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Note, I am now blogging at popeyeprinciple.blogspot.com. Come over for a dose of “spiritual spinach.”
As the year winds down to a close, so too does this blog. But that doesnt mean I’m done blogging, just moving addresses and I’m looking forward to it.
From now on I’ll be blogging over at popeyeprinciple.blogspot.com. The blog is called “The Popeye Principle,” based on a motto I live by that is a mash-up of what the Apostle Paul and Popeye used to say: “By the grace of God I am what I am (and that’s all that I am).”
In my new life we’ll be exploring moments of Grace as they come to us in Scripture and in our daily lives. I’ll still be blogging primarily on my daily devotional readings, but the emphasis will be on how Grace helps us figure out who we are and who God is calling us to be.
Hope you’ll make the move with me and head over for a helping of Scriptural spinach to help you be the best possible you that you can possibly be!
From the Milwaukee Art Museum:
~James Casebere, “Flooded Cell”
The cells we create
are flooded with grace
and the light glistens
on the water’s face
so that they are not
dark prisons.
~Mimmo Paladino, “Citta de Rame”
The first artists painted on
cave walls, not canvas.
They created, re-created their
power animals.
Spears, dismemberment and death;
the god dies, reborn.
Faces are blank emotions
as we dance with fire.
City of Copper.
~Stanley Landsman, “Walk-in Infinity Chamber”
Standing in the stars,
over head,
under feet,
suspended
in infinity.
~Wayne Thiebold, “Refigerator Pies”
I always said they were art.
~Jules Bastien-Lepage, “Le Pere Jacques”
They went to the woods,
a girl and her grandfather;
she, to pick flowers
he, to gather wood.
His task was finished early,
so he waited for his grace
as she plucked lingering
beauty from the dying wood.
The ache he might have felt while
standing there was love.
~Kees van Dongen, “Woman with a Cat”
There is no vision
as beautiful as
that of a woman
holding a cat. It
makes me miss my wife.
~God, “Lake Michigan”
Bluish-green water.
Seagulls circling
A sailboat head to sea
Brush-strok’d whisps of cloud
on a powder-blue canvas,
bottom bordered by trees
changing color as if
the artist stil work’d.
~Richard Bosman, “The Wave”
The ocean of life
surges and swells in waves
that crash over those
who do not know hos to surf.
~Giovanni Benedetoo Castigilone, “Noah and the Animals Entering the Ark” It wasnt easy
getting all those animals
on the ark. It took
time and patience, both on the
part of the animals and
of Noah, who work’d for days
to save the world. Why
should we quit so soon?
~Andy Warhol, “The Last Supper”
Warhol said
“I am a Sunday
painter. DaVinci twice
over–mirrored supper on
earth as in heaven.
Then one covered with ads:
Dove soap for peace
GE for light
and nothing for sale.
People who refuse
to say it’ simpossible,
they transform the world.
Opposites attract,
but diff’rences do also.
We’re stuck together.
Anticipate the
changes long before they come
because they will come.
Do your job the best
you can whatever it is;
blessings will happen.
You improving the
quality of one life will
improve yours as well.
“If not us, then who? If not now, then when?” ~Ida B. Wells
When will color fade
so that hues are blurred and
there is only none?
The Word functions to
uplift and connect people.
Re-membering Christ.
Christianity
is not a personal thing;
it’s community.
Do God’s will and work
and God will provide and
what you need, you will get.
Church is a verb.
Not somewhere you go; something
you are a part of.
We may hear with God’s
ears but dont see with God’s eyes
and God’s hands are tied.
Sharing the Gospel
begins with passion but is
express’d with action.
In life we need great
partners; many hands make what?
a huge difference.
Rebuild and renew
then you have to sustain it;
then something happens.
The ability
to sustain comes from within:
the Holy Spirit.
Talking about a
diff’rnce is a lot diff’rent
than you making one.
People who devote
themselves to others like this
deserve a halo.
Difference is out there.
Always a time to make one.
So look around.
Someone else’s great idea
may not be the one
that works great for you.
A collage of the
former misfits, invisible
ones making a point.
Better to complain
directly, not subvertly;
it feels good … honest.
Abbreviating
something that no one knows what
is pointless. TY.
Xt doesnt want just
followers. He wants leaders.
Sheep, no; shepherds, yes.
If you are good at
what you do it’s harder to
stay stagnate, not grow.
Shy people who stand
up and speak out what needs said.
These are the heroes.
Inspiration in
the form of housewives, normal
folks who change the world.
Civil Rights are still
moving through and for people.
God is marching on.
Enthusiasm
is contagious if it is
genuine. Go world!
(Leviticus 22-23)
The “High Holies” are what Jews call them. Passover, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur. The first time I visited a synagogue, they had these partitions in the back so that they could open up a whole other section–almost doubling the size of the sanctuary itself. “You Christians have Christmas and Easter Christians? Well, we have the ‘High Holies.’”
What is it about those times of year like Christmas and Easter–especially Christmas–that stirs people’s hearts such that they want to go to church and test whether the ceiling will fall in (or in our case, the cathedral window)? What is it about those times of year that as a pastor (and as a church) we can figure out how to stir people up so that they come sometime in between and before the next funeral or wedding?
Weddings. Two stories there. First, had a girl call about getting married from one of the newer, and I hate to call them this, mega-churches. She explained that she couldnt get married at her church because they had services on Saturday. “And,” she added, “I kinda want to get married in a sanctuary.” And I think the only reason she didnt married in our beautiful sanctuary (with its chandeliers; curved, carved pews, and giant stain glass windows) was because our non-member fee is high–and I insist that a couple has at least three pre-marital chats with me.
Second, during our recent participation in the Historic Home Tour, some people commented “I’ve been here before, cant remember when … a while back ago. For a wedding.” And almost everyone commented how beautiful our church was … the pipe organ. ~Doors are open on Sundays, too.
Thanks but no thanks. Maybe in a few months. When is Christmas this year?
Thing is, in this list of festivals that God gives Moses, including Passover and Yom Kippur, God gives the most important Festival of all–Sabbath. A single day every week set aside for holiness. To rest. To visit with family. To eat a meal together. To go worship. To pray. To read the Torah. To commune with God. For a Christian (and as a pastor) I dont Christmas is any more special than Easter, you cant have one without the other–and neither is more important than every Sunday. Every Sunday, in my opinion, is Easter Sunday–and Christmas morning, for that matter. For every Sunday we get together and praise God for God’s works in Creation and of God’s people. Every Sunday we celebrate the birth (and re-birth) of New Life. Every Sunday we talk about Grace, forgiveness, hope, and love.
Dont wait for a wedding. Christmas is still months away. Come celebrate Easter with us tomorrow:
St. John Presbyterian
13th and Elm Street in New Albany, Indiana
Service starts at 10:30am.
The organ rocks.
Free coffee and sweets after.
And if you bring a change of clothes, you can stay awhile and use our gym and weight room.
See you tomorrow!
Driving, north on I65, from N’Albany to Brown County. Labor Day Weekend.
Up ahead, a cloud of dust. “A fire?” I wondered aloud. No. Just dust. White dust, like smoke over (not on the water) but the highway.
A caravan. Humvees, semis, even an F-150. Driving north. “To Atterbury,” I commented, amending for my arounious “fire” declaration.
From Iraq. Indiana National Guard. Based at Camp Atterbury. Their vehicles, covered in dust–white dust–there’s no white dust in the Midwest. In the South, red clay. Here, maybe limestone. But not like this–the cloud of white smoke. Our car was covered in it.
And we were silent.
It was like watching a funeral procession.
And it hit home–as the white dust hung in the air over the inter-state, us in the fast lane, passing the vehicles, our own car speckled with white dust–white dust from Iraq.
Not too long ago I met a young man who had a tattoo on his arm–names in two columns, and a date.
“Tell me about yr tattoo,” I inquired. “Members of yr squad? Friends?”
“Both,” he answered.
“He was in the ‘other’ helicopter,” his uncle added.
“I’m sorry,” was all I could say. “It’s a nice tribute,” figuring I had more.
“Thanks.”
That had been two years ago, two weeks ago–August 22nd, 2007.
Today (September 4th) the dust from the same desert landed on our fuel-efficent sedan from a caravan headed home.
But that dust brought everything home for two people who didnt know a lot of people, by name, who were “over there.”
And while driving we prayed–not w/ eyes closed–but we prayed.
And we hurt.
And I thought about tattoos.
A few weeks back, down at our apartment, torrential rains soaked the area in record amounts–flooding L’ville, and the surrounding area, in record amounts. Our hearts went out to those who were effected by the flooding (like our church secretary). But we had no idea what had happened up north–north, where we still owned a house that we were trying to sell–until today.
I was headed up to cut grass, a week later than I had hoped. A week later than I had planned. After the ninety minute drive, I was pleased when I rolled into our drive–Not so bad, I thought, grass isnt too high. But there was something wrong–down the ridge that rolls out beneath our house. Limbs, branches, twigs, swaying in the breeze where there were previously none. And an abnormal amount of sunshine bathing the area between our driveway and our house. Something was wrong. Something had happened.
What had happened (though the National Weather Service is mute on the matter) was that a low-grade tornado touched down in our neighbor’s yard, and skipped into ours, and (luckily) over our house. But not the trees. SEVEN trees, to be exact–three from our neighbor’s yard, crashed into ours; four more from our own yard, casualties of the toppling of the neighbor’s OR ripped from the ground from (what the Weather Service refuse to acknowledge as) a twister. A lowgrade tornado. F 0.5, or the likes.
At first I was a little in xhock, I guess. Relief in a lot of ways–at least none of the trees plowed the house (though, maybe that would’ve been a secret blessing). I called my insurance agent … or at least his secretary, who told me that I had no deductible–or coverage–for anything that didnt cause property damage. And that was the blessing–there was no property damge–but there are a lot of trees, limbs, pine needles, sycamore leaves, horseflies and sweat bees in our yard. A yard that I had originally driven up to mow–a yard that will take several weekends to clear–beginning this coming one.
I sat. That was the first thing I could do once beholding the sight. Again, the house was safe, our splendid deck too, but there, spread out beneath me, sitting on the bench, was the reminder of how powerful nature can be–trees, one of which, four feet in diameter–more–splintered like a popsicle stick, shattering smaller–though substantial–trees. Had we been there that morning, what would we have done. Panicked? Wondered where the cat was? Jet engines, international space station commodes, giant geese–what had caused such a thud–and crack, crack, crack–and again, THUD?!
The hum of chainsaws filled the afternoon air. Others in the area had been clearing for weeks–I began today, with my brother-in-law–bearded, stocky,and always full of dreams. Still to this moment I cant hear out of my right ear. Perhaps tomorrow, and for the next few days, until I go up again to continue where I had left off–somehere betwixt the pine and the sycamore, where a horsefly tried to convince me that I was more than a man–I was a meal.
Messes. I realized at some point today that while the chainsaw hummed in my hands while those ears rang that are ringing still–I realized that all messes that happen–even those beyond our control or knowledge–ALL messes can be cleared up. Cleared up, but things wont always go back to “normal.” Something’ll be different. There’ll be more sun on the western sid of our house. Pine needles that wont ever be completely cleared–they’ll just decompose (at some point) into the rock earth of a onetime river bed.
I’ve always secretly (no, vocally) said how I wished I’d see a tornado. I missed this one (regardless of what the Weather Service has said), but am now cleaning up (chainsaw in hand) after it.
Havent heard this song in the while, just added it to the i-Pod. Oscar winner from a gem of a movie.
