Huddled Masses

The other night some of my class mates and I visited a church service. It is called Theophilus. One of my professors is the pastor there. They share space with an Episcopal congregation on the SE side of Portland. Each week, things began with dinner at 5pm. Round tables were set in a large communal room of the church. I ended up at a table with two high school guys, three of my friends from GFU, and two young women early in their careers.

Olivia was the most talkative. She is a graphic artist who had moved to Portland from San Diego. We began to joke with her about the weather…leaving year around temperatures in the 70’s, beaches and blue skies to go to the wet and often dreary Pacific Northwest. After the initial levity, Olivia told us that she made her decision very intentionally. In fact the climate was the very reason she moved here. “In southern California people are outside all the time and when it gets dark you really can’t find anyone. You wander around wondering, ‘Where is everybody?’ I wanted to come to a place where people huddle together when it gets dark and cold.”

I don’t think I was the only one at the table stunned by her assessment. It was quite amazing that someone from a place many of us dream of living – desires community and connection more warmth and sunshine. Olivia saw possibilities where many of us only see hassles.

When I get home next week the sun will go down earlier, the temperature will have dropped, and the rain will soon turn to snow. I’m not looking forward to it but I hope my random encounter will help me look at winter differently this year.

• Hopefully I will complain a lot less.
• Hopefully I will remember that seasons of life can grow as dark and cold as the seasons of the year.
• Hopefully I will see the dark and cold as an opportunity to huddle together with people rather than as an excuse to stay alone.

One for the Bucket List

I really never know what kind of adventures I’ll have when I come to Portland. That has become as much of the learning process as the formal education at George Fox Seminary. I’ve been fortunate to have made a connection with a family in Portland that is gracious enough to let me stay at their house. Tony and Aimee have a wonderful spirit of hospitality often letting people stay for a variety of durations.

Early in the planning process – one of the other housemates remembered that they would all be going to a birthday party my first night in town. “You should come with us. It will be great!” he said. “Oh, um, yeah, well, maybe,” I stammered hoping to get out of it somehow. But I didn’t. I confessed to Tony, “I feel like a party crasher.” “You are, haha,” Tony reassured me.

So we headed out to the NE side of town…to a couple’s home that I didn’t know…to attend a party I wasn’t invited to…to wish happy birthday to someone I had never met…and would probably never see again. The husband greeted us warmly at the door so I decided to act like I belonged. I smiled, I chatted, I met people, I listened to stories, I told a couple jokes, I ate some fancy food. Typical dinner party stuff.

The house was packed to celebrate Katheryn’s 30th birthday. (which one was she again?) Ah…the one thanking all of us “who mean so much to her” for coming. I shuffled my feet. After that she said, “We are here to celebrate.” She referenced losing a friend recently and went on, “We are not guaranteed tomorrow, but we have today. And the best way to celebrate my birthday is to celebrate the God who loves me.” A pianist and guitar player moved into place and we began to sing a mix of hymns and spiritual songs that moved all 40 souls in the house. And then the young husband toasted his wife and invited others to share words of affirmation to Katheryn. Her dad, colleagues, college roommate, and friends filled out the portrait of the person we were there to honor.

 

It was all very beautiful, very touching. I will never forget it.

 

And they will not forget me because I stood on their couch and took the group picture.

 

So here’s something for your bucket list. Just above writing a book and jumping out of an airplane, jot down, “Go to a birthday party of someone you don’t know.” You’ll be amazed and glad you did.

A Leadership Lesson From the Back of the Boat

This past weekend I went camping with some friends. We had a great time. One of the most memorable moments was our rafting trip down the Pine River. There were lots of laughs…especially when I was the first one to fall out. But the most noteworthy image that came out of the trip was, “You can’t steer from the middle.”

I was sitting at the rear of the raft, the position that steers the craft. In front and to the right of me was Aaron. He had canoeing experience and paddling skills because he was a boy scout, a detail he reminded us of jovially and repeatedly. When Aaron recognized we need to make directional changes he would try to steer. While his assessment was accurate and his actions were technically correct, they were often not helpful because of the position he was sitting in.

All this made me think of the situations I have been in, am in now and will be in in the future.

Even in organizational environments that encourage collaboration, most are structured for one person to steer; He has the final say. The buck stops with her. If you have been granted that position, be open to the input of those around you then communicate clearly where we’re going and what needs to be done. If you are sitting in another seat, offer your input then follow the instructions you are given. Over the last 27 years I have missed the mark and hit the sweet spot on both of these but I don’t think the lesson was ever more clear than Friday.

If you’ve been doing what you’re doing for any amount of time, chances are you can assess situations with wisdom and accuracy. Chances are you have mastered skills that are technically precise. But have you checked lately which seat you’re sitting in? I’m sitting in Aaron’s seat where I work…so I am confronted with a choice: stop trying to steer or find another boat to pilot.

 

What about you?

The Way I Remember It…

I have always resisted the urge to write a memoir. Other than a few chapters, my life has been pretty ordinary. What would I have to share? It is also intimidating for me to put my memories on paper because they are so subjective. How broad is the gap between what really happened and the way I remember it?

Ian Cron says, “Memoirists work with bones. Like paleontonloists, we dig up enough of them to make intelligent guesses about what a creature looked like a million years ago. But here and there a femur or rib is missing, so by faith, with imagination, we fill in those gaps with details we believe are consistent with the nature and character of our upbringing.”

If I were to give it a go, this would be an exerpt:

As I sat in my reading chair finishing up this week’s assignments my mind wandered 30 miles east and nearly 50 years back. Staring through the screen door I reflected, still in disbelief of all that had happened. There were no sounds of children or laughter or any of the ruckus that had become the soundtrack of my life for so many years. Only the music of indy crooners, the squeak of the rocker, and the hum of a Mercury light perched on the corner of my single car garage.

I am the product of World War II parents who were children of the depression. They deeply believed in God and country. My dad, Tom, grew up on a farm far from any city. He had a volatile relationship with his father who was a barrel chested man that came home regularly from card games with an empty wallet and an angry disposition fueled by cheap beer. Tom’s mother was the antithesis of her abusive husband. Short and saintly she was a humble servant to her family. My mother Joyce, grew up in the same community and was the daughter of a local farmer. Joyce Davis fell for Tom Harvey the minute he entered the drug store where she worked as a soda jerk. Tom had just returned from the China/Buhrma/India theater of the war and she knew that this was the man she would marry.

Life was simple in our home. Obedience was expected. Respect was essential. And church attendance was not negotiable. For most of Tom and Joyce’s four children, this formula worked quite well especially the youngest, me. I grew up with a strong sense of value and values. My goals were to get along with others, do my best to please God, and not to disappoint my doting parents.

Back in the rocking chair I could easily recall my parents’ faces but I struggled to hear their voices. I can’t reproduce the sound. I can’t help but wonder what they would say to their promising child who became a pastor but was not a pastor anymore. Who was viewed as successful but had to leave in embarrassment. Who made more visits to the courthouse than they ever dreamed of. Who was married to his college sweetheart but isn’t married to her anymore. Who seemed to have so many things going for him but isn’t sure he does anymore. Would they say anything? Would they still be proud?  Would they treat him the same even after his many failures.

It is not easy to live a life based in performance where you wonder if your every move is not only being evaluated, but impacting your position in God’s eyes. These were the things dancing with the shadows in the den that night.

 

 

A Lesson in Tenacity

I hit my threshold of office occupancy for this afternoon so I headed to the nearest Starbuck’s for an iced Americano and renewed inspiration. After getting my drink I took a seat on one of the soft chairs facing the windows. As I began to read I realized the woman sitting behind me is using this space as her coffice too. Rather than reading or typing she is making cold calls attempting to generate appointments.

Over and over her pleasant voice recites a version of the following script: “Hello, my name is Marie and I would like the opportunity to review your insurance coverage and see if you are getting the best coverage for your insurance dollar.” Over and over she makes her pitch with kindness. Sometimes she gets hung up on before she finishes her first phrase. Others wait until the end. I can tell some people give her excuses of why they aren’t interested or that they aren’t the right person to talk to. Her tone hasn’t changed. There is no discouragement in her voice. She doesn’t seem to take any rejection as personal. She just says “thank you,” and calls the next.

I don’t know if this is a new job, old job or whether or not this is her dream job. What I do know is that Marie is relentless…not in the high pressure sales way but rather in knocking on proverbial doors way. Somewhere along the line she decided that if she was going to sell insurance she was going to do the hard work of talking to people she doesn’t know, making contacts and chasing down leads.

There are a few things I’d like to give myself to in the last third of my life.

• I want to love well.
• I want to walk with leaders in ways that will facilitate health and longevity.
• I want to help people exchange caricatures of God for a clearer portrait.

I came to the coffice hoping for inspiration. I got it…and a lesson in tenacity.

The video I posted yesterday reminded me that fear can derail my dreams. Today I am confronted with the fact that our dreams won’t happen without dogged determination. So in the words of Marie (who continues to make calls behind me) “Thanks for your time and have a great day! Goodbye”

 

A Message that Just Won’t Go Away

Chernobyl: Tragedy, Anniversary, Memories

Today is the 25th anniversary of the Chernobyl tragedy. 1986 I was 24 years old and Ukraine was just a far away corner of the USSR. But last summer I had the opportunity to travel to Kiev, got to know some of its people and visited the Chernobyl museum among other things.

Our tour guide at the museum skillfully guided us through the exhibits and imagery. There were city signs hanging from the ceiling. As you entered you see the white signs with black letters that are similar to our “Welcome to…” signs. But when you are inside the museum and turn around the signs are black with white letters and red slashes through them. He explained these were all the cities, towns and villages that do not exist any more. They and their people are completely gone.

We stopped at a case that had two newspapers. One was the soviet paper. It was from April 29, three days later. On page three there was a small paragraph that said there was an accident at Chernobyl but they had it under control. Next to it was the New York Times from April 27, the day after. Its front page highlighted the disaster. The guide said while there were other forces at work (economic and political) this was the beginning of the end for the Soviet Union. The people realized that the government did not care about them.

There was a monitor that displayed how the radioactive cloud drifted.

Mostly I will remember a woman named Galina that we had dinner with. She lost her husband because of the meltdown
and continues to care for her daughter who was effected by the radiation. She told us her story of struggle, loss and faith. It can be found here.

Today I am reminded of what happens when we can attach faces to things. It brings disaster close to home. It keeps us from making sweeping generalizations. It gives us pause before we pronounce judgement on a people or issue or cause. Today I am reminded of how easy it is to forget or dismiss the tragedies that happen far away from us, but how they become part of us when we attach faces to them.

Born, Lived, Died, Raised, Returning

A Very Good Friday

I attended an ecumenical Good Friday service today. It was held at a beautiful church in Flint. The sanctuary was ornate and formal. The choir was comprised of several choirs from around the area. The ministers were robed, distinguished and accomplished. The entire setting was very different than what I’m used to…which was exactly why I attended. Our environment can have a huge impact on our experience and I needed something dissimilar.

As soon as I quieted myself in the pew I noticed an inner desire to push ahead. I wasn’t bored and I didn’t have anywhere else to go. The readings were sorrowful and the music was slow and dark. I wanted to jump ahead to the end of the story but grief cannot be hurried. There is no celebration on Sunday with out Friday’s passion. And the heaviness of Good Friday joins me to all those who follow Chirst…those who have gone before…those who circle the globe today.

So I read, I prayed, I sang and I sat in sad silence.

After the service I took some photos of doors and thresholds. I found them in cemeteries and it seemed strangely appropriate for today.

Maundy Thursday

Today is Maundy Thursday, the day on which Christians commemorate Christ’s Last Supper. But do you remember what happened before the meal? Jesus took off his outer garment, wrapped a towel around his waist, filled a basin with water and washed the disciples feet. Then when he was finished he said, “I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you.” (John 13:15)

I have had two experiences with foot washing. The first was when I was the wash-er. I was at a retreat with a group of high school students. At the conclusion of our last session I had them remove their shoes and socks and I washed their feet. I look back on that moment as one of the fondest times in youth ministry.

My other experience was much more difficult. I was the wash-ee. My friend Joel and I had met for lunch on Maundy Thursday. One of our topics of discussion was the foot washing service that would take place at his church that night. He was not looking forward to it. I tried to be encouraging but secretly was happier that it was him and not me. After lunch we went our separate ways. That evening I was sitting in our living room watching tv with my family. All of a sudden, Joel came through the front door came unannounced carrying a tub of water, soap and a towel. He didn’t greet anyone but rather went directly to me. As he knelt…putting his items on the floor…he said, “Jesus washed the feet of his friends and I want to wash your feet.”

We were all stunned. The tv was clicked off. My children watched this gift of love and friendship unfold. We all sat in a holy silence with the music of splashing water playing as a background score.

Jean Vanier, founder of the L’Arche Communities said, “To wash the feet of a brother or sister in Christ, to allow someone to wash our feet, is a sign that together we want to follow Jesus, to take the downward path, to find Jesus’ presence in the poor and the weak.”

When I think of Maundy Thursday that’s what I think of…a group of students who allowed me such a privilege and a good friend who showed me Jesus.