Archive for the ‘Story Tellers & Writters’ Category

Here is an article I wrote almost 10 years ago for “Leadership” Magazine. It speaks on the issue of being committed to the churches we are at. I hope you find it helpful.

THE DAY I BURNED MY GREEN CARD

One of my seminary professors was working as a missionary in Zimbabwe when civil war broke out. He and thousands of others fled the bloodshed. They were stopped at the border. The neighboring country refused to absorb any more refugees. Trapped between the border guard and encroaching rebel forces, not even the missionaries were allowed in. However, each missionary was given a green card. These cards would allow them entrance if the fighting reached the camp.

One day, while ministering to some refugees, my professor said that he understood their fears. He felt justified saying that—after all, he too had been displaced by the civil war, he too was frightened of the approaching rebels, he too feared a massacre. One older refugee looked at him and said, “You will not know how we feel until you burn your green card.”

Our professor’s voice grew quiet in the classroom and his head bowed in shame even years afterward. He prayed all night, he said, but he decided not to burn his card. As much as he loved the people and had become part of their community, he was not able to take the final step and commit to die with them.

Read the rest of this entry »

Hi everyone, I love the conversation that is beginning. Thanks for sharing.  It has helped me to hear what you are thinking and you’ve lifted me up with your words. I hope I can do the same for you.

Today I’d like to share a story with you that has been published in a couple of magazines. It speaks of the joy of the rural parish (and its sometimes joyful craziness!)
Harriet and the Six-Piece Band

Everything in the brochure, “Worship for the Twenty-First Century,” wet my appetite.  It pronounced that this one-day seminar would help me develop a worship style that would appeal to people all across the broad spectrum of society from yuppie, to generation X; from the hard of hearing to the hard to reach.  With great enthusiasm, I signed my name on the registration card,  certain that I had just taken one of the most important steps in my ministerial career.
Read the rest of this entry »

In the darkness of night, three people huddled beside a garbage bin behind a local convenience store and shot themselves up with heroin. One of them overdosed and died. The other two simply walked away. Hours later, six youth between the ages of thirteen and seventeen were killed in a gang related incident. A drunk driver crossed the center line and killed an entire family. With that last bit of information, I shut off the television, leaned back in my chair, took a sip of coffee and sighed a sigh of resignation. Life is tough.

Moments later one of my son’s, newly awaken to the day, came bounding down the stairs and jumped into my arms. “Can we play catch today, Dad?”

“Yes, we can play catch.”

“When?”

“I have some office work to do this morning, but by

afternoon I should be done.”

My proposal satisfied Lee and off he bounded to his mother, to get his morning greeting from her.

I went to the office to finalize my sermon for the next day and prepare myself for a couple coming in for counseling. It was a tough situation; eight years married, three small children, and a rip in their relationship the size of the Grand Canyon. A tragedy in the making.

Before the couple came, I went upstairs to get myself another cup of coffee. I saw my two boys sitting in front of the T.V. watching cartoons and eating pop-tarts, the dogs waiting for something to drop. “Want a bite?” asked Andy, “They’re great!”

“No, thanks.” I figured I should eat something tasteless like bran, to prevent cancer which was striking men in ever increasing numbers, so I was told on the news that morning.

The sermon was finished and I prayed it would make a difference in people’s lives. The counseling session didn’t go well. The marriage was over — the blood was already spilling. I cried inwardly not only for them, but for those for whom the blood would also fall upon.

At noon, I shut the office door and went upstairs, a beaten man. So much pain and hurt in the world and so much of it in my own backyard.

I didn’t even make it to the top step when Lee met me handing me my glove. “It’s afternoon.”

I could only laugh; quite the literalist.

“Could I change clothes first?”

Missing the sarcasm, Lee replied, “Okay. But hurry up.”

As the two of us, along with my wife Ann and other son Andy walked into the backyard, gloves in hand, Andy pointed up at the sun and said, “Isn’t this a perfect day!”

“Perfect.” responded Lee.

I froze in my steps. A perfect day? How could he say that? Didn’t he watch the news? Of course not, he was watching cartoons. Didn’t he see Mr. and Mrs. Nelson walk out of my office, heads down in defeat and anger? No, he saw the sun coming down from the sky and lighting up his little world. Didn’t he see the strain in my face, or the burdens on my back? No, he saw Dad, and he turned and saw Mom, and he turned and saw his brother, and he saw we were all together to play baseball — he saw a perfect day.

“Are you coming Dad?”

And I went. For the next hour, I lived in his perfect world. And it was good.

When you come into the land that the Lord your God is giving you

as an inheritance to possess, and you possess it, and settle in it,

you shall take some of the first of all the fruit of the ground,

which you harvest from the land that the Lord you God is giving you,

and you shall put it in a basket and go to the place that the Lord you God will choose

as a dwelling for his name.

You shall go to the priest who is in office at the time, and say to him,

“Today I declare to the Lord your God that I have come into the land that the Lord swore

to our ancestors to give us…

So now I bring the first of the fruit of the ground that you, O Lord, have given me.”

You shall set it down before the Lord your God

and bow down before the Lord you God.

Then you, together with the Levites and the aliens who reside among you,

shall celebrate with all the bounty that the Lord you God has given to you and to your house.”

Deuteronomy 26:1-3, 10-11

The Golden Bike

If you were a child in the 60′s you know what I’m talking about when I tell you that more than anything else in the world, I wanted a Schwinn Sting-Ray. But, “Bikes cost money,” my father would say again and again and again and again and again, “and money doesn’t grow on trees.”

My only hope of owning one, lay in getting my hands on the money in my savings account. Each month my parents put five dollars into it. To access it, we had to convince our parents that what we needed was necessary and important. What could be more necessary and important that an Sting-Ray?

I practiced my speech for days, waited for the perfect moment and sprung it on them. Lo and behold, I got their approval. I was half way home – now all I had to do was wait until “I” had saved up enough.

When the account reached fifty dollars, my dad took me to the Schwinn store. As soon as I walked in, there it was – sitting dead center in the show room – a gold-flaked Sting-Ray bike with banana seat. I ran to it. I touched it gently. The paint flecks made the bike sparkle. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

“Yeah, that’s a beauty, isn’t it?” said a salesman interrupting my dream. “And you know what?”

“No, what?” I replied, never taking my eyes off the bike.

“It’s not an ordinary Sting-Ray. It’s a two-speeder. All you have to do to shift gears is to press back to engage the brake and then peddle forward quickly, and ‘bam!’ you’re in second gear.”

Bam! That was too much. I had to have it, and I had to have it NOW!

“Let’s look at some of the other bikes, Danny,” my father suggested.

“No dad, this is it.” I didn’t want to part from it for even a moment.

“Look over here,” he said, placing his hand on my shoulder and directing me with too much strength to oppose. “Do you like this one?”

“No.”

“This one; its got hand breaks,” he pointed out.

“No.”

“This one.”

“No.”

“Look at this…”

“Can we look at the Sting-Ray again?”

My dad conceded defeat, but only after giving me a lecture on the importance of checking out all possibilities before making a decision.

The salesman who obviously knew kids better than my dad, hadn’t moved away from the Sting-Ray while I took my required visit with the other bikes. As soon as I returned to it, he let me sit on it. It was perfect. The handles bars appeared to be custom made for me. The hand grips fit like a glove. The seat was set at the perfect height for my legs. What else was there to say? Let’s wrap this baby up and take it home!

“How much does it cost?” my father asked.

Details, details, details.

“Sixty-three,” the man replied.

I didn’t think much of it. I knew I only had fifty, but fifty was close to sixty-three. Certainly that wouldn’t be a problem.

My dad took another walk around the bike. “It looks like a well built bike.”

The salesman agreed.

I smiled.

“Do you have lay-away plan?”

My head shot up like a rocket. Lay-away? What’s this about lay-away? It’s the perfect bike. It’s right here, and coincidently, so was I. Why fight fate?

With a look of disappointment – which was nothing compared to what I looked like when I realized that my father was serious – the salesman acknowledged they did and went to get a piece paper. He came back, wrote my name on it, taped it to the banana seat and slowly walked the bike into the dark bowels of the back room.

My father, either oblivious to my pain or ignoring it, smiled at me, ruffled the top of my head and said, “Almost there, Tiger. Only two months away, if you save all your spending allowance.”

Two months! I couldn’t wait two months! With the bike, went my dreams. I needed that bike! My brain whirled in crisis mode. I asked my dad for a loan, okay, I begged him. He replied, “If you don’t have the money, you don’t buy it.”

On the way home in the car, I tried guilt. “Dad, you’ll feel awful if I die sometime in the next two months and I never get to ride that bike.”

My dad replied, “I’ll risk it.”

“I’d do more chores around the house?”

He thanked me.

At that moment that I realized I wasn’t going to get that bike until I had all sixty-three dollars.

One month into my excruciating wait, as I was walked through my parents’ bedroom to get to the spare bathroom, I noticed a check on the top of my father’s dresser. I walked over and took a peek at it; it was written out to the church. Nothing new there. My parents wrote one every two weeks, but since I was there, I decided, to find out how much it was for. My eyes almost bulged out of their sockets when I saw it was written for sixty-five dollars!

Over the course of the next few days I wrestled with what to do with my new found knowledge. In the end, I decided to confront my mother and ask her on why she and my Dad couldn’t lend me a few lousy bucks – to which I now knew they did have all along. But, I had to do it in such a way as to not let her know that I had seen the check; for if the check got mentioned, my righteous indignation would be overshadowed by her righteous indignation of wanting to know why was I snooping around their bedroom in the first place. There could only be one person with righteous indignation in this argument – me.

At lunch I went to her and explained for the one hundredth time how much I wanted the bike, and how important it was that I got it as soon as possible. By the time I was done, I had her thinking my next breath was in her hands. It was now time to ask the question, again. “So could you and dad lend me the money?”

She tilted her head, smiled a sad smile, began wiping her already dry hands on her apron, and said, “I’m sorry Danny, we just don’t have the money.”

I sat there frozen in disbelief. I know she took it for disappointment in not getting the money. If only she knew the disappointment went much deeper than that. I waited, giving my mother a second chance to amend her comment, but she didn’t, forcing me to walk out on the room, heavily burdened by the fact that I was not going to get that bike early and my mother, my dear trustworthy mother, was a liar.

The fact that my mom and dad were holding out on me, and my mother added charge of being a phoney was almost too much for my young heart to take. As I walked around the neighborhood it dawned on me: if they had lied about the money, what else could they be holding back from me? Could I be wearing a classy pair of P.F. Flyers instead of the cruddy JCPenney tennis shoes I had on? Was there other essentials, besides the bike, that were they keeping from me? Was there medical attention that I needed, but they had told the doctor they couldn’t afford to give it to me? I felt a sickness coming on! Was I adopted?

My mother – if she was my real mother – noticed a change in me and after putting me to bed and praying with me, she asked me if I was alright. I mumbled that I was. I don’t think she believed me because she asked me the same question the following day at breakfast and again at lunch. Only then did I break down and tell her the truth. I told her I knew she was a liar, but I still loved her. I told her about the check on the dresser. Then I asked her why she and dad had conspired against me?

“But we didn’t lie, Danny,” she said to my disbelief. “We didn’t have the money last month to help you buy your bicycle.”

How incredulous! Even after I told her I had seen the check, she continued to deny it! “It was for sixty five dollars!” I screamed. “You could have bought the bike for me with that, much less giving me a lousy five bucks!”

My mother, as always, sat quietly through my outburst. When I was through, she calmly asked me, “Whose sixty-five dollars do you think it was that you saw on our dresser, Danny?”

“Yours.”

“Your father and I don’t think so. Each month, after we pay our bills, and put your five dollars into your savings account, we thank God for all the blessings He’s given us. We owe God a lot, Danny – our health, our family, our jobs. Everything we have goes back to God, not just sixty-five dollars, everything.” After pausing for a moment to let it sink in, she added, “The money you saw there on the dresser was God’s.”

Now you have to understand this about the one who had signed that check – my father. He lived out the American dream. Through hard work and perseverance, he chiseled out a good life, and in the end, financial stability. Money was very important to him. To find out that he considered the rewards of his labors, a gift from God, was an amazing thought.

My mom had shared an incredible testimony with me and so had my father though physically absent at the moment. It should have changed my life, but I have to be honest with you and say that all I could think about was if they just shot up a “thank you,” instead of writing it out, for one lousy month, I’d already be riding my bike!

The last two weeks of my wait went by slowly, but all was forgotten the night my father took me back to the Schwinn dealer and I handed the salesman the thirteen five dollar bills I had taken out of my savings account. He rang the transaction up on the register and said, “With tax that will be $67.23.

My heart began palpitating. I did know there was tax! I was $2.23 short! It was going to be another two weeks!

My Dad reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet and handed the salesman three one dollar bills. “A gift,” my Dad smiled at me.

Moments later, I walked out of the store pushing the most beautiful bike God ever made.

Three days later, I got off the bike for the first time, a bit bow-legged; those of you that rode bikes with banana seats know also about that! It was during that time that it dawned on me that the money I used to get the bike was in a sense “my money;” after all, it came from my bank account. But, in reality, what had I done to deserve it? Before the money was “mine,” it was my parents – all thirteen five dollar bills of it. And the more I thought about it, the more I came to realize that a lot more than that sixty-five dollars came from my parents: so was the baseball glove I had, the bat I used, the clothes I wore, the roof I slept under, and most importantly, the love and security I received – it all went back to my parents. I hadn’t earned any of that either! The more I thought about it, the more I realized my entire life was one big gift! All of it!

I walked into the house, through the living room and into the kitchen where my parents sat and I said to them something I never said enough, “Thank you.”

The honor was immense. My wife Ann and I held a piece of paper stating that our youth group had received the recognition of our church at a national level. For a small two-point parish in rural Southern Wisconsin, this was quite a distinction. Yet, the irony was incredible. As we stood in front of the camera for the editor of our local paper, our smiles were painted on. The honor hid what was really happening in our youth group.

The most prevalent fixture lately on our faces was tears. Our youth group had taken a tumble. Our strongest leaders had graduated from high school and were off at college. Our up and coming leaders decided not to meet the challenge. Drinking and sexual activity flooded into our local school with vengeance and many of our kids had been swept into it. Attendance at our youth events waned as their priorities changed.

At first, Ann and I denied that our youth group was having trouble. When each youth event fell considerably short of expectations, we were able to come up with numerous excuses: “We were in conflict with a school event,” or, “We’re just off to a slow start this year. Things will pick up.” When we spoke to some of our hoped-for-leaders about their absence, they joined in the denial by claiming the same conflict of scheduling, but promised that they would be there next time. We accepted their excuses and held onto their promises of future participation.

Sooner or later though, facts slap flush on the face of denial and three months into our new youth year, we had to acknowledge that attendance was down, leadership was lacking and apathy abounded.

It was then that anger crept in. It became more intense following each event. From the beginning, Ann and I were in the practice of reviewing each youth event. We looked at what worked, what didn’t, who we needed to involve more, etc. It didn’t take long for our discussion to bend towards who wasn’t there, the apathy during the Bible study, and the lack of ideas when trying to plan “exciting future events that will bring back the masses!”

In hindsight, the issue wasn’t so much an anger issue as it was a pain issue, the pain of losing what we had. To hide the pain, we spoke out in anger. Many nights in defeat and frustration, we tried to relinquish the pain by relinquishing responsibility. “It’s not our problem,” we would say. “We can’t babysit them. We’re not their parents.” Each time we commiserated in this fashion, we would feel better – for a few minutes – only to have the faces of the youth and their actions come flooding back into our minds, and with it the pain.

I thought back to when we first came to the church eight years ago. Was drinking and sexual activity a problem back then? Was our current youth group just a “problem” group, an aberration, which would someday be just a blip in the youth group’s history? I came to realize that things hadn’t changed nearly as much as I first believed. In fact, when we first came to Argyle, the group we started with had less going for it than this one. So why all the pain now? Why couldn’t we just throw our hands us and walk away?

The answer is intimacy. These were the kids we loved through Sunday School, Vacation Bible School and First Communion. Once upon a time, they stopped by the house to say “hi” on their roller skates; now they are stopping in their cars. We had watched these kids grow up. We celebrated their growth as if we were their parents. No longer were we leading a youth group objectively down a path. Our lives had become intimately connected to theirs.

Eight years earlier, our only feeling was celebration when a youth showed up to one of our fledgling youth events. Now, along with the celebration of those present, is also the feeling of pain for those not in attendance, and the melancholy of wondering where they are and what they were doing. We are in love with a group of sometimes unfaithful youth.

This love makes it impossible to walk away. But, we knew that we couldn’t stay in the situation we were in, for our pain was immense. We needed to do something. It was from this situation that Ann and I learned how to deal with the despair and pain that comes with loving and leading a youth group.

Following a great deal of prayer, Bible study and talking, the first thing Ann and I did was re-commit ourselves to loving each member of the youth group. This was easy because we did love these kids. But, we had to realize that in committing our love to them, we were accepting the fact that love can be rejected, and at times, the lover is hurt. Pain was going to be a constant part of our reality with them.

Once we acknowledged that, we asked God for the gift of endurance. Love is long-suffering. True love doesn’t walk away when the going gets tough; it gets stronger. True love is stronger than any crisis encountered.

Another church in our community began a youth program. It started out with a bang and people were talking about how well things were going. Happy for them, we also knew that a good youth group is not the group that starts out well when energy is high and the future looks endless and bright. A good youth group is the group that, through enduring love, builds stability so that when the exuberance of the moment is gone, the group is still marching on.

That youth group began and ended in the same year. The intention was good, the commitment wasn’t, because of that, that group had no future.

Ann and I are hockey fans. There is a pro hockey team in Madison that we go and watch often. Last year, they were doing very well, sitting on top of the standings as the season came to a close and the play-offs were about to begin. We smelled a Colonial League Title! Then, three of the best players got called up to the Milwaukee Admirals, a farm team only one step beneath the National Hockey League. It was a great day for those three players, but for us Madison Monster fans, it was a disaster. We limped into the play-offs without our stars, their positions replaced by three unknown rookies who didn’t have the same talent.

Youth work is like that. The previous spring, we said good-bye to a super class of Christian kids. Now they were off at college. As happy as we were for them, we mourned their loss. But, just as the Madison Monsters didn’t fold because they lost their stars, we couldn’t either. The Madison coach adjusted his line-up emphasizing the strengths he now had. We needed to do the same.

Ann and I had to stop comparing this group to our previous one. Yes, we had lost a lot of spiritual depth and leadership, but that didn’t mean the game was over. It only meant we had to do the best with what we had at the moment, emphasize the positive and trust God that things were going to work out. Once we did that, we started loving them for who they were.

That acceptance didn’t mean that we accepted everything they were doing. In the tenth chapter of Mark’s Gospel, Jesus encounters a rich man. The man wants to know what he needs to do to inherit eternal life. Jesus replies by repeating the commandments. The man, states that he has followed them from the beginning. He must have done a good job in this area, because Jesus never challenges his thinking. But then the Scripture says, “Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said, “You lack one thing…” (Mark 10:21, NRSV, emphasis mine). Jesus goes on to tell him that he needed to do to draw closer to God.

Jesus confronted this man not because he didn’t like him or because he was angry with his thoughts or behavior. He confronted the man because he loved him, and wanted the very best for him.

Out of love, we confronted our group. We had a Bible study that really shook the group one afternoon. We talked openly and candidly about what we knew was going on in their lives both sexually and as it involved alcohol. Many were stunned that we were aware of so much. Others were very angry that we “invaded” that part of their lives.

In our talk, we also shared with them the reason that we were bringing it up. It was not because “good little Christian boys and girls don’t do those things;” it was because we loved them so much. We opened our hearts and told them how much we hurt at the prospect of having one of them die in a car crash caused by alcohol. We talked about how much their lives would change by a pregnancy. We spoke honestly about their witness. We challenged them to live to a higher standard.

That day, we gave each one of them a copy of Eugene Peterson’s The Message. Many of our kids had found this a very readable Bible. The Bibles set us back $250, but we prayerfully considered it all an investment. It was a way to show our love and commitment to them and also to allow God’s Word to touch them in new ways. We knew some of the kids would respond well and read it. We knew others would throw it on their shelf and walk away. But, we left that up to the Holy Spirit and prayed that God would make the number responding to His word greater than we imagined.

Ann and I learned that we had been depending heavily upon our own powers and personalities to accomplish things. We both are gifted with a deep love for youth and have the personalities that draw youth to us. While praying together one day, we had to admit that we had taken the group as far as we could and it wasn’t nearly far enough. To accomplish what we wanted, we would have to rely on the power of the Holy Spirit.

Ann and I now spend some of our “youth” time each day in Bible study and prayer. We have come to find that we are in a spiritual battle for the souls of our youth. The Bible shows us that God does act, and that He has won before and will win again.

Prayer is a way to get directly into the souls of each youth. Before we thought that the best way to move youth spiritually was to be with them as much as possible. We continue to spend time with them, but now have added the most important ingredient of all: prayer. We are no longer alone in our battle against the forces that are hurting our youth.

The final thing that we have learned through this entire experience is to dance! One afternoon after having lunch together and discussing the youth group, I got up from the table and said, “Now that I am thoroughly depressed, I think I’ll go back to work” And I did, walking through the kitchen into the church office connected to the parsonage.

While sitting over some papers at my desk, Ann walked down and went over to my CD player, put in “Burlap to Cashmere,” a lively Christian rock group, and started to dance! I looked at her like she was mad, but that didn’t slow her down. She spun around the table and encouraged me to do the same. My repeatedly reply was, “I don’t want to dance!” But, in time our laughter became as loud as the music and she got me off my seat and we danced! When the song was over, she shut off the music, looked me straight in the eye and said, “Dan, sometimes you just have to dance.”

She is right. Life is a joy, a celebration of life, a gift from God. We forget that at times when we get caught up in the little problems of youth ministry. It clouds the fact that with each youth event we are given the opportunity to touch the youth with our love and more importantly the love of God. That touch needs to be shared whether there are four or forty present.

Today, our youth group in many respects is still sputtering. Our leaders haven’t risen, excuses still abound. But, Ann and I have changed. With our new found dependence on God, it is easier to prepare for, join in and enjoy each event. God will bring the seeds we sow to fruition. And, when our trust falters a bit; we dance!

But wanting to justify himself, he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?”

Jesus replied, “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and went away, leaving him half dead.

Now by chance a priest was going down that road, and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side.

So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side.

But a Samaritan while traveling came near him; and when he saw him, he was moved with pity. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. Then he put him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said, ‘Take care of him; and when I come back, I will repay you whatever more you spend.’ Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?”

He said, “The one who showed him mercy.”

Jesus said to him, “Go and do likewise.”

Luke 10:29-37

The Power of Availability

Each night, at around seven p.m., Calvin’s dad would drift home from his construction job in his rusting El Camino and lumber into his house for supper. He usually ate alone at the kitchen counter, as the rest of the family had long ago eaten and left. While he ate, we waited; three young boys in his backyard, armed with baseball mitts, a bat and a tennis ball. When he finished, we would walk to the window and politely ask, “Mr. Keller, could you come out and play baseball with us?” We didn’t ask all the time. Weekends were off limits. Friday was impossible, because he didn’t come home until the wee hours of the morning. That still left Monday through Thursday and usually his answer was yes.

The two with me were his sons, Calvin and Don. Because Calvin was my best friend, the teams were always Don and Mr. Keller against Calvin and me. We would play until dark. Usually Mr. Keller’s power was enough to propel his team to victory, but Calvin and I won enough to make each night’s game, a contest.

It wasn’t easy for Mr. Keller. He had a tough time making it around the bases, his left hip slowly giving way to decay. His work shirt stained earlier in the day by dust clinging to his sweat, ran rancid by evenings. Yet there he was, in all his limping, dirty, smelly glory, ready to be our fourth.

Not that Mr. Keller was an angel. He was a man with rough edges. He drank a lot, that’s why we didn’t play with us on Friday’s or the weekends. He had a foul mouth. Even trying his best to tone down his language in our presence, curses slipped out on a regular basis. And, when he had a tirade, I feared my parents would hear the expletives flying and would not allow me to play with him anymore. Most of his verbal assaults were aimed at Calvin or Don. I didn’t worry when it happened, I knew they could handle it; they had faced much worse behind closed doors. When he really got angry, he would run after his boys trying to kick them. They were too fast for him, and soon he would give up the chase. When tempers calmed down we would start the game again. At first his language and outbursts left me panic-stricken, but I soon became accustomed to them, realizing that was just who he was.

One summer Saturday afternoon, I overheard a conversation at our annual community block party. A neighbor was talking about a “drunk” in the community who was an embarrassment to everyone. This “drunk” drove a beat up old truck that sat out on the street each night. This drunk’s yard was run down. I wondered who this miscreant in our midst was, but didn’t have time to think about it, I had things to do. I filled up my stomach with wonderful picnic food and then ran home. It was going to be a big night.

I got my glove and bat, hunted around until I found three tennis balls and ran over to Calvin’s house, jumping over the oil slick left in the road by Mr. Keller’s El Camino as I went, and ran to the backyard to find Calvin and Don already waiting for me. Don was sitting in the dirt where a few remnants of grass did their best to survive – a tall order, for it was our second base. Calvin was kicking up dust with his foot as he raked out the four foot circle of dirt where home plate along with both a left and right-handed batter’s box. What a beautiful yard!

It was a big night because we were allowed to play later than usual. Normally when the street light by Keller’s house came on, I had to go home. On block party night, we could play until we lost all the balls. So we played. We played so long that even Mr. Keller made it home from the bar. Parking his truck cockeyed beside the house, he hoisted himself out of the seat and limped heavily into the house without saying a word.

That’s when it hit me! The reprobate being talked about at the block party was none other than Mr. Keller! And, the bad yard was our beloved field!

I pack up my gear immediately and headed back to the block party. I felt called to fulfill some kind of pre-pubescent mission. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was going to do once I got there, but I knew I had to, in some way, defend my baseball compatriot.

It didn’t take long for the confrontation to take place. As soon as I re-entered the block party, I passed by Mr. Amberson. He was the most athletic and handsome man on the block. He played in two softball leagues and the uniforms he wore made him the envy of all of us kids. He was also the one who spoke out against Mr. Keller.

As I walked by, I whispered out in the most insolent tone I could muster, “At least Mr. Keller plays with us.” There was my stand. Sure, I did it quietly – in fact, I was sure he hadn’t even heard me. But, that was beside the point. I had confronted Mr. Keller’s attacker and defended him. It made me feel better. With my head held high, I walked, no, I glided proudly through the party, a regular Robin Hood, defender of the downtrodden.

“What?” Mr. Amberson said, his voice causing my feet to return quickly back to earth.

I didn’t turn around. Maybe he wasn’t even talking to me. But, as soon as I looked up, I could see every adult eye staring at me.

“Danny, what did you just say to me?” His tone was defiant. I noticed my parents a short distance away, looking at me; they didn’t look happy.

“Were you talking to me, Danny?” Mr. Amberson asked again, demanding a response.

I turned around. I contemplated my options. My mind said to refer back to the old stand-by comment that had worked successfully throughout time, ‘I didn’t say anything,’ but my heart wouldn’t allow me to do it.

“At least he plays with us,” I said without much force, suddenly realizing that making a stand was easier to do in one’s head than in reality.

“He plays with you,” Mr. Amberson said derogatorily. The way he stretched his vowels let me know that the free beer was working on him. That was not to my advantage, a lesson I had learned from Mr. Keller.

“Yes,” I quietly repeated, “Mr. Keller plays with us. And what you said about him was mean.”

I saw Mr. Amberson cock his head and take a few steps towards me. I didn’t back down, not because I was ready to make a stand, but because fear prevented it. At that moment, I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was my dad’s hand. I looked up at him. My mother was right behind him. “Go home, Danny.” And I did. Quickly. By my dad’s tone, I knew I wasn’t in trouble. I also knew that my mom and dad had just saved my hide. Mr. Amberson would have eaten me alive. My parents wouldn’t allow that to take place.

Lat that night, with my parents sitting beside me on the bed, I cried as I told them how I felt. I knew Mr. Keller drank and swore too much. But I filled them in on how he laughed when he would beat the throw to second, and how he would fall to the ground as if dead when, on those rare occasions when Calvin and I would win the game. I told them how badly he limped by the end of each game, but if we called out “one more inning,” he would be there.

They didn’t say anything as I spoke, they just listened. When I was through, they pulled the sheets up close around me, like a cocoon, carefully combed my hair with their hands and gave me a kiss goodnight. As they shut off the light and closed the door, my mom looked back at me and said, “You’re a good boy, Danny.”

Alone in the dark, I cried some more, because their opinion meant everything to me, and unlike Calvin’s dad, they were always available.

That was thirty years ago. I don’t know what has become of Mr. Keller, but his lesson about availability, remains familiar to me. Because of that, when our two boys and their friends walk in the house to ask Ann and I if we want to play baseball, we grab our mitts and head to the park. I take my position in right field and look over to Ann in left, and give her a wink. She shouts out, “Play ball!” And, we do, until the street lights come on.

“The last enemy to be destroyed is death.”

1 Corinthians 15:26

Chocolate Shakes and Other Signs of Victory Over Death

The phone rang just as I was about to leave for school. My mom answered it, and after listening for a moment, motioned for me to stop. Being an eight-year-old, I considered being punctual for school was still a virtue to be upheld. I wasn’t happy, but I obeyed by leaning against the front door.

Moments later, I heard my mom say, “Oh, no.”

The tenor of her voice caused me to glance up at her. The usual soft look in her face had disappeared. She continued to speak in short phrases, none of which meant anything to me, being privy to only one side of the conversation. She said, “Okay,” and slowly hung up the phone.

“Can I go now?” I asked.

“Danny, would you sit down for a minute.” ” Her voice was shaking, her face was becoming white before my very eyes. was still white, and her eyes filled with what looked a lot like tears. This made me nervous. I walked up to her and did what she always did to me when I looked that way, I grabbed hold of her hand. She took it firmly. “Danny.” She gulped. “Grandpa Bohlman died this morning.”

I knew what the words meant, sort of, like I knew what a parent was, but had no personal experience of being one. I had never been touched by death before, or experienced it in anyway. My mother broke down and began crying. I was getting my first taste of the power death had to reek havoc not only on the one who died, but also on those who had surrounded him in life. It tasted terrible.

Taking in the news of my grandfather’s death. Seeing my mother, who was the one who brushed tears away and take pain away, I fell into the despair as well and joined her with tears of my own. My reaction didn’t surprise her. She immediately pulled me into her and we held each other tight. But, I did not get the feeling of comfort I usually did in her arms. Instead, I felt like we were two children in a dark room, holding onto to each other for comfort, but neither being strong enough to say there was nothing to fear. This thing called death felt overwhelming and I sensed its’ power was only going to get stronger in the next few days. In desperation I asked, “What do we do, mom?”

Her response oozed with helplessness. “There isn’t anything we can do Danny.” It was a strange answer from the woman whom I believed knew all, and whom I thought could fix any hurt.

The next morning we headed for Eland, Wisconsin, to be with my grandma. The drive which was usually filled with talk, like around a supper table, consisted of no more than a dozen statements during the entire three hours. I used the time to prepare for what lay ahead by sift through what my parents had said about death to my sister and I the night before. I tried to make sense of how these two hyper-organized people, let our packing become so chaotic before we left. But more than anything else, I tried to envision what it was going to be like to walk into Grandma and Grandpa Bohlman’s house (could I even say that anymore) and not find him in his favorite chair.

We drove up the long driveway. The first thing I saw was that the shades were still pulled down over the windows, even though it was past ten o’clock in the morning. It was a household that got up before dawn and the sun’s first rays were always invited in. We grabbed our suitcases and made our way up the walkway. At the front door, the cat and dog both sat outside the front door, still waiting for breakfast. By their girth, this two was a very unusual occurrence. For the first time in my life, I didn’t want to run into that house. I knew it wasn’t going to be like every-other-time. I wasn’t going to and get my hugs from everyone, grab a cookie, be told to take another one, before rushing off into the living room to find out what kind of treat they had put in the candy dish. The furnishings were going to be the same, they hadn’t changed in half a century, so my dad said. It was the disposition of those inside, who always made that house feel so warm, that I knew was not going to be different. I had seen enough change in my parents already. I quickly volunteered to feed the animals, set my suitcase down and ran towards the garage where their food was kept, leaving them to face death.

I fed the animals, and then sat down between them to watch them eat. When they were through I pet each one of them, trying to tell myself that that was the least I could for them after being so neglected. In reality, I was avoiding the door I knew I had to eventually walk through. When the animals had had enough of my love and walked off to take a stroll through the woods, or take a nap, did I know it was time to go in.

I was right; things looked different. My grandmother looked weary. Dark circles under her eyes betrayed her lack of sleep. The eyes’ redness revealed how brutally death had struck her. Her hug was more robotic, less giving of love and more in need of receiving some. I did my best to supply her with care by squeezing her as hard as I could.

Already, the kitchen table was filled with an amazing array of cakes and cookies, especially for an ten-year-old with a sugar tooth, but for the first time ever in her house, I wasn’t hungry. Casseroles were banked up along the counter top. All were untouched. My two aunts who lived with my grandmother and grandfather–I said it again–sat beside my grandma, ready to do anything for her if she just gave the word.

My mom and dad were sitting at the table with cups of coffee in front of them. As they began talking to my grandmother, my sister and I went into the living room and turned on the television. But, I didn’t really watch it. My eyes kept wandering to my grandpa’s empty chair. Looking at my sister, I could see that her three extra years of life hadn’t given her any more insight into the situation we faced than I had. All we knew was that Grandpa was dead– gone –and we would never see him again. Feeling suddenly very alone there on the sofa, I fought back tears.

The following day I was told to put on my Sunday clothes. We weren’t going to church. We were going to a funeral home for a thing called a “visitation.” I didn’t know what a visitation was and in the chaos of the day, all my parents told me was that I would see Grandpa there, which didn’t make any sense since they had been explicit in telling me he was “gone.”

I had no previous knowledge of a funeral home, but I knew walking up its steps that I didn’t like it. I wanted to go home. I wanted to go back to Grandma and Grandpa’s and have nothing that happened in the last three days happen. The gentle push on my back by my father, let me know that my hope wasn’t going to be fulfilled.

I sensed death again. How I knew it was death, I don’t know, but I was sure it was. A solemn man met us and told us we could hang up our jackets right there in the foyer. As I complied, I looked around the corner, into the main room. What I saw hit me so hard that the air left my lungs and I fell back, unable to breath. Immediately, I pulled my jacket back on up and headed for the door. My mother, seeing my strange behavior took large adults steps and ran me down as soon as I got the door opened. She gave me a quizzical look. All I said was, “I’m not going in.”

Later in life I learned that what I was experiencing was called “fight or flight,” an act the human body performs in times of crisis for survival. I had chosen flight; flight interrupted by my mother, who was unaware that I had just seen the first dead body of my life. And it wasn’t any old dead body, either, but that of my grandfather. Gently she steered me back inside the foyer and took off my coat for me.

I looked up at my father, “Dad, don’t make me go in.”

My father stoically looked down at me. Not one to throw psychology around, he said simply, “We’ll go in together.” His was a voice that could not be disobeyed, though every fiber of my being was telling me to run. But where? “Danny, this isn’t something any of us want to do. But it is something we have to do.”

We entered the room in chronological order. My gaze was glued to the back, and I vowed to memorize every hair on the back of her head. I wasn’t going to look at what was in the coffin. But it as like seeing a car wreck, and my gaze soon drifted over her shoulder to the casket.

Something was running down the inside of my shirt. My breathing became erratic again, and my legs, which could get from first to second base faster than anyone else in my baseball league, became unresponsive to my brain’s commands, slowing down until they didn’t move at all. I let my family go on without me, leaving me in the middle of a large room, very very alone.

Looking at the scene from a distance, my conclusion was that Grandpa Bohlman was most certainly “gone.” Yes, the face looked familiar. The silver hair with its distinct cowlicks, made one think it could be my grandfather, but the whiteness of his skin and the frozen position his mouth made it impossible for me to say it was he.

“Can I go now?” I whispered to my mother. She nodded and I scampered back to the foyer, finding a spot against the back wall. There, away from everybody, even death, I intended to stay until it was time to go.

People came in and gave me a bewildered look, when they saw me half buried within the coats hung up on both sides of me. I felt the fool, yet I could find no safer place.

While I was trying to concentrate on anything except the situation I was in, my grandpa Zienert appeared. He slowly moved a few coats out of the way and asked me, “How are you,” in his heavy, soft voice.

“Fine.”

“Thought so,” he said looking at my surroundings. I lowered my head. He knew I was lying. He reached to my right and pulled his coat off the hanger. Then he searched until he found mine, likewise pulled it off and handed it to me. “Want to go get a milk shake?”

Forget the promise of a milkshake. All I needed was to hear the word, go. As I put on my coat, my grandpa Zienert held the door open for me.

Oh, Lord, did that air outside smelled good! So fresh, so pure. So, not like the flowery smell inside the funeral home. I felt like a prisoner set free after a long sentence, smelling freedom for the first time in ages. I followed my grandpa down the block; a growing boy beside a man in his decline, slightly hunched over by life. But, I soon learned he possessed incredible power.

We sat at the counter and he ordered two chocolate shakes, then turned to me, “Best shakes you’ll ever taste are made right here.”

I did my best to act excited, “Can’t wait.” But the glued on smile soon fell off.

“It’s a hard thing to see, isn’t it?” he said as he accepted the shakes from the waitress.

“Yeah,” I said, knowing exactly what he was talking about.

“Always is.”

“You’ve seen it before?”

“Too often.”

We then talked about death for a while. I wish I could remember everything he said, but I can’t. What I do remember is probably most important though: I remember drinking my shake and listening to a man who had faced death many times and was still standing, who had seen its power but was not intimidated by it; who continued to live despite death’s presence. He told me about Jesus. And because of that, during our second round of shakes, our conversation moved from death to life, as I told him about my baseball team, the hitch in my swing and whether or not the Cubs would finally win the pennant.

As I took that last hard pull on my straw, the sound of an empty glass resounded throughout the restaurant and we laughed.

“Good, huh?”

“Yeah. The best.” I smiled, and this time the smile stayed put

Then Grandpa got quiet, and I felt a tickle of nervousness again in my stomach. He swiveled his chair until he faced me and asked, “Are you ready to go back?” It was a genuine question, not a statement.

“Yes,” I said, “I am.”

He gave me a knowing nod, and I felt somehow a veteran of the situation, like he was. He got off his stool, placed his large calloused hand on my back, and we left the restaurant. I let him keep his arm around me all the way back.

Back inside the funeral home, we hung up our coats and returned to the viewing room. I felt stronger with my grandpa Zeinert beside me. We stopped, or, more precisely, I stopped. From a distance, I looked at my grandpa Bohlman in the casket. But this time, things were different. He hadn’t gone anywhere. He still looked very dead to me, but now death didn’t appear as overpowering as it had earlier. I had a man beside me who looked death in the eye and didn’t flinch. He stood next to me, and I could feel he wasn’t going to give death the last word and through his strength, I knew death wasn’t going to get the last word in my grandfather Bohlman’s life, even as he lay there in the casket.

“You okay?” my grandfather whispered standing dutifully over me.

“Yes,” I said.

With that exchange, my grandfather gently pushed me in the direction of my family and I rejoined them. Walking up to my father, who I could see was in great pain, I told him, “It will be okay.”

“It will, will it?” He almost smiled.

“Yeah.”

He looked at his father, a tear developed in his eye and he replied, “Yes it will Danny.”

Death defeated.

Philip found Nathanael and said to him,

“We have found him about whom Moses in the law and also the prophets wrote,

Jesus son of Joseph from Nazareth.”

Nathanael said to him,

“Can anything good come out of Nazareth?”

Philip said to him,

“Come and see.”

John 1:45-46

Small Town Saints

“Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” Nathaniel quipped to his brother Philip who was trying to get him to meet Jesus. Citizens of Nazareth obviously didn’t get much respect. But Nathaniel ate his words upon meeting Jesus.

Prejudice is like that. It’s easy to generalize about a group of people you don’t know anything about, but think you do. But, once you meet some of “them” up close and personal, you find your generalizations and characterizations aren’t as exact as you once thought.

I know…

While growing up, once each month, our family would pack into the car and drive make 160 mile trek from Madison to North Central Wisconsin to visit my grandparents. We would drive out of busy Madison, hop onto Interstate 90/94 and later Highway 51. We would make good time until we hit the “Highway 66 — Rosholt exit.” There, we encountered archaic two lane roads ridiculously called highways. Along the way we, we drove through cosmopolitan cities such as Polonia, Galloway and Elderon. Even in a car, I felt like I was in an episode of “Little House on the Prairie,” and it was embarrassing. Where was the real cities? The culture? The modern surroundings I was used to seeing?

Once, driving through Elderon, I overcame the paralysis of boredom and lifted my head up to look out the window. Three girls were playing in a yard. One stood on the walkway throwing a ball down onto the concrete. After it catapulted up over her head, she would feebly try to catch it. Her two sisters laughed.

An elderly man, walking with the aid of a three pronged cane, was hobbling down the street and stopped to watch this little girl. He laughed with her when she threw her hands up in mock defeat and went over to the grass to pick up her elusive ball. Saying something to her, the girl laughed.

She responded, which got a chuckle from the man. Then, one of the other sisters joined in the conversation and after having her say, the elderly man lifted up his cane and pointed it at her in mock anger. All three girls laughed this time.

Soon, they were out of sight, but I remember what I did as I laid my head back against the door. I laughed, not with them, but at them.

I laughed that three little girls could be raised in such a one-horse town as Elderon. I was old enough to know that chances were high, that at least one of them would stay in Elderon their entire life. What a waste! To live, and die, and be unknown to the entire world – except in Elderon, of course. But can anyone even tell me where is? And, even if you can, how can Elderon possibly matter?

My most scathing laugh though was reserved for the old man. Obviously, a man that was well-acquainted with the girls and probably everyone in Elderon. He most likely spent all 90 or 900 of his years hammering out a living within that one mile radius. He was soon to die, my vast thirteen years of knowledge told me that. And, where would he be buried? Elderon, of course. And who would care? Those in Elderon, but no one else. And since Elderon didn’t count for anything, neither I thought, did that man or his life.

That kind of life wasn’t for me. I lived in the progressive City of Madison and I had plans of moving up from there. When I went to my grave, the whole world would know me and shed a tear.

We were almost to our destination. Turning onto Highway 0 (how apt!), we slowly wound our way through the outskirts of Eland, a megalopolis of maybe five hundred, including all the people from the vast boundaries of the township (and cats too, I think). We drove by an abandoned Congregationalist church, and on past the rundown house that welcomed all visitors who entered from the east. The fence around this dilapidated house was collapsing. For each year, the house seemed to age by two. Yet, the family’s dog population exploded. Every winter, my grandmother’s church would help pay the family’s heating bills. Sad, they thought, but Christ said help those in need, so they did, without resentment.

We coasted by the baseball diamond which was the home to the Eland women’s fast-pitch softball team on Thursdays and the men’s Home Talent team on Sundays. Each Thursday and Sunday brought together quite a cadre of people. I remember Eland’s softball pitcher, because she was so beautiful! She made this thirteen-year-old’s heart go pitter-patter. She had long blond hair which she wore in a ponytail. She had painted nails, red to be exact and a slim figure with an arm that could sling the ball so fast that all you saw was a blur.

At one game, I watched as the ball she pitched came off the bat of the batter and back at her at twice the speed it was sent. The ball glanced off the side of her forehead. She wasn’t hurt, but I do remember that her hair fell off. That gorgeous long blond hair was a wig!

Although my allusions of beauty were shattered, I didn’t fail to see the humor. Between bouts of laughter as I told my grandmother what had happened, she listened stoically. When I was through, she concluded, “Yes, Trudy is a little vain when it comes to looks. But she sure is a wonderful teacher at the school.”

On Sundays, the catcher for Eland always drove up to the field at the last minute in his beat-up old Chevy pick-up truck. He would jump out with his shin-guards already on. Hurdling the fence, he would take his place behind home plate and just the umpire would scream, “Play ball!”

His last-second arrival was caused by his refusal to miss church. Though the teams always cat-called him for being late, I think they did it with a great deal of respect. And, as always, he would just smile back, content in his decision.

Finally, we pulled into my grandmother’s driveway. We had come on that particular weekend because their church (which averaged around 35 people each Sunday) was dedicating their new organ. My grandmother, who had played the old organ for almost forty years, had just retired, but they had asked her to play one last time. They wanted to honor her by letting her be the first to play the new organ.

The new organ was also a shot at their Bishop who had told the congregation when it was in between pastors, that they should close their doors and consolidate with the church in Wittenburg. That got their gander up and they bought the new organ, which was their way of telling them that they would be around a lot longer than he would.

Sunday came and I saw my grandmother nervous for the first time. “Too many buttons,” I heard her mumble as we sat up in the balcony to give her our moral support. Once she was done fiddling, she turned on the organ and it roared to life, literally, as my grandma was resting her feet on the foot-pedals. The old organ’s foot-pedals had stopped working in the early Sixties.

Her music got worse from there. So concerned about using each one of the nine million functions on the organ, she pressed button after button, but forgot to play any of the right notes. It was terrible. Luckily, when off on an some apocalyptic organ tangent, the Eland catcher with his grand bass voice would rise above my grandmother’s sounds and lead the congregation forward.

When the service concluded, I could tell my grandmother was embarrassed by the episode. She put her music into her leather satchel for the last time and made her way down the steep balcony steps with her family following silently behind. I think she was hoping that the church would be empty by this time, but there in the small narthex stood the entire congregation. They mobbed her with hugs and continuous thanks for her forty years of service. Trudy, beautiful Trudy with the long, alluring, fake blond hair, gave her the biggest hug of all.

By afternoon, my grandma had forgotten all about her playing, but she never forgot the reception that she received that day.

Driving home that evening, we entered Elderon again. I was disappointed not to see the old man and those three girls outside. But I could imagine how they had spent their day. Like me, they most likely spent it in church. Sitting in the only church in town, the girls probably whispered something out to their parents and then went running down the aisle to sit by their adopted grandfather. And there in church, the old man smiled.

Can anything good come from Nazareth? To the surprise of Nathaniel, the answer was yes, once he got to know a Nazarene up close and personal. Granted it was the Son of God, but the point remains valid, I believe. It is easy to judge those who are different than we are. In my case, it was the people from a small town. But, once I got to know them, I fell in love with them and came to see they were a very special group of people.

Now, each Sunday as I make my way through the cemeteries that surround both the churches I now pastor, I thank God for the myriads of people who quietly touched lives, including mine, forever. And I whisper out a prayer hoping that the people of Elderon and Eland are taking very good care of the graves of my teachers, the old man of Elderon, my grandmother, and no doubt by now, Trudy and Eland’s catcher. I’m sure they’re buried there; that’s just the way of the small town. And that’s the way it should be, for it’s where they can continue to touch the lives of the people they loved so much.

Return of the Sparrow by Dan Bohlman

For the third time in fifteen minutes my ten year-old son Lee walked in the office door. I looked up from my work that wasn’t getting done and said, “The bird’s tired! Leave it alone. Can’t birds just be tired?”

“It’s not just tired Dad, its sick. It’s just sitting there. We can walk right up to it and touch it.”

I glanced out the window and saw my eight-year-old son Andy, laying beside the bird acting as a wind shield. I fell back into my chair. Nothing was going to get done until I took care of that bird.

I stomped down the steps with a victorious boy bouncing behind me. He knew he had driven me to action. In the basement, I found an old box. I found an old blanket. I stuffed the blanket into the box. I found some bird food and threw some into the box. I walked outside with without a coat, because I wasn’t going to be out there for long. As I approached the bird, the boys told me that they noticed the bird was eating snow. I leaned down and threw some of that in the box too. I put the bird in the box and placed the whole thing inside the garage door. “There,” I said spinning around, “The bird has a place to rest. No wind. Plenty of food. Now finish your shoveling and let the bird sleep.”

After finishing their shoveling and taking off their outerwear, they came to the office one more time informing me that the bird still didn’t look right. And then, then, they asked me to pray for the birds healing. Now this was going too far! The situation had taken on a life of its own. But remembering how well they wore me down the first time, I conceded to them and I prayed. When I said “Amen,” I sent the boys upstairs to get ready for school and turned one more time to the empty page where my sermon was supposed to go.

A short time later, my wife, Ann, came through the office on her way to work. I asked her to check on the bird, and if dead, to take it with her in the car and throw it out the window on way. Passing by the box, she signaled to me that it was still alive. No problem, I would take care of it later.

It wasn’t until 3 p.m. that I gave the bird another thought and my only thought was to hurry up and dispose of the bird before the boys got home from school. My plan was to meet them at the door, and give them the full pitch: The bird had died, but good old Dad had given the bird an excellent funeral and burial and God was very happy they took such good care of His dying sparrow.

But when I got to the box, there was no bird! I pulled out the blanket. I looked around the garage. I even looked outside the garage door for bird or cat tracks. Nothing.

At 3:30 p.m. with astonishment in my voice, I told the boys that the bird had flown away. Their happiness matched my amazement.

When Ann strolled in from work, she was met at the door by two boys telling her the heavenly news. Ann played her part so well, knowing – at least thinking she knew what had really happened.– she hugged both boys and pretended to share in their joy. Standing behind the boys, I said, “Yes, the bird flew away.” When she looked at me I gave her one of those `I’m not kidding’ looks.

“Really?” she said.

To which the boys, oblivious to our secret communication, responded, “Yes, Mom that’s what we just told you!”

The next afternoon, I pulled into the driveway. As I got out of the car, I looked up and saw a sparrow hop out of the garage. I starred at the bird and wondered if it was the same one that was in there yesterday. The sparrow stopped. It starred right back, laughed at me, and flew away.

I started to laugh too. Outdone by a sparrow. But, it was worth it. I had learned a very important lesson. For on the wings of that bird was a message from God. It said, “Dan, prayer is real. My power is over all things. And, I care even for the sparrows. Stop treating prayer and my power as some kind of joke.”

I repented right there. The day before I had misused prayer. It wasn’t that I used the wrong words, in fact, my words for that poor sparrow were beautiful. The boys were pleased with them and therefore I was too for I could then get back to work. The problem was, I didn’t believe a word of what I prayed. I didn’t believe for an instant that sparrow would be healed. I didn’t believe for a moment that God would give any more thought to the prayer than I had. It was just a sparrow, my prayer just a formality.

The sparrow returned to tell me that prayer is anything but a formality. Prayer is connecting a need to a very present and active God who takes all our words seriously, whether the prayer is by a pastor for a sick individual, or by a cynic for a sparrow.

Maybe it was for my boys’ sake that the sparrow was healed. It’s return though was for my sake.

This article I wrote (Dan Bohlman) appeared in The Christian Century, April 18-25, 2001 p. 4. It ended up winning the Associated Christian Press humor article of the year. I hope you enjoy it.

At the pastors’ conference, church diagnostician has been telling me and other glassy-eyed pastors that we have to start seeing things differently. Regional churches, more commonly known as megachurches, are the wave of the future. The statistics show “clearly” that megachurches will continue to draw more and more members because of their ability to provide expanded ministries to specific groups of people. These churches will have bigger choirs and more of them: choirs for adults, men, women, children, toddlers, infants — maybe even choirs for babes still in the womb. How can another church compete?
They will also have small-group Bible studies, interactive Sunday school groups, and hymnals that you don’ need to hold. I’m ready to run home and tell our members to close up shop.
In my snazzy hotel room, I lie awake with a feeling of foreboding. I am pastor of two rural congregations in the middle of Wisconsin. We average 60 at worship, but if there is a family reunion on Sunday, the number can dip to 30. Diagnose that!
The next morning another diagnostician tells us that his area of expertise is “the integration of people and church.” He spends the day going through every inch of a church layout, “walking” us from the parking lot to the toilets, from the sanctuary to the back closets. He tells us how to make all these things more inviting. Do our closets have to be inviting too?
My depression deepens and hope oozes out of me while the doctor of diagnosis smiles on and on.
During the final break, when everyone else is eating bran muffins and drinking some kind of French decaffeinated coffee, I sit alone beside the pop machine, hoping no one sees me huddled there with my Mountain Dew and Snickers bar. Then, in that quiet hallway, the Lord appears to me. Or is it the sugar kicking in? The vision is clear. I see a whole valley of rural congregations, and we are glowing. The brightness is dazzling. Onlookers can’t see that our bathrooms are undecorated, and that there is less than half a roll of toilet paper left in the dispenser. They can’t see that we don’t have parking lot greeters with personalized name tags. But I tell you they can see how we shine!
The revelation is soon over, but I’m inspired. That evening when the pastors get together around the pool, I decide to test my revelation. I want to put our rural congregations up against the megachurch.
Granted, I may need to add a bit of a flourish to God’s revelation, embellishing things here and there — but nothing to send down the lightning of God’s anger.
One pastor in our group apparently serves a church that could be a poster child for the diagnosticians, and he’s eager to tell us about it.
Pastor Goliath brags that he has a 60-member choir. I put down my pop and matter-of-factly tell him both of our churches have 60-member choirs. I nod with all the persuasiveness I can muster, hoping my eyes don’t give me away.
I’m not lying, really. I just don’t add that our choir anthems are also called congregational hymns.
He tells us about the great small-group Bible studies at his church — 12 groups of ten each, to be exact. He is taken aback when I inform him that we have small-group Bible studies going at our church too. I don’t explain that every Bible study at our church is a small group.
His voice moves up an octave as he talks about the parenting classes he is offering to the church — classes, as he says, where parents are learning to share their faith with their kids. I echo him rather smugly with the news that parents meet each week at our churches to do the same thing. As I see it, each time the family gathers for worship, it is “doing” active parenting and sharing the faith within the family. I add that our classes are intergenerational. (After all, I’ve heard grandparents tell their grandkids to “sit down and shut up!”)
“We have rest and relaxation classes,” Goliath says, “to help people deal with the stress of their busy lives.”
“We do too,” I counter. What else should I call those who fall asleep in church — and so what if they need a nap after a busy week?
“Our Sunday school is thriving!” Goliath says. I cut him off ruthlessly.
“Thriving?” I mock, “We’re thriving so much we lose track of kids sometimes.” This is nothing to brag about, but it seems to fit the conversation.
Goliath moves on to church structure. He tells about the high visibility his church has: newspaper ads, billboards, TV and radio commercials, cable access. I acknowledge the importance of visibility. “We’re tops in that area too.” Yes, that’s right. Both churches are built on top of hills. Of course, the wind can be a terrible nuisance, and in the winter we sometimes have to cancel church because we can’t get up the hill — but Goliath doesn’t ask about the weather.
Instead he talks about the trained parking lot greeters who make a visitor’s first encounter with the church a pleasant one. I grin. If he knew anything about rural churches he would never have mentioned the parking lot. Everyone knows that in rural churches more is accomplished in the parking lot than in the church itself. In fact, most council decisions are made out there.
Goliath then breathes out the sacred words, “Handicapped parking facilities.” I’m on cruise control now. I tell him we already know where Olive parks her car. And if anybody dares to park in her spot, it’s like an alarm bell that reverberates throughout the sanctuary with the message: “Visitor! Visitor!”
“Adequate parking?” he shoots back, his jaw clenched.
I wipe a bead of sweat off my forehead. I stall. In rural America, parishioners park anywhere they please, even on the church lawn. I can imagine how Goliath’s parishioners would react if someone late for church pulled up onto the church’s lush green lawn in a 1985 Ford 4×4 covered with cow manure.
Goliath eyes me carefully. He knows he’s running out of ammunition. Can I withstand the final push?
“Four houses,” he spits out finally, his eyes a menacing squint. “We just bought four houses around our church so we can expand.”
I pause, then breath a deep sigh of relief. “We’ve expanded too.” It’s true. We just bought two more acres to add to our cemetery. We figure that should be enough room for the saints of the next 100 years.
We conclude by discussing issues of hospitality and welcoming, discipline and integration. Through it all, God’s revelation holds strong. God had shown me a great truth. What many of these megachurches are trying to simulate or produce through strategized ministries, we already have in our little podunk church.
The next Sunday, I arrive early at church. I sweep aside the raccoon droppings and unlock the church door. I walk through the church turning on lights and checking to see that there is toilet paper. (I did learn something!) Soon people begin to arrive.
When Hazel walks in, I am a bit surprised. She’s not a member, but her husband was, and his funeral was held at the church two weeks before. I make my way to the back of the church to welcome her. She tells me it is hard. I nod in sympathy and tell her that I’m glad she is here. When she finds a seat in an empty pew near the back of the church, I grimace. I was hoping she wouldn’t sit alone.
Then I see Lenora, also a widow. She stands up, leaves her pew and goes to sit by Hazel. Dorothe, another widow, slides over. For the next 15 minutes, I see Hazel laugh and cry and Lenora put her arm around her and give here a gigantic hug.
We’ll be all right. Goliath has size, but David has a good heart.
My biggest worry is that Pastor Goliath will show up to check out my story. I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do.