Little Child, My Child

Little Child


Little child, my child, what do you see?
I see a star shining high above me
The face of a woman, tired yet elated
Our destiny’s joined, already fated
Head bowed, the man burden weary
Eyes fixed on mine, gentle and teary

Little child, my child, what do you hear?
Rhythm of animals as they draw near
The woman cooing, humming a song
Even the breeze begs to sing along
A chorus of doves, the lullaby complete
Good news! Heaven and earth finally meet

Little child, my child, what do you know?
Father, I know how you love Me so
Carefully placed in a world so unsure
Your Light enters by this baby so pure
A gift of grace, wrapped in my being
Some will not believe, even seeing

Little child, my child, who do you love
All of your children, My Father above
These earthly parents, of course on the list
But my love is so much greater than this
For people I’ll reach and heal as I go
Love to spare for those not yet born to know

Little child, my child, I do love them so
I sent You because I want them to know


Merry Christmas
Jo

Remember Me

I cannot place myself in the shoes of the three men on the cross at Golgotha. Besides the fact that they were not wearing any, I have no way to identify with them. Christ, my desire, my want, my unobtainable goal, is unattainable. But I can't even see myself in the places of the other two. I have never committed a crime of any magnitude. I have never feared for my life, justly or unjustly.

In studying the passage, though, one thing jumped out at me. Three men having a conversation, each hanging from a cross. Wow! This was not a chat over a cup of coffee or on a street corner. These men were in pain, beaten, near death's door. Would I have even been speaking?

The good thief and the bad thief. What a hoot! A thief is a thief, but I understand where folks are coming from. It is a way to differentiate between the two. I really think the "bad" thief gets a bum rap. I don't think he was just joining in with the crowd, jeering at Jesus. It is kind of like a cell mate of someone about to make a jail break in an old Western movie. He was gung ho for Jesus to make an exit and he wanted to be on board the train when he did.

The good thief just got It. He saw in Jesus something other than himself or his world. Jesus was living in a different dimension. Something that operated not of this world. And it was. It was the heavenly kingdom. He wanted it and Jesus knew it. He spoke to that thief because He was ready to hear the words. To enter the Zone.

Remember me. The words have haunted me. I realized for the first time that this was a prayer from the cross. Remember me. So simple, but yet so powerful. The thief wanted Jesus to see beyond what he had done wrong. To see him for who he was meant to be.

I think in my life, I want Him to see me for just what I am. Not all the vain attempts to be holy, or right, or righteous, or godly. Not for all the man-made initiatives that fell short of what He created me to be. He tells me he sees me and I will be with Him. In relationship.

Because that was what Jesus was about. At the wedding, in the boat, on the mount, at the tomb, at the temple, and last but not least, on the cross. Between two friends.

For All the Saints

For All the Saints


Same weekday, same church, same sea of faces
Same group of ladies in their favorite pew
But something is wrong, someone is missing
Not another loss from their beloved crew!

How do I bear another saint’s death?
Gone before my need of them fades
I gave no thought to a future without them,
Their presence expected through the decades

The film of my memory begins to roll
Scratched and faded, black and white
Those I once loved, yet are no longer here
Images welcomed as my thoughts invite

Little girl tugging at a woman’s apron,
A taste of pudding, attention seeking?
More than meals made in that church kitchen,
Like Naomi to Ruth, wisdom was speaking

Placing tiny seeds in the cup’s moist cotton
Signs of New Birth, the teacher extols
Unaware of her second crop growing,
The sowing of her faith in my young soul

The scent of wood as the campfire crackles
Counselors and teens, praise songs inspire
Our tear stained faces reflecting the flames
My passion for God fueled by Spirit’s fire

Older woman seated by the young mother
Holding her new baby, loving her soul
A simple cradle cross held in the mom’s palm
Sweet words of compassion made the gift whole

Did I perceive these models of Christ?
Promises at my baptism fulfilled.
Recognize the legacy as it passed,
The faith of saints, future’s hope instilled

Memories of my parent’s regrets
Of those that passed, names I barely knew
Now it is my turn to feel their sorrow
To finally understand how that love grew

The saints did not lose their lives in an instant
They spent lifetimes investing them in us
Passing not merely from life unto death
They passed on their faith and with it their trust

Please accept these, our humble gifts of thanks
Your lives remembered, your absence mourned
For not only in your living, but in dying
Is the hope and future of our Church re-born

Jo

What Was and Is to Be?

Most of my life I have lived and worked within 5 minutes of my church home. I was always there. Literally. I ate there, prayed there. I ministered there. For most of my life I was either tithing or sacrificially giving to the church

Life has changed in a big way. For the last 5 years, I spend 11 hours a day traveling to, from, or at work. I have little or no time left. My once immaculate house is a cluttered mess. I long to join in ministry but I am too tired or not here. I do not have the energy to work 8 hours non-stop and make calls to patients to and from and then go to church for a function. Add to the mix, I have family now living with me due to job loss.

So what is my response. Many Sundays I come in the back door, and skirt up the stairs. I teach, some times I sing in the choir, but most of the time, I travel out the doors as quickly as possible. Why? Because the people I see I cannot serve as I did. Hurting people, I cannot love and hold as long as I did. The needs of the church cry out to me and I financially do not have the resources to help as I did.

So I retreat from the place and the faces of those I love. At work, I keep the perfect desk and am the perfect employee. I work hard and smart. I am appreciated and stroked.

But I have come to a realization. An epiphany, of sorts. That I cannot live in the past, cannot grieve for what was and may never be. My church is a sending forth. It is as if She is my parent. She has groomed and loved me and now I am sent into the world, beloved and encouraged to be Her in a world that so needs Him. The homeless are living with me. The hurting and grieving are not only in the patient room I enter but the cubicle next door. The sick and disabled sleeps beside me every evening. The children lie on a twin bed in my room.

Oh God catch me before I slide into a new dimension of grieving and remorse over my blindness and let me truly see what you have primed me for.

How many folks in the church are like me. How many of the missing and the lost are not there because they cannot give as they did - presence, gifts, time, or service. What if the Church became His Source. Equipping folks to live in the world instead of berating them because they are not within the physical walls. Walls that remind them of what they should but cannot be.

Wow! And wouldn't That Place be the Place I would want to be as much as I could to receive what only He can give. Wouldn't He draw others to me and therefore to Him. To find the hive where I return to week after week to receive His spiritual nourishment, His heavenly manna.

Father, your church today is not a community of faith within brick walls, no matter how beautiful. But a terminal of sorts, where folks are given rest and restoration and fuel for their sending forth in mission to a world so needing and wanting of Your affirmation, peace, and hope. Help me not to shy away from those around me, afraid I have nothing to give, but excited in that very fact. Then and only then can I be a conduit of You and You alone.

Amen

Wee Little Man

Zaccheus was a wee little man
A wee little man was he
He climbed into a sycamore tree
For the Lord he wanted to see
The Lord was walking by that day
He looked up into the tree
"Zaccheus, you come down!
I am going to your house today

This is an excerpt from an early Bible. You think not! You are wrong, then. Children's Sunday school songs are the first scripture small children hear. It influences them all their lives, more than you know. Picture the phrase "Zaccheus, you come down!" with a 4 year old shaking their finger and you definitely get the idea that Zaccheus was a naughty boy. And I guess he was.

However, as I studied the scripture for this week, I saw many things about Zaccheus that I had never seen before. Jesus was passing through Jericho and he was gathering a crowd. Pretty big hurrah, folks were gathering along the street, thick enough that Zaccheus could not see. Zaccheus was desperate to see Jesus, so much so, that the rich tax collector, lowered himself enough to climb into a tree. Just to see Him.

Details are like clues in the scripture. They are not there for nothing! Small in stature was not mentioned casually. It was not reveale simply to set the stage for a bit of climbing. Short people are either very comfortable with their size or extremely not. When they are not, they compensate. Whether it is shoe lifts or being the class clown, they do something.

Zaccheus, tired of being looked down upon (literally) put himself in a place where he could look down on the folks who had disrespected him. Top honcho - kind of like a mob godfather. But in this story, he was not beyond risking embarrassment to get a look at Jesus.

What I love is the fact that Jesus looked into the tree and did not miss a beat. "There you are Zaccheus, been looking for you! What's for dinner?" Wasn't that incredible! Has that ever happened to you. You are in an embarrassing situation and someone steps in and helps you save face. To the crowd, it looked like Jesus came to Jericho just to dine with him. Wow!

Zaccheus was taken aback, but delighted. In that encounter, something happened. Zaccheus was extended scandalous grace. Scandalous in that he did not deserve it. Scandalous in the fact that Jesus was immediately condemned for doing it.

Jesus stated to one and all that Zaccheus was a son of Abraham. No matter what he had done, or how tall he was, or what he would continue doing - he was still and always would be a son of Abraham. God was no discerner of persons and boy did that make alot of folks mad. But it did not matter. Because of that extension of the hand of God, Zaccheus found what he was seeking. And it changed his life.

The life of one wee little man.

Constructive Criticism

What is ever constructive about criticism?

Does it ever "build" anything? I mean other than the purveyor's idea of him or herself. Criticism means there is an assumed ideal. And the ideal is in the eye of the beholder. So it is, in fact,the author of the statement.

So where did the ideal originate. Who was the first authority and where did the concept come from? I love to watch dog shows and it is interesting to see exactly what is considered a "true" breed. There are a few really weird and kooky looking dogs. Who originally said that is a whatcha-ma-call-it and this is the most perfect one there is. Where did their authority come from?

As "Christians" we feel we have the ideal in front (or back) of us. In the embodiment of God incarnate, Jesus Christ. But when we judge, we are not using Him as the plumb line, but ourselves. If He came as the form of unconditional grace, any conditions we place on others are truly ours, not His. And if there is any standard we hold, it is ours. That is where the rub is. If it is do-able (we have proven that) then anything less you do is not up to par, which means you did not give it your all, therefore you are unworthy. But unworthy of what? Love that has no conditions?

You can't see it but I am scratching my head.

Open Wide

Spoon feeding
In actuality, during the first part of my life I was spoon-fed probably 7% of the Bible over and over and over. Taken out of the Bible “bowl” and fed to me by caring teachers, preachers, parents, youth counselors. Heck, up until about 20 years ago, I did the feeding. Taking a popular passage or theme and neatly dicing it into manageable, tasteful bites for my adult class.
Lately though, using the lectionary to teach from, I have faced some pretty challenging passages in the Bible. Now it was tempting to take that bite-size morsel and dress it up with some new twist or take and feed them the same verse again, but I couldn’t do it. It was not the text or the verse, it is me. My tastes have changed.
At first, I would leave the verse where it lay and try to work out the surrounding scripture into some type of acceptable compliment. You know, make it behave and mean just exactly what I had always felt the central verse had always meant to me, traditionally. But that did not work. Like a cowlick in your hair, I just could not make it lay there. It just kept sticking out.
It was so tempting to sweep the tough parts under the spiritual carpet, but I could not do that either. So I served up the dish at the first of the week and just mulled it over with God. No commentaries, no former ideas, no throw down lessons from the past. Just let it sit and ferment. And it always (so far) comes out good. No better than good. God always shows me something I had failed to see before. In fact, He shows me that the best stuff is found in the hardest to reach. Like a hard pecan shell that you have to crack and then dig out the soft moist nut meat because that is the only way you can get to it. So worth the work and the wait.