I appreciate so much your comments and your sharing of the Hurricane Harvey blog. I was especially moved by comments from people in south Texas, who lost so much and are yet unsure of their future.

I had planned to write a follow-up to that blog regarding the role of faith in the inevitable months and years that lie ahead for residents of the Gulf coast area of Texas and Louisiana.  But, here comes Irma. In a few days, there will be many more people in crisis…people whom we must not forget.

Hurricane Irma provides a harsh backdrop for faith.  What is faith’s place in the storm, whether a storm such as Harvey, Irma, or Jose?  Or how does faith matter in storms of life, such as crises of health or finance or relational conflict?  What ought people of faith do while staring into the long face of calamity, especially as that storm goes on for days, weeks, months, and even years? When the news cycle moves on, but the pain remains, remember this word: ὑπομονὴ.

I’ll spare you the Greek going forward; but in English, the word sounds like “hupomonay.” If you asked congregants in the five churches that I pastored over the years, “What is Allen’s favorite word in the New Testament?” I would hope that most of them would be able to tell you “hupomonay.” (For some examples, see Matthew 24:13; Romans 5:3; Hebrews 10:36; 1 Thessalonians 1:3.)

When I read the Scriptures, I can’t find the parts where people’s lives were made comfortable because they were believers. If anything, their journeys were more calamitous because they were believers. Jesus said, “I have told you these things, so that in Me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world” (John 16:33, New International Version).

God has promised so much, and He ALWAYS comes through; but He did not promise that we would have trouble-free journeys. He did not promise that Harvey would miss Houston or that Irma would spin out harmlessly into the Atlantic. He did not promise that disease would pass over our families. What did He promise?  We will have trouble.

But God refuses to leave us drowning in our trouble. God promises that in faith, we will find peace in the midst of it all.

As best I understand Him, peace comes to those who embrace hupomonay in our faith. Peace comes to those who persevere faithfully through our trouble. For those who are looking personally at Harvey’s destruction, hupomonay. For those who are leaving their homes, anxious about what Irma will or won’t spare, hupomonay. For those whose deteriorating physical condition has altered the course of their plans, hupomonay. For those whose lives have been forever changed in one moment, in one phone call, in one bit of news, hupomonay. For those who currently stand unaffected on dry land, pray for others with hupomonay.

Perseverance. We will face adversity; that is God’s promise. What matters is what we do in response to it. I suggest that peace comes to those who respond with hupomonay.

O God, I offer this prayer as one who is not staring at water in my living room.  I live over 1,000 miles away.  But there are many of us, who are watching the scenes via computer and television, totally helpless in the moment. We want to do something, but what? We promise to pray, but how?  My family and I moved from Houston seventeen years ago, after pastoring a church in what is now a very damaged neighborhood. We hear from and talk to friends who have lost everything physically, save their lives.  Some of our family is frantically stacking sandbags in attempt to steer water away from their homes, others covering furniture with tarp to keep from ruin due to roof leaks.  Here we are, God, along with millions more throughout the country and world, in search of what our prayer should be as we stand on dry land.

We know the prayers of our friends and family in Houston, Beaumont, and surrounding areas. Their prayers come from the front lines. They are praying for receding waters. They are praying for sunshine. They are praying for restful sleep. They are praying for security.  They are praying for hope. They are praying that the rest of us will do the right thing. In many cases, they pray and nothing comes out of their mouths.

As one who cannot possibly understand the present trauma of life in southeast Texas and southern Louisiana, I offer this prayer.

In my ignorance, God, provide wisdom to know what I must do as Your child and their brother and sister. I pray that Your wisdom will extend to every individual who must make decisions that will affect hundreds, if not thousands, of others. Wisdom that is needed when emergency water releases from reservoirs may help some and inevitably hurt others. Wisdom that is needed when deciding that it is time to steer boats to a different neighborhood, satisfied that they have searched enough in the homes where they are.  Wisdom that is needed in the classroom, as teachers try to help children make sense of any of this. God, give all of us Your wisdom.

In my comfort, God, provide compassion for those who are comfortless. We watch in horror as our neighbors to the south wonder how they can feel one more hurt; turn our horror into compassion, God.  Compassion that helps the child find the family cat before climbing aboard the rescue boat. Compassion for the parent who is trying to “keep it together” when it all looks to be falling apart. Compassion for the first responder whose own house is under water.  Compassion for the pastor who tries to compose a sermon for congregants when the pastor needs it more personally than anyone.  God, give us all compassion.

In my faithlessness, God, provide faith for myself and others. We all know what the Bible says about storms and rainbows, but it almost feels like that story is proving futile right now.  Fill us with a child’s faith. Faith that gives belief to the lifelong believer who feels tested beyond endurance. Faith that gives belief to the unbelieving rescuer, who sees something unnatural in the eyes of the rescued people in the boat. Faith to all who have nothing else on which to hold.

We will continue to pray, God, because we need Someone to hear us and make sense of our stutterings. We will pray as we write relief checks.  We will pray as we go to help in the months and years ahead. We will pray because they find hope in our prayers.  We will pray … perhaps because we simply need someone to talk to.  Amen.

If you haven’t heard something about the upcoming solar eclipse, you must have been living on the dark side of the moon, or in this case, is it the bright side of the moon…I’m confused? Most of us are prepared that this Monday, August 21, 2017, the sky over the United States will turn dark. The moon is going to pass between the earth and the sun. Depending on where you are, the phenomenon will last about two minutes or so. It’s not the first time this has happened, as people have recorded instances for thousands of years. And it’s not the last time, Lord willing, that it will occur, as scientists calculate that another solar eclipse will rotate over the U.S. in 2024. (See http://www.nasa.gov for detailed information.)

It is a strange, but momentous, event, the kind of thing that sticks with us. I remember the one in 1970 the best. Perhaps because we all put cardboard boxes over our heads, a method of forming some kind of projection. (I had not idea what I was doing!) I followed the instructions, but all I could think about was how foolish we must all look to the aliens who were orchestrating the eclipse. Of course, the 1970 eclipse was immortalized forever, thanks to Carly Simon’s hit, “You’re So Vain.”

The whole thing is rather ironic…people are so excited to see what they can’t look at. That, in fact, is the focus of much of the eclipse conversation: DO NOT LOOK AT IT! Therein lies the mystery of the eclipse. The earth, moon, and sun only align over our spot on earth once in a blue moon. (I have no idea what that idiom means either, but that’s for another day.) When the earth, moon, and sun all come together, we cannot even look at it.

History reveals that Ancient China interpreted the eclipse with fear, for they thought that a dragon had eaten the sun.  Later, about 500 years before Christ, the Babylonian astronomers developed skills to predict future eclipses. By the time Christ walked on earth, eclipses were more fascinating because people could anticipate them than because they bore some angry message from the gods.

Even today, with our massive telescopes and our eclipse-certified glasses, the emphasis of the eclipse remains: we cannot look at it without irreparable damage to our eyesight. It is God’s moment of mystery.  Just as Scripture warns against looking directly at God (Exodus 33:20; John 1:18), the eclipse will remain for me a supernatural moment, captured only in the unlimited eyes of the Creator.

When the eclipse occurs, I will not try to see anything through the lenses of special glasses. Nor will I be wearing a cardboard box over my head.  I will not drive hundreds of miles as others will, just to be more centrally located in the eclipse’s path. Nor will I watch television’s live coverage of the event. Instead, I will be simply sitting in the darkness that God has created, soaking in His mystery. We humans think we have it all figured out, with explanations and algorithms for everything. Not this time. At least, not for these two minutes.  This is God’s moment. We need more divine mystery in our lives.

I am one of the fortunate. Most of my family and friends have followed the unofficial order of dying. The sequence is not absolute, but it’s generally reliable.

Through the first several decades of my life, my grandparents died. One of my first childhood memories was the death of my dad’s father. I remember holding my mother’s white-gloved hand, as I walked reluctantly into the mystery of the hushed viewing room. My mother said quietly to herself, not realizing that the room’s silence allowed the whisper to pierce my ears: “I can’t do this.” I always assumed she was referring to exposing me to the pain of death. I would miss my grandfather, the smell of his unlit pipes that he never smoked when we were around, and his life-on-the-road stories from his truck-driving career. Even though sorrow accompanied his passing, that is the order of death: grandparents die before grandchildren.

When Laurie and I became parents of our own children, our parents started dying. Through tear-blurred vision, I’ve watched both of my parents’ caskets sink into the grave. With every year that passes, I realize how much they shaped my own life. Father’s Day and Mother’s Day conjure uninvited sorrow as I reminisce about my childhood with them, perhaps missing them even more as their dying gets further and further behind me. I lament the fact that they never got to meet our wonderful son-in-law and daughter-in-law, or their great-grandson whose name is shared by my father and me. I miss my parents, but again, that’s the order of death. Parents die before their children.

This stream of thought falls apart when the order is displaced. On the positive side, some young children still enjoy the living presence of their great, and even great-great, grandparents. We call that “good genes.” I knew my great-grandmother during my early years on my father’s side of the family tree. On the negative side, one of my grandfathers, my mother’s dad, died when she was a very young child. Good genes can be so random.

The most cruel upheaval of the order of dying seems to be when some parents face the unfathomable pain of the death of a child. As a pastor for 35 years, I officiated the funerals of many children: infants who never took their first breaths, youngsters who died in accidents, children who made wrong decisions along the way…all undeserving to die so young. I’m thankful that I learned early in my ministry that there are no quick answers to repair the pain of a grieving parent’s broken heart. I found that long-suffering prayer and presence were two of the most helpful gifts I could offer a parent who was wounded by the broken order of death.

The regular order often collapses; and when it does, the hurt goes deep. But we can generally expect people to die in sequence. I’m currently in the stage of life when my friends are dying, and I’m getting real tired of it.

For those in my stage of living, attending a funeral often stirs waves of thoughts of our own mortality. It forces us to personalize the truths of our faith…such as the Psalm of David: “The life of mortals is like grass, they flourish like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more” Psalm 103:15-16, New International Version). We face head-on the reality that the death of a friend closes one more chapter in our own lives, moving us closer to our own epilogue.

What do we do? Those of us who are tired of our friends dying, what do we do about it? For starters, nothing. There is not one single thing we can do about the order of dying. The last part of our journeys rests solely in the hands of the Almighty. We would do well to surrender our concerns, fears, and uncertainties about that to Him.

But that’s what we can do…surrender our fears to the Author of life. His ironic blessing of freedom through surrender removes the feared, clanging chains of our mortality. His liberation comes with great opportunity. First, we are set free to celebrate our friends’ lives. When we are freed from our own fears of following our friends through the unknown, we are capable of celebrating the meeting of our two lives, both here on earth and in eternity.

A second prominent blessing comes when we give our trust to the Author of our lives: we uncover a motivation to continue the best of our friend’s life. Once the passing of our friend is no longer about our own self-centered fears, we can focus on the qualities of that person that formed our friendship…why were we friends? Which qualities of our friendship can I continue forward in my life to make the world around me better? What aspects of my child, my spouse, or my parent can merge with my story to create an even better book of my life?

I will always tire of my friends and family dying, as will you. Death will never be something that happens without some degree of loss and pain. It was painful when I was a pastor, and it is especially painful now. But perhaps these thoughts will give us something to do with that coffin or picture, staring at us from the front of the sanctuary.

A great man passed away in June 2005. His name was Jim Tweel.

Jim was the owner and operator of Jim’s Steak and Spaghetti House for over 6 decades. The restaurant is an institution in Huntington, West Virginia, still family-owned and as popular as ever to this day. It’s the kind of place that whether you are visiting Huntington or have lived here all your life, you go to Jim’s.

Known for its good food, Jim’s is also famous as a place of hospitality, a gathering where people are friends. One of Jim’s characteristic expressions was giving away silver dollars. If you came to the restaurant on your birthday, anniversary, or for whatever reason he wanted to celebrate, Jim would often greet you with a silver dollar. He carried them in his pocket like calling cards. To receive a silver dollar from Jim was a big deal. You kept it.

When Jim died, Huntington and beyond lost a friend; the church I pastored lost a faithful member. Many people from all walks of life gathered in the sanctuary of the church on June 13^th for Jim’s funeral.

One of Jim’s friends was Muhammad Ali. Not in good health himself, Mr. Ali made the arduous journey to honor Jim’s life. The one known as “The Greatest” came to pay tribute to another man who truly was great in all of our eyes.

You would think that Muhammad Ali’s larger-than-life presence would distract from the day’s focus, to celebrate Jim Tweel’s life. Not so. After waiting inconspicuously in a back room, the great boxer entered the sanctuary quietly and unannounced. He sat reverently on the second row, with some others. He came as a friend to offer his support and respect to Jim’s family.

Jim’s family offered a poignant moment in the service, an experience those who had gathered would long remember. Everyone received a silver dollar. Provided generously by Jim’s family, these coins represented the celebration of Jim’s life, just as he had celebrated so many lives over the years. At the designated time in my sermon, ushers began to pass offering plates, filled with silver dollars. I invited every worshiper (and there were hundreds) to take a silver dollar out of one of the plates.

From my vantage point on the platform, the person whom I could see most clearly was Muhammad Ali. I watched as the plate was passed in front of him. He reached for a silver dollar.

His body exposed the signs of his years of battling Parkinson’s disease. I recognized his familiar difficulty with picking up one of the coins, because my own father suffered from Parkinson’s.

Mr. Ali struggled to grasp a coin, but he was determined to get that coin in his trembling fingers. It was his tribute to the passing of a great man. I watched as he worked for the coin. At one point, I remember thinking that I should go help him. Those sitting around him seemed to be thinking the same thing. But Mr. Ali clearly was going to do this himself.

After a great deal of effort on his part, he succeeded in capturing one of the coins in his hand. He held it to his face, looked at it, as though he were cherishing one of his championship belts. He seemed to smile slightly.

I saw the face of determined perseverance that day. I saw why he was known as “The Greatest.” I saw why he had influenced the lives of so many. I saw what determination looked like, not for his own attention, but for a quiet, respectful, humble honor of another great man.

When I spoke with him after the service, I simply said, “Thank you.” Thank you, partly for making the long trip. Thank you, partly for the difference that he was making in my family’s life through drawing attention to Parkinson’s research.

Mostly, I thanked him because he reminded me what perseverance looked like that day.

“Our response to troubles ought to be determined perseverance. If we persevere without giving up, we find our true, God-given character. Within that character lies our hope” (adapted from Romans 5:3-4).

 

“Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God?” (1 Corinthians 6:19a, New International Version)

“How are you?” has become more than a rhetorical greeting in our home. A rare motor neuron disease, coupled with chronic blood clot complications, mandates that we plan our days around medical appointments and the side effects of medication. “How are you?” is a real question. By God’s blessing, my wife Laurie became a health coach a year and a half ago. We have lost 80 pounds each; and as a health coach, Laurie asks “How are you?” of her clients numerous times a day. Almost 1,000 people have become part of her team. Helping people get healthy is her passion.

The contrast of my disabling illness and Laurie’s health coaching leads to a great deal of health talk around our home. As you might expect, our conversation often converges at the intersection of our spiritual and physical journeys: how are soul and body related in the pursuit of well-being?

Over decades of pastoring, I learned that many people ponder this relationship. If the ultimate hope of faith is our souls’ eternity in heaven, how much do our physical bodies really matter?

Paul’s words to the Corinthians above are a good place to start as we seek answers. The Holy Spirit has established residency inside of us. How we care for our physical well-being somehow reflects the value that we place on the Spirit’s presence within us.

The imagery is reminiscent of taking care of the church house. It is only a building; but because holy moments occur inside the walls, we should treat the church building with great attentiveness. The same is true for our bodies.

But when we think of our bodies as “temples,” we ought not to picture hallways, classrooms, offices, or fellowship halls. The word that Paul uses here is more specific than that.

Paul writes that our bodies are the holy place. In Moses’ tabernacle, the holy place was where the priests prepared for worshipful rituals, including the Holy of Holies where only the High Priest visited with God on the Day of Atonement.

The physical body may not last forever; but during its time, it is the home of God.

This aging, aching body is holy, because God is within it. Take care of His house.

For the first time in over three decades, I find myself not preparing an Easter message during Holy Week. In looking back, I remember the Easter sermon as a multi-layered challenge.

Every church that I pastored had its peculiar Easter customs, a list of holy rituals that dictated the presence, or lack thereof, of Easter. Specific songs were sung, whether they were seasonally or theologically correct. Flowers adorned the chancel, usually given in honor or memory of the saints. That meant that jockeying for position to take home the “best-looking lily” started with the most strategic choice of pew. The annual reenactment of the ladies’ trip to the tomb, a.k.a, Easter sunrise service, meant that congregants were more inclined than usual to take a nap during worship. Moving through all these extra-curricular traditions made Easter sermons more complicated.

The assortment of hearers was also more convoluted than the other fifty-one Sundays. One group of people, “Chreasters,” included those I hadn’t seen since Christmas (and wouldn’t see again until next Christmas). I was thrilled that they were in worship on Easter, but the spiritual impact is diminished when all one knows about the story is that Jesus was born and that Jesus resurrected. There are some important parts in the middle of that story!

Another group of people were the family-attendees. These people appeared with their family members, seemingly to avoid the ire of the matriarch or patriarch of the clan. They were easy to spot in a crowd. I won’t give away all their clues, but suffice it to say that they kept a pretty close eye on their watches!

The protectors of the institution also added to the layers of activity.  They loved to bring out the “Easter chairs,” but then they were disappointed when they remembered that a full house rarely meant full collection plates.

Last, but certainly not least, there was the group of faithful church-goers. They were in worship every Sunday. To them, Easter was a celebration of all they believed, lived, and knew to be true. I had to look especially hard for these loyal ones on Easter Sunday, because their pews had been stolen by “strangers” on this special day.

In spite of these (now-humorous) Easter distractions, I look back and realize they are all human attempts to do something meaningful with the holiest of days.

Easter worship is the creation’s attempt to celebrate the Creator’s greatest moment.

Paul reminds us: “and if Christ has not been raised, your faith is worthless; you are still in your sins” (1 Corinthians 15:17, New American Standard Bible).

When the sermon is over, the songs are sung, the lilies are taken, the families depart, and the “Easter chairs” are stored for next year, there is one underlying truth remaining: the tomb is empty.

For all the other things we pile on this day, the profound simplicity is this:  Our loved ones who have died in Christ, with Him as Savior and Lord of their lives, are alive…more alive than they have ever been.  It can be the same for us.