the obit i wrote for my mom

I've always been puzzled by the way so many obits and eulogies end:  "She is survived by ..." - as though everyone reading the obit is taking advantage of a last opportunity to stick their tongues out at the one about whom it has been written.  "We'll have a beer tonight after your interment, and in a generation and a half (two at the outside), you'll be little more than a nameless relative in an occasional family photo.  We've survived you."  But I won't have to worry about the peculiar language of "survivorship" with this obituary, partly because I'm writing it, partly because very few who knew her would ever think that way, and partly because my mom, Carol Greco, is not so much survived by anyone as she is mourned by them; and for good reason.

Mom buried more siblings and friends than most people will record in a forest of family trees, including her husband of 49 years.  With each death, those of us who were close to her could see a part of HER die too - the feistiness that enticed my dad to put his fist through more than a couple of walls in their younger married years and gave her the ability to thrive as one of the earliest women in management in the early years of a then "male-dominated" silicon valley - being slowly chipped away with the presentation of each casket.  But she was too busy comforting and helping nieces, nephews, children and friends to ever consider herself "a survivor" of anyone.  No matter how badly you had soiled your life, you knew that Aunt Carol still loved you; even when you fully deserved all you were getting, mom could be counted on to knock on the door halfway through a whipping you had certainly earned, resulting in dad cutting it shorter than it should have been; when you didn't have enough money to pay for your cut and perm, she mysteriously "remembered" that she was running a special that day on cuts and perms; if she suspected that you wanted a second steak, she was coincidentally "not hungry" that evening; and when your boyfriend had broken up with you or your parents were driving you crazy, Grandma Greco (whether she was your biological Grandmother or not) somehow knew just what you needed to hear in order to feel whole again.

No, my mom isn't survived by people; she's lamented by them, missed by them, cherished by them, emulated by them.  No focus on "surviving Carol Greco" here, only assorted questions about how to survive the next time some critical part of life breaks apart and she's not there to answer her phone when you call to ask about how it might be glued back together.

Born in Sacramento in 1932, Carol is not survived by any of her five siblings either.  All three of her brothers preceded her in death:  Joe was killed by a drug addict he caught trying to steal Christmas presents out of his car; Pete died after a long battle with cancer; and Walter finally lost a life-long wrestling match with polio.  Neither of her sisters outlived her:  Mary was taken by cancer, and "Tiny" (Josephine to the uninformed, and the youngest of six children) died as a result of the same complications to the same type of surgery that took their father.  Mom isn't survived by our dad, Art Sr.  In fact, he died right in front of her, in spite of her aggressive attempts to revive him through CPR while paramedics rushed to her aid in response to her 911 call.  Yet, regardless of the tragedy Carol’s eyes saw and the pain her heart endured, mom IS survived by the hope she gave, the love she shared, the Christian faith she lived, the kindness she showed, the tenacity with which she defended, and the legacy to which she contributed.

In short:  mom was a pretty great woman - not a perfect one, to be sure - but a great one nonetheless.

Friends and family will gather on two occasions to celebrate the ways mom helped them to "survive" through the example she was as she pushed through the hardships of Multiple Sclerosis and resisted the temptation it brought to become reclusive and bitter.  The first of those meetings will take place at her committal service at San Joaquin National Cemetery in Santa Nella, CA, on Friday, October 28th, at 1:00 P.M.  The second gathering will serve as mom's memorial service, on Friday, November 4th, at 5:30 P.M., at her church, Tigard Covenant Church, 11321 SW Naeve St. (corner of Naeve and Hwy 99), Tigard, OR.  Mom's pastor, Rev. David Greenidge will lead the memorial and the church will provide a light meal immediately following the service. 

In lieu of flowers, the family requests that memorial gifts be sent to the Tigard Covenant Benevolence fund to aid them as they care for the poor, broken, needy, and discarded.  After all, if brokenness and neediness insist on "surviving" my mom, why shouldn't the church's historic ability to address those things be helped to survive her, too?

IN THE SERVICE OF AN EXECUTIONER KING

I begin this post with a shocking admission:  In my life I am discovering that God kills and the Devil gives life.  Now having written that, I feel compelled to go out of my way to make it clear that I actually believe what I have stated ... because I do, you see.  I do believe that God is in the business of bringing death and Satan is in the business of sustaining life.

A teaser statement to get you to read on?  O.K., yes ... sort of; but that statement is more than just a writer’s “shock-jockey” trick.  For in some ways it’s actually true.

Scripture, some would say, defeats such a wild statement with very little effort and in several different places.  Perhaps the most obvious of these is Christ’s claim in John 10 that the thief comes only to steal, kill, and destroy but that he (Jesus) came to give life, and not just any life, but abundant life.  I wholeheartedly agree, but I do that while at the same time maintaining my original assertion: God kills and the Devil gives life.  It’s just that God seeks to kill what should die in us and Satan tries to breathe life into what should not be allowed to live.  In other words, the abundant life Jesus comes to give is realized by means of a series of funerals over which he presides, while the “killing and stealing” of the enemy of God is done through his attempt to enliven the very beliefs and practices that have always and only served to poison us.

Ironic?  Absolutely.  The author of death tries to keep death alive by offering life-support to the very things that will guarantee our current and eternal demise, while the giver of life brings that life about by means of a series of killings - some of which are quite brutal and all of which require us to be accomplices – as though we were participating in a string of divinely assisted suicides.  Still unconvinced?  Let me try to explain through story – some of my own story, actually.  Even though this particular example is sort of “every-day” and not very dramatic, perhaps it will help me to communicate more effectively.

I'm a local church pastor – a quivering bundle of insecurities wrapped in thin skin, in my case.  Frankly, I sometimes doubt that God has ever called a more ill-equipped person to this most precious, strategic, and honorable office.  Recently, in fact, I was talking with a friend about how it felt as though God designed me for 110 volts, then called me to a position that ran 220 through already inadequate and fragile wires.  But that’s for another conversation.  For now, let me get back to my story of life and death.

As a pastor I'm given daily opportunities to be too impressed with my successes and too dismantled by my failures.  I’m embarrassed to say it, but I take full advantage of each of those opportunities.  However I’m not the only one who uses these moments.  Both have also proven to be chances for God to kill and Satan to give life.  For instance:  though I’m not nearly as enamored with my own preaching as I used to be, I was successful one recent Sunday with my sermonic offering.  I could tell that God had anointed what I said.  The feedback I got from people who wouldn’t usually say anything only helped to confirm that I had succeeded in letting God speak through me.  Right away I felt something coming alive.  “I still have it,” I thought to myself.  “I’m a good preacher – maybe even as good as John Wenrich, or Brenda Salter McNeal or even Efram Smith!”  I must say that I felt quite alive after that first of our Sunday gatherings – as though I wanted to yell at top volume, “I preached!  Therefore I am!”  Something or someone was breathing life into what I was feeling and I liked it very much.

However it didn’t take too long before that still small voice (you know ... the one that always seems to come to curtail our most base enjoyments) began to whisper to me.  “What is this that you are feeling?”  I thought to myself, convinced that God was actually the one implanting the words.  “I suppose you can call it some sort of celebration of my work and the Spirit’s gifts, but we both know it’s nothing nearly so honorable as that.”  And the corrective thoughts were just that ... “correct.”  That thing into which Satan wanted to breathe life (with plenty of help from me, by the way) was something that didn’t deserve to live at all.  It was nothing more than the same old, sick need to be celebrated that had always haunted me.  And God wanted to shoot it straight through the heart. 

My prayer was pretty honest.  “Please, Lord.  That’s the only thing that has even come close to feeling like life all week.  Can’t I at least feel alive?  Can’t I feast on this carcass of pride ... just for today ... just for this morning?  I mean, it’s not like we’re talking about stealing or cheating here.  This is your Word I’m enjoying.  It’s a decent sermon that has me feeling so good about myself.”

His answer was just as honest.  “Only if you’re really intent on joining it and becoming what it is: just another useless carcass.  Don’t you remember your own definition of humility?  ‘Humility is the willingness to be perceived as insignificant in order to be faithful.’  You preached that too.  You want something that feels like life?  Well, in my Kingdom, it is death that feels most like life.  And I want to take you there.  Offer this so called ‘life giver’ to me - so I might slaughter it – or at least this manifestation of it.”

I felt like the new student who had finally started dating a pretty girl, only to discover that her family was being transferred to South America.  Not all that sure that I really meant what I prayed, I at least said the words – issued the command, “Kill it, then if you must.  Kill it before I change my mind and completely indulge it.  But don’t just wound it.  Every time that thing gets wounded it seems to heal up and come back even stronger than before.  kill it!  And 'kill it good' or leave it alone and let me keep enjoying it!  But don’t just wound it!”  Then I made my way into the worship center to get ready for the next service, smiling, shaking well-intentioned hands, and greeting folks along the way.  “Yes.  Hi.  How are you?  You did?  Oh, thank you.  I enjoyed preaching it too...”  And oh boy, did I ever enjoy preaching it ... but for all the wrong reasons.

I have no idea why it’s so difficult for me to experience it since it is a major theme in the life of Christ, but Christianity is a religion of death.  It’s a death, however, that brings life.  It’s a religion of weakness, but it’s a weakness that proves true strength.  This is the faith of dirty feet, missing teeth, swollen eyes, torn flesh, bloody wrists, splinter-filled shoulders and spear pierced hearts.  To be a Christian is to begin a “Golgotha trek” that results in a publicly embarrassing display that looks a lot like defeat but is actually the gateway to real life ... full life ... abundant life.

I am discovering that God kills and the Devil gives life – that Christ is in the business of destroying and Satan is in the business of sustaining.  It’s just that God seeks to kill what should die in us and Satan tries to breathe life into what should not be allowed to live.  Perhaps that’s why I find myself addressing God in a rather strange way when I pray lately.  “Lord,” “Savior,” and “Father” are all wonderful names by which to refer to God in prayer.  But lately I’ve been praying to him using a much less often used title.

“Oh dear Holy Assassin:  be loving enough to eliminate what pollutes my heart and erodes my soul.  And when the day comes that I attempt to annul this contract – to withdraw the permission I now give, listen instead to the instructions of your own headstrong mercy.  Swallow hard, breathe deep, take aim, and pull trigger.  Amen.”

random thoughts on the modern day pastor

a friend wrote and asked me what i meant when i told him recently that our generation of pastors (i'm 57 now) had been trained for one kind of pastoral leadership but is required to give quite another.  here are the unrehearsed, insufficient words of my very quickly written post back to him.  as i read them, i realized just how potentially hypocritical they were and how illequipped & reluctant i am to follow them.

remember, this is a clip from a discussion with a long time pastoral friend, in response to his question, "well then, what kind of pastors do you think we need to be?" (or something close to that)




well, that's a long discussion.  basically i think we were trained (both formally and by informal and unintended expectations and assumptions) to lead the church to the goals we had for her, but are now in a situation where we are called upon to lead the church through a transition that will make it possible for her to realize the goals of those who follow us - those who come after us.  it's sort of like we're being asked to cook the meal and set the table, then step back and watch while others are invited to eat.  what's more, we're being asked to be at total peace with that.

our generation of pastors is, and this is my strong hunch, called to a ministry of "being significant - even essential, but not being recognized."  ours is, i think, a ministry of preparation for the pastors and leaders that come later.  we are a cohort of pastors that will need to know how to die to ourselves and our need for recognition even though we've been trained primarily to lead THROUGH recognition.  we've been instructed, both by education and example, that good leadership rides the front horse into battle, but our expanding reality requires us to lead from the rear, finding peace and confidence to live in such a way that other generals are  recognized for victories that could not have been won had we not been willing to use the cache and experience we had with no need to be celebrated for our contribution.

i'm sure i'm not being clear, but it used to be that you went to seminary, learned to preach, were a strong (meaning up front and effective) leader, accomplished good goals for the lord and his church, then enjoyed the fruit of that labor.  and i think that was an excellent thing.  this isn't a "that was bad but this is good" statement.  it's just that this is a different time.  this is a different church, in a different world.  ours isn't a ministry of "dominating the lane" we're currently in but of "changing lanes" so someone else can continue to make progress on the journey.  

i know that "lead from the front - lead from public strength" kind of leadership may still fill the seats, but it will be increasingly short-lived in terms of effectiveness in my opinion.  sure, in some regions of the country that sort pastoral approach will continue to work for some time.  but our generation of pastors will soon have to learn to lead through others, change the scorecard for success, allow god to defeat our insecurities (which you and i both know are well trained and well fed), and use any clout or influence we may have to set up the success of pastors and leaders we may never even know.

just today a pastor friend of mine said, "the reason people don't make paradigm shifts,"  which is what we're looking at here, btw, "is that they can't deal with the insecurity of not knowing what success and failure look like in the new paradigm.  the drive to 'succeed' is so strong that we retreat to the old paradigm where those things were clear."  my fear?  i think the new paradigm for pastors of my generation and training is one that asks us to look less like the apostle paul and more like john the baptist.  we've heard a lot of talk about "servant leadership" in our lives but few of us have seen it, been mentored in it, or are really open to living it.  i know i'm sure not often willing, anyway!  it's just too stinkin' difficult to make significant contributions to something for which i won't be applauded.  sick, i know.  but i'm battling it and even winning every-once-in-a-while.

and by "servant leadership" i don't mean sloppy work or weak leadership, either.  i mean being excellent but not allowing a church to become too dependent upon that excellence.  i mean being an excellent (or at least reasonably effective) preacher, but being willing to bring an even better, younger preacher onto the staff, giving him/her the pulpit, then allowing yourself to be fed by the messages he/she brings.  i mean being able to answer all the questions but unwilling to be seen as the church's "answer man."

this is about being the kind of pastor who could knock the ball out of the park by yesterday's pastoral standards but is unwilling to do that in a way that might cause tomorrow's pastor, church or ministry to suffer because of it.  it's about being willing to be perceived as insignificant in order to be faithful.

enough of my rantings.  i still have an unfinished sermon on my desk here and a wife that is waiting for me to pick her up for a concert at the fillmore in san fran.  :-)

love you, dear brother.

ART'S TOP 20 PASTORAL CONVICTIONS (plus 1 for free)

1.  People deserve honesty & “realness" from the pulpit, but they deserve The Bible too.

2.  Service and commitment result in joy; one without the other results in weariness.

3.  Logical, sensible, biblical thinking is the antidote for much social insanity.

4.  You don't have to forsake the intellectual in order to have the spiritual.  Intelligence and holiness walk hand in hand.

5.  Excellence is not a sin.

6.  Cultural relevance is a biblical mandate.

7.  The only prerequisite for being treated with dignity is being human.

8.  People should be encouraged to be honest about their feelings toward God ... otherwise all we're doing is teaching them to be good, Christian liars.

9.  Manipulation is the antithesis of pastoral care, but clerical passivity is its assassin.

10.  Churches should make decisions that are in God's best interest.

11.  It's the students’ and kids' church too.  HEAR THEM!

12.  Singles matter.  Marriage isn’t a requirement for wholeness.

13.  Only a foolish pastor allows a person’s “church influence” to exceed that person’s “spiritual depth.”  

14.  When pastors “sell out” to the powerful, they SELL the rest of the people out.

15.  Two excellent partners for a good pastor:  a tender heart and a thick skin.

16.  You don’t “just throw away” the generation that put you in business.

17.  “Christianity” is a verb ... so is “Pastor.”

18.  The pulpit is not a pastor’s “therapy couch.”

19.  To abandon one’s church when she is wounded is to abandon one’s Savior when he is weeping.

20.  There is no option for the privilege of leading the church apart from the probability of being hurt by the church.

21.  Personal salvation has everything to do with Christianity, but it’s not everything with which Christianity has to do.

MY WIFE IS MY HERO

Well, this is my last "sabbatical update" post.  In fact, I'm thinking that I'll see most of you at our worship gathering this Sunday (April 3rd) before you even read this.  Even so, I wanted to get one more up before I left Dana Point to drive home just a few days from now.

I could write about many things, but I want to focus on, of all things, my most recent birthday.  We celebrated it as a family by walking the streets and beaches of Puerto Vallarta, Mexico.  My sabbatical committee strongly encouraged me to structure a week with our entire family toward the end of the sabbatical and, after looking at several options, a family cruise to Mexico seemed to be not only the easiest, but also the most economically sensible way to do that.  Puerto Vallarta was one of our stops and, coincidentally, we were there on my 57th birthday.  It was a day that will never be forgotten, that's for sure.  For on that same day, all 7 of us used Mexican public transportation to get around, walked what must have been 10 miles (in flip-flops, of course,) talked Brenda into tasting tequila (I doubt that will ever happen again,) and laughed when a little girl in a crowded shopping area, having noticed my longish, curly, white hair and the full beard I've been nurturing, actually mistook me for Santa Clause.  Yanking on her father's arm as she stopped short and pointed in my direction, she exclaimed, "No, Daddy.  Stop!   Look!  It's Santa.  It's Santa, Daddy.  Look!"  Her eyes grew large.  Her mouth hung open.  I was off my game, otherwise I'd have given her a little, "Ho, ho, ho," winked, and made some sort of "shhhh.  Don't tell anyone else that you recognized me." sign.  Her dad, obviously convinced that "Santa" should be left alone during the summer months, mouthed, "I'm sorry.  She really things you're him."  Then he turned her twisting, resistant body back in the direction their family had been going and said, "Let's leave Santa alone for now.  Let him rest." or something to that effect. 

On that day in Puerto Vallarta we watched a 150 lb man stack and balance 200 lb boulders three and four high, saw acrobats perform (without nets) from ropes that swung four stories above the street, and ate lunch while listening to a full hour and a half of painfully off-key singing intended, presumably, to help us enjoy our over priced tacos more fully.   But, impressive as each of those experiences was, none of them is what will make this particular birthday stand alone in my memory.  The event responsible for that didn't occur until after we had reboarded the ship and were preparing to sail north.  

Our kids had reserved 7 lounge chairs around the indoor pool.  We'd had more than enough sun and a relaxing, shaded time set aside for reading and relating was just what we needed before getting ready for dinner.  I was struggling through "The Brothers Karamazov" while Brenda was with our children in a nearby hot tub when there was what sounded like a disturbing cry for help.  At first I thought it was one of the young children playing.  I realized it was much more than that when Anthony, Becca's fiancé, came around the corner to tell me that Brenda was, "...helping to save a little girl's life."  He was not overstating things.

I jumped up to see my bride kneeling next to a 4 year old girl while an unknown man administered CPR.  Brenda was calm, cleaning the child's mouth out while he did compressions, then encouraging and coaching him when he went back to breathing into a limp, unresponsive body.  The baby had been found at the bottom of the pool and had turned a very deep grey/blue.  Our Becca had been in position to see what was going on and quickly summoned her mom, asserting that a child was in trouble and Brenda needed to go and help right away.  It  was a good thing she did.  On getting to the young girl, Brenda saw that the man had started CPR but hadn't turned the child on her side to allow fluids to leave her lungs and stomach.  She did that immediately and saw dramatic results. 

"Call 911 right now!" It was my Brenda who, without missing a beat in the assistance she was giving, had caught the eye of a bartender and issued the order.  "Yes.  This is an emergency.  Call them!"  At first, the little one was completely unresponsive, but as Brenda kept assisting and a man whose name she didn't even know kept pumping, others of us launched into very aggressive, assertive prayer.  Gradually, the color blue gave way to pale, pasty white, then white was replaced by a subtle but hopeful pink.   Finally, after what seemed like a short "forever," we heard ironic sounds of life: choking, gasping, and then crying.  Neither vacationing nurse nor temporary "EMT" stopped what they were doing, but between breaths Brenda heard something that catapulted an already heart stirring moment to an emotional level that almost defies description.

It had been the stranger doing the CPR that had screamed for help.  He did that just after seeing the helpless, cerulean little girl lying motionless on the pool deck and realizing that she wasn't breathing.  By the time Brenda got there he had already administered the first few puffs of breath and jolts of compression.  As she turned the child onto her side (as noted above) she said something like, "I'm a nurse.  Are you a doctor or EMT?  Would you like me to take over for you?"

"No."  he said between breaths, "I think I'm O.K."  Without looking up he went on, "I just took a CPR class last week.  Just stay here and help me."  Then later, as the baby finally coughed, choked, and began to cry, the man spoke again.  They were the words that changed everything.  "Don't worry, sweetheart."  he said gently as he put his lips to the gasping child's ear.  "Daddy's here with you.  Everything's going to be OK."  The "stranger" that had saved little 4 year old Malia's life was her own father!

"You're doing just fine."  Brenda told the dad as she cleared the little one's mouth and wiped it clean in preparation for more air.  "That's it.  Perfect.  You're doing great.  Keep breathing for her.  Good."  About then the emergency crew arrived to take over.  True to form and character, my red-headed champion sought no thanks or recognition.  In fact, I know her well enough to assure you that she never even THOUGHT about any of that.  She simply updated the doctor, giving information she knew the team would need, got up, wiped her hands on a towel, and returned to her own family.

"Do you think you should stay in case they want to talk to you?"  I asked.

"No.  I told them everything they needed to hear from me.  We'd only be in the way here now.   Let's go.  I need to wash up a bit."  And just like that, we left.

Brenda tells me fairly often that I'm her "hero."  The announcement usually comes on the heels of me taking out the garbage, doing the dishes, or vacuuming the carpets.  I almost always shake my head and suggest that perhaps she needs to raise her standard a bit.  On my birthday last week, she went well beyond raising it ... all the way to demonstrating it.  That's why it's so easy for me to say that one of the things that happened in the closing days of this sabbatical, was that I was once again reminded that "My WIFE is MY hero!"

By the way, I was later told by one of the crew that Malia was taken by ambulance to a Puerto Vallarta hospital.  Shortly after being stabilized, she was flown home where she's expected to make a full recovery.

"I CONFESS"

As I write this blog I sit before a huge, southeast-facing window that reveals a generous deck,  a forest of pine trees, two deer grazing about ten yards from me, and a handful of other Yosemite Park cabins.  The view (one my schedule assumes I'll enjoy for the next 5 days of writing and reflecting) really couldn't be more different than the one I had just hours ago from my 26th floor hotel room at the Hyatt O’Hare in Chicago.  Unique as each location is, though, they have something in common.  Both have found me contemplating sabbatical experiences that have been in some way surprising.  I won't touch on all of those in this blog, but I do want to point to one. 

I single it out not so much because it's arrival came as such a huge shock.  In fact, the surprise would have been for me to have gotten through a three month quarantine from my church family without having been tested by it.  I'm referring to the challenge of doing something wholly unnatural for me:  this sabbatical's awkward, self-imposed "requirement" that during it I have minimal contact (meaning none if at all possible) with the staff and members of MCC.  In other words, my mission to go in pursuit of spiritual and emotional refreshment while insulating myself from some of the people who were so often a source of the very thing I sought.  But even that isn't really the subject of this post.  No, it's not the reality of me missing people that's the surprise here but the intensity of that reality ... an intensity the force of which resulted in me committing one of the greatest of all "sabbatical sins."  I cheated.  I relapsed.  And I need to come clean. 

Here is my confession and, embedded in it, one of the gifts this time away from you all has given to me:

I confess that I so missed our staff that, even though Brenda offered to do it for me, I went in person to the office to get my mail.  Further, though completely unnecessary, I purposefully waited to go until I knew the office would be open and some of our team would be there.

I confess that during that trip to get my mail, I was calculated and fully aware in my decision to "forget" a package that also needed to be brought home.  I did that just so I might have an excuse to come back and see everyone yet another time.

I confess that, no fewer than three times, I went to Costco when I didn't have one stinking thing to buy ... just because I rarely go there without seeing someone from MCC.  (I was 1/3 in my subversive attempts to see you during those trips, by the way.)

I confess that I drove to the church's property when I knew MOPS was meeting and idled my way through the parking lot just for the chance to see some of MCC's precious kids.  And I did see them, some playing tag on the lawn, others holding hands and anxiously looking both ways before crossing the parking lot en route to their cars.  It felt good - like taking in air again right after forcing yourself to break the family record for holding your breath under water.

I confess to having "snuck" into our worship area one night just so I could pretend it was April already and feel a little less distant for a few minutes.  (I know.  I know.  That's just WEIRD!)

And I confess to worshiping with other congregations over the past few weeks, and noticing not so much that God was present there, but that you weren't.

Don't get me wrong.  This focused time of restoration and distance has been, and still is nothing short of MAGNIFICENT!  Brenda and I have had some great time together.  And in a few days our entire family (including Becca's fiancé, Anthony, of course) will gather for 10 days of restful, fun reconnection.  So this isn't a veiled complaint or an implicit statement of the sabbatical's failure.  No, just the opposite.  It's a testimony to it's success.

As expected, this sabbatical has been both a deep blessing and a worthwhile investment.  UNexpected, however, was the force with which it would speak as it reminded me of just how much I've come to depend upon my pastoral colleagues and the people that comprise Marin Covenant Church for spiritual strength, emotional wholeness, and pastoral relevance.

So I guess it's only fitting that I end with one last confession.

I confess that one of the gifts this sabbatical has given to me is the realization that, though there will certainly be times when it doesn't seem like it to you or feel like it to me,  I have somehow become addicted to the MCC community... "warts and all."  And I like this newly realized "dependence" very much. 

Whale Watching

I really have no words to describe the beauty of my surroundings as I write this.  Through the generosity of one of our MCC families, Brenda and I are at the end of a 10 day stay on the big island of Hawaii where we have just finished hosting Efrem and Donetia Smith, our new conference Superintendent and his wife.  Of course, we also mixed in a few days of writing and hand-holding.  Then, last night after dropping our guests off at the airport, we spent the evening with new friends we made during our last trip here.  You may remember a story about them from a sermon I preached this last year.  They are the ones who lost their dear son Matt, and, during the scattering of his ashes at sea, suddenly jumped off the boat, into the water, and through the middle of their son's ashes.  I told them again yesterday about how I had used that story because it was such an excellent example of what Jesus invites us to do in response to his death for us - to "jump through his ashes" and find new life.  Buddy and his wife, Joyce, are famous in the world of rock and roll, making some of the most desired guitars in that business (see "Buddy Blaze Guitars" if you want to learn more about them) but to us, they are just close, new friends with whom we were blessed to enjoy a wonderful sunset and some great time in a beautiful location.

And this is certainly a beautiful location.  As I write I sit at a rectangular stone table that's located on the lanai just outside the great room of this lovely home.  I'm seated with my back to that room, meaning that I face directly west, about 100 feet away from the breaking waves that not only sooth with the sounds they make as they crash onto the black lava beach that's just outside the gate, but frame a 180 degree view of the pacific -  it's deep blue hue serving as the playground for breeching whales, jumping dolphins, and even the occasional long distance swimmer in training for the next "Iron Man" competition.

As we sat quietly next to each other before that great ocean last evening, glasses full of wine and heads full of awe, I asked my friend Buddy what he thought it was about this place that was so soothing.  "I don't know,"  he said.  "I think this is just an inspired place."  That's been what I've been thinking about during this 8th week of our three month sabbatical:  "the role of an inspiring place in the worship and service of God."  Brenda and I felt that same thing as we prayed for you, our MCC church family, while kneeling in the abbey in Bath, England a couple of weeks ago.  And we certainly sense it here, as the sights, sounds, and surroundings all do something to our souls that can't be explained in any way other than the way Buddy, not a follower of Christ in the way most of us would describe ourselves, put it.  "I think this is just an inspired place."  And I thank God for the reminder I'm receiving here about the importance of atmosphere in the journey we call the Christian faith.

We'll be changing locations again the day after tomorrow as we head back to Marin.  Brenda will return to work at Marin General, and I'll be taking up residence at a different table in one of our local libraries to continue writing (probably no longer in shorts, t-shirt, and flip flops from what I hear.)  Oh, and you can bet I'll be heading over to Costco from time to time, more in hopes of seeing one of you than for any other reason.  But I suspect that no matter where we are in the immediate future, whenever Brenda and I close our eyes we'll still see then what we see now with them open - a calm beauty that almost dares us to ever forget the presence of God and the hope of an excellent future.  I guess that's just the way it is with "inspired" environments.

'Till the next update (probably from Chicago,)

Art