The Prodigal Son

On the Orthodox calendar, Sun., Feb. 15 was the Sunday of the Prodigal Son. This is my sermon from that morning. The icon above depicts the joyful return of the son to his compassionate father.

Epistle: I Corinthians 6:12-20
Gospel: Luke 15:11-32

The parable of the Prodigal Son is one of the most popular of Jesus Christ's teachings. Who among us hasn't found ourselves at one time or another in the position of the prodigal? Or the older brother? Or the forgiving father? Who among us hasn't hoped for a home to go to when our lives have fallen apart? Who hasn't opened our hearts with forgiveness to someone who is truly sorry?

The Lord's words in this parable are so applicable to our human nature. Maybe more importantly, the parable reveals more about God's nature and mystery.

God is the Lord of grace and forgiveness. We may not see that sometimes. In truth, we may look at the Old Testament and think otherwise. Was it a God of grace Who...
...expelled Adam and Eve from Eden?
...witnessed the murder of Abel and cast Cain into the wilderness?
...destroyed the earth in Noah's flood?
...ransacked Canaan with Joshua's armies?
To read the history of the Hebrews and their Jewish descendants is to wonder where God's grace and forgivenss can be found.

There are a lot of people who think this way. They see violence and injustice, despair and disease, and ask: "How can a God of love allow all this to happen?"

I'm not here to defend God because God needs no defense. He is Who He is. In the parable of the prodigal son, the Lord gives us reason to believe and an avenue to understand that He is truly the God of grace, forgiveness, and love. Jesus Christ reveals this to us, not as a defense, but as a gift.

The obvious mysteries revealed are that God accepts the repentant sinner and celebrates his return home. God gives freely to His children because they are His children, not because of their merits. God allows us to squander the gifts of life because He knows we'll discover life's true value in Him. These are the obvious lessons and they are enough for us to ponder for a long time.

However, there is more. If we settle for the obvious, we will miss the subtle, nuanced, and priceless mysteries of God's nature.

Consider the fact that the father in the parable loves equally both the repentant son and the son who never left. His estate was permitted to go to both sons, not because one was good or the other was promiscuous, but because they were both his sons. His estate was for both.

You who are parents, don't you think the father in the parable had an idea that his younger son would wander? We know our children are bound for unique and different paths. Isn't it good to know that God also knows that His children will take unique and different paths?

Some of us will never stray from God. We may have minor infractions - a cuss word here, a short cut there - but over all, some will never stray.

On the other hand, some can't seem to stop straying. Like a smoker who resolves to quit on New Year's Eve and has a smoke after breakfast on New Year's Day, some of us simply can't seem to stay on the straight and narrow.

One of the things revealed to us in this parable is this: Being God's child is merit enough. Just as Proverbs reminds us that God causes it to rain on the just and on the unjust, it is equally true that He loves all His children without favoritism and without prejudice.

The prodigal son was loved by his father even when the son couldn't love himself. Whatever else was going through the prodigal's mind, as he wandered thoughts of his father's disapproval were most certainly a regular occurance. We see it in the path he chose. At first, arrogant and proud, the son ignores his father's disapproval and seeks his inheritance anyhow. As he spent his money on loose women, drunkenness, and debauchery, he certainly thought he was undoing his father's life.

His arrogance descended to self-justification when the young man's money ran out. He must have thought, "I can make it without the old man's help."

The futility of going on his own descended to desperation, a mode of survival: "My father hasn't approved of anything I've done so far, he's not going to approve of me now."

Desperation became defeat when the son became bound to eat with the pigs in order to sustain his body.

You and I know this cycle, don't we? We have been down this same path:
Arrogance
Pride
Self-justification
Desperation
Defeat
It is the universal human experience when we are left to our own devices.

In much the same way, we know that God loved the son who never left, even when he couldn't love himself, either.

He, too, was arrogant, likely gloating over the obvious folly of his younger brother. Didn't his younger brother appreciate what he had at home? Couldn't he see how the father's heart would break? Certainly he, as the oldest, would never dishonor the family this way.

The older son's arrogance also descended to pride. I imagine those first few weeks without his younger brother meant that the older's chores might have shone a little brighter. Little digs at his brother's wasting life came up at family dinners. Self-justification took shape in his own mind: "I am the good son, after all."

Self-justication spun down to desperation as the older son saw his father kill the fattened calf and send his best ring and robe to the returning younger brother. What's fair about that? How could he get away with it? Didn't the father know how foolish his brother had been?

The older brother's desperation finally spun down to defeat. The tone of verse 30 is clear: he was angry, frustrated, and disgusted with his father.

The path of both sons through arrogance, pride, self-justification, desperation, and defeat is a path that I'm familiar with, and I suspect you are, too. But always remember: Being God's child is merit enough. In His infinite grace and love, God cares for both we who wander and we who stay.

Another mystery of God that Jesus Christ reveals is that God gives us freedom to exercise our own will. The younger son knew full-well that is was rude and unconventional to ask for his inheritance early. (Would you have done it?) In asking, the younger son was exercising his free will; his will to go and be contrary to what his father wanted. In spite of the younger son's determined will, the father allowed his son the latitude to go his own way.

We may understand this better when we see our own behaviors in the same light. How often do we ask for our "inheritance" from God before it's time?
We want our prayers answered now.
We want our blessing now.
We will take from God whatever we can get, not the full inheritance He intends for us.
According to verse 13, the younger son took the money and ran. Could this describe your prayer life? "Yes God, I'll take your salvation. Yes, I'll take your kindness and love. But don't bother me with anything else."

Had the younger son stayed, he would have gained the life skills and wisdom of his father. He would have witnessed the finesse of his father's business. He would have watched his father age and he would have grown as his father matured. He might have followed his father's example, with a wife and sons of his own.

The son's loss in his short-sightedness wasn't only his squandered wealth but also his squandered life. In order to exercise his own will, the son lost the benefits of witnessing his father's will complete.

We also see this in the older son. In fact, the older son had strayed. He had the opportunity to gain the life skills and wisdom of his father. He witnessed the finesse of his father's business. He watched his father age and likely had his own wife and sons.

The older son's will was revenge. His own will was favoritism. His own will was fairness.

God will not force you to follow His will. God will not violate your will in order to accomplish His will. The way to gain God's true inheritance is to pray as we do each week: "Thy Kingdom come, Thy Will be done..."

Finally, the last mystery we're shown is God's unfailing compassion. Notice that the Lord doesn't tell us that the father spent all his days and nights looking for his wandering son. That would have been an act of enabling. He didn't track him down, send out spies, stalk his friends and messages. The father likely knew exactly what his younger son was doing: exercising his own will.

God's compassion is free enough to allow us our own way. As I Corinthians 13 states, His compassion "is patient and kind; it does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud...it keeps no record of wrongs. It does not delight in evil, but rejoices in the truth. [God's love] always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres..."

Compassion is not a smothering desire to inhibit someone else. It is the action of love to be there when someone else falls.

Compassion is not a judgmental "I told you so." It is a generous "Here, let me help you."

Compassion doesn't see us covered with the soil of the pig sty; instead, it runs down the road to meet us, it brings the best robe, the brightest ring, and sets the table for a celebration.

We see God's compassion best in His own Son, Jesus Christ. In sending Christ for us, God didn't stop sin from happening in the world. He didn't make the Virgin Mary obey His will. He didn't dictate to St. Joseph the direction of the Holy Child's life.

Because God has compassion for us, He doesn't become an enabler, chasing us down, spying on us, and stalking us. He waits for us to come home, His home.
There is one Cross, not many.
There is one Calvary.
There is one Empty Tomb.
When we are lost and wandering, He draws us home by the Holy Spirit, with open arms ready to meet us.

The parable of the prodigal son is truly one of the most popular in Scripture. Through it we get a better glimpse at God's nature. We see that being a child of God is enough to merit His love and blessing. We understnad that God loves us enough to allow us to exercise our own will in spite of whatever consequences we may face. We see that God's unfailing compassion waits for us to repent to find our way to Him, to Calvary.

Who among us hasn't found ourselves in the position of the prodigal son?
Who among us hasn't hoped for a home to go when our lives have fallen apart?
Who among us hasn't hoped for forgiveness from God and man when we are truly sorry?

God is waiting for you.

Rent This Video!

I don't recommend a whole lot of movies to people because I don't watch a whole lot of movies that other people enjoy :-)

However, I'd like to recommend and encourage you to get a hold of a copy of a documentary entitled: Expelled: No Intelligence Allowed. Hosted by Ben Stein (the guy who does the Visine commercials), this video raises the very valid issue that evolution is bologna.

I could go on and on about this, but the DVD speaks for itself. If you're concerned about the stifling grip that liberalism and atheism have on public debate and education, you'll want to pick this up. I've seen it available at Family Video Stores, through Amazon.com and at libraries.

You'll have your eyes opened and your faith strengthened.

Ten Bonuses of Rural Living

A year or two ago, our niece, April, had an itch to move to a small town. April was born and bred a country girl, the daughter of a hog farmer and a school marm, on one of those farm places where the phone company is from one town, the schools in another, and the post office is another.

However, she went to college at Butler (Indiana's answer to Yale*) in Indianapolis and never looked back. She became thoroughly urbanized, getting involved in things like 'sororities' and 'musical theater' and 'graduate school'. She married a guy who also left "Green Acres," and moved to a 'vinyl village' with her husband and two boys in an upwardly mobile suburb of Indianapolis.**

Anyhow, when the itch hit her, she decided to run her ideas by Karen and me. After all, we live in rural Indiana by choice. I'm sure to a girl looking to re-connect with her country roots, we must have appeared to be living the dream.

While helping April make her decision, I came up with some bonuses to rural living. I'd like to share them with you.

1) The Commute. When I drive to work, I drive 20 minutes through green fields, woods, over rivers and streams. I see wildlife - turkeys, foxes, deer, snapping turtles, quail. I don't have to drive to the country to see the changing colors in autumn. The sky is huge and there's little enough traffic to drive slowly and enjoy it.

2) The People. In rural communities, you can't really say anything about anyone because everyone is related to someone somehow. That may sound a little confining, until you realize that the converse is also true: people know you and care about you. They may know more about my business than I'd really like, but they also know enough to be there when I need them.

3) The Shopping. It's no secret that Wal-Mart is the great merchandiser in rural areas. However, they're not the only ones. There are still hardware stores, where the clerks know your name and have an idea of what you're after. TSC (Tractor Supply) and Rural King thrive and we have smaller, lesser known department stores: Alco, Pamida, Dollar General. Nothing beats filling the cart with bargains at Dollar General. We wear labels like Carharrt, Dickies, Red Wing and Harley-Davidson.

4) The History. Rural Indiana is dotted with accessible, living history. Cities put history in museums, but in the country, you can walk through cemeteries that are 150 years old; you'll recognize names that are still alive and vital in the community. You can see the houses that have hosted generations of the same family. There are places like the covered bridge (above) that you simply run across on a quiet drive on a Sunday afternoon.

5) The News. I was having coffee one morning in the restaurant here in Roann and the man at the table next to mine folded up the newspaper he had been reading. Mildly disgusted, he said to me, "There's nothing in this paper." "Isn't that why we live here?" I asked him in response. He agreed. It's true that no news is good news and I'd rather keep the things that make news at arms length.

6) The Perspective. It always cracks me up when I hear the national news folks describe a place like Fort Wayne (pop. 275,000) as a "small town." For us, Fort Wayne is the big city. Our town of 400 souls is big enough, thank you. We can find everything we need in the town where Karen and I work - pop. 6,000 - or in the county seat - pop. 11,000. Maybe the biggest effect this has on 'perspective' is in the statement 'everything we need'. One of the bonuses of rural life is that you go to the city and find that there's an awful lot of stuff out there you don't need.

7) Priorities. Living in the country means that there is distance between people and places and decisions have to be made with that in mind. When we go to town, we try to make it worthwhile. It's not like running down the block to CVS to pick something up. Rural living means that more time is spent at home and more time is spent with each other. Entertaining family and friends at home is still common. Most country people eat out, but we also put a premium on eating at home, too. (A phenomenon the New York Times recently labeled "eating in." Sheesh.)

8) Church. Christianity is still the norm in rural Indiana. We sometimes take it for granted. Even those who don't go to Church (and there are plenty of them) respect the Church and what it stands for. It sounds like a cliche, but we are indeed the people Mrs. Clinton indelicately described as holding on to our religion and our guns.

9) Sunrise and Sunset. The long black silhouette of the sunrise is the backdrop for my morning drive to work. Trees stretching up and out greet the pink of daybreak. Shadows of barns and grain bins break up the open spaces. But mostly there are open spaces. At sunset, the sky is so large that the moon is rising in the east while the sun sinks in the west. It happens every day and I can't get enough of it.

10) Soil. It seems that most people I know in rural Indiana have a connection to the soil. We plant gardens and flowere beds. We love the smell of newly plowed fields in spring. We talk about the weather, even if we're not farmers, because we know that things like rainfall and water tables affect farmers, and we all know them.

To my way of thinking, the benefits of rural living make this the best place to be.

* Butler is Indiana's Yale; the obvious 'Harvard' here is Notre Dame.
** They left the vinyl village a year or so ago and now live in a respectable tree-lined street, still in the 'burbs.

Praying for the New President

Unlike many other conservative Christians, I have never doubted the Christian faith of our new president, Barack Obama. I heard him share his testimony on NPR's "All Things Considered" one evening and I thought to myself, "I wish I knew more Christians who were as sincere and articulate about their faith as Barack Obama is."

As a conservative pastor, I have been inundated (as many people have) with concerns about the new president's connections to Islam, his former pastor Jeremiah Wright, and the liberal leanings of his denomination, the United Church of Christ. E-mails, web sites, mass mailings and phone trees have all done their best to impugn the faith of our new Commander in Chief.

But you would have had to have heard him on that radio program to understand where I'm coming from. Unlike many of Obama's speeches, that are long on rhetoric and short on content, the radio testimony he shared was deeply sincere. He hadn't been coached about his relationship with Jesus Christ. He hadn't run it through a focus group. He wasn't watching his words to avoid misstating something. It was simply, clearly, sincere.

That is why I choose to pray for him. I know that Mr. Obama and I don't agree on many things, especially abortion. But we also agree on a lot, especially the fact that he, as president, is still a subject of the God of Heaven.

I will pray for him as he makes decisions - the right decisions - about abortion. I will ask God to move his heart to keep tight restrictions on funding for programs that endanger human life from the moment of conception.

I will pray for his family. As President Bush stated (in a rare moment of eloquence), when the stress of being president gets to Mr. Obama, "he is only a 45 second commute from a wonderful wife and two beautiful daughters who love him dearly." They will need our prayers as they see their husband and father walk into the lions' den that is Washington D.C. They will need our prayers for protection: who of us would put our young children in harm's way the way the president's daughters will be?

Mostly, I will pray that being president will be an experience of humble service to God. It seems ironic to me that presidents most cherished by we conservatives (Reagan and the Bushes) are not known for their regular Church attendance, yet presidents reviled by many conservatives (Carter, Clinton and now Obama) are unflinchingly regular in their Church attendance. My hope is that the faith about which I heard Obama speak on the radio will be deepened, strengthened, and revived through his term as president.

Make no mistake about it, I have very high anxiety about our new preisdent. Unlike nearly everyone I talk to, I am not ecstatic about this 'historic occasion'. I am worried about the strength of our relationship with Israel. I am concerned that taxes will increase. I felt that President Bush's faith-based initiatives were good and should be expanded and I'm afraid Obama will end them. I am opposed to reinstitution of the military draft and gays in the military.

But I thank God for the United States and for the smooth transition of power. I believe that God's hand was in Barack Obama's election and that he is the right man for the hour, whether or not I agree with him (or he with me). If we believe the Bible, we will follow the direction of the Apostle St. Peter to "honor all men; love the brotherhood; fear God; honor the king" (I Peter 2:17).

So join me in praying for Obama and his family, won't you? And may these next four years will be years of God's blessing on our nation.

Going Public With New Year's Resolutions

It's questionable enough to make New Year's resolutions, but it's pretty close to foolish to make the resolutions public.

However, I am both questionable (at times) and foolish (much of the time), so I thought I'd share what I'm thinking about for 2009.

First, I'm making two personal resolutions. The first is to taper down my television viewing to just one hour a day. TV is a personal weakness and I have often neglected other things in order to accommodate my TV schedule. I don't have any delusions about eliminating TV altogether, but I really need to cut back. (The TV is off at the moment, thank you very much.)

The second personal resolution is to get my 50 year old physical and track my health better. There are particular aspects to the 50 year old physical that will make this difficult to accomplish, however, it needs to be done.

Next, I'm making two professional resolutions for my work at Timbercrest. The first is to finish the paperwork necessary for my National Certification. I don't know why this is so hard to do. It's just paper. But it's so easy to put off.

My second professional resolution is to take all my vacation time. And comp time. I am notoriously negligent of my own needs for rest, yet I preach it all the time to my staff. In 2008 I only took about two and a half of four weeks available to me and barely claimed the comp time I should have. The price has been excessive weariness and chronic ennui. The people who live at Timbercrest and the people with whom I work deserve better.

Next, I'm making two professional resolutions as pastor of Peoria Church. The first one is to try and better equip Church members for the disciplines of living the Christian life. I think this will mean better connecting both Word and Sacrament to people's lives, their families, jobs, homes, friendships, etc. In order to do this better, I'm going to have to work on this better myself.

My second pastoral resolution is related to my second Timbercrest resolution: taking better care of myself spiritually. To this point, my pattern is to get all spiritually fired up during the "fasting seasons" - Advent, Lent, Sts. Peter and Paul, and Dormition - and then let those times carry me through the rest of the year. Of course the problem is one of balance. So, I need to practice ways of maintaining a sense of spiritual balance all year. (I already know plenty of ways to do that - it's the practice of them that I need.)

Finally, and certainly not the least important, are my two resolutions relating to Karen. I'm listing these last because I think if I can make a dent in any of the ones above, then I'll be doing a lot toward being a better husband. Watching less TV, keeping better care of my health, taking more breaks from work, and developing better habits spiritually should all help in the husband department.

But I have two specific resolutions relating to Karen. The first is to be more open to her needs for quiet time. I tend to want to fill the empty spaces with jabber. I need to develop more respect for her needs to unwind from work, where her full roster of special needs children keeps her busy.

My second "Karen" resolution is to keep up with the garden this year. In the last several years, our perennial flowerbed has been a nice way of beautifying our home, but in 2008 I let it get away from me. It became a large weed bed more than anything. So this year, it's back to the flowers. I want to create a better quiet space for Karen outdoors - she loves to sit on the swing and enjoy the view.

So that's it. "No resolutions for your kids?" you might ask. Nope. I think if I can work on any one of these, I'll be going the right direction to being a better father, too. And besides, they're adults now: they should be making resolutions for me, right? :-)

Remembering My Baptism

I don't remember my first baptism. I was about five months old (January 1959) and it is likely that it was a simple affair in St. Andrew's Episcopal Church in Elyria, Ohio. I've reconstructed the scene in my own mind many times over the years:

I was the first grandchild on both sides. My mother's mother was very ill and Mom's dad, Grandpa Charlie, took care of her. My father's parents were staunch members of St. Andrew's. My godparents are George and Linda Dellinger, family friends. With my parents and Fr. Russell Hargate, the ten of us participated in a quiet, simple ceremony in the Nave, using the 1928 Book of Common Prayer.

I do remember my 'second' baptism. I was an adult (19 years old) and had a religious experience in college. I felt compelled to be baptised again, partly due to the theology of the Church I was attending at the time. It taught full-immersion adult believer's baptism. The pastor was Moses Vegh, a charismatic Hungaro-Canadian who served as pastor of what was then the largest Protestant Church in Findlay, Ohio, where I lived.

"If you don't remember your first baptism," Moses Vegh told me, "it probably didn't mean anything to you." So I suited up in the white robe provided me by the Church and went into the tank. Moses didn't actually put me under, an anonymous elder of the congregation did. Coming out of the water, I was anointed with oil after which I was expected to speak in tongues (which I didn't).

I'm 50 years past my first baptism and 30 years past my second one. I've come to the conclusion now that I don't understand either one.

Baptism isn't something to be done for a level of understanding. Baptism is an action of the Church to imprint on us the image of Christ. Understanding has very little to do with it: Faith has everything to do with it.

When I was an infant, the faith of my parents, grandparents, and godparents was that I would be "received into Christ's Church and made a living member of the same."

When I was a young adult, it was an act of my own personal faith, the fruit of a re-discovery and religious epiphany in my college years.

Now as a pastor I perform the rite of baptism with the faith that God knows the one being baptized far better than I do, and far better than they know themselves. I've adopted the phraseology of the Orthodox Church in the ritual because it better expresses this point of view: "You are baptised in the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit." Not an action of the pastor, not an action of the water, but rather an action of faith. "You are baptised..."

It has nothing to do with me as the baptizer or the person in the water. It has everything to do with God and what He does through the miracle in the water. It is God Who draws the soul to baptism, God Who makes the waters holy, God who does the baptizing and I am His unworthy servant.

As we approach Theophany and the commemoration of Christ's baptism (Jan. 6), I remember my own experience of Baptism and I pray that your baptism may be fresh again to you and that you will again see the image of Christ that you bear in your own soul.

(Pictured above is Seven Pillars, the site of many of our Peoria Church baptisms.)

Barack Obama and Holy Innocents

Today, December 28, Christians remember the tragic slaughter of the innocent children of Bethlehem (Matthew 2:13-18). They are certainly the first martyrs of the faith, whose commemoration follows the day after we remember the first martyr of the Church, St. Stephen.

The innocent children of Bethlehem did nothing against wicked King Herod. Their mothers had done nothing. Their fathers did nothing.

Yet, for the pursuit of his own vainglory and self promotion, Herod massacred them all, in an attempt to eradicate Bethlehem (and his realm) of the true King of Kings Who had just been born there.

It is interesting to me that the newly elected president, Barack Obama, has promised to renew the slaughter of innocents as one of his first actions as president. He has promised to release federal tax monies to fund abortions. He has promised to fund research using stem cells that will cease lives of unborn children. He has pledged to make abortion safe and legal, for the sake convenience against an 'untimely' pregnancy.

He has even said of his own daughters that he wouldn't want to "punish" them with a baby, were they to become pregnant at a time inconvenient to them.

It seems that King Herod is arising once more to the throne.

We are reminded again in the Old and New Testaments, in the writings of the early Church, and in the consistent centuries-old witness of the Church, that the life of a human being begins with the miracle of conception.

And we are reminded again on this day marking the innocent death of the children of Bethlehem, that rulers can be ruthless in their self-promotion, sparing no one, even the souls of the most defenseless.

In the Communion Liturgy we pray for the president, no matter what his politics, that God will give him the ability to lead justly and fairly. Our prayer for Barack Obama should be the same, and that he will see the injustice of abortion and keep the lives of the innocent unborn protected.

Memorial Day

Yea, though I walk through the valley
of the shadow of death
I will fear no evil
for Thou art with me
Thy road and Thy staff, they comfort me.
Psalm 23:4

I never had to enter a military recruiting office.

Actually, I have never even been in one, whether I had to or not. But if I had, I think it would be like walking into the 'valley of the shadow of death'.

When I was in high school and college, there was no registration for the draft. President Ford (a Republican) had dismantled the draft after the end of the Vietnam War. By the time registration for the draft was re-instated by President Carter (a Democrat) I was too old to do it.

I have often wondered what it would be like to be one of those men (or women) who took that step - either of their own free will or by government compunction - to enter the armed forces.

I have often wondered what goes through their minds as they talk with the recruiters about 'seeing the world' and 'vocational training' and 'educational benefits'.

I've often wondered how many of them think, "Some day I'm going to put my life on the line for some obscure, middle-aged, overweight pastor, so that he has the freedom to preach the Gospel or write his books or post to his blog."

I also wonder if I would do the same.

I tell myself I would. I would lay down my life for the Lord any day (or so I tell myself). I would definitely lay down my life for Karen and the kids . . . again, so I think. I have friends and family, Church members and good causes I would go to the death for. Probably.

But I've never actually had to do it.

That's what makes Memorial Day so stunning to me. It's a day to honor men and women who have actually laid down their lives for me. I'm an unknown to them, yet they put on a uniform and enter harm's way - for me. They put their lives on hold for me. They surrender their dreams, their families, their relationships, some for a few years, some for a lifetime, for me. Sadly, too many surrender their lives, also.

A week ago, our Sunday School children placed flags on the graves of veterans in the Peoria Cemetery. As we walked up and down the rows of tombstones it re-occured to me that soldiers have been doing this for a long time. The Civil War soldiers couldn't have known that 150 years from their conflict, Sunday School children would still be worshiping the Lord near their final resting place. The Spanish-American War vets, the 'Doughboys', the veterans of WWII, Korea, and VietNam all stood their ground in a way that I can only wonder about.

So this Memorial Day weekend, as I hang the flag from our front porch, I join a grateful nation, thanking the men and women who have laid down their lives for our country. And I am grateful for those who stand to day, in the valley of the shadow of death. May God protect them until they come home.

Especially, thanks to the men from the Peoria Church family serving today:
Craig Berkhiser (grandson of Marge Johnson)
Mark Hults (son of Shirley Mills, grandson of Gene and Marcille Ranstead)
Christian Ensign (grandson of Jeanette Ensign)
Russell Marschand (son of Debbie Marschand, grandson of Jeanette Ensign)
Steve Shiholt (son of Pauline Shinholt)
Chad Troyer (son of Dale and Carla Troyer, grandson of Clara Bowman)

Xristos Anesti

Christ is risen!

The icon above is a picture of the women bringing herbs and spices to embalm the Body of the Lord on the first day of the week. Obviously, the women had a surprise waiting for them when they arrived in the Garden . . .an Angel announcing:

"Xristos Anesti! Christ is risen!"

After the gloom of that first Maundy Thursday and the darkness of that first Good Friday, the myrrh-bearing women little expected to find a joy-bearing Messenger.

He is risen, indeed. Alleluia!

I had a particularly meaningful Lent this year. I tried to maintain a good fasting discipline and I stayed away from the Internet as much as possible, except for e-mail. I didn't listen to the radio at all and that was harder than the internet - I'm a news junkie and being away from NPR for a month and a half was nearly my undoing.

Three things that made this Lent particularly special were writing projects I undertook.

The first was to finish my book on the founders of Peoria Church, Benjamin and Anna Hahn. It's a charming story and now all that's left to do is to find a publisher (in my spare time!). It's really a pioneer story, set in the 1840's - 1890's, a journey that was as much toilsome as it was spiritual. When I find a publisher, you'll know.

(And I hope you buy a copy, too!)

The second writing project involves beginning a book about another pioneer family, my in-laws. Chester and Angie Clark aren't quite like the Hahns, but their story is fascinating, too, of a southern family who came north during the depression and made a life as farmers and factory workers in rural Indiana. I was able to spend a day with my mother-in-law getting some background things.

The third writing project I'm keeping under wraps for now, but it is one I'm very excited about. I'll keep you posted :-)

My good friend, Pastor Tim, has spurred me to get blogging again, too. He's started a blog for his Church and I thought it may be time to resurrect The Country Parson, too. (Tim's blog has a great name: 'Neadertheology'. I love it!)

Paschal blessings to you and yours!

Celebrating 150 Years

This fall, the congregation I serve as pastor will be 150 years old. It's a momentous occasion for our little fellowship.

Founded in the fall of 1856 by a pioneer family, the Church has changed a lot over the years. The founding family, the Hahns, built a log cabin-style building on their land for worship, because there were no other Churches in the area of Peoria, Indiana. Preachers of several different denominations and styles have been there, including Miami Indian preachers.

It wasn't until the 1910's that they finally settled on a small Methodist denomination. This group became part of the Methodist Episcopal Church in 1939 and the United Methodist Church in 1968. The Church became an independent community Church again in 1997.

The building was remodeled in 1914 with stained glass windows added among other things. In 1962, the federal government began the Mississinewa Reservoir project. The 60-ton structure was dragged across a corn field to it's present site, about 1/4 mi. from the original. New pews, pulpit and communion rail were added, but the basic Church looked very much the same. In 1978, a steeple was put on. In 2005, a nursery and upstair restroom were added.

More important than the building is the people of the congregation. It is a unique and amazing group. Some families have ties to the original founding congregation. Others are newer but feel right at home. There are some who are life-long Peorians and others who are former Brethren, Catholics, Episcopalians, Quakers, Methodists, Baptists and more.

Jesus Christ said, "By this shall al men know you are my disciples: that ye have love, one to another." This is certainly true of Peoria Church. We love each other, which means all sorts of things. Of course we worship and pray together, but we also laugh together, cry together, disagree with each other, help each other - all of it because we love each other.

If you are reading this blog, you are welcome to attend any of the Sesquicentennial Events scheduled for Sept. 10. Here is the schedule:

9:00 - Worship

10:15 - Old Fashioned Hymn Sing

11:30 - Hog Roast - Free for everyone!

1:00-3:00 - Old-time Games and Recreation

3:00 - Children's Puppeteer program

4:00 - Gospel Concert - "4 For Him"

5:00 Cutting the 150th Birthday Cake

Thanks for your support and prayers for Peoria Church.

Mary the Under-rated?

What would you do if you knew a person who was completely sold out to God, who staked her reputation and her life on her faith, who followed Jesus Christ diligently, whose heart broke at the Crucifixion and rose to ecstatic elation at the Resurrection?

What would you do if you knew such a woman? Would you ignore her? Would you not believe her? Would you say, "that's nice" and pass her off as a fanatic or fringe group member?

Such a woman is Mary of Nazareth, justifiably known as the 'first to accept Jesus Christ.' Mary is the woman who accepted the call to be 'Theotokos' or "God-bearer." She didn't do it with pride or with thoughts of self-advancement: To the Angel she said, "Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to Thy word."

When she witnessed the miraculous testimonies about her newborn Son, she "pondered all these things in her heart."

When she attended the wedding feast at Cana and witnessed Jesus Christ's first miracle, she said, "Whatsoever He says to you, do it."

Unlike eleven of the twelve Apostles, Mary stood with her Son until His death on the Cross.

Without the fear that kept the Eleven in the Upper Room on the Morning of Resurrection, Mary went to the Garden to tend her Son's Body, only to witness the glory of His Resurrection.

Yet for all this, the Virgin Mary remains under-rated, misunderstood, and in many circles, nearly ignored. Certainly we can echo the words of John the Baptist's mother Elizabeth who said, "Blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of your womb. And how is it that the mother of the Lord cometh to me?"

Mary is a woman we need to know better. As the Angel told her at the Annunciation, Mary is "blessed among women" because of her willingness to bear the Son of God. In her wonderful Magnificat, Mary sings, "my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Savior, for He hath regarded the lowliness of His handmaiden."

Tuesday, August 15, is the observance of the 'Dormition of the Theotokos.' It marks the 'falling asleep' of Mary and her entry into her eternal reward in Heaven. Mary's death is a foretelling of our own deaths. It reminds us that an eternal reward awaits us when we 'fall asleep' in the Faith.

On Tuesday, take a moment to thank God for the example Mary has provided to all of us as a woman of faith and find a way to follow her example.

People Say the Strangest Things!

I was at Hardee's in North Manchester the other day, my usual haunt when I'm away from Timbercrest for a little bit. As I was enjoying my sandwich and the USA Today, an acquaintance of mine came in with a co-worker.

I saw him, but he didn't see me. That's important to remember.

I waved to him as he stood in line, but he didn't wave back. I kept at my paper.

His co-worker chose the table right next to mine. When my acquaintance sat down, his back was to me, and he still didn't see me.

As they ate, another group of men came from their workplace and sat next to them.

And therein lies the problem.

This acquaintance of mine is a very devout man. He is active in his Church in North Manchester, he is a member of the Gideons, and he teaches an adult Sunday School class. He was even wearing a Christian-themed T-shirt.

But to listen, you may never have known it. I know I shouldn't eavesdrop, but I simply couldn't avoid the expletives that came out of his mouth. At first, I thought it was just farm-talk. Many farmers I know use a shorter word for "manure" and don't blink an eye about it. But then came the other words - words I almost never think, let alone utter (or write in a blog!).

I had just finished my sandwich and was rising to get a refill of my iced tea when this man recognized me. His mouth shut as tight as Jack Benny's vault.

I said, 'Howdy.' He said, 'you been sittin' there long?'

I don't write this to condemn my acquaintance. He is a good man, very likeable. It was amazing how much cleaner the conversation was after I got back to the table with my re-fill. :-)

I write this to say that I can relate to this man. How many times have I thought I was getting away with something, only to be witnessed unwittingly? When was I unkind to an innocent, only to be seen by a child from my congregation? When was I inappropriate (or how often) only to be forced to eat my own words.

There is an old-time expression that says, "Christ is the unseen guest at every table, the unseen listener to every conversation."

May I recall that next time I think no one else is looking!

What a life . . .

Today I had the opportunity to take a group (23) from the retirement community where I work to visit a family who lives in a yurt. The yurt pictured above is not their yurt - but it looks awfully close.

The yurt is located on an organic farm near North Manchester, Indiana. Yurts are not at all common here. The family who lives there consists of mom and dad and two boys, 2 and 4. They are musicians who work with Mennonite and Brethren concerns, especially for children's Christian education. They also work for and support peace efforts.

I have been in yurts in Mongolia, where they call them 'gers.' The Mongols have no electric or plumbing (for the most part), and use woolen felt and canvas for building materials.

This yurt was 'modern' by Mongol standards. Electric and plumbing. But that's it. A 30' diameter tent with a small loft. No TV. Heated by a woodstove (in winter). No A/C.

I was mildly jealous of the simplicity of their lives. First of all was the sense of timelessness. Their time is their own - governed only by the sun, and the rooster who greeted us on our arrival - "Cock-a-doodle-doo! Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

One might not think the yurt had anything to do with this sense of timelessness, but in a way, it has everything to do with it. They've taken a step that is counter to everything modern America strives for - most couples their age, including nieces and nephews in my own family, think that a grand house in the latest sub-division is the paragon of success. (One nephew and his wife live in a three-story monstrosity with whole rooms just for clothes and shoes. They have no children.) And yet, through their choice of a yurt, this couple has said, "Our time is too precious to spend it paying for an over-built, over-priced, showplace of a house." People spend all their lives working to pay for a house and big cars and the latest gadgetry, while, in fact, their lives are passing them by.

Another thing about the simplicity of their lives is their personal avocations. These people are musicians. For our group, they sang a Spanish love song. The four year old is learning to play the ukulele and strummed along with them. In addition to that, they put up their own food, make their own play, and read and write prolificly. When our kids were little, their bedrooms looked like the toy department at Wal-Mart. These kids have a small set of shelves for their toys. And all around are toys they've made . . .a stick village for their toy animals, a ball diamond mowed out of the tall grass, etc.

Finally, the setting itself is wonderful. I think farms are beautiful anyhow, but this farm inparticular is exemplary. There are three families that share the main lot of the farm - one lives in the main, old farm house, another lives in a separate house built of field stones, and the third lives in the yurt. The gardens are pregant with fruit. The flowers are everywhere blossoming like sunshine in the yard. Birds and bees fill the air. It's almost like Eden on earth.

What a life they have.

I'm mildly jealous. We live pretty simply in Roann. I don't know if I could make it sacrificing everything like this family has - after all, I do have a whole room just for my library! But it was good for me to visit this family.

It reminds me that I need to take a step back from the hurried pace of my life.

Evaluate what's important.

Simplify.

Ah. What a life it would be . . .

Our Silver Anniversary

Although I cried like a baby while Karen walked down the aisle, June 13, 1981 was the happiest day of my life.

Yes, I cried. But I also laughed and prayed and smiled and thought.

Marriage is a huge commitment. And on June 13, 1981, the impact of that commitment became a reality. It wasn't enough that I loved Karen with all my heart. This day meant a love covenant that extends 'from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish till death us do part.'

Our wedding day was delightful. Ninth Street Wesleyan Church in NewCastle, Indiana, was packed to the gills. The weather was hot, on the brink of a thunderstorm. Friends and family, college friends, and Church members were all in attendance.

Karen wore an off-white gown and carried peach-and-cream colored roses. I wore a tan suit. The officiant was Rev. Dennis Hilton, whose wife Barbara was the organist. Our soloist was Andrea Campbell. The Maid of Honor was Donna Martz, who is now Mrs. Mark Ferrebee, and the Best Man was Mike Wagner, who now teaches English in Japan.

We were married under a chupah, in celebration of our special dinners made in celebration of Jewish holidays and a tip of the hat to my Old Testament emphasis as a Bible major at Anderson College.

The 25 years that have followed have been high and low and everything in between. We've grown very much together as a couple. I think this has happened because we have both also grown very much as individuals. (Note: This is not a reference to the weight we've gained over the years!)

Our children, Allison (20) and Alex (18), are no longer children. They are healthy, vibrant, intelligent and amazing young adults. For 20 of the past 25 years, a happy marriage has included happy parenting. Our dear friend Kay Eckelbarger wrote a card to us promising that "the next 25 years are easier." I wondered if that had any reference to the absence of child rearing and the promise of grandparenting (we hope!).

What do the next 25 years hold for us?

At supper out together on our anniversary, we decided that the next 25 years would be "skinny." All the weight we've gained (and lost and gained and lost) would go for good. When we got home, we finished off a Dairy Queen ice-cream cake.

Karen's talked about finally working on her master's degree, getting specialized training for special needs children. I'm going to finish (and publish) my first novel.

We're going to stay in Roann. No, we're not. We're moving to North Manchester. No, wait: we're staying in Roann. Oops, nope: we're moving to North Manchester. Wait, wait. We're staying in Roann. Well, now that I think of it, we're going to move. Then again . . .

We hope to be grandparents, so we can make amends for all the mistakes we made the first time around. (Is this the second time I've mentioned grandchildren?)

Most of all, we want to be there for each other for the next 25 years, 'to have and to hold, etc., etc.' To represent this, our dear friend Marge Johnson gave us a salt shaker, emblazoned with silver bells and ribbons, and the simple message, "25th."

She said we'll get the pepper shaker on our 50th anniversary.

Halden Wofford and the Hi-Beams

I can't remember the last time I bought music by anyone born after 1850 . . .about the closest is Le Carneval Des Animaux by Camille Saint-Saens (b. 1835).

I have never purchased country music. Never.

But a week ago on the Prairie Home Companion I heard music that made it seem as if my ears were hearing for the first time. More than music, I heard originality. I heard live instruments, played by real hands, in touch with real creative minds. I heard enthusiasm. I heard a group of guys just having fun making music.

I wanted to stop my car to get out and dance in the road.

The group is Halden Wofford and the Hi-Beams, a 'western swing' band from Fort Collins, Colo., that is "passionately committed to playing real country music" (from their website, www.hibeams.com).

Within days I had ordered and received their first (and, to date, only) CD. When it arrived, I listened and was hooked.

The CD is a marvelous mix of pure country music, a few western-style waltzes, laced with a yodel here, a love song there, and such quality as few musicians outside the classical world possess.

My favorites?

I'm partial to "Billings Bop," an all instrumental piece where all that's missing is a barn full of cowboys and cowgirls dancing the evening away.

I also like "Let's Make Believe." This is a love song. In the back of my mind I pictured Karen and me out under the western moon, slow-waltzing in the star-shine with an audience of tumbleweed and coyotes.

For fun, there's "(My Other Car's An) Appaloosa." The song's the story of a city-bound cowboy who trades his weekday suit for the weekend life of a cowboy. The tongue-in-cheek lyrics speak to anyone confined to the city life, longing for the open spaces of the great west.

The whole CD is great.

The Hi-Beams website reveals one more subtle thing about them that makes their music even more significant. Their music is available through local, independent music stores and vendors. They are not a big-box operation.

Keeping it real in their music and in their business. What a deal.

I hope you'll check out Halden Wofford and the Hi-Beams on their website, www.hibeams.com. You'll be able to listen to "Appaloosa" there and link to purchasing information. You won't regret it.

New Blog for Questions and Answers

I've begun another blog intending to be a little more interactive than The Country Parson. I'm calling it, "Ask the Country Parson."

My intention is not to be the 'Answer Man,' but to bring about some discussion about things that I am asked all the time as a pastor. I'll share my perspective, and I'd like to encourage you to begin a dialogue through the Comments Section that might generate personal and spiritual growth for everyone.

I'm looking forward to hearing from you.

Brian

Living An Easter Life

Icon of St. Thomas the Apostle, Witness to the Resurrection of Jesus Christ

Sermon notes from Easter Sunday, April 16, 2006

Epistle: I Corinthians 15:12-28, 50-58
Psalm: 100
Gospel: Luke 24:1-12

Alleluia! Christ is Risen!
He is Risen, indeed! Alleluia!

You and I are called to live an 'Easter life.'

We live in a world filled with despair, but we are called to an Easter life!

We know there are wars and violence, turmoil and disaster, but we are called to an Easter life!

We are faced with problems in our families, personal anxieties, abuse and addiction, and financial worries, but we are called to an Easter life!

In a world becoming increasingly secular and materialistic, we are called to an Easter life!

St. Paul's great affirmation in Romans 10:9 is the beginning of an Easter life: "If you confess with your mouth 'Jesus is Lord,' and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you shall be saved." In our Epistle this morning, Paul likewise proclaims, "If Christ is not risen, your faith is in vain . . .for as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive."

An Easter life is a life transformed, lived from the inside out, a life in which even death itself is no longer a threat.

An Easter life means that when we face despair, God gives us hope.
When we face war, God gives us peace.
When we face violence, God gives us comfort.
When we face turmoil, God gives us answers.
When we face disaster, God brings renewal.

In our homes, an Easter life means that no family problem is greater than the love of God to solve it.
No personal anxiety is as great as the care God has for you.
No amount of abuse can shake how much you are worth to God.
No addiction's chains are stronger than God's power to break them.
No financial worry is unnoticed by God, Who clothes the grasses and flowers of the field.

An Easter life sees what is Holy in a secular world: the holiness of every soul; the sacredness of God's world; the wisdom of our Heavenly Father. An Easter life holds on to what is Holy because it is True and Right and Beautiful and Good.

Living the Easter Life may lead to being misunderstood.
The Resurrection of Jesus Christ? To some, a myth.
New life in Christ? To many, a fantasy.
Hope for living? To others, 'rose colored glasses.'
Faith? To many, it's naive.
A changed life? Merely behavior modification.
Belief in God? A coping mechanism.
Confession of Faith? Mind control.

In spite of being misunderstood and scorned, rejected and made fun of, we know that we are living an Easter life, and that Christ is indeed, risen from the dead.

This morning, we are surrounded by symbols of this glorious Resurrection: the lilies trumpet the news; the candles in front of the Resurrection icon represent that the Light still shines in the world and that it cannot be overcome; the white cloth and paraments represent the New Life and a clean slate; and we received new members reminding us again that the Church continues from one age to the next.

In closing we will sing of yet another symbol of the Easter Life, The Lord of the Dance. Notice these words in the final verse:
They cut me down and I leapt up high,
I am the Life that will never, never die;
I'll live in you if you'll live in Me;
I am the Lord of the Dance, said He.

Dance, then, wherever you may be,
I am the Lord of the Dance, said He;
And I'll lead you all, wherever you may be,
And I'll lead you all in the Dance, said He.

Alleluia! Christ is Risen!
He is Risen, indeed! Alleluia!

The Dying Art of Singing

A week ago I went to a funeral for one of the best singers I've ever known. Marlin wasn't a widely known singer outside his Church circles, but he was widely known within it. He wasn't the best voice I've ever heard, but when Marlin sang, you could hear the best of him in his voice.

In Marlin's funeral there was plenty of singing: a French hymn with esoteric melodies, an old favorite (Wonderful Grace of Jesus) and two Church of the Brethren standards, including "Move in Our Midst." The congregation made the rafters ring. Marlin had been music director for 30 years in the same Church where his funeral took place. The Church Choir, including veterans from his own years as director, and the Timbercrest Choir, a choir Marlin cultivated for years in the retirement community where he lived, were outstanding in their choral remembrance. I haven't heard singing like that in a long time.

Even in my own Church, singing seems often more awkwardly dutiful than from the heart. It seems that many Churches have run headlong into the inane practice of singing off overhead screens without hymnals. (Canned music seems to often accompany . . . and cue the lights, please!) Even worse has been the move to 'entertainment' singing in Churches, where a worship band 'leads worship' and the congregation kind of jives along. (Can lighters for the end of the worship service - with Church logos on them - be too far behind?)

Singing from the heart is one of God's gifts to Creation. Birds sing, obviously. But actually nearly "everything that has breath" sings. A song communicates what's in the heart - praise and adoration to God, love and adoration to other people, sentiments both joyful and grievous.

Everyone used to sing. Until the 1960's, nearly every classroom had a piano and every school had a music teacher. Every Church had a pianist and organist and choir. In taverns, people sang. In community halls, people sang. There was a 'national repertoire.' Who didn't know "I've Been Working on the Railroad" or "Clementine" or "She'll be Coming 'Round the Mountain"?

And of course, everyone sang "The Star-Spangled Banner" at ball games and other public affairs. Last time I was at a basketball game, I felt like I was the only one singing the National Anthem! My wife looked at me as if I were creating a scene.

I like to sing out. When I have a hymnal in my hands, I try to find my part. If I can't, I just sing along the melody. When I'm walking in the woods, I'll sing at the top of my lungs, so that God and the deer and squirrels can hear (and sing along?).

Why don't people sing anymore? I have three observations. These are not scientifically researched or authoritative. They may even seem obvious. But here they are anyhow.

First, I think many people have lost a reason to sing. It seems like our culture spends so much time dwelling on our own angst that we don't have time to dwell on how great life is and how much there is to sing about. Everyone has problems and I have problems, too. But I also see the beautiful sunrises and the wide open skies. I see beauty in people and joy in relationships. These are reasons alone to sing.

Second, I think many people think they can't sing. Just a week or so ago, when Don Knotts died, a radio commentor spoke about her favorite episode of The Andy Griffith Show, in which Barney Fife joins the Church choir but sings so awfully that he drowns out the other choir members. The great thing about it was that Barney seems totally unaware of his tin-ear. He just loved to sing. I think most people can sing better than they give themselves credit for. But their singing has to come from the heart - not from the voicebox.

Third, most contemporary music is not good for singing. When was the last time a group broke out singing anything written in the last 20 years? When did anyone's family gather around the piano, or on the porch with a guitar? Does anyone know all the words to their favorite hymns - or does anyone sing hymns anymore?

Re-discover singing! Go find a tune and sing out! Find two or three other people and sing as many verses as you can to "Clementine." Turn off the radio in your car or the TV in your family room and dust off a kids' songbook and sing a while.

Eine Kleine Nacht Musick

I'm sure that if it hadn't been that our son, Alex, and his band, Turncoat Fanatic, were playing at the Roann Community Center last night, we wouldn't have gone to the program.

At the same time, living a block away from the Community Center, there may not have been a need to go.

The music was loud, loud, loud.

Which we expected.

Alex has a passion for rock music. Not Top 40 rock. Not rock-a-billy. Not even rock that anyone else has written. He loves to take the milleu of heavy metal rock and shape it to express his own thoughts, feelings, humor, perspectives. He almost never 'covers' other bands' music.

At the Roann Community Center, four other bands joined Turncoat Fanatic in what was to be an evening resplendent with thousands of decibels of electric guitars, bass guitars, and drums. One group even brought dancers.

The community center is normally a docile place, home to wedding showers, square dancing, benefit dinners, and family reunions. Years ago it was a furniture store. For those in northern Indiana who know about Tom Spiece, this building was the first-ever Speice Store, started by Tom's father, Dick, as an Army surplus store.

This night, the community center was filled 150 youths from Wabash, Fulton, Howard and Miami counties, dressed in a "rural-ized" urban rock attire, a mix of band geeks and jocks, friends and co-workers, couples and lookers, brainiacs and slower students. They were there for the music, mostly. They were there to be seen, partly. They were there to support their friends in the bands.

Alex was not only a performer this evening, he was also the organizer. As parents of this 17 1/2 year-old, Karen and I knew where our boundaries needed to be - with the other parents of band members, on the metal folding chairs at the back of the room. That is, until performance time, when we would be permitted to near the stage discreetly for pictures and admiration.

Our daughter, Allison, joined the experience in a freshly made, hand-painted "Turncoat Fanatic" t-shirt. She was the evening's ticket taker and hand stamper (and de facto bouncer).

With the notable exception of the first band, the young men who comprised the four remaining groups were highly talented. Though the format was essentially the same - lead guitar, bass, drums, and vocalist - the separate bands created sounds and lyrics unique to themselves. All were punched with a sense of adolescent anger and frustration. All were vividly independent of anything their parents would have created. All were happy middle-income kids expressing themselves electrically.

These were not bands from wide and bizarre places like Seattle or Chicago. Alex's band is based here in Roann, although the two other members live in rural Wabash County. Another band is from North Manchester, a college town of about 4500 near here. And the other two good bands were Christian bands from the Kokomo area.

I would be remiss if I did not tell you that Alex's band was, indeed, the best band there. You might accuse me of 'proud fatherhood' if I told you that Alex was the most talented guitarist of the evening. So be it. They were and he was. :-)

There was another kind of music in the evening that took me a little by surprise. It was the music of human conversation.

Between sets, when each band had to tear down and allow the next band to set up, there was a five or six minute interval. The crowd took on a life of its own during those short breaks. In one corner, a group of 15-20 sat to play a few quick hands of cards. In another corner, girls preened and twisted their hair. The parent group on their metal folding chairs laughed and talked about work and how big their kids had gotten.

The music of pleasant conversation. My personal favorite sound. It is the music that occurs when there is no other obvious music. Whether it's on the lawn at the Deer Creek Music Center in Indianapolis or at intermission of the Manchester Symphony, that music of conversation comes to life when the performers aren't performing.

It was a good evening. My ears have recovered. The community center is clean. And Roann is back to its sleepy little self.

Until the next concert, that is. :-)

"Must Lick"

Reebok sat on the futon overlooking Ocean View Drive. The sun shone warm on his pudgy frame, but the warmth felt good soaking through his mutli-shaded grey coat.

His view of the afternoon traffic was distracted by the occasional gull that flew from the beach to Ocean View and back. But he couldn't afford distraction. He was looking for "She."

"She" was that fabulous creature who had discovered his inner most secret. "She" was that human who had seen into Reebok's feline nature and spent her hours trying to understand his innermost thoughts. "She" had a hum-drum job and Reebok felt it was his job to help loosen her up, make her feel special at the end of a routine day.

As Reebok waxed reminiscent in the Virginia sun, he recalled dishes of ice cream he helped "She" devour. As he streched his legs, he thought of the quiet evenings spent with "She" stroking his thick coat with that fine wire thingy.

The sudden urge to wash himself overcame Reebok's reverie momentarily.

Then he saw her pull in the driveway below. "She" was home! Time to get the house ready: Jump off the futon and rub the doorpost; Make sure the TV is off; Check the kitchen for food; All was well.

From another corner of the apartment, "Mom." came to the door. For some odd reason, "She" called Mom 'Helen.' Mom had been rescued by "She" after a car accident left Mom with only three legs. "She" nursed Mom back to health and raised several of Reebok's brothers and sisters. He always knew he was the favorite, though, because "She" kept him with Mom through moves and jobs.

Reebok and Mom gave each other the Feline Visual Greeting then sat passively, side by side.

Keys made that familiar afternoon music. A few muffled thuds up the stairs and "She's" voice sang out joyfully, "Reebok!" "Helen!"

The routine was same as usual. "She" put her purse on the counter, coat on the chair, shoes on the mat. She grabbed that big bag and gently shook it as she sang:

"Kitty, kitty, kitty!" ("She" had such a way with words :-)

Reebok and Mom ate casually, as always, while "She" unwound. With full stomach, then, Reebok mosied to the futon that had been his lookout. He rubbed her legs with the roundness of his belly, one side, then the other. His perky tail let "She" know he cared.

"She" mumbled something in those unintelligble human noises she made and grabbed him by the shoulders to assist him onto the futon. "She" gazed deeply into his eyes. More mumbling . . .but it sounded pretty.

Then, the magic moment. In the soft spot between his shoulder blades, "She" tickled lightly, compellingly. Deep in Reebok's throat, a purr began. As the tickling grew, so did the loss of control.

"I am a cat," Reebok told himself. "Control. Control."

The tickling was driving him insane with pleasure. The purring intensified. Reebok squinted to maintain control. Then she said it:

"Reebok . . .'must lick'."

In a moment out of Reebok's control, he began licking his own chest.

Lick, lick, lick!

Like a blithering idiot, Reebok had again succumbed to "She's" temptation. The feeling was so awesome he was lost in the joy of it.

Lick, lick, lick!

"She" chuckled under her breath and mumbled some more in her human sounds. How had "She" seen into his feline soul to know his secret? What did she know that caused him to drop his kitty guard, so nobly carried in his 30-pound frame? How did she cross the line from the human world into this, his passionate cattus sanctum?

He hoped the moment would never end. But he slowed. Lick . . .lick . . .

Then, a sudden stop. Mom walked around the kitchen corner. Their eyes met as Mom sat and began washing herself where her leg had once been. "She" thought Helen was cleaning up after supper. But Reebok knew the signal: "Stop that nonsense at once."

And the evening went on, as always, the rolling of the mighty Atlantic rhythmically calling Reebok and Mom and "She" to the end of another day.

Dear Reader,
I write this entry in tribute to my sister's dear cat, Reebok, who died last Thursday at 15 1/2 years old. Reebok was with my sister, Sue Ellen, through thick and through thin. I hope this little glimpse at one of Reebok's vulnerabilities helps you know just how special he was to Sue Ellen and the rest of us.

As you remember Reebok, find a cat to tickle today!