Balcony Person Delcares Vacation!

Summer’s here.  The tomatoes are on the vine and a few of them that survived the deer and the blight have been harvested!  Ever eaten a $200 (approximate cost of growing your own) tomato?  It tastes much like the ones for 99 cents per pound at the Farmer’s Market.

I’ve decided it’s time for vacation even though my vacation won’t officially start for another two weeks.  My mind vacated about the time the thermometer hit 97 a couple weeks ago.  My trips outside, even in the heat, have become more prolonged as I watch the sky and the formation of the clouds, listening for thunder and rain so I don’t have to mow the grass!

Even the work as chaplain at the hospital has slowed a bit it seems.  Who wants to go to the hospital for elective surgery (or any surgery for that matter) when the skies are blue and lake is beckoning?  I am still helping out at the hospice when needed, but even the pace there seems slower.

And I must confess that I am tempted to miss a couple Sundays at Church as June progresses.  I can’t wait to see my children and grandchildren and enjoy our annual beach trip. That’s something I’ve been anxiously awaiting since the snow was on the ground.

So I am announcing that the balcony person is officially on vacation! There won’t be any posts for a while.  I’ll be back, so all the faithful followers out there (both of you), please don’t be disappointed!  But when I return to this sometime in the later part of the summer, I may have to change the name because beginning July 5, I shall no longer be a balcony person for a while.  I’ve gone the way of so many “young” retired ministers and accepted an interim position as pastor in a town near Raleigh.

So stay tuned.  And let me know if I should change the name of this blog from balcony person to something else (Recycled Minister? Pulpit Person? Back Sliding Balcony Person?) As for now, let’s all enjoy a change of pace and call it summer vacation.

Are Kids Smarter Today?

Are kids smarter these days or am I just getting dumber?   Please don’t answer that question.   The answer is probably “yes.”  I must admit that I wondered where some of my brain cells had gone as I sat in the balcony at Church Sunday.  It was graduate Sunday and a number of FBC’s graduates shared in the worship with a meditation.   They proved to me that they can do sermons both better and shorter than I ever did them.   They also impressed me with such wisdom that I suspected that the President’s speech writers may have composed the meditations, and if not a professional speech writer, then certainly the Church’s ministers!  Then again, the speeches had to be authentic.  They were too filled with personal stories and chocked full of nuggets of each graduate’s personality to be anything but original. 

Anna recounted the importance of community during a medical crisis she experienced.  Justin spoke of being a shy introvert who would hardly talk to others, to  become the person who was able to stand at a pulpit and face five hundred listeners with ease and eloquence. Morgan spoke of how connecting with the past gives direction to our futures.  Ian reminded that Church provided him a balance and gave to him stability in the move to a new city and the many other transitions he has experienced over the years. And Luke spoke of the importance of relationship, service, and mission in his pilgrimage of faith.

All pointed to mentors in the community of faith and to relationships developed during times of crisis, transition, social engagement, and mission.

Kudos kids!  Or better said, “thank you, young men and women of FBC.”  You show us older folks who are losing our brain cells what we too often forget:  It is in relationship and community that our faith grows, and that we continue to learn and become the children of God. Even us old folks with diminishing wit can learn that. 

An Open Letter to the Deer

Dear Deer,

I’ve tried everything I know to keep you away from my tomato plants, so I am appealing to your sense of compassion by this letter in the hopes that you will PLEASE stop eating my tomatoes.  You see, I have spent many hours trying to cultivated these beautiful plants.  I began earlier than usual this year since the spring was warm.  The rains have finally fallen gently on my fields and it looks like a bumper year for tomatoes.   I purchased the best plants from the best nursery in town and have applied Miracle Grow according to the directions on the box.  The result has been many tomatoes that would have ripened early, had it not been for your midnight raid on my garden.

In order to keep you at a distance, dear deer, I have tried the highly lauded “Deer Away”, which contains herbal and non-toxic ingredients, the smell of which I find a little nauseating, but can endure if I know you will find it nauseating, too.  Unfortunately, you did not seem to mind it.  Nor did you mind the previous year’s experiment with moth balls.  A little girl from the neighborhood told me my yard smelled like “grandma’s” house.  While the moth balls did decrease the moths in my yard, they did not deter you.  One year, my wife heard that hair clippings helped, so she brought home a bag of clippings from her beauty salon.   You gingerly stepped over the clippings of red, blonde, brunette, and gray hair to find your way to my tomatoes.

I am almost ready to admit defeat and drive to the State Farmer’s Market to buy my tomatoes in the future. It would be cheaper than the two tomatoes you left me, which when I average in the cost of fertilizers, repellants, and irrigation plus the psychotherapy I will need to deal with my anger and loss, will be about two hundred dollars per tomato.

 As I said, I’ve tried everything, so if there is just one iota of compassion left in your heart, please read this and have pity on me and my remaining two tomatoes.

Exit Balcony. Hello Beach!

The Church balcony looked a little empty Sunday.  A number of folks, including yours truly, were worshipping at the beach.  The Pathfinders Sunday School Class took off this week-end for their annual Memorial week-end trip to Caswell Beach.  As newcomers to this group, Betsy and I were forewarned of the following:  “There will be no meetings, no programs, and no required anything!”  Indeed, the promise was fulfilled.  Even though Betsy and I were there for just two days, it was a retreat worth the time and travel. 

We enjoyed the good food, the times of fellowship with the other class members, and the most beautiful weather one could hope for.  We did not find our way to a worship service, but worship found us.  On Sunday morning, the gulls called us to worship, the waves spoke the message of eternity, the skies and clouds lifted our heads to hope.  As the sun approached noon and the temperatures soared, we retreated to the shade of the live oaks and were reminded of the words of the Psalmist, “…The Lord is your shade on your right hand.  The sun shall not smite you by day,  nor the moon by night.”

 In our walks around Caswell (N.C Baptist Assembly grounds), Betsy and I shared memories of decades past and times there with our children, friends, and even college friends “back when.” We remembered God’s goodness to us throughout our lives.

 I have to admit that I am tempted to miss Church every Sunday and go worship at some scenic outdoor spot , but realize that I need to listen to the community at worship together as much as sounds of nature I experienced this week-end.

We returned to Raleigh and the routine grateful for a time of rest, replenishment, and inspiration at Caswell.  I suppose you can say we experienced the true essence of “Sabbath”!  Sometimes, I suppose, one needs to leave the balcony and greet the beach.

Who's Your American Idol?

My town is alive with "Scotty" fever.  Tonight, we'll know if our new American Idol is Scotty or Lauren.  Next year, I may not remember who the Idol was, such is the nature of our fast paced culture and our short term memories.   Who of us remembers Taylor Hicks, or Kris Allen, or last year's Idol, Lee DeWyze? 

I wonder the same about our memory of current events.  Who among us remembers how close we came to financial catastrophe as a country in 2007-08 when banks and large corporations began to fail?  Can we look back on 9-11 and remember how vulnerable we were?  Do we remember how close we came to having the Capitol and White House destroyed and even greater loss of life?

And I wonder if we really remember the truest "idols," those who are willing "to lay down their lives for their friends," as did the fire and rescue squad members on 9-11.

This Friday, I will lead in a time of memorial at the hospital where I am working part-time as chaplain.  We will pause for a time of silence.  We may or may not have the outcome of American Idol on our minds.  But we will silently pause to remember all who have faithfully lived and loyally died for our well being.   We will pause to remember the real America idols, unknown and unnamed to most of us, who willingly gave up their lives for thier friends.  Then we will proceed to the picnics, beach trips, and family outtings, grateful again for the true American idols whose sacrificial gifts we enjoy today.

Why Can't Church Be Fun?

I had fun in the Church balcony today.   I sat in the center section just in front of the balcony organ pipes.  I sang just as loudly as I wanted because I knew my voice would not out sing those beautiful pipes.  And I had fun because I knew I could sing the wrong notes, even the wrong hymn if I wanted to, and nobody would know! 

I had fun, also, because the pastor did a monologue.  Dr. Christopher Chapman is one of the most creative preachers I’ve ever known.  This was the second time he has done a monologue this spring. This time he appeared as a modern day cynic.  Walking to the podium and speaking beside the pulpit rather than behind it, Dr. Chapman became the cynic of faith and religious practice that we all, at some time in our lives, have been.  “Now here is a pastor who knows that we sometimes doubt and have all kinds of faith questions,” I thought, “and he’s not afraid to deal with the real issues which confront us all, and in such a creative way!”

  I am continually amazed by the versatility and depth of Dr. Chapman’s sermons and monologues.  I find myself leaving Sunday after Sunday with the words from one of Chaucer’s Cantebury Tales characters, “…and still they gazed and still the wonder grew, that one small head could carry all he knew.”   When the word gets out about how this Church and its pastor are tackling some of the difficult issues of life and faith, and with such a sense of joy and wit, the balcony should soon be overflowing!

It feels good to leave Church knowing that the pastor, staff, and members are working together, in all their diversity and with all their differences, to learn and grow.   As Scott Peck put it, “God put us on this earth to learn and to grow.”  First Baptist Church of Raleigh seems to understand the learning, growing, and doubting processes involved in the life of faith.  And instead of forming circular firing squads to address differences in the congregation, they celebrate them with healthy discussion, laughter, and creative thinking.

Live Simply that Others May Simply Live!

It’s almost tomato season again. This year I have again  fought insects and deer to have a few tomatoes to harvest soon.   My tomato plants are, again this year, in my front yard.  It’s the only sunny spot in my yard and I am convinced that it is more important that I grow some food, no matter what the neighbor’s say about “Dr. Herman’s front yard, overgrown veggie patch.”

Why fill the yard with vegetables rather than petunias?  For one, I want to remember where my food comes from.  And I want all the kids on my street to see that food actually grows on plants and just doesn’t “appear” in the produce department.  I am hopeful that the kids on my street (unlike the young clerk at the supermarket where I shop) will someday know the difference between an avocado and a turnip.

I am defying my professional yard “fertilizers” and going to a natural lawn care service.  I am attempting to eat less meat because the way our meats are raised and processed tend to, well, turn my stomach.  I don’t like the fact that poultry cannot breathe or even walk where they are raised, or that beef is injected with any number of hormones and antibiotics, or pork is….well, you get the picture.

No, I’ not a rabid animal “rights” person, or a tree-hugging environmentalist, or a fanatic about every health fad that comes along.  But I am seriously trying to understand “Christian stewardship” as being about more than giving to the Church.  It’s about how we treat our earth, our animals, our humans, and our food and water sources.

I believe some resources of our earth are limited and others, while limited, are replenishable.  I believe there may just be enough food and resources for all of us if some of us don’t mess it up or use it up!   And I believe that good stewardship calls me to live simply that others may live.

This is a counter cultural idea and you may not agree.  But if you can’t get any tomatoes or basil, come by my house.  I don’t mind sharing.

The Best Sermons are Short Ones

Year ago, I received some criticism from my ten year old daughter after one of my sermons.  “They are sooooo long,” she said.  Wishing I were the wise and patient father that I am not, I asked, “Well, if you were the preacher, what would you say to the congregation?”  Without hesitation she answered, “Everyone can go home now!”

I was in the balcony of First Baptist Church Raleigh yesterday when Pastor Chris Chapman shared the story of hearing about a Pentecostal Preacher in Argentina who stood for his sermon and said only three words:  “Love one another!”  He sat down, only to get up a second time to say “Love one another!” After sitting another moment, he stood a third time and preached loudly, “Love one another! And we are not leaving here until you do!”  The congregation then began stirring about, talking about mutual needs and concerns as they attempted to “love one another.”  They conversed, prayed, and then mobilized to meet the needs they had just learned about as they related to one another.

As I left the balcony of the Church, I looked more closely at the people around me, observing their needs and wondering what kind of love they needed in their lives.  We are dismissed after hearing of community needs (deaths, illnesses, opportunities to minister to one another, mission opportunities, etc).  I imagined that I was doing what the pastor asked us to do, look right around us to share love with those close by who need it.  We are to be “missional” as we meet needs wherever we happen to be.

We can all preach sermons of love.   The best ones, from my experience, are the ones that are short.  Sometimes, we preach the best sermons when we use no words at all.

Recipe for Happiness and "Ceviche"

These beautiful spring days remind me of our years in Quito, Ecuador.  One of my favorite foods from Ecuador is ceviche.  Look it up and you’ll find several spellings:  seviche; cebiche; or sebiche.  You’ll also find as many variations of how to fix it.  Ecuadorians use shrimp or other shell fish.  I’ve also eaten vegetarian ceviches which were good.  Here’s my recipe that I mix up when the weather gets like it is today.  For those of you who like exact ingredients, forget it! Ceviche ought to taste different each time you eat it.  Here goes:

1 cup of orange juice; juice of two lemons; cup or two of chopped tomatoes; 1 tablespoon of catsup; 1 tsp sugar (or to taste); salt; pepper; chopped onion; chopped cilantro (lots); 2 cups small shrimp cleaned/cooked (we cook ours briefly, but Ecuadorians don’t).  Optional:  diced cucumber, corn,  garbanzas, or other veggies you like.  Refrigerate for at least an hour. Feeds one:  me.

Serve cold with more cilantro sprinkled on and with popcorn to garnish and eat by handfuls with the ceviche.  The beverage accompaniment of your choice completes the feast. (Baptists like Coke, but Presbyterians may enjoy beer.  Baptists who are in the company of Presbyterians with no other Baptists present may enjoy beer, also.)

There you have it, the recipe for “ceviche.”   Oh, the happiness part that I promised?   That comes after you eat the ceviche!

Back Porch Sanctuary

It looks like the local newspaper has snubbed me again.  They said, “send in the photo of your porch and tell us why you like it.”  I did.  They never contacted me about having received my photo.  Evidently, they did not like my rusted milk can next to my rocker, its finish now a weathered gray.  Or maybe they didn’t like my description, “the place I come for sanctuary from the world.”  The back porch removes me from the television’s bad news obsession, although I do occasionally take a newspaper with me to sit a spell.  My porch reminds me, in the middle of a busy city, that the true joys are the green leaves that provide a reprieve from the city’s fumes with some fresh oxygen, the breeze that strokes some calmness upon me, and the aviary symphony which charges me nothing for its unique concerts.

As I think about it, I am glad the News and Observer didn’t print my porch photo and my description of why my porch is so important to me.  I really don’t want to be a porch celebrity.  I actually wish I had not sent a photo of the porch at all. Now I’m afraid they might really print it and I’ll be invaded by the paparazzi wanting to photograph my sanctuary!

 Something as uniquely relaxing and soothing as a private back porch should shun all publicity.

Homemade Ice Cream--A Mother's Day Sacrament

We will not be in the balcony at Church this Sunday, Mother’s Day.  We will be traveling, but not to see Mom.  Betsy’s mother died a few months ago and my mother died in 1994.  There will be no children or grandchildren to visit us this Mother’s Day as they live too far away for a week-end trip.  So we have decided to travel three and a half hours to meet with my siblings and nephews and nieces for an afternoon of homemade ice cream.

  No ice cream parlor can provide the memories of a lazy summer afternoon when the kids would take turns turning the ice cream churn.  It was always interesting how the circle of friends and family grew as the turning of the churn became harder!  Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the ice cream would be spooned out and we would dig into the soupy delight. I expect that will be what this Sunday’s ice cream reunion will be like. Yes, we can buy it cheaper and some say there are varieties that taste better than homemade. But none of those store-bought novelties can compare with a group of loved ones who gather around an old ice cream freezer as it churns its way to frozen delight

Our mothers will not be present to enjoy the ice cream with us, but somehow their presence will be palpable as we watch the children scurry about, anxious to be first in line for homemade ice cream. In the ritual of homemade ice cream, we will know the communion of saints long gone, but not forgotten, and we will affirm the goodness of love still present. 

Low Sunday Pizza

I was in the balcony at First Church today when the pastor confirmed what I felt:  “Today is low Sunday,” he said.  As a retired pastor, I knew what he was talking about.  My heart goes out to all pastors, especially my pastor on this low Sunday after Easter.  He was preparing to return to Kentucky to do the funeral of his mother-in-law. The balance of ministry to others and ministry to one’s self and one’s own family is a difficult one to hold.  I know.  I’ve tried for almost forty years. I knew Dr. Chapman always beautifully crafted his sermons, but this Sunday’s  efforts were even more appreciated given all the demands of the past week.

The choir and bells, who are also balcony people, did a beautiful job.  They lifted my spirits with their  heavenly intonations.  Yet, I could not get my mind away from the terrible losses of life in tornados this week, now over three hundred dead in the Southeast.  Many in Raleigh are still cleaning up and putting their lives together from tornados in the previous weeks.  I also remembered the losses of lives in Libya, Iraq, and Afghanistan  in those continuing wars.

 I returned home on what was becoming an overcast Sunday.  I missed my children and grandchildren in California, Colorado, and Maryland. I thought of those in my family who had died. I was spiraling to even lower Sunday depts. “Time for a nap!”  Did the disciples say that in their  low Sunday experience? I can’t stop the wars or bring my loved ones home at the snap of a finger.  I cannot erase tornados and their effect ,but I can give and help as possible in the aftermath, but all that after a nap.

As evening of this low Sunday approached, the thought of raiding the frige for a quick meal didn’t really sound appealing.   I found a Papa John’s coupon.   I could order on line and get a whole dollar discount!   After about a half hour of trying to get all the information entered in the on-line forms, with my wife wiping my brow as if I were a surgeon working over his patient, we completed the order (my wife intervened before I canceled it all, or before I could give away our credit card number to the whole world).  It was a hard fought technological battle, but I (we) won!  We actually bought our first pizza on-line!

The pizza arrived. It was missing the olives and mushrooms we “thought” we had indicated on-line.  We sat in the tranquility of the back porch, said a blessing, thought of those without homes or loved ones, and feasted on our low Sunday pizza. And I decided, right then and there as I dipped my pizza crust into the garlic sauce, that I had no reason to complain.

Royal Happiness

The royal couple had just exited the cathedral and were together for a short conversation in the horse drawn carriage.  The telescopic lens focused on Catherine’s lips and the commentator read them as she questioned the Prince:  “Are you happy?” she asked. 

I hope Prince William answered yes!  But I found the question intriguing.  There may be the assumption that anyone with the wealth, health, youth, and the renown of Prince William would be happy.  Yet we know that even royalty have their moments of sadness.  They, too, know what it means to be human.

They know, as both William and Harry know, what it is like to lose a mother at a formidable time in their adolescence.  They know what it is like to feel lonely, wondering who your real friends are.   (I understand that those with lots of wealth, power, and prestige sometimes have to be concerned with such). And perhaps they wonder, at times, if it is all worth it.  I wonder if sometimes they envy us commoners.  Who cares where we go on vacation, or where we go out to dinner, or that we are out cutting our lawns on a Saturday afternoon?  No paparazzi follow us around snapping photos of everything we do, although I do know pastors who tell about Church people just passing by their house to see what they were doing!

I think the new bride’s question showed some sensitivity and  understanding of the event.  Big weddings do not make one happy, nor do all the trappings of royalty.  I wonder if the newlyweds knew what we are learning, that happiness is rooted in all the good  relationships we nurture over our lifetime.

One of the happiest weddings I ever officiated was in the middle of a dust storm in the Andes. The groom wore a suit I had loaned him for the occasion.  Chickens and dogs mingled among the guests in the little cinder block church.  Babies were crying.  We gathered outside at the reception for a cookie and a tin cup filled with lemon grass tea. I’m not sure, but I think I heard the bride ask the groom, estas felize (are you happy)?  His broad smile said he was.

Hospice Heroes

“There are no heroes in the hospice,” I overheard someone say, “and no good days in the hospice.”

I begged to differ, not knowing exactly why.

And knowing that our hospice patients don’t survive more than a few days, or weeks, or months, I could see some logic in my friend’s observation.

There are those few who go home, to return again, but they are here for the reason that their time has been cut short…and we are here to help them live it out in all the fullness of time that a good hospice can offer.

Is this not an heroic deed?  Giving time, and counsel, and medical care far beyond the ordinary?

No heroes in the hospice? Maybe not.  “No good days in the hospice?  

I beg to differ.   I differ because there are those who were hurting, but who now find relief.

I differ because there were those who were struggling to let go, and a nurse, or doctor, or social worker or chaplain gave them permission to do so.

I beg to differ with those who say there are no good days in hospice. There is the reward of seeing a last good day for someone who would have otherwise known only pain and misery.

There are days that are sorrowfully good, a gracious relief for loved ones who have been tired and exhausted, waiting for days, weeks, or months.

Those who work in hospice do not aspire to be heroes; they are merely there to give comfort, resolution, and support in life’s last great hurdle; to do no less for others, than they would want done for themselves.   Perhaps that should be the new definition of  “hero.”

Church Hopping Easter

What does a recently retired minister do on Easter Sunday?  Sleep late?  Go to the beach and meditate?  Sit on the porch and read the paper all day?   No.  Most of us go to Church.  As a matter of fact, I went to two churches on Easter, the one I used to pastor and the one where I am a “balcony person” member.

I am not sure why I felt the need to go to both churches.  It was convenient that Greystone Church had an early service and First Baptist Raleigh the traditional eleven o’clock service.  We have friends at both places, and the very fact that we miss our three children (all far away on this Easter Sunday) seemed to propel my wife and me toward the congregations we have grown to love and appreciate.  Greystone Church is actually the daughter of First Baptist, so there is a family thing going in our attendance at both.

I am glad I did some church hopping.  Not only did I find inspiring and enlightening worship and sermons at both churches, but I felt the Easter spirit of renewal and love in both places.  Before the start of the early service, I complained to an old friend about missing my children who are scattered from Maryland, to Colorado, to California.  She invited my wife and me to their home for dinner with her family! Then at our next Church stop, one member we’ve known for just a few months reminded us of a supper party at her home this week and even invited us to their New Year’s Eve party---just eight months away!

Both pastors, Dr. Randall Lolley at Greystone  and  Dr. Christopher Chapman at First Baptist, said in their sermons that they could not produce empirical evidence of the resurrection.  “It is beyond our senses,” said Dr. Lolley.  “It was not recorded on video,” stated Dr. Chapman.

Indeed, the message of Easter and the resurrection cannot be proved by science or historical fact.  Neither, I suppose, can “love” or spiritual transformation.   Yet, I experienced plenty of both in the renewal of old friendships and the hospitality of new found friends on this church hopping Easter Sunday.

Good Friday Laughter

Pete (not his real name) stands at the door of the YMCA in my neighborhood.  Developmentally challenged, this young man in his twenties opens the doors for people hurrying in and out. Sometimes, he dispenses stickers appropriate to the season of the year as people leave. This Good Friday was no exception.

I had attended the Maundy Thursday service at church the night before. The church balcony was empty and dark.  The small crowd gathered in the evening shadows below.  We left the service in silence to a darkening sky.

 I awoke the next morning to a dreary and cool day, rain seeping from gray clouds.  “That’s the way Good Friday should be,” I told myself as I rushed out to the Y to get some treadmill time and needed recreation.  “The exercise will do me good and lift my spirits,” I reasoned.

After a half-hearted work out (you know the excuse you make for not working as hard as you should, mine is “the back problem”), I lumbered toward the door.

There was Pete, smiling as usual.  I nodded hello.  In his impaired speech, he asked if I wanted a sticker.  “You select one for me,” I answered.  Pete beamed as he always does when someone agrees to a sticker. Lacking some dexterity,  he laboriously removed a sticker from the waxed sheet.

Placing the sticker on the tip of his finger, he offered it to me.  I thought of the Maundy Thursday meal the night before, how the bread was offered from the finger tips of the minister.  I took the little sticker and slapped it on my lapel, not realizing what it was. 

Looking down at my newly decorated lapel, I saw the image of a colorful butterfly.

Pete laughed.  So did I.

Balcony Protest on Palm Sunday

Palm Sunday worship is always one of my favorite Sundays of the year. I don’t know why because it is so filled with paradox and misunderstanding.  Over the years, I have led processionals of children who enter the worship with palms waving, usually poking a few folks in the eye on the way down the aisle.  Baptists are finally rediscovering what fun the Episcopalians have been having all these years parading and waving wildly the palms.  We’re still a little reserved about it, however. I noticed while waving branches in the balcony yesterday that most people wave the palms a time or two during the hymn, then hide them away as soon as the music stops. We’re not quite sure what to do with palm branches.  I thought of dropping mine from the balcony and watching it twirl about on the way down, but I knew that would not be proper.

I also wanted to continue waving the branches in approval of the pastor’s sermon, or shall we say “non sermon.” Yesterday, he got rid of the robe and stole and surprised us as a character from the original Palm waving crowd.  Depicting an anonymous member of the crowd who welcomed Jesus into Jerusalem, he told it like it was (and perhaps is for many).  What impressed me is that (prepare for a shock!) he wore jeans and a sweat shirt, as if he were one of us on a non-Sunday morning.  Forgetting notes and avoiding the pulpit, he told us the story of the events of that day when Jesus rode into Jerusalem and was hailed as a king.  Of course, we all knew the rest of the story pretty well, but it was good to hear from someone who was there and could explain the paradoxical events.  How is it a crowd could turn from praise to condemnation in a matter of hours, or as quickly as it takes us Baptists to hide our palm branches under the pew, or drop them from the balcony to the floor?

Palm Sunday evening I received a phone call from a member of the Church I had previously pastored.  She said, “I remember you stated in your sermon in 2003 that Palm Sunday was really a protest march!”  Wow, I didn’t know anyone was listening.  “A protest march?  I said that?” Yes, and I hope I can stand by that statement and defiantly wave my palms in protest of the many injustices that still exist these many years since the triumphant entry of Jesus.

Sacrifice--The Coat off His Back

I imagine we’ll be in the balcony hearing a lot about sacrifice in the coming Holy Week.  But one story of sacrifice I well remember happened the winter of 1992. It was a fairly warm winter in Winston-Salem.  Our family had just moved from South America where we had lived for the previous fourteen years.  Our three children were not quite sure what to make of winter, since we had just returned from Ecuador, the land of “eternal springtime.”

Our eldest son had received an invitation from the church youth group to a ski trip on a Saturday evening.  Not having felt the urgency in this mild winter to re-outfit with winter coats and such, we sent our ninth grade son out with his denim jacket to hit the slopes for an evening. When he returned that night, he was wearing a new ski jacket.  “Where did this come from?” we asked with some surprise in our voices.  “Uncle David gave it to me.  He was at the slopes with his boys.   He said he had another one and I could just keep this coat.”

“Uncle David” was Dr. David Smith, pastor of the First Baptist Church of Lenoir, North Carolina.  He had served with us in Ecuador in the eighties.  Knowing what it was like to return to the States and live in “reverse” culture shock, David probably knew that my son’s socially inappropriate attire was probably due to our cultural confusion and chaos of readjustment to the States after so many years.  Or perhaps it was just the fact that my son was probably freezing in the denim jacket. 

That was long enough ago that I honestly don’t remember if we returned David Smith’s coat to him. I really doubt he had an extra one with him.  I think he literally gave my son the coat off his back that evening, willing to take the night’s chill upon himself in order to relieve my son of social embarrassment and the cold of winter.

Hiding Passover Matzos and Fighting Easter Eggs

My family and I were among a group from our Church in Roanoke, Virginia, who were invited to an educational Passover meal at a local synagogue.  The rabbi was gracious to provide an evening for us during such a busy week.  Children were present, including our then fifth grade daughter and her friend. We were a little concerned when, as part of the ritual of the meal, several sips of very sweet Passover wine were taken by my daughter and her friend.  We urged them to sip with caution, but did note a little bit of giggling midway into the ritual feast.  We were glad when the rabbi invited the children to run to all corners of the building to try and find some hidden matzos.  I am not sure what the symbolism is in hiding matzos, but I was grateful that it did give the children a chance to work off some of the giggles.

I am noticing Easter baskets and announcements of Church Easter Egg hunts as Holy Week approaches.  I am also remembering “egg fights” as a kid.  No, we did not throw eggs, but after the colored eggs were hidden, we would have a contest cracking one against the other.  The winner was the one that did not crack.  One year, my father found some geese eggs and I colored them.  Shells of geese eggs are about twice the thickness of chicken eggs.  I was the egg fight champion that year.  The other kids cried foul (forgive the pun)!

As I reflect upon the hidden matzos, hunting Easter eggs, and the egg fights, I am aware of some of the symbolism, especially the element of “surprise” in all three of these childhood games.  Perhaps that is at the root of the holy observances of the coming week.  For Jews who find the matzos, there is the delight of remembering in the matzo the deliverance from slavery.  In the Easter egg hunt, there is the surprise of finding that which was lost, of finding life when we thought there was only death.  As for the Easter egg fight, who knows?  Maybe that’s merely a lesson for us all that there can be fun, even when life feels as uninviting as a three day old Easter egg after the hunt.

Balcony Tears

There was not a dry eye in the house.  This Sunday’s worship included the reading from the Gospel of John where Mary, Martha, and Jesus were all weeping at Lazarus’ death.  We read about his death and resurrection every year about this time.  It becomes a preview, we often say, of the wonderful and surprising things to come.  Rarely do we weep when we read it.  It has become much too familiar, and we know the ending.

It was either ironic or by careful calculation that a lay person was invited to share his faith journey at the conclusion of  the Sunday worship.  In a very real sense, he fleshed out the story of  Lazarus in his own experience of coming to grips with depression which had sent him to the brink of death.  He recounted a time in his life when he saw four friends, all dealing with some of the same self destructive issues with which he dealt, suddenly lose their lives.  He was sure he was next.  He ended up in a treatment facility.  More importantly, he also found himself in the graceful care of a young woman who loved him and a Church fellowship who embraced him.  Slowly, he found health, life, and purpose.   He was tearful throughout his testimony, and many others cried or sniffed back tears as he recounted his return to health.

What was so very evident to me as I heard this young man’s story was the love and care of many who would not give up on him.  It seemed to underscore the persistence of Mary and Martha, and of Jesus, not to give up on Lazarus. As we in the Church move toward the celebration of the resurrection on Easter Sunday, I wonder if we too often try to imagine some ethereal scene never realized or observed before.  I wonder if the resurrection is really more visible and more present that we think.  Perhaps it’s as near as the love which encircles us right now and urges us not to give up, no matter how bad things get.

Touching Raleigh with Love and Biscuits

There were no balcony people at the Church on Saturday morning.  None of us even went into the sanctuary.   We were busy in the kitchen baking biscuits and brewing coffee to take to a park downtown for distribution to the homeless.

Loading the hot cheese stuffed biscuits and coffee into the van, we made the short trek to Moore Square, only to be surprised that most of the park had been fenced off for a beer festival that afternoon.  I wondered if the beer venders thought we might be bringing them biscuits and coffee, which would be okay if they were hungry, or if those passing by might think we were enticing them to come inside to the beer fest.  We did find a space between the beer garden gate and the sidewalk to set up our one table. Hardly before we could get the table upright, people began coming from every direction.  Hungry men, women, and children gathered around us on this unusually chilly and cloudy April morning, grateful for a warm cheese biscuit and some coffee. I suspected most were homeless.  All were hungry.

One hundred and fifty biscuits were gone in no time. The coffee lasted a few minutes longer. I felt guilty we had not baked more biscuits. I wondered where the hundreds of homeless people had come from. Our offerings seemed far too little.

Some of the people lingered with their biscuits, just to talk and say “thank you.” Most everyone gave us smiles of gratitude.  Some asked if we had some clothing to give away.  Fortunately, another group was helping distribute clothing at the Church building, so some were directed there for assistance.

The name of this annual mission emphasis is “Touching Raleigh with Love.” As I loaded the empty cups and boxes into our warm and dry van, I wondered  just who was being touched most with love on this gray April morning.

Forever Friends

I have a few forever friends.  These are the few folks I have known since my brain discovered it could remember.  John is one of those friends.  We have shared so many growing up and growing old events that we sometimes can remember the rest of the story the other one of us just forgot.

It is rare in these transient times to have a friend with whom you lived in the same neighborhood, attended the same church, school, and college.  John and I were even baptized in the same baptismal pool on the same day.  Guess you could say we are born anew twins.  We were probably together when we first became what our church’s covenant called “backsliders.”

One of the things that forever friends do is share memories. Just beginning a sentence with “remember when” can fill an entire evening. Sometimes we talk about our shared experiences of Church, the neighbors, the school, and college.  We were even suitemates in college for four years.  John often says, “Dennis, don’t you wish all of us guys could live together again like we did in college?”

I answer, “John, we can do that.  It’s called the Springmoor Retirement Community just up the street.”

John has long forgiven me (I hope) for filling his suitcase, the one he took on his honeymoon, with grits.  At least they weren’t cooked!  He even laughs about it now.  But I am not sure he has gotten over every single one of the dozens of practical jokes I (and a few accomplices) pulled on him.  I expect that someday in the not too distant future we might forget those and a lot more things, but let’s not go there right now.

For now, I am especially grateful for a forever friend with whom I can occasionally sit on my balcony of remembrance and talk about whatever I might not be able to remember alone.

Balcony of the World: Quito, Ecuador

Speaking of balconies, try living in Quito, Ecuador, altitude almost 10,000 feet.  My family and I lived on that lovely balcony of the world for eight memorable and mostly wonderful years. It is there where we attempted raising, as much as any parents can, our three children.  In my memory, it was an ideal era in our family history.  Memory is like a balcony where we gaze down to the past and marvel over its beauty, often unable to see the ugly and uncomfortable parts.   Who knew that all those years of glorious, sunny Quito days would burn right through our sunscreen and clothes to cause the skin cancers at least two of us in the family have, years later, developed.  High altitude, plus sun, plus intense radiation equals danger. 

Speaking of danger, our first Quito house was precariously stuck into the side of a mountain that looked down upon the city of Quito. The house had at least five levels, which meant that almost each room had its own level.  At our evening meal, we would gather in the dining room and watch the airplanes on their approach to the International Airport.  We actually looked down upon the airplanes, one of which dramatically missed the runway and plowed through a neighborhood.

In front of our house were descending rows of other houses which led down to the old Atahualpa Olympic Stadium.  I remember going to the overlook area across the street and watching what was reported to be a million faithful who crowded in and around the Olympic Stadium to see the Pope.  If we peered hard enough, we could actually gaze upon the Pope from our house.  The kids, faithless creatures that they were, seemed more excited about the Pope-mobile than the Pope!

The views were extraordinary from that Quito house.  We ate breakfast viewing the looming Pichincha volcano.  We saw the tanks roll out on the tarmac at the airport the day General Frank Vargas attempted a military golpe of the government.  I was on the last flight from Guayaquil to Quito that day before the government closed all the airports, and was safely home watching from the balcony when the tanks rolled out.  Frank Vargas failed in his attempt, being arrested a couple hours later as he hid in the lingerie section of a nearby department store. Meanwhile, on the swings at the park next door, the kids pretended they were flying.  Indeed, their feet were higher than the planes that flew through the valley below, and the tanks were barely visible and silent except for one or two loud shots.

When I’m asked why I sit in the balcony at Church, I suppose it’s partly because it brings memories of the Quito years and the balcony experiences when the Hermans lived on the top of the world, in the land of eternal springtime, on the equator. 

Church Balcony Blues

The fourth Sunday in Lent is not known for its cheerfulness.  It’s still a ways from the festiveness of Resurrection Sunday. I suppose one could say that I felt appropriately blue this Sunday.  The prelude “Jesus Walked This Lonesome Valley” is one of my favorites, but tends to pierce me right to the core of the soul when I hear it.

I must confess that one reason for my balcony blues is that all the teams I pulled for in the NCAA semifinals lost the night before. It makes me feel guilty to confess that a ballgame can affect my mood.  “So many people are dealing with real problems,” I say, “like where their next house payment will come from, and if the chemo will work, or what will become of their prodigal child…”

I admit to a tinge of sympathy for our pastor whose Kentucky basketball affinities had been well publicized over the last few weeks.  I had a feeling he, like most of the balcony crowd and many in the expensive seats below,  had stayed up beyond a usual bedtime to cheer on his team. I was glad I did not have to face the crowd today, as he did.  But he was gracious in his loss and did not seem a bit distracted from the sermon based upon the healing of the blind man as told in the Gospel of John. I did note that he was no longer sporting a Kentucky blue shirt.

In discussing the lesson of the healing of the blind man and Jesus’ encounter with the question “who sinned…this man or his parents,” Pastor Chris touched on the issue of divine retribution.  Do misfortunes happen because of our sins?  Do blessings occur because of our faithfulness?  Do we spend more time placing blame than we do on trying to heal or fix? Are we more concerned with rules and regulations, than with doing what is right?  I thought of one of my ethics professors in seminary who reminded us, “Sometimes you just have to go against your principles and do the right thing!”

The worship service included seven youth who read the Gospel lesson, a hand bell prelude, a children’s choir dressed in cheerful Carolina blue robes, beautiful hymns, a choral anthem about grace, shared prayers, and a testimony of faith by a member who shared about a particularly difficult time when her teen aged son sustained life threatening injuries.

I had come to the balcony feeling blue, going through the motions, singing the songs, and following the liturgy.  I left not thinking so much about how I felt, but ready to open my eyes to so much more than the next basketball game.

What Retirement is Teaching Me

If you are not retired, read this at your own risk. It may be like saying to a small child, “there is no Santa Claus.”  If you are retired, don’t bother to read any further.  You already know all of the lessons I am learning.

·         I am learning to procrastinate.  Already know how to do that?  Just wait, retirement makes it worse.  You think you can always cut the grass tomorrow.

·         It may not be smart to retire before your spouse does (Honey, please don’t read this). Sometimes she might leave a little note about something that could be done just in case you get bored.

·         I am learning that I have more time than money. 

·         I am also learning I don’t have as much time as I thought I had.  When you get older it takes longer to get up, get dressed, and remember where you were headed when you walked out of the kitchen.

·         I am learning that I miss my work associates. Where are the secretary and custodian when I need them now?

·         I am learning that the sound of the phone ringing now makes my heart jump with anticipation rather than run with fear!

·         I am learning that my yard keeps getting bigger, the shrubs larger, and the lawn mower less efficient.

·         I am learning that everyone else seems to have many ideas about what I can do with my time.

·         I am finding that when I get into a conversation with a pretty lady at the supermarket, she starts talking about her grandfather who is also retired or recently deceased.

·         I am finding that I get resentful when the clerk at the store sarcastically calls me “young man.”

·         I am finding that I have forgotten the frustrations, long hours, bone aching fatigue, and all the other things which caused me to say, “when I retire…”

from the Balcony to the Catacombs

I descended from the balcony to the catacombs of the Church this week.  There are no catacombs, actually, but the basement rooms below the sanctuary have a “catacombic” ambiance.  In these rooms, which I understand housed wounded soldiers during the Civil War, are now vast arrays of donated clothing.   Twice a week the clothing closet is open to hundreds who come in need of good clothing.  Volunteers from a number of churches come to assist in an orderly and fair system of distribution of clothing to those in need.

I helped at the registration desk where there is a record of each person who utilizes the clothing closet.  Unfortunately, there are those few who will take advantage of the free clothes for resale or to stock a flea market booth.  The vast majority, however, are people who really need assistance.  They are courteous.  They are kind and respectful to the workers. And they truly seem grateful to those who attend their needs.

I met a family from the Dominican Republic who seemed to enjoy my rusty Spanish.  They were gracious and delighted that I would speak to them in their native tongue.  When they left, they said “que Dios le bendiga,” (may God bless you).  I surely felt that God had blessed me.

I was reminded that the poor are not too different from me. They have families.  They feel stress.  They laugh and cry.  They feel good some days and bad some days.   And I saw myself in the face of Jabal, who waited for his wife and mother-in-law to finish shopping.  He confessed, after about an hour, that he was getting tired of waiting for the women to finish their shopping.  “Why is it,” Jabal asked, “that women take so much longer to shop than men?”   I chuckled knowing that I had probably asked my wife the same question.  “We men know what we want, go in, buy it, and we’re done,” Jabal said.  I nodded sympathetically.

I admit that I enjoyed my descent from the balcony to the clothing closet, and think I’ll do it more often.  I suspect my perspective from the balcony will forever be affected by my excursions to the catacombs.

How Much Time Do I Have Left?

Sooner or later the big question comes up: “How much time do I have left?”   I heard that question today at the hospice where I serve as part-time chaplain.  I don’t like the question.  Perhaps it is because I don’t like the answers we usually give. On Tuesday afternoons I leave my "balcony ministry" and  have the distinct privilege of sitting around a table with nurses, doctors, a social worker, and a volunteer coordinator as we discuss patients and issues as an “interdisciplinary team.”

Today I shared a reflection by one hospice patient who quoted her doctor as answering “the” question in the following way:  “you have every moment of every bit of time that’s left.”

I thought it was a clever answer, but the interdisciplinary team did not agree.   “It’s not clever at all…it’s vague.  Patients need more than that.”   Another said, “I tell them the truth—complete honesty.”   Another offered, “we can’t take away their hope, so I tell them nobody knows.”

As I think about it, I am not sure there is ever a satisfactory answer if you are the dying person asking the question. 

We all agreed on one thing.   We cannot put an exact expiration sticker on any soul.  We can be honest, also, without stealing whatever hope, however little or great, may remain.

The question and the answer are both uncomfortable for me. Maybe because I might not have as much time left as one of the patients I visit in the hospice.  I just don't know.  And we both have one thing in common.  We both have every moment of every bit of time that’s left.

Balcony Drama

We almost had some drama in the balcony at Church yesterday.  There was a rather dramatic reading downstairs from the pulpit as we had the woman at the well narrative from the Gospel of John read by three different folks.  I had never realized how much this fourth chapter of John sounded like a script from a movie. It impressed even us balcony dwellers.

Upstairs in the balcony, the youth choir led in a choral call of confession.  Hal Hopson’s arrangement of “Lord, Have Mercy” was beautifully done by this choir who took their part in this third Sunday in Lent very seriously.  But in order for the youth to see their director, she had to stand on the cushioned front pew of the balcony.  I admit to a slight startle as she kicked off her shoes and climbed up to the precarious pedestal.  I would have been leery of doing such a thing, myself, given the fact that I have occasional bouts with vertigo.  I tend to be overly cautious about some things, like falling from great heights.   A friend told me how she and her kids used to sit in that balcony.  They dropped everything from bulletins to hymn books, inadvertently I hope, to the unsuspecting worshippers below.

I confess that I did have visions of what it might be like if the choir director became a little too animated and teetered over the rail into the crowd below.  I tried to shake off this dramatically obsessive thought, and was glad when she stepped down to safety and we could proceed with our prayer of confession and assurance of forgiveness.

Isn’t it interesting what thoughts, fears, dreams, and aspirations occur during a worship service?  It is amazing that the sermon ever seeps through, given the imagined dramas in our head when we must sit still, listen, and meditate. 

Somehow, the story of the woman at the well and God’s wonderful grace got through my fears and uneasiness, not to mention my wondering how Carolina would do against Kentucky in that afternoon’s basketball game.

I am glad the drama in the balcony was only in my “horrible imaginings,” and that the real drama was in the Gospel lesson of a rejected woman who found unconditional love and grace.