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Minutes of Meetings with God |
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The Telephone, the T-Shirt, and
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| The telephone ... a "T" shirt ... and a conversation that went: "I've
been reading that French guy." "Who??? ... you mean Bernard of Clairvaux?"
"Yeah, he's the one!" Those are the things that are on my mind just now.
The telephone is not one of my favorite bits of technology ... especially recently. The telephone has been the vehicle that has brought me a good deal of bad and sad news lately. Phone calls informed me of the expected but dreaded death of one dear saint, of the unexpected death of another dear saint, of the sudden death of two dear saints' son, of the murder of other dear saints' daughter, of saints unexpectedly in the hospital with heart problems or kidney stones, of my dear mother not being able to make it to family reunion, of my beloved wife breaking her leg, of a dear saint being arrested for a minor traffic violation and needing help to make bail ... the list could go on and on and on. Sometimes I find myself just dreading when the phone rings ... I fear that it will be more sad news or bad news or worse ... some poor soul in hell doing telemarketing for a credit card company wanting to sign me up or for some construction company wanting to waterproof our basement (I hate to be rude, but some of them just won't take a nice firm "no" for an answer ... so I just hang up on them). The telephone helps me understand why ancient kings used to kill messengers who brought sad, bad or unwelcome news ... there have been moments when I have wanted to kill the phone. I don't want to give the impression that all we get is bad news on the telephone ... that's not true. We have had a great many "good" phone calls ... especially as our church family has shown us love and concern while Susie's leg mends. It's just that the telephone seems to allow the bad and sad news to intrude so unexpectedly into our lives and without the buffer of the presence of another human being that somehow helps us deal with the news better ... there is no reassuring hug or touch that says more strongly than words: "Yes, it is bad but you are not alone ... we can get through this together, with God's help." We need "that of God" (that bit of the divine) which can only be experienced in human presence, we need that touch, we need that reassurance. Without that bit of the divine touching our lives, we all too easily feel overwhelmed, out of control, and all alone. The bad or sad news becomes harder to cope with. The telephone and other technology too often leaves us without what we need most. Enough of the telephone. Now, about the "T" shirt. The "T" shirt is my trophy for running and finishing the Toledo Classic 10K, a 6.2 mile road race. It is a reminder that, although I did not finish first, I won that race. The "T" shirt is about "stuff" that is the direct opposite of what the telephone is about. The shirt is about human beings ... not technology or things. The shirt is about what goes on deep inside human beings and about what goes on between human beings. The shirt is about just "being there" in the sense of being in touch with ones own self and being in touch with others. And, the shirt is about that particular brand of insanity called "running". I felt a real need to run the Toledo Classic. In some strange and hard to explain way, I needed the opportunity to be alone with others doing the same thing. Usually, I run alone ... just the dog and I ... for physical therapy for my body ... for help in controlling my weight ... for stress management ... for solitude ... and, for a kind of prayer and meditation. Once or twice a year, I feel the need to run a timed, measured course in the company of a bunch of other lunatics. I don't "race" with the idea that I will finish the course before everyone else. In any given race, there are only one or two dozen people who have a serious shot at being number one. I "race" to see if I can finish the course ... and to see how long it will take me. It's an opportunity to see: how much of my "best" I can draw out of myself; how much of my best others can help draw out of me; and, how much of their best I can help draw out of those others (this "drawing out the best" seems to be what competition is really about). Perhaps most importantly, running the race reminds me that I am not alone as a person who runs. The race brings me together with a bunch of people who are somehow like me, who have this love/hate relationship with a certain kind of physical activity. The race becomes important moments ... moments of going on when my ole body says stop ... moments of asking someone who has slowed to a walk: "Are you alright?", hearing their "yes, I'm okay," and seeing them pull enough strength and courage from somewhere deep inside to start running again ... moments of cheering on a wheel chair racer who is inching his way toward the top of the high level bridge, one weary hand on a wheel after another until he passes the peak, and then getting smoked by him as he passes me on the way down ... moments when a 60 plus year old comes up on my shoulder in the last quarter mile, challenging me for 500th place in the race and pushing me to finish faster than I thought I could. We race together and I am not alone. Where does Bernard of Clairvaux, a Christian mystic with a profound understanding of prayer, fit in all this? Sometimes the role of pastor feels like being the only one running. It can feel like among the bad and sad stuff, nobody else has much time for the Bible or for getting to know the heroes of the faith ... finding those who have run the race and finished the course. Then someone comes up at church and says: "Mike, I've been reading the French guy ..." And I know we race together and I am not alone. |