  You know--monkey see, monkey do.

Well, recently I was in the play Annie.  And like it or not, with all the bright lights, you have to wear makeup in order to not look washed out.  That means you have to wear lipstick as well.  And my wife in trying to apply the right shade of lipstick to my lips would open her mouth wide in order to get me to imitate her, which I did . . . you know--monkey see, monkey do.

Well, I have now noticed on more than one occasion that after I have shampooed my hair and am blow drying it, that when I go to brush it into place, I see in the mirror that I am holding my mouth open in some sort of way as if that had something to do with getting my hair just into the right place.  I thought, What is up with that?  And I would promptly shut it.  But somehow the process seemed to go better if I opened my mouth just so.

There must be some connection here--getting something just into the right place and opening your mouth--but I don't get it.

Easter, 2009

Every Sunday ought to be Easter.  And in a sense that is always true.  No matter what season through which we are passing, every Sunday ought to be a little Easter.

In spite of the very threatening weather, we had more people at church this year than last.  It was gratifying to see all the visitors and be able to show off new programs and venues.  Life can be good!

Walter Eugene Meredith

Time has a way of mellowing things out.

I went today to the funeral of our 1967 senior class president from French High School in Beaumont, Texas—Gene Meredith. Believe it or not, he was actually younger than me, and I was one of the youngest people in our class. He died from the effects of a brain glioma. He was a valiant fighter, lasting longer than anyone thought possible.

But it was interesting mixing and mingling with different class mates. While 40+ years ago, there was such class striation with the top group, the "in" crowd, the goat ropers, the athletes, etc., now it seems more to me than we better relate, we are friendlier because we are all survivors in one sense or another.

One of our high profile people in school, Marilyn Dent, died a few years back. That shocked me. She was way too young, but then her older brother Gilbert had been killed at an even younger age than she. And I remember thinking at the time, "If Marilyn can die, then so can I."

But now it was Gene. In some ways, he and his wife Peggy, were the glue that held our class together. Gene was so personable, happy go lucky, full of enthusiasm, interested in the plight of the overlooked or less fortunate. I remember a mild dirty joke he told in high school in one of the portable air conditioned buildings, maybe Mr. Wilson’s class, that made me laugh, and I will not impugn his memory to tell it here, but he had a ready smile and was one of the better looking guys in our class.

His brother Bill has to be the best preserved specimen of anyone I have ever seen looking so very nearly like he did in high school. Still nearly jet black hair that is just now starting to grey. He’s got to be 61! And his wife DeEsta looks pretty nearly the same from high school

I saw Libby Ruysnaars there. I hadn’t seen her in over 40 years. Amazing.  And Rodney Sheffield, and Jerry Rials, and Nancy Budd, and Sandra Golding, and John Wynn, and Suzy Poole, and Steve McAdams, and Jerry Lynne Webber, and Frank Rao, and Bubba Pate, and of course Bruce Gary, and the girl that cut me down to size some 50 years ago—Donna Jo Anderson. I figure I’ve licked my wounds about as much as I can over that rejection.  She decided that she did not want to be my valentine after all.  Talk about the pain and loss of self-esteem!  But I rode with her to the graveyard, so it can’t be all that bad now.

The world is a very different place now in so many ways . . . but then my parents and grandparents have said the same kind of thing with respect to the world in which they grew up. Who knows what the future holds?  I surely do not.

I'd Have to Be Crazy

I know.  I know.  I haven't written on here in forever.  And I need to do better.  But anyway, there is a Willie Nelson song that really haunts me . . . the music more than the lyrics.  It's old, but relatively new to me.  Enjoy.

Wordle

Here is my sermon for this coming Sunday:

O Tannenbaum

The lights on a Christmas tree have a mesmerizing effect on me.

From the earliest times I can remember on 405 Darlington Road in Beaver Falls, I have loved the wonder of Christmas signified in a tree. The twinkle of the lights, trying to figure out which one was going to go off and come back on on those old bigger bulbs, the smell of the evergreen. I can sort of see why the mysterious feline creatures love to congregate around the base of a tree and look at the lights and swat at the balls.

I was so very glad when I discovered when the 12 days of Christmas were. They were not the 12 days leading up to Christmas, but rather the 12 days were between Dec. 25 and January 6 (the Epiphany, of which I knew nothing for years until I got to seminary). That meant that the tree could stay up longer. I was so thankful for that, because somehow the tree charmed me and made me forget the daily grind of existence. It beckoned me to another world, and I willingly went.

For the last two years we have been sans kids. At first I thought last year was going to be horrible. What? Christmas and there’s no kids around? What kind of a Christmas is that? I dreaded it. I was sad. I tried to put on a stiff upper lip. I envied those families that still had children at home, or children who would come in to visit. But . . . it didn’t turn out to be so bad. One of the church families had invited us over to have Christmas dinner with them. They have a large family with differences between them as profound as night and day. I understood that. I understood the noise and mirth and inside jokes. It was like my family. Christmas wasn’t so bad after all. My wife and I had a really good, relaxing time that day. I found out I could survive.

But this year was going to be the same. I didn’t like that. At the last minute I practically tried to bribe two of our kids to spend some time with us, maybe even a couple of days? But no such luck. Because we are in the mode to move to a new house, we just had not bothered much with even thinking about a tree this year. My wife assured me that that was going to be OK without all the fuss and hassle. But I think that somewhere in the five days before Christmas I went out to Home Depot and bought a baby Virginia Pine. I set it on our kitchenette table. My wife loved it. She strung up lights and balls and she put on a big star on top, and I loved looking at it at night with all the other lights off. There is was again. Some of the mystery of Christmas.

I could never understand those Radical Protestants who immediately took down all their Christmas decoration on the 26^th. But then, they had capitulated to the culture which says that Christmas starts immediately after Thanksgiving. And for four weeks of seeing Christmas saturation in stores and parties and being regaled out with singing they are sick of it, and almost like a purgative, can’t wait to put it all away.

Well, we didn’t get our tree until around the 20^th or so, so that meant I could enjoy it long after everyone else had forgotten and moved on to New Year’s resolutions.

I loved our little tree. We burned the lights on it until January 6^th. On that night I said this is the end. We won’t light it up again. I was sad in a way for that. In its glow and warmth I could see the wonder of what I used to be as a little child when life seemed much more mysterious and simple. I was thankful for its unearthly glow and simple charm. And because it is live, we will plant it at our new house. And I will watch it grow and remember that once upon a time it adorned my kitchenette table, and there really were lots of presents around it and surprises, and lots of happiness shared.

If You Go to Church, You'll Live Longer

Every so often, these studies come out.  And if that isn't enough for you, here is another study that says that being an active member of a community of faith may well help you to recover better from a stroke.