Incident at 10th and Clark (by Steve Orr)

In less than 60 seconds we went from wild cacophony to utter silence.

Welcome to Jetton Junior High School, spring 1964. There were a couple hundred of us; talking, shouting, laughing, nudging, arguing, courting, playing; and our keepers were ever watchful to ensure the arguments or the games of “slap-hands” didn’t escalate into actual fighting, that the courting didn’t cross that indefinable (at least to us) line into public-display-of-affection, that the laughter wasn’t somehow connected to something salacious. We were, all of us, keepers and kept, fully engaged in our after-lunch rituals, using up the time until the next class bell rang and called us back into the building for additional societal formation. It was a warmer-than-usual spring day and we were a bit more rambunctious than the norm, perhaps sensing in the air the coming of summer and our annual parole from public education.

All of that, that activity, the keeping; it all just stopped. Though not abruptly. There was a definite fading process that seemed to take forever but that really only lasted, at most, a minute. I’ve gone over and over this, and after several years I can confidently say it took about a minute to go from thunderous noise to something so silent I can find no analog in my other memories with which to compare it.

The first thing I noticed was the change in the sound. Somewhere out along the farthest edges of our crowd, near the street, sound had stopped. I’ve always been a sound person, probably because my vision is so poor. I was in thick glasses by the time I entered the third grade and have lost some ground every year since. So, by the time I arrived at this shameful moment I was already to the point I could not safely walk down the hall of our junior high school without my glasses.

Yet, that day, I could see well enough to go along with everyone else. And I could easily recognize the change in the quality and volume of our massed sound.

I was up on the large and grand porch that fronted our school and about as far from what happened as I could be and still be part of it. I say “large and grand” because our school had, at one time, been the largest and grandest of our town’s three high schools. One of many changes wrought by Brown v Board of Education was the consolidation of all the high schools into the newest facility, located way out around 25^th Street.

I remember turning away from my friends and looking towards the street. In my recollection I was the only person anywhere near me who, initially, noticed what was happening out at the street edge. My two good friends stood next to me, absorbed in a common exercise; taking turns trying to slap each other’s hands before said hands could be jerked away, and, supposedly, out of harms way. It was an interesting, and often painful, lesson in eye-hand coordination that many boys around my age participated in; the more aggressive among us getting to hit something, while the rest of us learned to get out of their way. One of those excellent life lessons one learns outside the classroom.

What I saw when I looked toward the street was not completely without precedence; my fellow students—friends, enemies, acquaintances, strangers—pausing to look at something passing by our school; usually an automobile of some sort. We were situated right on a sometimes busy, divided street; one of the reasons our keepers were so adamant about our never leaving school property; there was the actual chance one could come to harm just by stepping off the curb and into the street. This rule was tested from time to time, and, if the miscreant was caught, he (and wasn’t it always “he”?) was quickly collared by one of the teachers, fully empowered by “in loco parentis,” and dragged off for a brief and meaningful conference with the Principal.

In my memory this moment seemed to take a long time; but, in reality, it could have only been seconds before I refocused from the first wave of watchers to what they were watching. I remember raising my eyes, seeing first the line of cars parked along the curb in front of the school, then to the single lane of street that was located closest to us, then to the wide, grassy berm which made it possible for simple 10^th Street to also be called Murrell Boulevard (since renamed to Walter Jetton Boulevard), then to the other lane which allowed traffic to drive in the opposite direction. In all that, I saw nothing. No passing cars, no bicycles, no one walking … nothing that should draw their attention away from all those things we thought were so important in those days.

But then my eyes finished their rise, and I saw the old man.

He was walking along the opposite sidewalk. Tall, thin, not-recently-shaven; wearing one of those sleeveless undershirts with the scoop neck, a pair of grey, shapeless pants that had been washed too often or had lain too long in the Salvation Army bin, of both, leather shoes that had seen better days, no socks. It was possible he could have been coming from almost anywhere. Our school sat on the corner of 10^th and Clark, only ten streets from the riverfront. There was a lot stuffed into that quarter of the city. My grandparents lived in a rent house not quite a block-and-a-half up Clark Street—I often stopped by to see them on school afternoons before walking the mile and a half home—but I think I would have known him if he was a friend of theirs, and I did not. Across the alley from my grandparent’s place, and at mid-block on Washington Street, was the local house of ill-repute; but that also seemed an unlikely source for the old man (Yes, I know … block-and-a-half from a junior high school … what can I say? Different place. Different time.). Directly across Washington from there was the back entrance to the Southern Bell Telephone Company where my mother worked; another unlikely starting point. The Andrew Carnegie Public Library? No.

These speculations were very brief; none of those fit the situation. Besides, we could all tell where he came from. It was obvious, obvious to us at least; he had just come from the small grocery store located a couple blocks nearer the river, on Clark near the intersection with 8^th Street. He was carrying a low-sided cardboard box (the kind you sometimes see on grocery store shelves with half a soup can showing above the cut-down cardboard edge) with three half-gallons of milk and a loaf of bread in it. That seemed to end any speculation about the origin of his journey that day. And, just as obvious to us all, he was taking these to his home. Anyone would have come to the same conclusions.

Carrying is not the right word. He was laden with that low-sided box and its content. From his slow, wobbly gate it was easy for anyone to see he had more than his ancient limbs could handle. Each step was a struggle. And even from my well-removed position, and with my bespectacled eyes, I could see the thin, ropey muscles of his arms starkly etched against the parchment of his skin. Here was a man who, clearly, had done a lot of what my grandfather called real work. Grand-daddy still labored at the Illinois Central Railroad Roundhouse, as he had all of his adult life (except for a two-year span during the depression when the whole family lived on his parents’ farm and he earned only $1.50), and he often told us he was pretty sure he knew what real work was. But we all grow infirm, don’t we, even those who have built up some muscle though hard work?

By this time, my friends had stopped to see what I was looking at; and thus began the slow domino into silence. Instead of moving toward us in waves, the silence moved both from us and from the street side to eventually meet somewhere in the middle of the crowd. In less than a minute all of us—friends, enemies, acquaintances, strangers; teachers and students, keepers and kept—were standing perfectly, silently still … watching.

To say the old man struggled would be to use too light a word. “Struggled,” “wrestled,” even “fought”; we’ve managed somehow to leech the weight and power out of these words. All that’s left me, that truly describes these events, is “battle.” That day we witnessed a man battle; battle against his own body with all the ferocity of a soldier attempting to overtake the enemy’s position amid a barrage of weapons fire. He gave it his all with each wavering step, knees slightly bent against the weight of his burden, determination painted in rivulets of sweat coursing down on his face.

I don’t think any of us was shocked when the first milk carton tumbled.

We had already stopped moving and talking; there was nothing else to stop except breathing. I’m pretty sure we all did that, too; I know I did. Again, it all seemed to move in some sort of horror-film-slow-motion; the corner of the box buckling just a little, the milk carton starting to tip over the edge, the old man reactively tugging everything up and thus causing the falling carton to start a slow end-over-end spin as it floated out of the box and toward the sidewalk. Kurosawa and Peckinpah could have taken lessons. I suddenly found myself leaning against the thick, sculpted concrete balustrade that kept us “porch kids” from tumbling into the broad array of hedges growing about a half story below. And I was not alone. Everyone was not just oriented on the old man; we were leaning toward him as we watched that carton of milk … oh … so … slowly … somersault toward the sidewalk. Reality: mere seconds. Subjectively: almost forever.

It hit with a slapping sound we all could hear.

And … nothing happened. The carton landed on its bottom, with no apparent harm to its contents. Everyone breathed. The moment of horror had passed. The relief that flooded though us was so strong, so palpable. Everything was A-O-K.

Then, as we were just beginning to think of returning to our previous activities, the old man moved to pick up the errant milk carton … and the second carton began its tumble from the box.

Stephen King fans will recognize this as a “Cujo moment”; that moment when (the good guys having finally won the day and realizing they have somehow survived, a moment of abject and profound relief) evil surges back for another bite! Long before I ever read Stephen King, long before I ever saw one of those just-can’t-kill-the-bad-guy movies, I experienced this horror. Right then I knew. Deep in the inmost place of my being I was forced to recognize truth: he was not going to make it. I wanted him to make it, but I had already come to the conclusion that he just could not do it. How does a man who has difficulty just walking pick up a carton of milk without dropping the rest of his load?

This time the top of the carton struck the concrete sidewalk. Milk spewed in every direction. By this time, the old man was kneeling on one knee. Milk splattered his feet, his legs, his shirt; a few drops hit him in the face. But back then we were a resolute lot, especially people of his generation. He soldiered on. He had lived through some of the more trying times of history; World War I, the Great Depression, World War II, Korea. Even my generation had been taught what to do in such a situation as this: no crying over spilt milk. And he didn’t cry. He passed his hand over his face, wiping away the few droplets of milk there. He reached for the first, upright milk carton, placed it back in the box, and then slowly, carefully managed to raise himself back to a standing position without further crisis.

He resumed his slow, unsteady shuffle; not looking back at his failure, leaving it behind him in the way we had all been taught. In all this time, this subjective time of our viewing, he had not taken as much as 15 steps. Now, he resumed putting one foot before the other, wobbly but resolute. One step. Two. Three.

I’m not sure what actually happened. Maybe the first milk carton had sustained some damage when it landed upright on the sidewalk and had sprung a slow leak only after being returned to the box. Maybe all of his efforts had just exhausted the man. Whatever the cause, whether liquid-weakened cardboard or life-weakened sinews, on his sixth step away from the milk spill the box caved in the middle. This time it happened very fast. The two sides of the box flipped up to meet each other in the middle. Somehow in that process the bread and surviving milk cartons flew forward from the old man’s grasp. And he did grasp, at all of it. He actually got one hand on one of the cartons, but it slipped right through, perhaps already slick from leaking milk.

In a flash, chaos. Before him on the sidewalk were two burst milk cartons; a loaf of bread split open and sopping wet with milk, one of the cartons having landed directly on it before spilling and soaking the loaf. And now … now while grasping the folded and useless piece of cardboard … now the old man cried.

And through it all we watched, silent and still.

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AT LAST! (a brief lectionary reflection)

At Last
(a brief lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

Something wonderful happened this week.  I've been searching, longing, hoping for such a long time; honestly, I sometimes wondered if I would ever find it. But this week I did find it.  It had been so long, I was completely caught off guard when it happened. 

There I was, riding to work on DART (the Dallas Area Rapid Transit system), and, for a change, not reading anything. I was doing that thing where you just stare out the window, not AT anything, really; just letting whatever slides by paint a moving picture in my brain.  You may recall "The Second Rule of Finding Things" says "Don't look.  See."  I didn't realize it at the time, but I was employing that rule in it's truest sense. 

And that's when it happened. Sliding right across my not especially focused vision was . . . A Peet's Coffee!  Suddenly I perked up (no pun intended) and really focused. Yes!  It really WAS a  Peet's; after so many years of living without access to that collections of velvety and robust beverages, I was elated!  I first enjoyed a Peet's coffee while in Palo Alto, CA while on our way to Stanford University (and, yes I DO know the way to San Jose). Shortly after that trip, a Peet's opened in my own college town, just a few blocks from our little third-story-walkup-faculty-housing apartment. I was in Heaven!

And then, we moved back to Texas.

Perhaps you are wondering, "Is this some sort of plug for Peet's Coffee?"  No, it's not. 

It's a plug for hope. 

I had all but given up on there ever being a Peet's in Texas. When I first moved back to Texas, I looked forward to introducing my new friends to that tasty brew; but, alas, it was not to be.  I searched and searched the Internet for any indication of a Peet's, but found none in Texas. I just kept thinking I was not doing it right. How could there not be a Peet's in Texas?  I finally wrote an email to the company and asked them to just tell me where one was. By that time I didn't care, I would drive anywhere in Texas.  What I learned was that there HAD been a Peet's in Austin, but that it had closed!

So, for some time now I have been more or less resigned to the situation; not completely giving up, but not actively on alert for one, and certainly no longer searching for one. But that all changed this week.  What had become a favorite, but fading, memory, had transformed into a very present reality!

And that's a good way to view this week's lectionary passages.  If you read them in the order I have placed them, below, you can experience some of the frustration and longing (from BOTH sides) as the years passed away without the arrival of what had been so long promised.  

Take a few minutes and read these passages.  Let them sink in before going on.  

Psalm 80:1-2, 8-19
Psalm 82
Isaiah 5:1-7
Jeremiah 23:23-29
Luke 12:49-56

And then, when all seems to be at the worst, we arrive at the Hebrews passage.

Hebrews 11:29-12:2

Up to then, God had been expressing some pretty harsh things to his chosen people, first through the prophets and then through Jesus, about how they had not lived up to what had been expected. And the Psalmist was eloquent in expressing the desire of that people to, somehow, reconcile to their God.

It is only after we get to the Hebrew passage that we get it all set in context, and only then do we realize that all along we have been silently hoping for the story to have a good ending.  And, finally, our hope, though it had grown small, is rewarded. 

If you are in Waco on Friday, join the group at the Olive Branch (River Square on Franklin, near University Parks) at 8:00 for breakfast and more of the above.  We had such a great visit last Friday.  Wish I could be there every week.  

Enjoy!
Steve

P.S.  Olive Branch has great coffee, too.  I especially love Leah's "Downtown Dark" blend.  Missing that!

The Gift of Pain

The Gift of Pain
(a brief lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

Chances are you have never heard of Hansen's Disease; or if you have, you can't quite recall what it was you once knew about it (or maybe you are that rare reader who will think, "Wasn't that on an episode of the X-Files?"). And, if you don't know about Hansen's Disease, then in all likelihood you have never heard of Dr. Paul Brand, the Leonardo da Vinci of the Hansen's Disease universe.

Perhaps you know Hansen's by its other name: leprosy.

That's what this week's lectionary passage in 2 Kings Chapter 5 says afflicted Naaman, an Aramean who commanded the King's army. Now, there's this big controversy over whether what the Bible calls leprosy is always the same as Hansen's, and I certainly don't know; but the recent discovery of a 4,000-year old skeleton has established that Hansen's was present in the area at the time. All I'll say is this: whatever he had, it was serious. The King of Aram sent 750 pounds of silver and 150 pounds of gold with him to Israel in hopes it would purchase a cure for the Naaman's condition . . . that's over $3 million US dollars!!

If Naaman did have Hansen's, then his likely symptoms included white, scaly skin (and it seems to be the obvious symptom described in the passage); and one other very notable symptom: lack of protective sensation. In other words, a significantly diminished sensitivity to pain. Hansen's is a progressive disease; if not treated, every symptom worsens over time. While at first glance an insensitivity to pain might look like a good thing, especially for a warrior, there is a real downside.

What? Wouldn't the absence of pain be a blessing, especially for those suffering from such a terrible disease? It was Dr. Brand who first raised the thought that the observable symptoms of the disease--skin lesions, blindness, crippled limbs, disfigured faces--might be a result of the nerve damage caused by the disease rather than a direct result of the disease. He quickly began documenting lack of pain along with the other symptoms. Over time he drew the attention of the wider medical community to an inescapable conclusion: the lack of pain in these people's lives was causing them harm. They didn't notice when a rock or limb scratched them, and so made no attempt to protect themselves from infection; simple abrasions led to serious problems; a twisted ankle went unnoticed, was never immobilized, and dislocation became permanent; a serious domino effect leading to loss of limbs, facial features, vision.

After first throwing a fit because the Prophet Elisha failed to make enough of a big deal over him, Naaman was eventually convinced by those who cared about him to comply with the Prophet's simple instructions. And, after bathing seven times in the Jordan as instructed, was cured of his leprosy; his skin fully restored.

And, along with his skin, he may also have regained his pain; that quality of life we often wish was not present, but which is really a gift from a loving God; a gift that protects us in a world filled with hidden dangers, injuries that could deepen and cause us great harm if not for the signpost of pain to draw our attention to address them early. It is a gift to the spirit as well as the body.

# # # # # # # #

Dr. Brand wrote several books, three of which were written with Philip Yancey, including PAIN: THE GIFT NOBODY WANTS. In addition, Dr. Brand is also one of the featured subjects of Yancey's book, SOUL SURVIVOR.

If you are in Waco, TX on Friday, join the group for breakfast and more of the above at the Olive Branch restaurant (8:00 a.m. in River Square, on Franklin between 3rd and University Parks).

Blessings,
Steve

Rolling on the River: Fun Times With Fruit (a brief lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

Rolling on the River: Fun Times With Fruit
(a brief lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)
 
I was born and raised in West Kentucky in a town situated at the confluence of the Ohio and Tennessee Rivers, and just a mile north of where these two joined the mighty Mississippi.  Those rivers, and the lakes and streams fed by them, play a central role in all my best memories of those times.  And they were the location of so many of the fun things I did with my friends; especially my friends Paul, Mike, Bruce, and Bob.
 
There are so many stories of fun things we did together.  Some of them are simple things like double dating (and triple dating, and four-ple dating . . .  group activities were not so common in those days, not like today, but the four of us did a lot of things as a group).  Sometimes we just hung out at one or the other’s house (usually Bob’s or Bruce’s since they had rooms designed to withstand the rigors of hosting teenage boys).  None of us had any money, so we worked the concession stand to get into the football and basketball games.  We were a little nerdy, so we joined the Chess Club.  When one of us performed in a play or a choir concert, the rest of us took our dates to see the performance.  We grew to value our differences, and we had fun whatever we did together. 
 
But mostly, we did things on and around (and between) the rivers.  One spring break Bob, Bruce and I spent the week navigating a small boat up the river to the locks at the Kentucky Lake dam and camping along the shores of the Land Between the Lakes (the LBL - Google it).  One night we camped on an island in the middle of the lake, made a fire and told ghost stories . . . until we discovered the “island” had been a cemetery before the TVA flooded the area to make the lake.  No one slept THAT night ;-)
 
Paul was always the explorer in our little group; he led us on many an adventure in the LBL.  Paul is the one who talked us into crawling through mud tunnels along one side of the lake one winter, explaining later that the reason we had to do it in winter is because the tunnels only exist because the mud is frozen; that come spring they would all collapse!  Interspersed among all our adventures were lots of outings on boats, in cars, on bicycles, and on foot.  One adventure in particular stands out because it ended with us being chased by moonshiners after we accidentally discovered their still.  Fun times.
 
There are a lot of these stories, and perhaps I’ll tell some more of them in the future.  Right now, what I want to tell you is this:  When I read in Galatians 5:22-23
 
“…when we live God’s way, He brings gifts into our lives, much the same way that fruit appears in an orchard—things like affection for others, exuberance about life, serenity.  We develop a willingness to stick with things, a sense of compassion in the heart, and a conviction that a basic holiness permeates things and people.  We find ourselves involved in loyal commitments, not needing to force our way in life, able to marshal and direct our energies wisely.”
 
When I read that passage, I think of my four friends.  When I was a teen and going through the shaping that would produce the person I now am, it is these friends who were the “fruit of the Spirit” to me.  In them I saw all those good things, and I bent my will and energies to emulate them in every way I could.
 
Are there some folks in your life who appear like fruit in an orchard; refreshing, bursting with joy and great personal qualities?  Consider that God may have placed them in your life (and you in theirs) to be the catalyst for something good.  For the “fruit of the Spirit” is not just a list of qualities printed on a page.  It is the living of those qualities in our everyday interactions with one another.  I thank God for my friends.  Still.
 
# # # # #
 
If you are in Waco, Texas on a Friday, join the group at 8:00 a.m. at the Olive Branch for breakfast and some excellent fellowship.  I am getting to be with them this week and I am really looking forward to it!

Poem on a Bathroom Wall

Poem on a Bathroom Wall
(a brief lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

One of my favorite restaurants, Algiers, is located in Cambridge, Massachusetts in Brattle Square. Delicious food; and some truly fine coffee. Plus, Algiers was the site of a monthly meeting of friends who enjoy books as much as I do. In other words, a place I visited often. And, every time I was at Algiers, I went to the bathroom before starting the long series of subway rides home.

That’s where I first saw the poem.


home had took me
to where too much time
had locke me in
in my wrong ways
and the fumbles of
a memory, and left me
where I first began
begging: "Christ let loose
these ghosts from my bones."


Men see a lot of things written on bathroom walls; mostly things not repeatable in polite company. And believe me, after a while, guys just stop seeing them. But this caught my attention the very first time I entered that bathroom. Eventually, months later I am sad to report, it finally occurred to me to write it down.

I’ve thought a lot about that poem over the years; wondering what the author meant for the reader to get from it. Eventually, I came to the conclusion the author probably cared not one whit about what the reader would get from the poem. It’s too raw. It was scrawled on a bathroom wall, not published in the New England Journal of Poetry. This guy was hurting. Deeply.

What has been the most puzzling is why the poem kept drawing my attention. I don’t think of myself as having the kind of life that would lead to penning my pain to a bathroom wall. It took a while, but eventually I realized what the draw was: it reads like one of David’s psalms, a lot like the two psalms (42 and 43) in this week’s lectionary readings. When the Psalmist writes, “Deep calls to deep at the thunder of your cataracts; all your waves and your billows have gone over me,” I really feel his exhaustion; his being overwhelmed by the deep waters of life. Like the bathroom poet, David wanted a relief only God could provide.

Sometimes we get into deep water; really deep, deep water. We’re in so deep, the only way we can ever get out is to call on God to cleanse us of even the memories of what led us there.

It has been several years since I finally realized I needed to write down that poem, and almost as long since I came to understand why I needed to write it down. And despite diligent searches, I’ve never been able to locate the author. If I could find him, I would thank him for his reminder that God can be called on in all circumstances, even when, perhaps most especially when, things seem to be at their worst.

# # # # #

If you find yourself in Waco on a Friday, join the group at the Olive Branch for breakfast and Bible at 8:00 a.m. This week’s other readings are: 1 Kings 19:1-4, (5-7), 8-15a; Isaiah 65:1-9; Psalm 22:19-28; Galatians 3:23-29; Luke 8:26-39.

Robin Hoods of the Purple Sage

(Photo by Paula Hartnet)

Robin Hoods of the Purple Sage
(a brief lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

I watched a lot of television as a child, and, because there was a great need for content, saw a lot of movies on the television (even though we, initially, only received one channel). It didn’t take me long to recognize a recurring plot line in many of the movies and television programs I was exposed to: the rich rancher who covets the land of the little guy (or, just as often, the attractive-widow-with-children) is eventually thwarted by the handsome (and possibly singing) cowboy (who, having soundly defeated the bad guy, settles down to provide “lasting” protection against it ever happening again or, perhaps rides away into the sunset leaving all to wonder “Who was that masked man?”). You would be amazed at how many variations on a theme are possible with just those few building blocks . . . and all in black & white.

Part of the reason I recognized that recurring pattern is that I was exposed to Robin Hood at an even earlier age. I knew all about Robin, Maid Marion, and the Merry Men “stealing from the rich” (something Robin only did to the “bad” rich people, those who accumulated their riches through oppression, excessive taxation, and theft) and “giving to the poor” (since the only reason they were “poor” is that the “bad” rich people made them that way). It is why, at a very early age, I easily understood the caveat in scripture against coveting. How hard is that to understand? If you want something that is not yours, and if you have no legitimate means of it becoming yours, you need to just let go of the idea of possessing it. Simple.

Of course, if you are reading this, you know as well as I do that, despite being simple, it is not always easy to accomplish. We want what we want. Taming that desire to possess can be daunting. Oh that we had a cowboy (singing or otherwise) who would ride in and stop the rich rancher in our heads from coveting our neighbors whatever. Or if we could know, really know, we had the deterrent of a Robin Hood who could be counted on to always deprive us of our ill-gotten gains, perhaps knowing it would keep us from taking what doesn’t really belong to us.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way. We’re on the honor system. God will allow us to act as we decide to act, and there will be consequences for our actions . . . the bill may just come much, much later. And we may not be the ones to pay it. In 1st Kings, chapter 21, we see Ahab sulk because a neighbor won’t sell him a vineyard and then allow his wicked wife to engineer the death of that man so Ahab can have the vineyard. We are a bit shocked to find that there is no immediate retribution; no Robin Hood to swash-buckle in and steal it back. Instead Ahab is promised by Elijah that he will, someday, pay the price for what he has done . . . when he dies. The description of the consequence is pretty graphic, so I’ll let you read it yourself. Regardless, the punishment seems remote; it seems to fit the old saying, “justice delayed is justice denied.”

In 2nd Samuel, chapters 11 and 12, we read of David being confronted by the prophet Samuel for engineering the death of a man so David could possess the man’s wife (after David had already impregnated her). Again, we can hardly believe what we are reading. The “evil rich rancher” is the man GOD chose to be King! And where is the singing cowboy? No one acts to stop this man from arranging this heinous crime. Why? Because he is the King, God’s chosen King. He is so powerful, no one dare oppose him, even when he does wrong. In this story, as well as the Ahab story, the principals don’t actually do the foul deed; they each use someone else to make it happen; as if that distance somehow made them less tainted by the foul act. In David’s case, he managed to arrange for the enemy to strike the killing blow. And then, once confronted with his crime, David repents. But the bill comes due (it always does). And David has to watch time after time while others die, and wondering if it is because of his sin. It is a sobering and chilling thought.

And that brings us to Luke, chapter 7. People usually think this is a story about honoring Jesus. And it is, to a certain extent. But there is another story; and it is couched in the question Jesus asks the well-off Pharisee: “Do you see this woman?” That question seems so out of place. How could the Pharisee NOT see the woman? She has been there all through the meal, weeping on Jesus’ feet and then drying them with her hair, anointing his feet with ointment and then kissing them. Seems pretty heard to miss. That simple question harbors a much greater meaning. Jesus wants to know if the man REALLY sees the woman; not with his physical eyes, but with his spiritual eyes.

That is the real problem with all of these key people—Ahab, a consistently evil man; David, a good man who has strayed; and the Pharisee, just a guy with resources who asked Jesus to dinner—they all failed to actually “see” the people before them. They let their desires (or their situations) drive how they regarded others; human beings with just as much value to God as themselves.

And that is our challenge as well. God has charged us to act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with Him. WE are the Robin Hoods of the purple sage.

#####

If you are in Waco, Texas on Friday, stop by the Olive Branch (River Square, just down from Ninfa’s, near 5th and University Parks Drive) at 8:00 a.m. for breakfast and some great discussions of this week’s lectionary passages (the other readings this week are Psalm 5:1-8 • Psalm 32 • Galatians 2:15-21 • Luke 7:36-8:3).

Enjoy!

Steve

The Second Rule of Finding Things

The Second Rule of Finding Things . . . (a brief lectionary reflection by Steve Orr -- for Sunday June 6, 2010)

If you read one of my previous lectionary reflections, you may be familiar with my hobby of collecting first rules. I wrote about the "First Rule of Self-defense" (Don't be there) and the "First Rule of the Kitchen" (Before picking something up, know where you're going to set it down). Here's a new one for you: the "First Rule of Promotion" (To get the job, do the job). That could also be called the "First Rule of Employment"; it works for both.

I also wrote about the "First Rule of Finding Things" (Look under something). That one is worth exploring a bit more, but I'll save it for another reflection. This week I want to shift over to one of my very few second rules: the "Second Rule of Finding Things." Perhaps you're wondering why a perfectly good first rule needs a second rule at all. The best way I can explain it is this: some things just can't be found using only the first rule.  But that's not the rule's fault! The very best practitioners of the "First Rule of Finding Things" could still not find what was being sought because of a little trick our mind plays on us.  Often, we are so focused on what we are seeking, we stop seeing what is right in front of us; and the "harder" we look the less we see.   Weird but true.

That leads me to the "Second Rule of Finding Things" (Don't look; see). Sometimes the only way to find something is to stop looking for it and just allow ourselves to see what is before us.  While using this approach can often yield up what was sought, the great benefit to using this rule is that it goes a long way toward preventing us from mistaking what is before us for what we are seeking. Sometimes (many would say, "usually") the act of looking for something prevents us from discovering.  Another way to think about it is the difference between researching and exploring; the former follows set rules and usually involves a known objective, whereas the latter is far less structured and consists of observing whatever is encountered.

And THAT leads us to 1 Kings 17 where Elijah restores a widow's son to life.  It is a story about the great prophet of God that, when Jesus walks among them, everyone in Israel, even children, knows. Right up there with bringing God's fire down on Mt. Carmel, stopping the rain for 3 years, and being whisked off to Heaven in a firey chariot. Plus, there is an expectation that Elijah will return just before the Messiah appears.

So, perhaps we should cut the folks of Nain some slack.  Is it such a big problem that they thought he was Elijah returning when they saw Jesus raise to life the dead son of a widow?  Luke 7:16 says "they glorified God, saying, 'A great prophet has risen among us!'" When they said that, they were thinking about the return of Elijah.

There's just one problem: they broke the "Second Rule of Finding Things." Because they were SO focused on the return of Elijah, they failed to see what was right in front of them, someone far more important than Elijah.

It's something we might give some thought to ourselves.