“Take time enough: all other graces Will soon fill up their proper places.”
Month: December 2009
Gift Exchange
Part of the evening included a gift exchange. All the gifts were placed together and numbers were drawn out of a hat. The first person got to choose a gift and open it. The next person could either steal the gift or choose another gift to open. Each successive person could then steal or choose their own. No gift could be stolen more than two times. There were some very nice gifts and a few white elephants. LSU memorabilia abounded. As the night went on, the competition grew fierce and the collegial bantering got intense, especially when six LSU Men’s Basketball tickets were unwrapped. I did my share of wheeling and dealing, leaving with a nice LSU Tiger coffee mug and bowl. But more than leaving with the “gift” I wanted, I left having received friendship, laughter and love. And I had the chance to share them as well. They were the true gifts exchanged that night. And no one had to steal to get them!
Invictus
Invictus
Latin, meaning: 1. unconquered, undefeated.
Today, Julie and I went to see Invictus, the movie that tells the story of the South African Rugby Team’s victory in the 1995 World Cup. Directed by Clint Eastwood and starring Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon, it was simply outstanding. Having had the privilege of visiting South Africa in 2005, I was taken back to the streets of Johannesburg, the dusty roads of the outlying townships and beauty of the countryside. I was also reminded of the power of forgiveness, the need for reconciliation and the truly remarkable events that unfolded following the release of Nelson Mandela from prison and his election as President of South Africa. I also became intrigued by this strange, but exciting game of rugby.
Mandela discovers early the role that rugby could play a significant role in uniting the country. South Africa’s National Rugby Team, the Springboks, are scheduled to compete in the 1995 World Cup. They are in the eyes of most people a dismal failure with no chance of winning. In many ways they are South Africa reentering the world stage seen by many has having little chance of success. But Mandela sees things differently. He convinces the team that the fate of South Africa is intricately tied to the fate of the Boks. He shares with the captain, Francois Pienaar, the poem, Invictus, by William Ernest Henley. This poem was significant for Mandela. He recited every day of the twenty-eight years he was in prison on Robbin Island. It goes like this,
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
That poem strengthened his resolve and sustained him throughout his years of imprisonment. It also continued to guide him as he struggled to lead his country to places few thought they could go and in directions many did not want to go. This poem became the inspiration for the team, so much so that they won the World Cup. In many ways, it has been the inspiration for the nation of South Africa, while being far from perfect, has reentered the world stage.
While there is no over religious significance of the poem (Henley was an agnostic), it does encourage each of us to see ourselves as powerful and able to conquer any foe, win any battle, defeat any enemy, and never give the fight. And most importantly, we have the power to forgive, to move on, the get up and get over. We have the power to transform the future by letting go of the past, claiming the present as a new day and a new opportunity to make a difference in the lives of others.
In that sense, we are the masters of our fate and the captains of our souls. No matter what comes our way, we possess the power to choose the way of reconciliation and pursue the path of peace. In doing so, we will not be defeated.
A Thirteen Mile Advent Journey
Last Saturday, I ran my first 1/2 Marathon. My friends Chris King, Todd Barlow and I had been training for this race since July. Three miles, then four…five miles, then six…seven miles, then eight…nine miles, then ten…and finally the day came for the Baton Rouge Beach (yes, I know, somewhat of an oxymoron) 1/2 Marathon and Marathon. The race was scheduled to begin at 7 am sharp on Saturday, December 6th. On Friday, I spent my day off getting ready for the race. I loaded my ipod with plenty of Bon Jovi, Boston and Journey, made sure my shoes, shorts and shirt were in proper condition. It was supposed to be cold, so my gloves and cap would be essential, at least for a portion of the race. The course ran right in front of my church, and by that time, I would be well warmed up and could easily discard my unneeded articles of clothing there. I talked with both Chris and Todd. We worked out our time and place to meet and spoke encouraging words to one another. I went to bed excited and ready for the race.
On Saturday, I got up early. My wife and I still own our house in the country and we commute into Baton Rouge, so we had a bit of a drive before us. She had graciously agreed to go with me to this race. What we had not anticipated was the snow and ice that had fallen through the night. We left the house at 5:05 a.m. At 5:30 a.m. we were sitting still on the Interstate, in along line of traffic. The bridges had iced over and there had been numerous wrecks, so they had closed the Interstate while the wrecks were cleared and while trucks treated the bridges. It became clear that I would not make it to our scheduled meeting time of 6:10 a.m. and I feared I would not make it at all. 6:00 a.m., 6:30 a.m., 6:45 a.m., still sitting…still waiting. The guys knew to start without me. They thought I would just go back home and live to run another day. But at 7:35 a.m. traffic started moving. By that time, I was fit to be tied. Angry, disappointed, edgy, not good company, just ask my wife. I wanted to go home. But Julie had other ideas. She looked at me and said, you trained for this race and you are going to run this race. You may start late, you may finish late, but you are going to run this race.
We arrived at 7:55 a.m. I started the race at 8:01 a.m. and finished 2 hours and 28 minutes later, alone with my thoughts and accompanied by the sounds of Bon Jovi’s voice ringing in my ears. About mile 7, the marathon runners began to lap me. Their presence and their words of encouragement helped me along the way. I was not alone on this journey, after all. At mile 11, my left calf knotted up, the result of dehydration, but I kept plugging along. I topped the Perkins Road Overpass not knowing if I could finish. I hobbled down the bridge and realized that I was on the home stretch. I had a renewed sense of energy with the end in sight. I made up my mind then and there I was going to finish. I began to pick up the pace, running through the pain, trusting my mind to win out over my pain, and I made my way onto Lakeshore Drive. This was familiar territory. I had spent many afternoons and evenings running this route. Mile 12. 1 mile left. The finish line in sight. As I approached the finish line, with just over 1/2 mile to go, my ipod shuffled to the next song and the words rang in my ears like the sounds of church bells ringing at noon on Sunday, Ohhhh Oh, you’re half way there, Ohhhh Oh, livin’ on a prayer. Take my hand and you’ll make it I swear, Ohhh Oh, livin’ on a prayer. My stride lengthened and my pace quickened. I began to cry, not expecting such emotion, and I crossed the finish line, feeling more alive than I had in a long time.
Reflecting on this experience, I’m not sure what the race would have been like for me had I started on time and finished with my friends. I hope to have that experience when I run my next race. But I do know that having to wait so long, realizing that things would not turn out as I had hoped, being forced to face my own fears and frustrations, my own anger and disappointment, caused this race to be more than just a race for me. It was truly a refining and purifying process. The race cleansed my heart and my soul, not to mention my body. I was reminded with each step and stride that the race is not just for the swift and strong, but also for those who endure it to the end.
As our Advent journey continues, may we wait with more patience, hope with more fervency, pray with more consistency and run the race with more patience, one step at a time, facing the pain, persevering through the suffering, allowing our anger and frustration to be cleansed and purged, remembering along the way that we are never alone, trusting in the God who come to us and calls to us in Christ.
Venite adoramus!
A Communion Meditation
Dining in the Shadow of the Dogwood Tree
This is an expansion and adaptation of a previous post. VAS
In a family gravesite in Mississippi, I have my own little communion of saints. Not saints in the sense of perfect people who all got it right and did it all the right way, but saints in the sense of having made it home, having completed their course and now rest from their labors. Most prominent for me is my father, a good man and an even better father who made a significant down-payment on my future in my four short years with him. He died far too young. But he lives on in memory and story and in the two sons he claimed and did his best to “raise right” in the short time he had. Each year I give special thanks for him and for all those who, in spite of their imperfections and shortcomings, their trials and tribulations, are, for me, saints nonetheless.
There also are my maternal grandfather and grandmother. They were dead long before I was born. I was named after him and I have been told that she was the glue that kept the family together during the depression, working at the cotton mill and keeping watch over a household that included two small girls, my mother and my aunt, an invalid mother, my great grandmother, and two of her sisters who occasionally lived with them – Sally, my great-aunt, who married Pete, an enlisted airman and moved to St. Louis. They travelled the country and had pictures to prove it, but eventually divorced and she moved back. She smoked far too much and died of lung cancer and is buried in the family grave. And then there is Maggie, the great-aunt who lived her life in the spirit of Mae West who always said, “When I’m good, I’m very good, but when I’m bad, I’m better!” Aunt Maggie was a tall woman with beautiful red hair, a salty vocabulary and a questionable reputation who lived to be almost 90. She often told stories of her glory days owning a restaurant with her first husband that included elaborate descriptions of colorful characters who found their way to The Sunset on Highway 51. What she never included though, was any mention of running moonshine which was, I have been told, the real reason so many colorful people frequented this establishment. Later in life, she married a cop and moved to Louisiana. Talk about a change of heart. She made great gumbo and amazing spaghetti and meatballs. She was by no means perfect, but part of the communion and fellowship, nonetheless.
It is a small group, a snapshot of history and heritage, both good and bad, the fabric of my life. Every year I reflect on this colorful communion of saints that in ways both great and small shaped my life. Who are the saints in your communion? Those you are glad are there and those you wish were not. Who have been the people who have shaped your life in meaningful ways? Who have been those who have formed you by teaching you how not to live? Take the time to remember them and offer a prayer of thanks for them all, even the ones who barely made it in. They are a part of the communion as well.
Standing watch close by my family gravesite is a dogwood tree. As a child this tree was a special friend, a playmate of sorts, for in the months immediately after the death of my father, my mother, my brother and I spent many afternoons there. She would go there to sit for a while, a young wife mourning the loss of her husband and we would climb in the crooks of the dogwood tree and swing from its branches. Some days, as the sun would make its way toward the western horizon, the dogwood would cast a long shadow and gently caress the tombstones with its touch, and there, in the shadow of the dogwood, in the midst of a microcosm of the communion of saints, two small boys hungry from climbing would kneel at the feet of their mother and share a sacramental meal of peanut butter crackers and coke.
There is a legend that at the time of crucifixion the dogwood had been the size of the oak and other forest trees. So firm and strong was the tree that it was chosen as the timber for the cross. To be used thus for such a cruel purpose greatly distressed the tree, and Jesus nailed upon it, sensed this. With compassion he said to the tree:
“Because of your regret and pity for my suffering, never again shall the dogwood tree grow large enough to be used as a cross. Henceforth it shall be slender and bent and twisted and its blossoms shall be in the form of a cross–two long and two short petals. And in the center of the outer edge of each petal there will be nail prints, brown with rust and stained with red, and in the center of the flower will be a crown of thorns, and all who see it will remember.” [1]
On this day of remembrance, we gather to dine once again in the shadow of the dogwood tree, to share in a sacramental meal, remembering those who have gone before us, looking to those who surround us still, giving thanks for those who have nurtured us, forgiving those who have failed us and feeding on that which alone can ultimately save us.
So come, climb once again into the arms of grace and swing once again from the branches of God’s sustaining power and presence. Kneel at the foot of the cross…remember…give thanks…and be filled.
In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.
[1] http://www.promiseofgod.com/dogwood/
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