Monthly Archives: December 2016

The True Sacrifice to God

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I awoke this morning reflecting on the time I spent as a medical chaplain, and the past years I had spent in ministry. I noticed as a hospice chaplain I never met a normal family, that every family, no matter how shiny on the outside, was filled with rough edges. And though, there was a sense of degree to familial health it was never as dramatically differnet. All families struggle, all people struggle, and if I were to be honest the difference between us was not that great

When I met someone in the hospital, body riddled from addiction, often I would get tired. I would find myself sitting in the jury box of an unofficial court. I did this as I walked the streets at night in downtown Memphis with my friends, looking behind me, as the crowds of homeless would meander among themselves, not hurting anyone, just wishing to be left alone. It was hard for me, raised middle class and white to find empathy, and early on to deal in grace, I would be lying if I didn’t say I still struggle.

Many years later, I lost almost everything, at least that is what it felt like. After spending 15 years cultivating a career I found myself left unemployed. It is strange, it seems I was split in two at this moment. My faith telling me I had worth and my heritage telling my worth was connected to my employment. As time went on a different battle for my soul began. I was becoming someone else, someone foreign to the me had known, someone who’s fear was giving way to despair. I know in hindsight but I did not know then that the despair would soon give way to self-hatred; I didn’t see I was already on that path. I must admit, I didn’t like that person.

Some Buddhists practice a Death Meditation. It was through this process I began to confront the fear that was giving way to despair. I took the image of the homeless man and asked, “What would it take for me to be there,” and in my mind, I walked that path. I remembered the hospital patients admitted for suicide attempts and asked, what would it take for me to be there? Once again in my mind I followed that path. It is important to note I didn’t do this alone, I had people to process with.

This idea was not new to me, only a forgotten, but it helped me let go. As my mind went down the path, my heart broke and the Psalms came alive, God once again came alive, and I knew as David did after his sin with Bathsheba, that the only sacrifice I had to offer was a broken and contrite heart. I would love to say that healing began that day, but it took much longer than I would have liked.

Of course, this thing that happened, it was a gift, and I understand that I am privileged that I can call it that. Because now when I see the broken, those who are as I was, the homeless person, the suicide patient, the heroin addict, the alcoholic, I don’t see bad choices and I have no seat in their jury box. I see my reflection, I know that I am only a few steps from being there myself. And when I see my face in the broken, I am reminded not only of what was or what could be. I am reminded of what is, I am broken and just maybe that’s what God wanted me to see all along! Then something new is birthed into the world, compassion.

Saint Dutch

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Grandad is always intentional.

When I was younger and we left the house to work in the yard there was a process. We walked to the basement and sat on the steps, we changed from our shoes into our boots, we left out of the garage, past the second refrigerator full of coke, past Grandma’s car, past the tennis ball that hangs from the ceiling (so that she knew when to stop), past the air compressor on the left. We walked past the old well that’s been covered up as long as I could remember and took a right, walked parallel to the creek, and across the front yard toward the shed that looks out upon the garden.

Every move, every step, full of intention.

At the right time of year, the garden would be full of tomatoes, corn, cucumbers, and green beans. Lots of green beans, so many in fact Grandma and Grandad would sit on the porch after harvest to wash them to prepare them for canning, usually well over 100 cans. But that day wasn’t a canning day.

As we approached the shed we passed an old horse drawn plow, an antique, it was now a reminder of days’ past. I would always place my hand on its handle, thinking how strong the men who controlled it must have been, even if it is being pulled by some form of animal. The giant blade would cut into the soil, and the man behind the plow would guide it, walking every inch. Touching the plow, I wondered, “What is strength,” and then I would look to Grandad.

My grandfather grew bush beans instead of the pole beans I often see in the south, and that day I went to pick with him. He’d pick each plant three times because the beans would grow back. We would each get an old milk crate to sit on while we picked and a basket in which to place the beans as we moved down the row.

“Be careful” he’d say, “don’t pull the plant out of the ground, we will pick it again.” He repeated this so often it could be a mantra for some strange religion. In all honesty, I would get a little tired of hearing it, wondering when he would move on to something else.

I said, “Okay,” then pulled the plant out of the ground, hastily returning it, hoping he wouldn’t notice. I realized it takes a firm and gentle hand to pull the beans from the plant without pulling out the plant, and that’s my grandad, firm and gentle.

By trade my grandfather was a painter, I went on a few jobs with him to make extra cash in the summers, well, I just went on one, I was harsh and impatient, he was firm and gentle. I noticed his hand moved with intention, never swaying, never veering, and never any proof that paint had been anywhere it wasn’t supposed to be. I would stand in awe, I don’t think I did anything with that much intention, and for him it was so natural, though never mechanical. His movements were elegant and rooted in peace.

I remember coming in from the garden that day with Grandad.

I was a young minister, and I spoke to grandmother of sermons I would preach about that day, even though I wasn’t sure what they were. To this day, I’ve not preached those sermons, I don’t know if I will ever have the authority to preach them. On my best day, I struggle to live them. Grandad, a military veteran and a boxer would teach me that true strength came from peace.

I was never any good at my grandfather’s trade, but some Sunday’s as I prepare for church I put on my shoes with intention, and I think of Grandad. He is known by many names, Grandma calls him John, his friends call him Dutch, but to me, he is and will always be Grandad. My patron saint of peace.