Thanks, Mr Wizard

On October 4, 1957, when the Soviet Union sent Sputnik, the first artificial satellite, into space, folks here in the States went bonkers. Suddenly, we were "behind." Suddenly, we discovered a science "gap." Suddenly, the German rocket scientists from World War II, which we had 'recruited' (Werner Von Braun and others) were not as smart, as skilled, as wonderful as their counterparts who had been 'recruited' by the Soviets (that, or they had not smuggled out the right information!)

As I kid, I wondered what all the fuss was about. Why was everyone so worried? After all, we had Mr. Wizard on our side!

Starting in 1951, Mr. Wizard began broadcasting his show, a show that immediately became one of the most popular for kids. Sitting on the floor, in front of 7 and 9-inch television screens (shown in black-and-white, of course), Mr. Wizard looked - and was - larger than life.

Why? Because he had the incredible gift of being able to explain, in terms a child could understand and using 'equipment' we could find in our house, the science behind the things that surrounded us. For instance, one time he showed how to take a glass in your hand, fill it to the brim with water, and then cover the opening completely with a playing card. You then took your other hand, placed it on top of the playing card. "What is holding the card to the glass? Your hand." Then, still holding your hand tight on top of the card, you flipped the glass and card, so the hand holding the card was on the bottom. Now, you removed your bottom hand and, wonder of wonders(!), the card still held to the glass. "What is holding the card to the glass now? Air pressure." Simple, fun, easy.

No wonder that by 1955, there were more than 5000 Mr. Wizard clubs in America. No wonder so many chemistry sets were sold to kids. No wonder we grew up believing that we could indeed build rockets that would launch into space. No wonder we believed, without a doubt, that we could put a human being on the moon. No wonder we believed that all those 'fictional' marvels we read about in sci-fi books just might come true. Thanks to Mr. Wizard, we could dream, we could believe, we could dare, we could.

Don Herbert, Mr. Wizard, died yesterday at the wonderful age of 89.

And all of us scientists, and wannabes; all of us who stunk up the basement with our chemicals, and drove the cat into hiding with our experiments; all of us who burned off our eyebrows making "rocket fuel" and messed up the carpet when we didn't have the playing card on the glass of water just right; all of us who looked to the stars and dreamed, and still do . . .

all of us give thanks to God for Mr. Wizard.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Where's Ed When We Need Him?

(Here, in my part of the States, a group has opened a museum promoting creationism, that God literally created everything in six days, and that the earth is only some 6,000 years old.)

I've been thinking about Ed the last few days. Ed was a high school classmate, who attended the same church as I did. We came to be friends during Sunday School, youth group, trips to Montreat Conference Center in the summers, and in classes we took together.

We were in high school in a time (early 60's) and a place (south Alabama), where the debate over creation vs. evolution was still alive. After all, there were folks around who had lived through the Scopes trial in Tennessee, and who believed the fight for the 'good name' of God the Creator still needed to be waged. And so, especially in the year when we took biology in high school, the debate over God vs. Darwin would pop up in youth group or Sunday School.

In particular Ed, who was fascinated by science, was troubled by the seemingly conflicting beliefs. He could see with his own eyes, in class, the wonder of creation, but also the evolutionary changes which had taken place in the world. In many ways, it was a real crisis of faith for him, as to which view was right. For it was made very clear to us, in a number of ways, that a choice had to be made.

Then one Sunday evening, Ed came to youth group all excited. He sat down at the table where I was, and told of his discovery. In looking at various materials in the library, he had found that vestigial remains of legs had been found in snakes - that at some point in its evolutionary development, snakes had walked. Science had confirmed that account in Genesis (3:14) where God told the serpent that it would move on its belly from that point on.

I'll never forget the look of pure joy on Ed's face. It was no longer an either/or situation. He could believe that God had created everything, and continue to learn from the science that taught him the intricate marvels of that creation. He could believe that God spoke a Word and the mountains were created, and he could believe the geological studies that showed how the mountains were formed. He could trust in the words of the Bible, and he could trust the work of Mendel, of Darwin, of Newton. He could be a theologian as well as a scientist. He could be a person of mystery as well as a person of reason.

I've been thinking of Ed the last few days, and all the women and men like him I have been privileged to know over the years. Those who give thanks for the God who created everything, and who give thanks for the God who continues to teach us, through science, the wonders and intricacies of that good and evolving gift.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Let Us Now Praise Teachers

In the fifth grade, if we were done with
our class work, we were allowed to raise
our hand, to get permission from the teacher
to go to the library to get a book. Because
I loved to read, I would race through the
work. Tired of my constant handwaving,
Mr. Grasso finally told me one morning,
"When you are done with your work, you
may quietly leave the room to go to the
library. You don't have to raise your hand
any more."

In the 10th grade, my American History
teacher, Mrs. Mozingo, asked me to stay
after class one day. She simply said to me,
"I see that you are bored in this class. Here
are some books I think you should read.
We can talk about them after school."

In my senior year at high school, Mr. Everett,
my homeroom teacher, wrote in the yearbook,
"To Thom, who can become whoever he wants,
if he only would believe in himself."

In college, Fred White, Ken Keeton, Ashby
Johnson, Sheila Johnston, Billy Wireman,
and so many more, played roles in my life
that, back then, I did not see. They were
my mentors, my nudgers, my supporters,
my critics. They were my professors and
my friends.

In seminary, Wellford Hobbie, Betty
Achetemeier, Doug Ottati, Bernice Pace,
Robert Carlson, and others lived out
the faith taught in the classrooms. In the
hallways, on the quad, in a hospital room,
around a lunch table, they did their best
to help us understand that ministry was
more than just an academic endeavor.

It's Teacher Appreciation Week in these
parts, and I give thanks to God for all
these people, and so many more.

What a great cloud of witnesses has
enveloped me through my life!

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

It Was Twenty Years Ago Today . . .

It was twenty years ago today, April 29, 2007, that Teddy came to live with us. We went from no experience with a baby to parents of an active 18-month-old, blonde, curly-haired whirlwind. (To see pictures of Teddy and me at that age is rather disconcerting! We could be twins). I still remember the first time I took him out in the stroller on my day off. We went to the mall, had lunch, went shopping - at which time I glanced at a gift on a counter for Bonnie (it could not have been more than 30 seconds, I swear!), and when I looked down at the stroller, he was gone! Off to find something, somewhere, going on an adventure.

It was the first clue that life would never be the same.

And as most of you know by now, life with Teddy has never been the "same" in so many ways. One of our complaints to God over the years has been that we have never really known what 'normal' families do. While I recognize that every child, every family, every situation is different - we have lived a rather unusual life with Teddy, to say the least.

Multiple visits and stays in the psychiatric wings of Children's Hospital beginning at age 7; at least nine of the last 14 years if not more, having Teddy live in a residential facility, usually entailing a 2-hour drive each way to visit him once a week; his always needing to be sedated for even minor medical procedures; struggles with school systems, mental care systems, medical systems, even having to sue our denominational major medical provider.

And, if all these 'normal' aspects of our rather abnormal life were not enough, Teddy then got to battle Stage 4 germ cell cancer beginning in September 2003, enduring six rounds of chemotherapy (each lasting 5 days) and two major surgeries. Then, we had the experience last year of his being accused of murdering his roommate at a residential facility, a charge which the media continues to bring up every time the facility is mentioned in the paper, even though the charges were dismissed when Teddy was found to be incompetent of standing trial.

So after 20 years, we look back and see years of unbearable heartache and loss. Bonnie and I have both endured what our counselor calls 'chronic grief' knowing that our son would never be the person we hoped he would be, or that he dreamed he would be. He would never go to college, or get married, or have a family, even though he is perhaps the most caring and loving individual I have ever met. We have more gray hair and wrinkles than we ever imagined we would have at our age, and we have not been able to do the things we had talked about or dreamed about for our life together as husband and wife. We have had what I would consider two real vacations in the last 20 years. And we have accumulated a mountain of indebtedness that approaches Mt. Everest.

But we have also had more joy in our life than we ever imagined, all because of this happy, struggling, ever-inquisitive, always-imaginative gift from God. We have met angels that we would have overlooked without Teddy being a part of our lives, especially those folks who will spend their working lives devoted to folks just like him. We have seen God's grace come in the most unexpected moments, and felt God's love embrace us in the most broken people imaginable. We have seen Christ's face every time we look at Teddy, have heard God's voice in every broken word he has struggled to speak; and feel the warm breath of the Spirit every time he kisses us good-bye when we have to leave him at the residential placement.

We have done things we would never have dared, gone places we would never have thought of, met people we would never have wanted to meet all because of Teddy's lived-out belief (which he could never put into words) that everyone is indeed his neighbor, that every moment is a gift from God, that every place is holy ground.

It is because of Teddy that I have a better appreciation of the act of great love and sheer foolhardiness on God's part in adopting each and every one of us as children of the kingdom. It's because of Teddy that I have a clearer view of what it cost Jesus to be willing to become one of those the world would ignore and eventually put away because he was different. It's because of Teddy that I have no doubt whatsoever that the Spirit continues to move and work and be so powerfully and peacefully in our lives.

It was twenty years ago today that Teddy came into our lives.

And despite the wrenching, painful, heart-breaking, rip-the-guts-right-out-of-you times, I would not have missed a moment of the last twenty years.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Holy Thursday shock

We're gathering this Holy Thursday, to
remember and to celebrate that sacred meal
which Jesus has given to us. But there is also
something else he gave us that night, according
to John's gospel - a job.

That's why we are doing a foot-washing ritual
as part of our Holy Thursday service. This
will be the first time this has been done in
quite a while, so I am sure there is anxiety
on everyone's part, including mine. Part
of it has to do with the fact we will be asked
to 'expose' a part of our bodies which is
normally not seen in public, except on the
beach or at the pool in the summer.

The other has to do, I think, with the fact
that we are doing something that has no
'reality' in our lives. Oh, we've washed a
baby's feet or our kids' feet when they are
in the bath; we wash the mud of the paws
of our dogs; and, if we are athletic, we
know to take good care of our feet.

In Jesus' day, and in the life of the early church,
people were accustomed to having their feet
washed, on a regular basis. Traveling over
dirt (and dusty) roads; slogging through the
mud in a downpour; using your feet as the
means of getting anywhere back then, meant
that when you arrived at your destination,
you needed to have your feet cleaned. Especially
when you went into another's home, and
particularly when you had come for a meal.
Just as parents' tell their kids, 'Go wash your
hands for supper,' back then it was to make
sure your feet were cleaned before you ate.

Of course, since the job was done by a servant,
folks rarely took note of it being done to them
and for them, by another human being. It was
just a ritual, performed by someone who was
always overlooked, just as the basin of water
and the towel probably were. Just another
part of the background to their lives.

We have those 'backgrounds' around us today.
We have those people who perform a service
for us, and we usually overlook them, don't we?
The housekeeper who comes in and takes care
of the hotel room we live in for a few days.
The custodian who goes through the church
each night, emptying the waste cans, mopping
the floors, cleaning our fingerprints off the
glass doors. The crossing guard who stands out
in every sort of weather, making sure our kids
get to school safely. The garbage collectors
who come by and pick up our trash before
we are even out of bed in the morning.

The disciples were shocked that Jesus would be
willing to do such a menial, degrading, disgusting
task as washing their feet. Just as we would be if
Jesus showed up to make our beds, clean our toilets,
empty our waste cans, dump our garbage.

Just as we would be if Jesus asked us to do
such menial, degrading, disgusting tasks
for someone else.

That's why we need to remember that Holy
Thursday is not just about sharing a sacred meal,
but about becoming a servant.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Bamboozled!

I was tricked . . . bamboozled . . . hoodwinked!

Recently, in a reputable journal with the name
'Christian' on it, I read an article about a new
sort of church - the 'submergent church' - where
no one knew where the folks met, you could
attend by-invitation only, and the pastor was
paid (full-time) to watch TV, go to movies,
read, be immersed in the culture. (After all,
what pastor wouldn't like that job description?)
And for the laity, the service lasted only
15 minutes. It was such a great story that I
told other ministers, and some layfolks, about it.

Maybe it was because it sounded so enticing.
Maybe it was because I am at the point of
total confusion with all the 'labels' about
new and different ways of being the church.
Maybe it was because I read it on a day when
ministry seemed pretty dry and discouraging.
Maybe it was because it was in a magazine
I have come to respect and look forward to
reading. Maybe it was simply because it was
in print and therefore must be true. But I
fell for it - hook, line and sinker - and 'they'
reeled me into their (later admitted to) hoax!

Of course, it probably had a lot to do because
I can give in so easily to the notion that there
are 'new and improved' ways of being the church,
when it still continues to be the struggle and
chore it has been since Day One. I can buy into
the idea that there are well-paved and well-lighted
roads to the kingdom, when there are still all those
potholes caused by my pride, and those shadowed
stretches due to my stubbornness. I can want
to keep Jesus in a nice, safe, locked box where
he can only get out and mess with my life when
I let him.

But when I do that, I am only hoodwinking myself,
because Jesus won't be tricked into becoming a
hoax for my life, or anyone else's.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

After the Ashes

Though it happens every year, I am still
surprised by how exhausted I feel - physically
and emotionally - the day after our Ash
Wednesday service.

Part of it may have to do with the fact that
the service itself is so different - more somber,
more silent, more reflective than the usual
Sunday morning service. It takes more effort
to create a 'mood' that seems so strange in
our culture, even in church! After all, to speak
the words, "You are dust and to dust you shall
return" is an extremely radical statement in a
world which worships youth, vitality, and
doing everything we can do to put off death.

I also find it a very moving, and draining,
experience to take the ashes and impose the
sign of the cross upon the people who come
forward for this ancient rite. Whether it is
a member of my own family, a little child who
probably never thinks of death, or the elderly
person whose funeral I may be doing in the
next few months, this very simple act changes
our relationship as pastor and as parishioner.
I see this in the tears which well up in their eyes,
and in the questions on their faces, and in the
piercing of my heart.

And because we have these emotions, these
questions, these hearts, we conclude the service
with the Lord's Supper. We do it, yes, because
our tradition 'allows' it to take place. But more,
we do it because we know that as we follow Jesus
during these days of Lent and beyond, we know that,
like him, we are walking towards our death and so
we need the nourishment of that Bread which will
strengthen us in the days to come. We do it because
we need that cup of Grace to fill us when the
temptations of the world empty our souls.

And we do it because the Table is that visible
reminder that when we do return to dust, we
will not be swept out the door, but will be welcomed
into God's embracing love.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

Souper Bowl

Are you ready for some football????!!!!
(American style, that is)

Tonight (finally!) the Super Bowl will take
place. That annual extravaganza dedicated
to the worship of everything that is 'over the
top.' Advertisers will pay approximately
$100,000 per second for TV spots; every
celebrity who is alive (and not in rehab) will
be in Miami for the parties; more pizza, more
wings, more nachos and cheese; more beer
will be consumed than on any other day of
the year (and, yes, there will be a football
game, according to the media).

Those who could not afford the plane tickets,
the rooms, the game costs, will gather around
as-wide-a-screen-HDifpossible-TV, for their
own parties, hoopla, contests, and half-time
antics.

Also tonight, in many parts of the USA,
including the two hometowns of the teams
in the Super Bowl, temperatures will plunge
well below 0 degrees F. Winds in many of
these areas will cause temps to feel in the
-30s and -40s. Emergency shelters for the
homeless will open, but if they are like the
ones in Cincinnati, they will not open until
10 p.m. (what do folks do until then since it
will get dark just about the time the Super
Bowl begins at 6 p.m. and the temps will plunge
rapidly?) and, like most communities, there will
not be enough spaces for the numbers of people
who need a warm place to get out of the freezing
weather.

And, today, in at least half a dozen cities in the
USA, with more considering such ordinances,
giving food (a sandwich, a cup of coffee, a
a piece of fruit, anything edible) to a homeless
person is now a criminal act. In at least
one community, churches and other religious
groups, cannot give out meals to the homeless
WITHOUT the approval of the elected officials!

That's why today, when the Super Overindulgence
Bowl will be played, and many of us will overeat
in warm homes, while others shiver with cold and
hunger, young people in this church, and churches
throughout the country, will be celebrating the
Souper Bowl of Caring. Our kids will be standing
at the bottom of the steps leading out of church,
asking folks to throw money into the soup pots
they will be holding, money which will go to the
local soup kitchen we support and work with that
continues to feed hundreds of people each and
every day.

When the final whistle is blown and the winner
is known tonight, there will still be homeless
men, women, and children. When the announcer
asks the MVP where he is going (which is always
Disney World), there will still be folks standing
in the frigid wind in Chicago and Indianapolis
and elsewhere, hoping against hope there will
be a warm bed left for them tonight. When the
garbage which could feed thousands is collected
after the parties and the games, there will still be
families who will go hungry tonight.

Are you ready for some football?

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

The Right Thing

Wesley Autry is the 50-year-old Navy veteran
who was at a New York subway station waiting, with his two
daughters, for a train. When a 19-year-old man started to have
a seizure, Autry used a pen to keep the fellow from biting his
tongue. Later, when he had recovered and began walking down
the platform, the young man lost his balance and fell onto the
tracks, as a train approached. When he could not pull him out,
Autry jumped in and lay on top of the young man, between the
two rails, hoping the train would pass over them safely.

It did . . . and Autry is getting the praise and recognition
he deserves, but apparently doesn't want. He simply did
what we all think (or at least hope) we would do given a
similar situation. "I'm no hero," he said. "You should just
do the right thing."

The right thing.

Like the single mother who works two jobs, and gets up
every morning at 5 a.m., bone-tired and chilled by fatigue,
to make sure her kids have a hot breakfast, clean and
pressed clothes, and a lunch to take to school.

Like the teacher's aide, who instinctively wraps her arms
around the autistic child in the classroom who is starting
to get agitated and needs that comforting strength to get
him through those moments.

Like the fellow in the church who makes sure that a friend
who is battling cancer gets a call every day to check up on
him, and the woman at the retirement center who motors
around in her wheelchair seeing how her neighbors are doing.

They will never get the recognition Autry has gotten but,
like him, don't want it. They know, like Autry said, that
good things happen when you do good - things like grace,
like joy, like hope, like life. Simply by doing

the right thing.

(c) 2007 Thom M. Shuman

A Hopeful 2007

For 2007, I've resolved not to have any
resolutions. They are too hard to make,
and even harder to keep.

Instead, I have hopes for 2007:

I hope that finally the world will discover
the truth that to love one's enemy is the
way we should live. Yes, it is more difficult
to love than to hate that person/group/nation,
but we see every day what the alternative offers.

I hope silence will be one of the tunes
that people download for their iPods. In
this noisy, clanging, head-banging world,
we all could use more blessed quiet.

I hope that we will start focusing more
on the caregivers in our society than on
the celebrities. Instead of gawking at
the latest hottie getting out of a limo,
let's look at the father who day in and
day out feeds, bathes, dresses, reads to,
and loves the child with a disability.
Instead of ranting about the superstar
who got pulled over for driving drunk,
let's praise the mother who works 16 hour
days so her children have health care,
and the tools they need to better their
lives.

I hope we First World folks will finally
wake up and smell the garbage we are
creating by our refusal to recycle, by
our obsession to have the newest of
something instead of making do with
the older model, by our belief that
because of where we live, we have
earned the right to use up whatever
we want. (And I hope when we
smell the garbage, we will notice
the people, especially children, who
dig through it for their daily bread).

And (selfishly) I hope for a year with
no crisis, no traumatic phone calls,
no new diagnoses for and about Teddy.
After 15 years of having our physical,
emotional, spiritual, and financial
reserves depleted beyond empty, we
could use a break.

I hope these are not too much to hope
for this year.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

the Little Clans

Here in the States, the news is filled with
the tragic story of three climbers who are
trapped on the side of Mount Hood. Weather
conditions severely limit rescue operations,
and it looks like the weather is not going to
improve any time soon.

One of the things that we (humans) do well
is to come together in such situations - to
search, to pray, to comfort the families.
In such times, we seem to 'get it right' as
far as what it means to be part of a greater
community.

Yet, there is a part of me that wonders.
What would the community's response be
if it had been three minority families coming
public, requesting search and rescue operations
for their sons/brothers/husbands/fathers who
were trapped on the side of Mount Poverty
and only had a very short window of opportunity
in which help could reach them?

What would the community's response be?
What would the church's? What would mine
be?

Here in Cincinnati, the City Council faces a
round of cuts in order to balance the budget.
The worthy goal of putting more police on
the streets in the face of a rising homicide
rate and other violent crimes, will be met
by cutting services to the homeless, to the
poor, to those who are the neediest. Several
health care clinics will be shut down, as
well as a pharmacy, and those who need
such services will have to travel further to
get them, though they are the least able to
afford such travel.

Yet, when a developer comes before the
Council with a plan to build condominiums
on the river, with prices ranging well over
a million dollars, approval is quickly granted,
with tax incentives of some $13 million. In
other words, the developer will not have to
pay such taxes, which means the income of
the city is further depleted, which means the
possibility of further cuts, which means
the poor, the needy, the lost suffer more.

One of the familiar readings of this Advent
and Christmas season is that from the 5th
chapter of Micah, where the prophet says
that the one who is to rule Israel, the Messiah,
will come from Bethlehem of Ephrathah.
And what does the prophet say of this mighty
family, this strong group, this rich and
powerful entity?

Micah says, "[you] are one of the little clans."

In other words, from the group that is marginalized,
will come the family that will find shelter in a
stable; from the people who have been excluded
will come the One who would include everyone:
the little, the lost, the prostitute, the tax collector,
the leper, the murder. From those who know what
it is like to hunger for food, for health care, for
simple decency, will come the One who hungers
and thirsts for God's righteousness to burst forth
in the world. From those who have experienced
oppression and injustice, will come the One who
will set every captive free, and who will call his
followers to work for justice, peace, and
reconciliation in every human condition. From
those who get to eat from the garbage dumps
of the world, will come the One who will become
the Bread of Life, so no one ever hungers again.

It is for the little clans, the little people, the
insiginificant and overlooked people, the
broken and the young and the old, the
outsider, the alien, the immigrant that
the One of peace, of hope, of life comes.

Do we see that One coming?

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

A Unique Stole

We have a group of ladies, young and old, in our church
who, for the last few years, have developed quite a
knitting/shawl ministry. They have done innumerable
shawls that have gone to hospitals, hospices, and homes;
they have knitted mittens and caps for kids at an intercity
church; and they recently knitted well over 100 caps for
newborns. It is a great group of folks (which has included,
on occasion, a 14-year-old young man from the neighborhood).

This morning, I came back to my office from the sanctuary
about 15 minutes before church was about to start. There
were 5-6 of the group waiting for me and I assumed they
were waiting to talk with me, because they were going
to do the childrens' sermon on their caps for the infants.

Wrong! They ushered me into my office, where they
handed me a wrapped gift. Inside was the most beautiful,
hand-knitted, deep purple stole!!! It was 'assembled'
from the efforts of over 25 of the ladies who each did
11 rows. And, I was informed that the 'formula' (?) they
used was 'knit 3, purl 3' (for God, Child, and Spirit).
It even came with beautiful beautiful gold stars on one side,
which will be 'revealed' on Christmas Eve.

I was speechless. It was an completely unexpected gift,
and so the moment, and the gift, was full of grace.

And, to top it off, the group is going in together to gift
me with a brand new preaching robe.

My cup runneth over today, after being empty for quite
some time.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

The Terrible Twins

This coming Sunday (November 26th) is observed,
in the church calendar as Christ the King Sunday.
One of the readings appointed for the day is
from the 1st chapter of the Revelation of John,
where the Lord God declares, "I am the Alpha
and Omega" (the beginning and the end). On
one of the listservs I belong to, someone
mentioned she was going to preach on what
this phrase means.

Gosh, someone who is brave enough to tackle
the Terrible Twins of Theology!

Of course, preaching about the Alpha and
Omega is a relevant word for a culture
(and all of us living in these days and times)
in which we believe everything is about us,
our needs/desires/obsessions/seductions,
since WE are the beginning and the end of all
things.

It's a relevant word for a culture which has
turned Christmas into the greatest buying
and selling campaign the world has ever
seen, rather than reflecting humbly or (yes!)
fearfully that the beginning of redemption
comes in the squalor of a stable, not in the
aisles of Nordstrom's; that the beginning
of redemption takes place in the pain
of childbirth, not in the numbed daze
of Christmas parties; that the beginning
of redemption takes place in a family
which is poor, which is rejected, which
is marginalized; that the beginning of
redemption takes place when Mary wraps
Jesus in swaddling cloths, because she
couldn't afford disposable diapers.

It's a relevant word for a culture which
continues to search for the fountain of
youth, and if we can't find it, then the
scientists and researchers had (by God) better
invent that pill, that treatment, that surgery
which will make us feel younger, look
younger, live longer, resist aging and death
for a few more years. After all, if the end
is not about us, then what purpose does
the end serve.

Thank goodness, John reminds us that if
the Lord God is the beginning and the end,
then God is also everything in between. And
if God is the Alpha and Omega (the first and
last letters of the Greek alphabet), then God
is every letter in between, and God is every
word that has been spoken, from the very
beginning first word calling forth light
to shine in the darkness, to the very end
word "Amen." And if the Lord God is the
One who is and who was and who is to come,
then we can stop worry about us, and our
past, and our future, and our end.

We can just keep our eyes open for the One
who is coming . . . the beginning and the end
of all we will ever need.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

No gloating allowed

I want to gloat.

Another evangelical leader has been caught with his piety down. Another conservative spokesman who trumpets "family values" has damaged his own family, as well as his church family. Another "Christian leader" who talks the talk has shown he has clay feet when it comes to walking the walk.

I want to point fingers; I want to snicker behind my hands; I want to gloat.

But . . .

. . . he has publicly admitted his weakness and his sin, asking forgiveness. And Jesus tells me (doesn't ask me to think about it, but tells me to do it) that when a sister or brother asks forgiveness, we are to grant such forgiveness.

In another place, Jesus commands us to love. Again, it's not an option; it's a requirement for following him. And, as Paul reminds us (in Eugene Peterson's marvelous paraphrase of 1 Corinthians 13:6), love

'doesn't keep score of the sins of others,
doesn't revel when others grovel,
takes pleasure in the flowering of truth . . .'

And, of course, there is my sin, my dark side, my other self that I don't want anyone to see. An old Native American parable tells of theone who said, "I have two dogs fighting inside of me: one evil, the other good. Who will win? The one I feed the most." Until I can stop feeding the evil dog inside of me, I should not talk about someone else.

I want to gloat, but I can't.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

A servant of the Lord

When I was in my first year of college, I met
the person who would have the most profound
influence in my life. A friend invited me to
go with him to hear the new minister who
had just arrived at the church some of
the faculty from the college attended.

Robert had come to this church because
he had been "run off' by his previous congregation
in Alabama. Why? Because he believed the
promise that the Lord's Table was open to
all who came from north and south, and
from east and west, and so had borne
witness to this truth by serving the bread
and the cup to a black couple, whom the
elders of the church had ignored while
serving everyone else in the church.

In his new call, he continued to live out
this witness. Before it was the word de jour,
he taught and lived inclusion, always welcoming
whoever came to the door, whether it was at
church or at home. He preached justice
to a time and a society which was desperately
holding on to all its unjust ways of treating
people who were different. Robert gently
spoke the hard words which needed to be
truthfully told, he endured the accusations
of the critics who charged him with
'meddling,' he provided sensitive and
compassionate care to those who spoke
vitriocally about him.

For the longest time, I could not figure out
why, or how, he did it.

Then, one day, visiting him at the church, I
needed to use the phone in his office. He
waved me behind his desk and left the room
to give me privacy. While the phone rang,
and I waited for the other party to pick up
at their end, I glanced down at his desk.
There, in a spot where he would see it
every day, in the midst of whatever he
was doing, was a yellowed piece of paper
taped to the desk which simply reminded him:

'You are a servant.'

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

Stunned

This past February, a 27-year-old woman, Katie Haumesser, was taking her 10-year-old daughter, Emma, home from the ER late one night. That same evening, 19-year-old Jacob Wolford, left a friend's house, where he had been drinking. Missing his exit off the interstate, he ended up driving on the wrong side of the road where his truck collided head on with the car Katie and Emma were riding in. Katie was killed, and young Emma sustained serious injuries, but survived.

At his sentencing this past August, for causing Katie's death, Jacob acknowledged the wrong he had done, and offered a public apology to Emma for the terrible tragedy he had caused in her life. He has committed to doing whatever he can to tell his story to other young people, so they will not make the same mistakes that he did. He seems truly remorseful, even going so far as refusing to be released on bail, because of his guilt.

At his sentencing, Emma made a statement in which she forgave Jacob. Not for what he did, she cannot forgive him for that. But, seeking to do what she thought Jesus would do, she forgave him as a person. Wolford later said that he would much rather spend seven years in prison (the sentence he received) knowing Emma had forgiven him, then two years (the minimum he might have gotten) without that forgiveness.

A tragic, terrible story of stupid mistakes, of terrible injuries, of a death and loss which cannot be reversed. But also a story of grace, hope, and forgiveness.

Yet, in an editorial about this case, the local newspaper commented that people in the courtroom were "stunned" to hear Emma forgive Jacob.

Stunned.

We are no longer outraged when drug dealers peddle their wares openly on the streets; we are no longer shocked that 13 and 14-year-old children have children; we are no longer alarmed when more and more people settle arguments by pulling out a gun; we are no longer bothered by the fear-mongering that passes for leadership in our communities.

But we are stunned when someone forgives another person.

But I shouldn't be surprised. Not when Christians continue to carry grudges in their hearts from 30 years ago; not when church leaders speak harshly to one another in meetings; not when people of faith seek to demonize those who disagree with them on biblical, theological, and spiritual issues.

This Sunday, we will be reading the passage in Mark (8:27-38) where Jesus tells the disciples, "If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me." I was pretty much taught, as most of us probably were, that Jesus was talking about a cross of pain, of suffering, of denial, of death, of burdens.

Now, I wonder if the cross we are asked to take up, the burden we don't want to bear, the challenge we don't want Jesus to offer us, is to shoulder grace in a world where bitterness is spoken; to carry hope into a culture where despair is served at every meal; to bear forgiveness into all those shadowed corners of our lives where vengeance is lurking, just waiting to leap out and do the violence we hide in our hearts.

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

That's All, Doc!

It happened one day in the Pastoral Care
class at seminary. The topic was visitation
in hospitals, but within the first five minutes
of discussion, it quickly disintegrated into
doctor-bashing. I was surprised.

Maybe it was because my best friend from
college had ended up going into medicine,
and I had acquired an understanding of what
one has to actually go through to get that
medical degree. Maybe it was that as an
older, second-career student, I had a little
more experience in visiting doctors. Maybe
I was (am?) naive. But I just couldn't believe
some of the attitudes expressed that day by
fellow seminarians.

Don't get me wrong. I have encountered some
pretty arrogant doctors, who are afflicted with
ITIGS (I Think I'm God Syndrome). I've seen
doctors who treat nurses and other staff as if
they were there only to wait on them. I've
been on the receiving end of doctors whose
bedside manner made one wish a dead fish
was sitting there, instead of that person.

But I have also been fortunate to know and to
have been served by tenderly compassionate,
incredibly gifted, undeniably patient people
who, when they put on that stethoscope each
day, did not take off their humanity first.
And I have seen doctors who were willing
to learn, to grow, to be transformed as they
encountered Teddy, with all his many diagnoses
as well as his gifts.

Later today, I have to say good-bye to one
of these doctors. For the last ten years, I
have been blessed to be served by a family
doctor who, indeed, became a member of
the family. Over the years, he has helped
me to deal with the grief, the depression,
the anger, the frustration that came from
Teddy and his struggles. He has been patient
with me as I struggle with my weight. He
always took the time, and gave me his
undivided attention and compassion, to listen
to me talk about the almost-debilitating stress
from church life and the pain of raising Teddy.

He is a gifted doctor, who recognizes from whom
his gifts come. He is a wonderful role model on
how one works with others, for I have been fortunate
to see him interact with his nurse as well as the
medical students he teaches. And he has taught
me so much about caring for others, and looking
beyond the quick fix to the long-term transformations
which can lead to better life. I always appreciated
the fact that he was probably more likely to suggest
some sort of 'alternative medicine' (walking, massage,
stretching, etc.) than just scribbling something on a
prescription pad. And I value the fact that he was
willing to admit, "I don't know all the answers."

So while I was stunned and saddened to hear that he
was leaving, I am not surprised to learn the reason.
He is going back to his hometown to serve in a
teaching hospital, to work with the residents there,
something he loves to do. But the main reason is
that his aging parents still live there, and he wants
to be closer to them, to be able to care for them,
to love them, to support them, to serve them.
His last act of caring for me is to model for me
the gift of caring for others.

I will miss him. I will miss his gentle, but firm,
insistence that I take better care of myself. I will
miss our discussions about faith and church. I will
miss our conversations as we either bemoaned or
celebrated our favorite baseball team, the Cincinnati
Reds.

I'm not sure if I owe him my life, though I know my
life is healthier and better because of his care. But
I do know that I owe him Teddy's life. For he was
the one who called one Saturday, after midnight,
regarding Teddy. He had seen him earlier that day,
about a lump on the side of Teddy's neck, which
the nurse and doctor at the facility where Teddy
was at, thought might be a swollen gland. He
called because he thought there might be more
going on, and suggested we take Teddy down to
Children's Hospital on Sunday afternoon for
further diagnosis. Call it intuition, call it a hunch,
call it a nudge by God, it was his call that helped
us to discover the cancer exploding through Teddy
(already Stage Four at that point), and got him
the surgery, the chemo, the care that saved his life.

As a minister, people sometimes ask me if I think
that God still performs healing miracles in the
world today. And when they do, I just look at them
and say, "Let me tell you about Dr. Gebhardt."

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

Pity Party Cancelled

Don't you just hate some of the stunts God pulls?

I was all set to have a big Pity Party today. After all, it was 20 years ago today that I was ordained as a Minister of the Word and Sacrament. It was one of those 'mountaintop' moments: family and friends, a special piece by the choir, sermon by my ministry-mentor, a big luncheon, lots of feel-good moments.

And on the 20th anniversary? Well, I got up and put the laundry in the machine; cleaned up the hairball the cat had left on the floor; had my usual bowl of cheerios and fruit; found more grey hair in my head and beard; came to the office, where the stacks of unsolved issues and things undone were still waiting for me.

No cards, no calls, no party, no pats on the back, no Sgt. Pepper or any band marching around in the parking lot of the church. No one telling me how wonderful I am, or how much I have done for them. No email from Time magazine to interview me as one of the top preachers in the country. No call from the 'Today' show to comment on the latest crisis. It seems that no one noticed, or cares.

Boo hoo hoo! Poor me, poor me, poor me.

Then, I sat down to write my poem/prayer for the back of Sunday's bulletin, and the Holy Spirit reminded me of what this day and every day, what ministry, is all about:

i would prefer
to be left
leaning against the wall,
shuffling my two left feet,
watching the world
twirl by;
but you take me by the hand
to teach me
the dance steps
of grace;

when i walk near
the piano,
it shudders,
hoping
i will not sit down;
but you take my fingers
and place them on the keys,
whispering,
"play, play with joy, play!"

even with
the biggest bucket,
i can't carry a tune;
but you push me
out onto the stage,
introducing me as
the new soloist
in the Good News Choir.

i will celebrate your joy,
sing your hope,
play your love,
leaping and whirling
in your grace
forever!

Don't you just hate it when God does that?

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

Playing the Silence

Mr. Pete, the Drum Man, is back for Vacation Bible School - and the kids are thrilled! They get to play on different sizes of drums, and try to learn something about rhythm. Perhaps not so surprising - the girls are seem interested in the different 'tones' the drums make; the boys just want to be the loudest!!!

This is Mr. Pete's ministry. As he exposes kids to the sound of the drums, their texture, their tones, he also exposes them to the gospel. He talks about how the kids (and the lucky adults who are with them) become a part of a community: the Drum Circle. Every drum has a different 'voice' and every voice is important to the circle. Every drum has a part, and if one part makes a mistake, the next drum or the circle brings us back onto the rhythm. He teaches them about beats, and about the sounds that can be made.

But Pete also teaches them about silence. In the teaching of a particular rhythm, he puts in a measure of silence. Boom, boom-boom, boom, boom-boom, silence, boom is the rhythm. And he has us hold our hands up in the air to play the silence. And Pete believes, as I think Jesus does, that silence is the hardest note to play - on any instrument: drums, piano, voice, life. But the silence is as important as all the sounds we make, and Pete wants the kids to listen to the sound that the silence canc reate.

Some people think that Jesus went away from the crowds and the disciples to recharge his batteries, to get some rest, to take a retreat, to be closer to God, to pray. All good and commendable choices, which few of us do ourselves. Me, I think he went away to listen to the silence he was trying to play in his heart.

We know how to be loud, we know how to soften our voices. We know how to argue, and we know how to whisper. We know how to talk and talk and talk. We know how to use words to intimidate, to manipulate, to criticize; we know how to play our voices so people will feel sorry for us, or love us, or want to rescue us.

But when do we learn to play the silence?

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman

Being Remembered

We all want to be remembered for something.

After developing an incredibly successful (and controversial) compute software company, Bill Gates has announced that he will donate 95% of his wealth to help people throughout the world.

And people will remember him.

After taking vows to remain inside her cloistered convent, Mother Teresa stepped into the streets of Calcutta, to serve the people of the world no one else wanted to touch.

And people will remember her.

When it seemed that no one could break through their set-in-stone perceptions of how to handle the problem, rock star Bono turns out to be the one who has convinced presidents and prime ministers to actually do something concrete about poverty in the world.

And people will remember.

We all want to be remembered for something.

This week, we are having our Vacation Bible School at church. And, so far, three different kids have come up to me and said, "I remember you! You're the guy we wrapped in toilet paper last year!!!"

Not exactly in the category of the others, but I'll take it!

(c) 2006 Thom M. Shuman