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 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 far end of the library from where I now cowered.

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 this last section of dusty books and leather couches where I now trembled. My fear became panic as the tip-tapping of black wing-tipped shoes came closer as the boom of several bass voiced 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 asked what was the matter and then as if he already knew asked if he could fix the TV. I wanted to tell him not to touch it; I didn’t want him to get into trouble. But my voice disappeared in his presence as he stood, tall and confident. He adjusted 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, in fact, 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 on the newscasts.
Before he had a dream Dr. King was living his dream, at least with me a 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

Love: Inside Out

I first meet Manny after the summer of my ninth grade year. He was a student at the Philadelphia School of the Bible and had begun to work at our church as the 12th grade boys Sunday school teacher. I was returning form a summer as a counselor in training at Christian camp on Maryland’s eastern shore.

Manny was from New York City, in his early thirties, married with two boys under the age of 5. Though my church’s Sunday school program divided classes by grade level and gender, my friend David and I were assigned to Manny’s 12th grade class.

Several Christian men spoke into my life as I grew up in the church but none had the impact as Manny. I’m sure the time of my life was significant, but in actuality it was Manny.

Manny was not fooled by our teenage B.S. or attempts to pretend to follow the accepted and unspoken Christian standards of the late 60’s. He had been part of an organized crime family form his early teens and way to street-wise for us white suburban posers.

So for the next three years between the hours of 9:30 and 10:45, I sat under Manny’s teaching. Actually I don’t recall a thing he said, but I remember his life and the grace that flowed from him to all he encountered.

After Manny became a follower of Jesus he tried to leave the rackets and the fellows he had run with since he was thirteen. However he had made a pact with the devil – so to speak – and it ended with his house being fire-bombed and him fleeing with his young family to Philadelphia. I never learned but sketchy details of his prior life and as I grew to know him, I became more interested in this man who actually believed the words of Jesus and attempted to live them out.

Leaving New York and is former life with nothing but his family and the clothes on their backs, Manny found an apartment in a third-floor walk up in an inner-city government project. The project in all of its concrete and utilitarian splendor was part of a government program of the 60’s that failed. As was the case in Philadelphia the majority of the unfortunate residents were black, while Manny was Puerto Rican, a mix that had not yet been reconciled by Dr. King’s Dream. This was a difficult place to live. A place I never mentioned visiting to my parents.

During the next three years several things happened in the project. Most significant was a Bible study begun by Manny and his wife. The study grew and took on a life of its own. Today we would describe it as a home-church.

Though he was a student with a family, Manny’s finance situation improved to the point where he could leave the rat and dope infested project. Instead he chose to stay – because of the relationships and the need of the gospel of grace and love offered by his savior Jesus Christ. I remember discussing – actually questioning – Manny about his decision until I saw the love of Jesus in his eyes as he kindly answered me while portraying staying in the ghetto as the most logical and practical place for his family.

The influence many had in my life is difficult if not impossible to measure. A few years after leaving home I reflected back and with the proverbial light bulb flashing realized that I was not the only one. There were thirteen fellows in my actual grade. We had basically grown up together in the church. Even as high school seniors, we rarely missed Sunday school – though I’ll admit that many a morning my eyes were heavy and my head ached for sleep. Even though except for Dave and me the others only had Manny for one year, all thirteen of us entered a Bible college somewhere following graduation.

Manny’s love was not always kind or appreciated – at least by my seventeen year-old assessment. Most Friday evenings I received a phone call around 5:00. After some small talk, Manny would ask if I had any plans for the evening. Of course he already knew I would be going out either with my girlfriend or some of the guys from school. Then he would pray God’s blessing on me, my friends, my girlfriend, our plans and safety. He really knew how to put a speed bump into my plans. It was not until much later that I figured out that Manny probably made two dozen calls on Friday evenings.

For when you feel powerless

We prayed earnestly that God would bless out land and would confound the machinations of the children of darkness. There had been so many moments in the past, during the dark days of apartheid’s vicious awfulness, when we had preached,” This is God’s world and God is in charge!”

Sometimes when evil seemed to be on the rampage and about to overwhelm goodness, one held onto this article of faith by the skin of one’s teeth. It was a kind of theological whistling in the dark and one was frequently tempted to whisper in God’s ear, “For goodness sake, why don’t you make it more obvious you are in charge!”

No Future Without Forgiveness
Desmond Tutu (page 4)

Tales From a Mis-Spent Youth

Today I leaned that it was Zappa tribute day.
Frank Vincent Zappa (December 21, 1940 – December 4, 1993 was an American composer, musician, and film director. In a career spanning more than 30 years, Zappa established himself as a prolific and highly distinctive composer, electric guitar player and band leader. He worked in almost every musical genre and wrote music for rock bands, jazz ensembles, synthesizers and symphony orchestra, as well as Musique concrète works constructed from pre-recorded, synthesized or sampled sources. In addition to his music recordings, he created feature-length and short films, music videos, and album covers.
Although he only occasionally achieved major commercial success, he maintained a highly productive career that encompassed composing, recording, touring, producing and merchandising his own and others' music. Zappa self-produced almost every one of the more than sixty albums he released with the Mothers of Invention or as a solo artist. He received multiple Grammy nominations and won for Best Rock Instrumental Performance in 1988 for the album Jazz from Hell
Politically, Zappa was a self-proclaimed "practical conservative", an avowed supporter of capitalism and independent business. He was also a strident critic of mainstream education and organized religion Zappa was a forthright and passionate advocate for freedom of speech and the abolition of censorship, and his work embodied his skeptical view of established political processes and structures. Although many assumed that he, like many musicians, used drugs, Zappa strongly opposed recreational drug use.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frank_zappa

And here is his classic “Don’t Eat the Yellow Snow” complete with a clever animation.

A Memory

I have watched this speech every year for as long as I can remember. Now that we do not have cable I picked it up on youtube.

Remembrance

In Flanderes Field the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place, and in the sky
The lark, still bravely singing flies,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow;
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Field.

Take up the quarrel with the Foe.
To you, from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die,
We shall not sleep, tho' poppies grow
In Flanders Field.

Memories

Kurt Vonnegut,
US novelist (1922 -2007 )

Like so many Americans, she was trying to construct a life that made sense from things she found in gift shops.

I want to stay as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can't see from the center.

If you can do a half-assed job of anything, you're a one-eyed man in a kingdom of the blind.

Here is a lesson in creative writing. First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you've been to college.

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.)