A Tribute

It comes in a plastic wrapped brick and is consumed by more than 100 million people per day, but surprisingly few people gave a second thought to the man who invented ramen noodles.
Momofuku Ando, or Mr. Noodle as he is more affectionately known, has died. He passed on January 5 at 96.
In 1958 Ando was looking for cheap but good food for the working class when he invented ramen noodles. The noodles – fried, dried, and sold curbside – turned his company, Nissin Foods, into a global giant and have served more cups of noodles than McDonalds has served hamburgers.
My own son may not have survived his teens without the sustaining of ramen noodles. Perhaps the only thing he could cook himself. (Sorry to take a cheap shot, Andrew.)

Least Competent Criminals

Police in Chesterfield Township, Mich., arrested Calvin Fluckes Jr., 21, in December after he tried to cash a counterfeit check for $848 at a Wal-Mart. Fluckes was apparently oblivious of the approximately 80 uniformed police officers who were in the store for a charity event and whose cruisers Fluckes had to pass when he parked his car in the Wal-Mart lot. According to a police lieutenant, "(Fluckes) was immediately apprehended." [Detroit Free Press, 12-7-06]

Time Out!

Three minutes left in the fourth quarter, a 12 point lead has shrunk to 6. Fatigue is setting in as confidence leaks out.
“Time-out!”I haven’t watched ESPN in vain; I know when to stop the bleeding. Dickie V. would approve.
The players hustle to the sideline, frustration evident in their posture and countenance. They each take a seat while teammates get water and towels and form a shell separating us from the court and bedlam erupting in the gym as the home team is making a comeback.
Now what should happen is that five sets of eyes focus on mine as I renew confidence, infuse courage, and give instruction.
Instead the players talk, accuse, blame, justify and in a word: blather.
At times like this I have learned to become silent – adding my voice to the din would only add to the disorder.
Sometimes my silence is realized – perhaps felt – and the players become silent. Though I feel a strong compulsion to speak rapidly both to scold and quickly instruct and save the day; I have learned from hard lessons to remain quiet. Five seconds become ten, an enormous sacrifice in a time-out period strictly limited to 60 seconds. Leaving me only time for a single sentence; perhaps only an encouragement, I might simply say, “We are all-right, play our game, Defense!”

Reminds me of my prayers, I am full of words, blame, excuses.
“Do something God, aren’t you in charge!” As I continue to blather on and on doing all the talking, accusing, blaming, justiflying. At the end comes my “amen” like the officials whistle and command of “Get them out here, coach”. Maybe God like a seasoned coach is silent, awaiting my attentiveness. Perhaps I should seek his eye rather than the sound of my own voice. Is God’s silence simply his awaiting my listening, my attentiveness?

I have recently been considering the following description of prayer:

Prayer is to listen attentively
to the One
who addresses us
in the here and now.

Thoughts on Leisure

Matthew 6:25-34
Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life,
what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear.
Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes?
Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns,
and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.
Are you not much more valuable than they?
Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?
And why do you worry about clothes?
See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin.
Yet I tell you that not even Solomon
in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.
If that is how God clothes the grass of the field,
which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire,
will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?
So do not worry, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or
'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?'
For the pagans run after all these things,
and your heavenly Father knows that you need them.
But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness,
and all these things will be given to you as well.
Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.
Each day has enough trouble of its own.

There have been times when leisure seemed like the mist rising on a winter morning. It had an ethereal feel to it perhaps due to my own hazy understanding of leisure. Recently I came across this story about the Architect Frank Lloyd Wright in some of my clippings.

Frank Lloyd Wright once told of an incident that perhaps seemed insignificant at the time, but had a profound influence on the rest of his life.

The winter he was nine years old, he went walking across a snow-covered field with his reserved, no-nonsense uncle. As the two of them reached the far end of the field, his uncle stopped him, and pointed out his own tracks in the snow, straight and true as an arrow’s flight. He then pointed out young Frank’s tracks, which meandered all over the field.

“Notice how your tracks wander aimlessly from the fence to the cattle to the woods and back again,” his uncle said. “And see how my tracks aim directly to my goal. There is an important lesson in that.”

Years later, the world-famous architect liked to tell how this experience had greatly contributed to his philosophy of life. “I determined right then,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “not to miss most things in life, as my uncle had.”

I think Frank Lloyd Wright’s meandering across that snow-covered field, curiously looking at everything in his path, comes very close to this notion of contemplation and genuine leisure. May I continue to meander and not miss the small pleasures.

Prayer for Peace

This is the world
You loved so much that for it
You gave your only begotten
Son, our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, to hang
From the cross, done to death
Love nearly overwhelmed by hate
Light nearly extinguished by darkness
Life nearly destroyed by darkness
Life nearly destroyed by death –
But not quite –

For love vanquished hate
For life overcame death –
Light overwhelmed
Darkness, there –
And we can love with hope.
For peace,
For transfiguration, for compassion,
for soldiers,
for civilians, for peace, for Shalom,
For family, for togetherness –

O my God, our God O my father
When will we ever learn?
When will they ever learn?
Desmond Tutu

The Measure of Greatness

Then little children were brought to Jesus
for him to place his hands on them and pray for them.
But the disciples rebuked those who brought them.
Jesus said,
"Let the little children come to me,
and do not hinder them,
for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.
Matthew 19: 13-14 NIV

Seven years-old and trapped with my mom at her workplace on a perfectly good morning on a teacher’s workday – what could be worse? First, for some reason we had no books or toys for me. Secondly, my mother was secretary for the president of Crozier Theological Seminary in Chester, Pennsylvania and in these hallowed halls no children were to be seen or heard.

Perhaps in compassion, but more likely to hide me, my mom placed me on a couch at the end of a large library/reading room. From the untrustworthy memory and perception of a seven year-old the room was enormous, stretching past the distance an eye could see.

There were no interior walls. The appearance of several connected rooms was achieved by the placement of couches, chairs and tables. Each area had its own entrance door, but once inside one could move freely from one end to the other.

On the couch, my back was to most of the room as I was seated in front of a small b/w television set. My mother had tuned to a cartoon show and instructed me in her MOST serious voice: “Do not move, do not get up, do not make a sound, do not touch the TV, do not touch anything.
Had it not been unhealthy I would have been told not to breathe. Thoroughly warned, completely intimidated, and utterly bummed I settled back and began to watch Woody Woodpecker.

As older TV’s often did, the vertical hold began scrolling. Now I was really in the dumps. How long before my mom returned to check on me, probably hours.

Just when matters could not be worse a group of Suits entered the library several areas from where I was.

If the term Suits is unfamiliar, it refers simply to grownups that wear collars to small, ties to tight, never smile, and, most significantly, have a particularly strong dislike of small boys – like me.

After sneaking a peek above the couch back, I tried to become invisible while attempting mind control over the Suits, willing them to exit prior to entering my section. My fear became panic as the tip-tapping of black wing-tipped shoes came closer, as the boom of several bass voices echoed in my ears.

Spotted! I could feel one of the group approaching. He sat down, placed a strong hand on my shoulder. His gentle eyes looked into mine as his smile and kind voice clamed me instantly. I don’t remember if I spoke. He stood, tall and confident and began to adjust the TV.

At the very moment his hand went behind the set, my mother entered. She stopped in the doorway. I could tell from her face that she was unnerved, more panicked than me, totally flustered.

“Ethel,” the man spoke her name. He knew her, I marveled.
Ethel, it’s all-right,” he said as he approached her and greeted her respectively. I observed her embarrassment and apprehension dissolve as he engaged her in conversation.

Even at seven, I was able to intuitively sense the annoyance of the Suits; while amazed at the grace of this powerful man. Whoever he was they deferred to him. I quickly concluded he was OK; he probably had to dress that way, but he was no Suit.

After they left my mom sat with me and spoke about my new friend. Though I was only seven, the seriousness and gravity of her conversation remained with me.

During the next few years my mom would occasionally remind me of the encounter when we saw him on television, particularly when he was maligned.
Before he had a dream Dr. King was living his dream, at least with this little seven year-old white boy.

"The King will reply,
'I tell you the truth,
whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine,
you did for me.'
Matthew 25:40

Prayer

O word of God,
I betrayed you, the Truth,
with my falsehood,
when I promised to hallow the hours that vanish away.

In overtaking me,
night does not find me undarkened by sin.
I did indeed pray,
and I thought to stand blameless at eve.

But someway and somewhere
my feet have stumbled and fallen;
for a storm-cloud swooped on me,
envious lest I be saved.

Kindle for me your light,
O Christ, restore me by your Presence.

Gregory of Nazianzus
a 4th century Christian bishop of Constantinople.

Snow Day

I fondly recall a special day from my childhood, a special day, better than all other days – except perhaps Christmas or my birthday. Often I would wait with eager anticipation, my face planted against the cold glass of the dining room window, looking out onto the street, lit by a solitary streetlight. Watching, waiting, wondering, hoping, and for what – can you guess – a snow-day.

Yes, a snow-day, the most glorious day in a fellow’s life when he is eight-year’s old.
You see during my elementary years, the southern suburbs of Philadelphia would receive a snow of 6 – 10 inches several times a winter.

I would watch the small flakes fall, swirling in and out of the incandescence light. Hoping, believing, wishing that the snow was also falling out of my sight. My wishing along with every other red-bloodied boy was important. Collectively, we could make a difference, or so I believed. If the snow began to early, the streets would be cleared by the morning from the afternoon traffic and the salt-trucks and school would be held – without outside recess. To light of a snow also was no good. So together without any contact or premeditation all of us were at the windows calling the snow down onto the lawn and streets.

I would watch the fluttering crystals and anticipate the day off from school. I remember staying awake, tiptoeing to the window checking the accumulation, calculating the amount needed to postpone school.
Awaking on a snow-day was wonderful. There would be the smell of breakfast, since both my mother and father would be home, toast and jam, maybe bacon or even scrapple frying on the stove. The sheer delight of listening to the radio and hearing the name of my school called, knowing officially, what was already evident.

In my memory of snow-days, the sun was always shining brightly in the morning, the wind would have quieted and my entire world would be radiant: glistening, white, tranquil. The streets of heaven may be lined with gold, but the fields must be white with new-fallen snow. And the sound, quiet, not silent. A new snow fall brings a “sound” of peace perhaps soothing is a better word.

A snow-day was a free day. No cares or concerns, at least not for an eight year old. My day, after dressing in the proper winter garb and passing Mother’s inspection began with exploration. My feet would be the first on the snow covered steps. There is a joy in making a boot trail over a yard and looking back to see where you have been, locating drifts, kicking through the new power, and sliding down hills. As the morning developed, friends would be discovered doing the same, until a pack of us boys gathered and built snow forts, tossed snow balls or sledded down the hill in the meadow across the street.

Now I know it was not the same for the grown-ups. Some had to shovel out cars and brave the icy roads no matter what. And there were driveways and sidewalks to shovel, plus extra work waiting at the office when tomorrow came. But for a child this day was perfect. Play until soaking wet, chilled to the bone, then head home for hot chocolate or a bowl of soup until you redressed and began the adventure again.

Over the past several months, the books I have read, conversations with friends and even speakers I listen to have been directing me to desire a snow-day. Or perhaps I should explain in more approximate “grown-up” language: a time of Sabbath, a period of total rest, in the presence of God. Or better yet, to learn to live each new day as a new beginning: to recognize that God’s mercies are new every morning… to pray, listening attentively and enter into the presence of God to the one who addresses us here and now, to learn to hear the voice of God. God who has revealed himself as Immanuel: God with me (us). As I choose to listen that I might find the new mercy hidden in a moment, waiting to born. I desire to fight the voices, I hear, telling me lies.
My rational, modern grown-up mind relying on our past experiences and memories tells me that the future will be just a repeat of the past.

I wish to no longer be fooled by the Father of lies. The voice of the deceiver who comes to kill my hope, steal my joy, destroy my relationship with my Father in heaven.
Henry Nouwen calls the voices of the past and future - the “oughts” and “ifs”. He explains how the “oughts” pull us back into the unalterable past; while the “ifs” draw us forward into the unpredictable future. The "oughts" dredge up shame and guilt, while the "if" create doubt of the future due to curcumstances out of my controll.

But real life is the here and now. God, our God, my God is the God of the present the God of NOW. That is a why I seek for a snow day or perhaps better stated a snow-day moment. In the present, right now, to feel the hand of my Father and know that all is fine, that all is going to be OK, even in the midst of the storm. And to be able to carry that snow-day moment with me to sustain me all day long unto the morning when I arise anew and look for a snow-day again.

Lamentations 3:20-23
I well remember them, and my soul is downcast within me.
Yet this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope:
Because of the LORD's great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.

2B or not 2B

Proving the concept that if enough people do something it will become accepted. High school students in New Zealand won’t be marked off for the abbreviated and phonetic-style grammar popular in text messaging while writing essays for the New Zealand Qualifications Authority.
Condemnations form English purists notwithstanding, the shorthand developed as a shorthand for instant messages. Traditionalists insist that the new standard devalues English as a language.
An example published in the Wellington’s Dominion Post is above in the title. (it’s Shakespeare, of course) Another accepted sentence was “We shal fite dem on d beaches”. (A reference to a famous line from Winston Churchill)

The Way Through the World

The way through the world
is more difficult to find
than the way beyond it.

poet Wallace Stevens

Narrow is the road that leads to life
and few are those who find it.
Jesus

This is not necessarily speaking of eternal life. For what is more essential to us than our own lives, and what are we less clear about than our own lives?
Many periods of my life have started with hope, joy, and expectation especially spiritually but so quickly and surprisingly lead into woods shrouded with a low lying mist.

Where is this abundant life?
Where is God when we need him?

I experience erosion from confidence to doubt. This erosion leads to a subtle questioning of God and his intentions toward me.
The gospel I read about seems to present more – so much more. When I take off the religious glasses of my heritage I see a different theme altogether

So little I actually see in the Gospels are about the hereafter; I find more about the Now!
Consider the following scriptures:

John 10:10 (NIV)
10 The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life,
and have it to the full.

John 7:38
38 Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, streams of living water will flow from within him."

Notice how Jesus says from not simply in. Flowing from implies to me that this must be for someone other than me in some future age, but for those I am in contact with right now.

Perhaps the abundant life is missing because I am holding onto it rather than flowing to others?

Lost Keys

Heard the story of the man who was in a parking lot under a street lamp looking for his lost keys? A friend sees him and stops to help. After some minutes he asks, “Exactly where did you drop your keys?”
“Somewhere in my car.”
“Then why are we looking out here?”
“Because the light is better out here.”

You will never find what you are looking for if you don’t look in the right place.

“They traded the glory of God
who holds the whole world in his hands
for any cheap figurines
you can buy at a roadside stand.”
Romans 1:21 MSG

Being ... A Prayer

Dear God,

May every aspect of my being
be converted to Truth.
May every cell fall into place
and serve a higher plan.
I no longer wish to be
who I was.
I wish to be more.

Amen

Being ...
by Marianne Williamson from Illuminated Prayers

Ruin Your Life

"The matter is quite simple. The Bible is very easy to understand. But we Christians are a bunch of scheming swindlers. We pretend to be unable to understand it because we know very well that the minute we understand we are obliged to act accordingly. Take any words in the New Testament and forget everything except pledging yourself to act accordingly. My God, you will say, if I do that my whole life will be ruined.

Herein lies the real place of Christian scholarship. Christian scholarship is the Church’s prodigious invention to defend itself against the Bible, to ensure that we can continue to be good Christians without the Bible coming too close.
Dreadful it is to fall into the hands of the living God. Yes, it is even dreadful to be alone with the New Testament."

Soren Keirkegaard

Was Jesus a Lousy Missionary

During the past few years the books I have read, the people I have been with in community and the teachers to whom I have listened have convinced me that the incarnation is the primary lens which we are to focus the activity of the church.
When “the word became flesh and moved into the neighborhood” there were countless ways Jesus the Christ could have revealed himself and conducted his activities. Yet, somewhat illogically it would seem, Jesus spent most of that journey quite intentionally as the ‘son of man’, living a simple life in a small town for his first 30 years, prior to any recognized ‘ministry’.
So much so that when he began to preach the people laughed and mocked him saying ‘He’s just a carpenter… Mary’s boy… Who does he think he is?’ It begs the question, was Jesus a lousy missionary or was there something quite intentional and radically subversive about the way he approached his life and mission that we need to learn from and emulate?

If Jesus were alive today and his mission was still to ‘seek out and save the lost’ what might he do?

Now That's a Traffic Jam!

Traffic jam: Xiamen, south China












“If they'd lower the taxes and get rid of the smog and clean up the traffic mess, I really believe I'd settle here until the next earthquake”
Groucho Marx

I Like Nonsense

I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living, It's a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope. Which is what I do, And that enables you to laugh at life's realities.
- Dr. Seuss -

Illumination

"The literature of illumination reveals this above all: Though it comes to those who wait for it, it is always, even to the most practiced and adept, a gift and a total surprise."

From "Seeing," an essay in Anne Dillard's first book, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

Christmas Mania

Firefighters in Mentor, Ohio, struggled to keep avid Christmas shoppers from continuing to enter the Dillards at Great Lakes Mall after a Dec. 6 electrical fire filled the store with smoke.

In Anderson, S.C., driver David Allen Rodgers, who was driving a float in the town's Christmas parade on Dec. 3 (despite being inebriated), was arrested after impatiently breaking out of the slow-moving parade line and speeding down Main Street, endangering riders and spectators.

The London regional manager of unemployment offices banned traditional Christmas decorations because he did not want his clients (since they are jobless in the holiday season) to feel worse by witnessing any festive spirit.

Melody Howell of Richburg, N.C., expanded her collection of full-sized, designer-decorated Christmas trees this year to 52, all placed inside her 2,500-square-foot home.

[Chicago Tribune-AP, 12-8-06] [WIS-TV (Columbia, S.C.)-AP, 12-6-06] [The Sun (London), 12-9-06 Wilmington Star, 12-10-06]

A Healthy Bonus

Police in Illinois are looking for a trailer loaded with $50,000 worth of broccoli in a crackdown on black-market fresh produce (not really). The cops received the report of stolen goods and suspect that the thief was only after the trailer. Tons of refrigerated broccoli was just a healthy bonus ...