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.