State of the Union...

The annual State of the Union, a speech given by the President of the United States to a joint session of the Congress, was this past Tuesday night, two nights after the Super Bowl. Depending on whom you ask, the Super Bowl was either a great defensive battle between two scrappy, well-coached teams, or a total bust, overshadowed by the commercials. Pretty much the same goes for the State of the Union, although there were no commercials. The live audiences of both events, as captured by the roving eye of the TV cameras, were similarly either bored to tears or enthusiastically cheering, depending on whom you were rooting for. Some of the audience was all dressed out in their team colors. The same was true of the Super Bowl crowd. Aging heroes were featured in the vignettes and tributes given by the president during the speech, and that was true at the Super Bowl, too, as 42-year-old Tom Brady, New England's quarterback, was older than the Los Angeles Rams' coach.

Both "quarterbacks" (Trump and Brady) are either loved or despised. There seems to be little middle-ground. Brady is good at calling plays; Trump is singled out for his "tweeting" and use of social media. Trump was flanked by Vice President Pence, while Brady had Julian Edelman. I think Edelman had the better game than Pence, who seemed to be more the benchwarmer during Trump's playmaking. The president held the stage for almost an hour and a half, which seemed like a long time, even if you liked what he had to say. The Super Bowl's first half was an hour and a half, and that seemed like an eternity, with the score at 3-0, Patriots. Even Trump racked up more points than that, especially when he highlighted the number of new women in the House of Representatives. Of course, some say he's the reason most of them are there.

One big difference between the two games was the announcers. Super Bowl fans were limited to one network and Jim Nance and Tony Romo. They did a good job, but Romo is becoming the shining star "color" announcer, as his playing experience often allows him to know what the team with the ball is going to do next, and people seem to like this. State of the Union viewers had their choice of channels and media upon which to watch the speech, and one could choose between the "home" announcers (Fox) or the "Away" team (MSNBC). Since my TV overheats if I tune it to Fox, I watched MSNBC, as I find Chris Matthews entertaining. Like Romo, he seems to know what's coming next, and is capable of comparing every political play to his days with Tip O'Neil. I like Chris and his candidness, but he reminds me a bit of football announcer John Madden, who was around so long that most of the people in his flashbacks are dead. Kind of like Tip O'Neil and Ronald Reagan, 'ey, Chris? Oh, and while the pundits used a few instant replays of the speech, these are no where near as stirring as the slo-mo's employed by the sports people, excluding the entire first half of the Super Bowl, which itself seemed to be in slow motion.

There will be talk among the football owners about how to punch up the Super Bowl, as its viewership slipped "bigly" this year. I wonder how we could punch up the State of the Union? How about this: every fifteen minutes, ring a bell, and everybody has to change seats, and it can't be with someone sitting on either side of you. That might be good. It was a little more fun this year seeing all of the female representatives sitting together and wearing white, while the more conservative males all sat together and were...were just white. That wasn't so much fun. During the Super Bowl, a crazy fan ran onto the field, and the game was delayed while they rounded him up. This might be a good caper during the State of the Union--a streaker, maybe? Talk about punching things up...

My favorite commercial during the Super Bowl was the 100th year of the NFL one with 55 different current and former great football stars featured, including our own Franco Harris snagging a deflected Terry Bradshaw pass from atop his wingtips. "Stillers fans" went wild from Westview to "Sliberty." That's what the State of the Union needs next year--a highlight reel of some of the great speech-makers in the presidency and from the floors of the Congress! That could be the lead-up to the Sergeant at Arms of the House of Representatives' yelling, "Mr. Speaker, the PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES!"

Finally, some eschewed the Super Bowl for the Puppy Bowl, while others blew off the State of the Union for the Democratic Response, given by Stacey Abrams, citizen. I was jazzed up by her opening line wherein she said her parents were both United Methodist ministers. Talk about full disclosure! She kept her speech short, with no fumbles and no trick plays. And she is only a couple of years older than Tom Brady. I'll bet she'll play longer, though.

So, I can't wait for next year's dynamic pairing of the State of the Union and the Super Bowl, can you? Join us here for coverage. And now a word from our sponsor...

Icebox...

Well, first of all, you have to be old enough to know what an "icebox" is, don't you? I'll try not to make today's blog be about getting older, but I'm getting older, and a lot of stuff just keeps reminding me of that, like using the term, "icebox." Political "dirty trickster" Roger Stone was indicted this week, and came to the front of the news queue. As part of that coverage, it was reported--and backed up by photographs--that he has a portrait of late President Richard M. Nixon tattooed on his back. Two younger types this week asked me who Richard Nixon was. Older, I'm telling you, older! Or maybe just old?

"When I was your age, I used to walk three miles to school in the most frigid weather carrying a gym bag, a trumpet case, and my books!" We old people say things like that to younger types. I might make two comments about this statement: 1. the younger types ask, "What's a gym bag?" and 2. every part of this statement is true for Yours Truly. I grew up in Oil City, PA, and attended my7th grade year (which was "Junior High" in that day) at South Side Junior High School. The building was actually condemned--also true! It was unsafe, and the third floor was blocked off with what sufficed as a police line in 1967. When we had assemblies in the auditorium, we had to take an umbrella in case it rained, because the roof leaked like a screen door on a submarine. The only redeeming thing about South Side was that it was just a few short blocks and a reasonable walk from my home, because I lived--you guessed it--on the South Side of town. However, commencing with the 8th grade, we were moved to the "new" Junior High, which was the old Senior High, as they had now moved into a beautiful new building in Hasson Heights, near where most of the richer people lived. The "new" Junior High was built into a hill that was on the North side of town, so not only did we have to walk much farther, but we had to climb "heartbreak hill" to get there. I can remember arriving at school huffing and puffing, wheezing, and dragging, only to then climb several flights of stairs to get to my homeroom. And when you were sucking serious air at 8:00AM, that "old smell" of the building--probably an amalgamation of asbestos, machine oil, cheap floor wax, and termite sawdust--just coated the inside of your lungs. Oh, and just before reaching "Heartbreak Hill," we had to cross railroad tracks bifurcated the town, and a train came by at about 7:50AM on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. SO, if we didn't beat the train, we had to stand there with all our hardware and freeze in the Winter, get drenched in the rain in the Spring, and baked in the sun as Summer approached. There were two saving graces to this whole exercise: we used to put stuff on the train tracks to get flattened by the locomotive; and the school building, itself, was in Ripley's "Believe it or Not" for being the only building that you could enter all five floors from the ground because it was built into the side of a mountain. Other than that, when that "Junior High" (they never came up with a modifier) was leveled by the wrecking ball a few decades ago, not many of us even got moist peepers.

Back to the "icebox." I will never forget the icy mornings making that trek. Did I say that we also had to walk across a three-span, steel bridge with open grate walkways to GET to the aforementioned train tracks? It is called the State Street Bridge, it crosses the mighty Allegheny River, and the wind whipped across that sucker like a tornado, pulled out straight like you'd stretch a Slinky. Even to this day, when I walk in an icy cold wind--like what is coming upon us this week--I have visual flashbacks of that bridge in Winter. It was so cold that if someone threw a snowball at you it felt like an oven-fresh bun, by comparison. And with my big ears, my head kept turning into the wind, and I got the full force of it. Meanwhile, my friends would crouch behind my trumpet case and my gym bag.

"But why didn't your parents take you to school?" Nobody's parents took them to school. Nobody's. If you didn't live far enough out to ride the bus (I think you had to be considered "rural"), you walked. Most families owned one car, if they were lucky, and the working parent--usually the dad--had to be at work by 7:00AM, or even earlier if he was doing shift work. That's why they built the new Senior High School on "the Heights"--the wealthy families' kids had a short walk, and it just crossed the "rural" barrier for us South Siders, so we DID get to ride a bus up there for Senior High. Of course, we stood in the middle of a busy intersection waiting for the bus, and in Winter, we had to wait at least 45 minutes for a late bus before our tardiness would be excused. These were the worst of times, these were the worst of times.

With temperatures and wind chills being forecast at State Street Bridge levels this week, we at St. Paul's already cancelled Wednesday activities, and our local schools have declared an "icebox" day. Thanks to the progress of human evolution, we make these decisions in 2019. Our kids will be healthier, safer, and better for it. They never cancelled school in 1968 for a "Polar Vortex," even if they HAD known what one was. And not a day goes by that I don't think about assessing the damage this caused to our psyches, and how many points we dropped on the I.Q. scale because of frozen brain cells. It's weeks like this that make me break out in a seriously threatening and diabolical laugh anytime someone dares mention "the good old days." Stay safe, stay warm, stay IN, Beloved. Spring is out there...

Snow Job...

Time to update the blog...what shall I write about? Trump? Nope--tired of it. Government shutdown? Nope--ditto. The United Methodist Church and The Way Forward? Nope--ditto, ditto, ditto, and the modified PLAN ditto! I could write some nice, comforting faith-based piece? Nope--just got done writing a sermon; am spent on faith-based stuff. So, let's talk about snow...

Since the National Weather Service and the NOAA are either not getting paid, or are working with skeleton crews, I think they are funnin' with us about the forecasts for "Stormzilla" this weekend. Here in the North Hills of Pittsburgh, they are saying we can get between 3 and 18 inches of snow--that's one big "between." Forecasts always look so prescient when you give yourself such latitude. I stopped to buy milk at Giant Eagle last night--because we need milk, not because of the storm forecast--but the "stormers" beat me to it. I got one of the last half-gallons in the place. I didn't go near the bread or the toilet paper. We're packing meals for the "End Hunger" program on Saturday, and people are already calling to see if we're cancelling. No, people are still hungry. We may have less "packers" for the assembly line, but we'll get our 24,000 meals packed. We did decide to begin an hour early, as the bulk of the snow is not supposed to come until later in the afternoon--3 to 18 inches. At 3 inches, Pittsburgh is paralyzed. At 18, it's the apocalypse, and we're just waiting for the Pale Rider.

We DO live in Western Pennsylvania. Even before climate change began affecting us, we got snow, and sometimes, lots of it. And it gets cold in winter. I'm not sure why we seem to manufacture such panic, annually. Oh, and I'm not going to debate the climate change issue, either. I figure there are two kinds of people, when it comes to climate change--those who believe the science about it, and idiots. Regardless, we get snow. It's Western Pennsylvania. And it gets cold. If you are the entrepreneurial sort, and want to make some fast cash, get a van, load it up with milk, bread, and toilet paper, and go door to door. Tell the residents you'll be around every time they forecast 3 to 18 inches.

The church struggles with weather forecasts and snow. Businesses generally stay open. Libraries stay open. Schools close, mostly for the safety of the students, as those "yellow submarines" they ride are just a big skate on ice and snow. But what about church? If we're talking a church that pretty much hosts weekend worship, a Bible study, and maybe a committee meeting, they're pretty much out of business if they let a snowstorm bring them down. A church like St. Paul's? With preschool, daycare, Kidz Korner, and a raft of other activities, studies, community use of our building, and such, we have a "weather alert" on our website and networks to let folk know when we have to cancel or alter schedules. We also have a parking lot that is so large it's in two townships, so maintaining it in inclement weather is a bear--and rather expensive. But, we are in Western Pennsylvania. We get snow. And it gets cold in Winter. And with a church facility that has been added onto eight times, we have pipes in uninsulated ceilings, drains that have to pump UP hill, and roofs that leak when the gutters freeze and back up. Our head custodian runs around here like Nanook of the North. But we usually stay open, and people come--hearty people...sometimes CRAZY people! Seriously, they are usually people dedicated in their faith, and loyal to their church. But they are a bit crazy. I'm not sure that going out to church in the midst of a whiteout, following the salt truck, and sliding around in our giant parking lot is what Paul meant when he said we are "fools for Christ."

And, if we GET the 18 inches of snow, I'll have my usual thoughts about retiring to a warmer climate--Florida, Arizona, even Arkansas, which one of the senior publications recently cited as the most economical place for us old people to live. Then, I come to my senses: Florida can't even VOTE properly, they're so nuts down there; Arizona has been having 115 degree temperatures, and sandstorms; and Arkansas? ARKANSAS? Have you SEEN their politics? Those of you who know me, know I'd last 45 seconds in Arkansas. My religion is far too "liberal," my politics are far left of that, and I can't abide country music. I don't have a dog, I don't have a pickup truck, and never plan to leave my wife (and hope the reciprocal of that is true, honey?). After all of that "weather reckoning," my lovely wife says "DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT moving where they don't have 'seasons'!" She likes the seasons. Honestly, I do, too--especially Spring and Fall. I've looked, by the way, and there is no place on planet Earth that is always Spring or always Fall. You either have to live with perpetual Summer or perpetual Winter, if you go South or North. So, it's like cable TV service--if you want Spring and Fall, you have to take Summer and Winter, too. And you get your best deal if you bundle them.

So, it's going to snow. Maybe a lot. Things will close, or not. Unless you already are stocked up, you'd better figure out alternatives for bread, milk, and toilet paper. Rest assured, if the roads get bad, it's almost a guarantee that the worst drivers will flood the highways. They'll drive their SUVs, go too fast, secure in having all-wheel drive, not thinking that when it comes to stopping, they're driving something the size of Delaware with only four little patches of tire available to halt their forward progress. And lots of them won't have their lights on, because they don't want you to see them coming--surprise! So, what are we to do? Stay warm and safe, Beloved. And remember: We live in Western Pennsylvania. It snows. It gets cold in Winter. But Spring is only 9 weeks away! Shalom, yinz!

Hugging Jesus...

This photo has been making the rounds of Facebook and the Internet. I believe it is an artist's conception of a person arriving in heaven, and upon encountering Jesus, is embraced by him, or joyously and spontaneously embraces him! The artist captures the joy on the individual's face quite effectively, and for most people of faith who view the painting, an empathetic smile--or even a tear or two--may ensue.

What emotions, if any, does the picture elicit in you? Many who post or email it, comment about how they hope this will be the scene when they "cross over," or they relate it to a loved one or dear friend who has recently died, and are comforted by the artist's portrayal of how that one is now in the arms of Jesus. I thought about a dear, dear church member in my first appointment--Velma--who passed away many years ago. Velma was the most "connected to Jesus" person I have ever known. Ever. And she was maybe the only person I ever knew who, I believe, really matched the Apostle Paul in "praying without ceasing." Velma prayed every day for each pastor whom had ever served her church. I remember how honored and blessed I was to be a part of that personal litany. Years after leaving that appointment, in a few of my darker moments, I was lifted by remembering that Velma was praying for me. I also remember the grief I felt when I got word she had passed. (Oh, I wasn't sorry for Velma, because she was hugging Jesus! No, my grief was for missing those daily prayers!) This picture could very well be Velma arriving in glory. Believe me, Jesus would have had to pry himself from her, and it might have taken a few days.

I like the picture, for it really got me thinking about a couple of things. First of all, we really can't tell the gender of the individual hugging Jesus. And given that the "rainbow colors" are prominent, it's very possible that this gender ambiguity is intentional by the artist. This Jesus welcomes all, and in this depiction of heaven, "All means all."

My next observation may trouble some of you, OR, you may be strange in the way that I am strange. For, you see, I have no interest in hugging Jesus. At least I don't think I do. The few times I have been in the presence of persons of some great note, I had no compulsion to run up to them and solicit a hearty handshake, or even approach them directly, let alone embrace them. Initially, I stood silently in their presence, not too close, and was quite caught up in awe of the individual, and what they represented to me. (Please know that I am not referencing persons of mere celebrity status such as sports stars or actors, but academicians, authors, theologians, musicians, artists, or elected officials in high office, either political or religious.) I even had this view of my college and seminary professors. I could never call them by their first names, much preferring to use their earned titles. I had no desire to "befriend them," preferring instead to "sit at their feet, take in their teachings, and impress them by how seriously I treated their subject and excelled in their class. I also wanted to honor them by "making good" on what they taught me by integrating it into my life, philosophy, and later, my ministry.

Well, with that in mind, do you see why I don't get jazzed up with the idea of hugging Jesus? This is Jesus--the Son of God, co-creator of the universe, the protagonist in "The Greatest Story Ever Told," God's "star-child" bridge to humanity! This ain't ol' uncle Frank, or even my departed grandmother! In my mind's eye, I can image just standing there, looking at him in unbelief that I have somehow been privileged to be in such close proximity. I think I'll be sizing up his appearance against the database of portrayals of Jesus I remember from my earthly sojourn. I hope I'll won't be too stunned to listen, in case the "still, small voice" I disciplined myself to hear in the silence now actually becomes audible and unmistakably directed at me. In my fondest dreams, I can imagine him saying, "I'm doing an update to the Sermon on the Mount in room 203 in five minutes, won't you sit in?" Or "Hey, have you met Paul yet?" Or even still, "Peter didn't pull that 'May I take your coat?' bit on you when you arrived, did he? That rascal!" I'm really hoping he doesn't say something like "Welcome, my son" or "Enter into the joy of the Lord," for I KNOW I'll just pass out, given that I'll be so wrapped up in awe as to be paralyzed.

Thanks to God's abundant grace, I know I will have nothing more to "prove" to him about myself, any more than I did in this life. Still, I think I will want to "worship" Jesus by continuing to absorb his teaching, accept his acceptance of me gratefully, and go about building new relationships just like I did on earth.

I might eventually get around to singing, and even spouting a few scriptural expressions of praise, but I'm not hugging Jesus. Now, please don't think that I'm suggesting that any of my thoughts about this encounter should be yours. In fact, I hope you have a few, vivid "heaven hopes" of your own! After you do whatever you do in those first moments in the presence of Jesus, don't forget to meet us for class in room 203. And would someone bring at least one lunch to share? I hope he didn't grade my sermons...

Final thought: what if Jesus hugs ME? I'll probably whoop and cry like the person in the painting, for what else would I do when the one who is the source of my greatest blessings, the one who helped me find my earthly partner (whom I've never escaped being in awe of, either), and guided us as we raised our family and spirited our ministry, grabs MY neck and pulls me close? I'd be a hot mess.

Well, that really wasn't my FINAL thought. I hope that one is many, many years off!

Shalom, Yinz!

2019 Beckons...

I know I'm a little early, but Happy New Year! Since I seem never to get a jump on Christmas, I figured this may be the next best thing. 2018 is almost history. Frankly, it will not go down as a "year to remember" for Yours Truly. WAY too many challenges reared their ugly heads than I care to tackle--good friends and colleagues with tough diagnoses, deaths of so many dear ones, the national malaise over an unorthodox government (at least not one like we've ever seen before), and a stock market that functioned more like a pinball machine than a Rolex watch.

A telegram sent to the crew of Apollo 8, after their historic lunar orbital mission, said, "You've saved 1968!" While 2018 was no where near as horrible as 1968 (the raging war in Viet Nam, the assassinations of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert Kennedy), I found myself waxing nostalgic as to the "healing" powers of Apollo 8 and its near miraculous voyage from the earth to the moon, complete with astronauts Borman, Lovell, and Anders reading from Genesis on Christmas Eve, and capturing the famous "Earthrise" photo that would later launch "Earth Day" and a broader concern for the environment. 2018 was the 50th anniversary of this space journey, and I watched every video and read every retrospective article and editorial I could, hoping to recapture some of its magic. It helped. Tom Hanks produced a marvelous series for HBO years ago called "From the Earth to the Moon," and I have it on DVD. It covers the entire Apollo program, was co-produced by Ronny Howard, and is WELL worth reviewing. I watched the Apollo 8 episode about three times over the holidays.

Humankind needs faith and inspiration. Pure humanism, while a valid and valuable "starter" for developing care for one's fellow human beings, doesn't "make our spirits soar." Apollo 8 did that, as did Apollo 11, six months later. My wife and I saw the recent film "First Man," about the first man, Neil Armstrong. It's a very good film. It jars those of us, though, who followed and loved the space program by leading off with African American performer, Gil Scott-Heron's "Whitey on the Moon." In this piece, Scott-Heron chides America for ignoring domestic needs while spending billions to put "whitey on the moon." His point is a necessary counterpoint to spending tax dollars to accomplish what some consider frivolous pursuits (a wall on the Southern boarder?) However, the trips to the moon "saved" a difficult era and gave humanity a new vision for our planet, "a grand oasis in the big vastness of space," in the words of Jim Lovell. We are "riders on the earth, together, brothers on that bright loveliness in the eternal cold" (Poet Laureate, Archibald MacLeish).

It is time for that faith and inspiration again, Dear Ones. May 2019 be one for the record books, and not for the same, inane reasons 2018 may be. Faith may best be described in the words of Robert Kennedy: "Some see things as they are, and say 'Why?' I dream things that never were, and say 'Why not?'" Faith is like the second half of this statement--it's most valuable function is to help us dream about how things COULD be, and pray and work for it to become so. May your 2019 be that kind of year!

Finally, in celebration of the 50th anniversary of Apollo 8, I quote (in its entirety) the inspiring poem by Archibald MacLeish, written as he reflected on the revelations of that first lunar excursion:

Riders on Earth Together, Brothers in Eternal Cold

Men's conception of themselves and of each other has always depended on their notion of the earth. When the earth was the World -- all the world there was -- and the stars were lights in Dante's heaven, and the ground beneath men's feet roofed Hell, they saw themselves as creatures at the center of the universe, the sole, particular concern of God -- and from that high place they ruled and killed and conquered as they pleased.

And when, centuries later, the earth was no longer the World but a small, wet spinning planet in the solar system of a minor star off at the edge of an inconsiderable galaxy in the immeasurable distances of space -- when Dante's heaven had disappeared and there was no Hell (at least no Hell beneath the feet) -- men began to see themselves not as God-directed actors at the center of a noble drama, but as helpless victims of a senseless farce where all the rest were helpless victims also and millions could be killed in world-wide wars or in blasted cities or in concentration camps without a thought or reason but the reason -- if we call it one -- of force.

Now, in the last few hours, the notion may have changed again. For the first time in all of time men have seen it not as continents or oceans from the little distance of a hundred miles or two or three, but seen it from the depth of space; seen it whole and round and beautiful and small as even Dante -- that "first imagination of Christendom" -- had never dreamed of seeing it; as the Twentieth Century philosophers of absurdity and despair were incapable of guessing that it might be seen. And seeing it so, one question came to the minds of those who looked at it. "Is it inhabited?" they said to each other and laughed -- and then they did not laugh. What came to their minds a hundred thousand miles and more into space -- "half way to the moon" they put it -- what came to their minds was the life on that little, lonely, floating planet; that tiny raft in the enormous, empty night. "Is it inhabited?"

The medieval notion of the earth put man at the center of everything. The nuclear notion of the earth put him nowhere -- beyond the range of reason even -- lost in absurdity and war. This latest notion may have other consequences. Formed as it was in the minds of heroic voyagers who were also men, it may remake our image of mankind. No longer that preposterous figure at the center, no longer that degraded and degrading victim off at the margins of reality and blind with blood, man may at last become himself.

To see the earth as it truly is, small and blue and beautiful in that eternal silence where it floats, is to see ourselves as riders on the earth together, brothers on that bright loveliness in the eternal cold -- brothers who know now they are truly brothers. 

Immigrants...

2 And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.

2 (And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)

3 And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.

4 And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:)

5 To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.

6 And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.

7 And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

8 And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.

9 And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

10 And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

11 For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

12 And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

13 And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

14 Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

15 And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.

16 And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger.

17 And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child.

18 And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds.

19 But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.

20 And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them.

Turkey Trot...

What's Advent and Christmas season like for pastors? Crazy. I know some clergy get freaked out over the Lenten and Easter seasons, with Holy Week being a particular stressor, but personally? I pretty much lose it over December.

I saw a video posted on Facebook the other day of a small boy on his way home from school, and he was being chased by a wild turkey. You could tell the child was in a panic, as the big (dumb) bird was gaining on him. A Good Samaritan driving down the road, pulled his car onto the brim between them, cutting off the turkey, and ending the boy's anxiety. This is a great metaphor for clergy--at least for this one--in December. I am the small boy, Advent and Christmas are the turkey. Where, O where is our Good Samaritan?

I'll probably have to spend a weekend in purgatory for equating these Jesus-oriented seasons with a marauding turkey, but planning Advent themes that are meaningful without being trite is a challenge. I am blessed to work with a great Leadership Team here at St. Paul's, and we have a Music and Worship Director who leads us in putting together themes, services, and liturgy, but still, keeping it all focused in one's head, while preparing sermons and aiming at "The Show" on Christmas Eve wears one down.

We have five worship services each weekend at St. Paul's--one on Saturday night, and four on Sunday morning. Typically, I preach at three, and Pastor Karen at two, but we flip-flop that from time to time so each congregation gets to hear a different perspective. It's a little daunting that each of the services is a different format, and that the sermon is best "tweaked" and at worst sometimes totally revamped to fit the aesthetics of each. Yours Truly likes to use a little humor, from time to time, and I get a kick out of the fact that in one service, a planned moment of levity in a sermon is liable to fall totally flat, while being greeted by guffaws in another. One must also learn that a proud moment of "inspired" biblical exegesis doesn't seem as awe-inspiring to an 8:30AM wake-up crowd as it may to a 10:30AM pre-lunch assembly. And, of course, these congregations expect a few real stem-winders over the December holidays. After all, Advent and Christmas are about Jesus, past, present, and future.

What complicates matters for this clergyperson is that I love these seasons, personally. I think it was Ohio State football coach Woody Hayes who said, "If you have a big cannon, SHOOT it!" Christmas is our "big cannon" in the church. While Easter is endowed with much more theological significance, Christmas is the holiday that has won universal acceptance. It's when a church of 1,200 members here in Allison Park usually has about 1,500 show up for worship on Christmas Eve. Finding time to personally revel in the revelry is like trying to find the red needle in the green haystack. Usually, Christmas Day is a time to recuperate, especially after getting home around 2:00AM the night before.

Still, I love the season, and usually DO find time to thank God for the gift of Jesus, who came into the world to rescue us all. The life of Jesus inspires me, the teachings of Jesus guide me each day, and the sacrifice of Jesus--which I'll never fully understand--amazes me. Preaching about Jesus is not hard, but doing it in such a way that people "meet" the Christ rather than just hear a lesson or a news report about him is, well, hard. I know, I know, "rely on the Holy Spirit." Sure, that's easy? Over thirty-four years of preaching the Good News on Christmas Eve, though, I have learned to do two things: stick to the story, and "keep the main thing the main thing." As one of our hymns proclaims, "love came down at Christmas!" Indeed.

Ever wonder what goes through the mind of a minister while she or he is navigating December? Well, here you have it. Pretty disjointed, isn't it? Where IS that Holy Spirit when you need her? To all my pastor friends, may the Spirit give "kick" to your Advent and Christmas sermons, and may you find time to enjoy God's love and grace with your partner and your family. To my non-pastor friends, just push through the bustle and celebrate like there is no tomorrow. Experience God's love that DID come down at Christmas--and has never left. Say a prayer for peace. Commit a few of those random acts of kindness. And let joy fill all of the empty spaces.

Oh, oh, here comes that turkey again. I'm off...another sermon beckons. Shalom, Yinz. And if I don't get to update this blog before it happens, Merry Christmas!