The Prophet of Advent: First Friday - B

Read Isaiah 7:10-17

you come . . .
not when
we are ready,
but when our defenses are up,
so you can batter
our hardened hearts;

you come . . .
not when
we deserve it,
but when we are making
mud pies with sin;

you come . . .

not when
we are surrounded
with a host of friends,
but when we are trapped
in the dark soul's loneliness;

you come . . .

not when
we have made the way smooth for you,
but when we have fallen
into the potholes of our pride;

you come . . .

not because you need to,
but because you want to.

so come,
Immanuel,
come.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

The Prophet of Advent: First Thursday of Advent - B

Read Isaiah 6:1-8

Moses is out raking the leaves in his backyard when the tree catches on fire, and he hears God's call to go speak to Pharoah and bring God's children to freedom. Jeremiah is in his room playing video games, when God interrupts to tell him it is time to get to work plucking up and pulling down, planting and building.

But Isaiah? Right out of the starting gate, he's uttering strong words, harsh words, words of terror, words of judgment, words of warning. Condemnation flows easily from his lips, songs of unfaithfulness fill the air, injustice is roundly denounced.

And now, he decides to take a breather and go to church. Certainly there, in the temple, amid the incense, the psalms, the prayers, the priest doing priestly things, Isaiah can find the solace, if not the silence, his soul needs.

But the winged servants of the Master of the Universe disturb his reverie singing of God's holiness. Smoke fills the temple, and the building quakes as if, once more, God is appearing at Mount Sinai. And Isaiah finds himself being called, and responds in the only way he can, "Here am I; send me!"

So God sends him, Not just to speak words, but to model a life; not just to talk about judgment, but to show what grace has done for him; not just to warn the people about the dangers of breaking God's covenant, but to demonstrate how to keep that covenant; not just to condemn a community, but to stand with them, for however long it takes, until God's reconciling love can restore them to wholeness.

Which is what God does in the Child of Bethelehem, isn't it?

Prayer

Here we are, Lord God, send us. Send us to bring hope, to bring joy, to bring peace, to bring wholeness to all those who stand with their hearts and hands open. These are the gifts we have received from you, and would offer to them. Amen.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

The Prophet of Advent First Wednesday of Advent - B

"O house of Jacob,
come, let us walk
in the light of the LORD!"
(Isa. 2:5)

you reached into
the dusk of chaos
and brought out the sun
to warm me on a winter's day;
the moon to illuminate my path
on an evening's walk;
the stars to be my companions
during a sleepless night.

you stretched out your arms
toward the twilight of death,
rolling away the stone
covering it's heart,
so that i could be set free.

you found me huddled
in the murky corner of my despair,
and,
taking me by the hand,
pulled me to my feet,
and we went off skipping
into your kingdom.

i will walk in your light,
my Lord,
i will walk.
Amen.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Do you want me to read to you?

More years ago than either one of us would want to admit, my mother gave me the gift that, as the phrase goes, keeps on giving.

The gift of words.

She started out by reading to me as I snuggled up in her lap, or lay in bed, safe under the covers, and warmed by the love in her eyes, smile and voice. Then, she began to help me sound out the words for myself, and to discover that these 'things' created from 26 letters could be gateways to the world, challenges to the mind, solace for the lonely, comfort for the grieving.

I cannot think of a moment in my life when I did not have (at least) one book within easy reach. Even in college and seminary, when I should have been focusing on textbooks, I was delving into mysteries, thrillers, novels, biographies.

But my mother also took the time to make sure I was introduced to the Word. And as most folks attest, it was a transforming moment, which continues to shape my life, guide my walk, give me hope, and challenge my unwillingness to let go of my all-too-human desires.

And now, as I share words with people through my writings and preaching; as I seek to introduce others to the Word of hope, of joy, of peace; asI try to challenge the unwillingness of others to let go, I am even more grateful for that gift my mother gave me so long ago when she asked,

"Do you want me to read to you?"

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Only a dream?

We were talking about prayer yesterday during the education hour, about forms of prayer, 'tools' for prayer, etc.

I mentioned my 'dream' that somehow, in some fashion, the church could offer a prayer room for folks. It doesn't need to be big and it doesn't need to be fancy (after all - a chair, a table with a Bible and a candle would be all the 'furnishings' most of us would need). But it would need to be solely devoted to the purpose of prayer.

Not a room where debates are held, decisions made, and people's toes might be stepped on. No, a room where hurts are offered for healing, where discernment is sought, where relationships are made whole.

Not a room that which would need to be rearranged (reluctantly) so a few people can pray, but then has to be put back into place right away so a meeting can be held. But a room that might sit empty for days on end, but is available and open when it is most needed.

Not a room where cast-off chairs sit, but a room where the outcast can climb up into God's lap and be loved, welcomed, affirmed.

Not a room where boxes filled with dusty records are stored, but a storehouse of prayer, of silence, of wonder, of awe.

Not a room where that old, out-of-tune piano Aunt Sadie gave to the church years ago can be found, but the hill in Bethlehem where the angels first sang; the sheepfold where the Good Shepherd protects his lambs; the living room where our Parent sits looking out the window, longing to spy all of us prodigals trudging wearily home.

Wouldn't it be nice if every church had such a room?

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

One of the reason I put off going to seminary (other than the deep conviction that the phone lines had been crossed when I got the 'call') was my inability with languages other than English, which presented problems of its own.

When I finally did give in to the God-who-is-like-a-tenacious-bulldog and went to seminary, you can imagine my surprise that I not only made it through Greek, but absolutely loved studying Hebrew! In fact, my study of Hebrew gave me a new appreciation for the wonder, the grace, the steadfast love of the God the Chosen revealed to us in the Old Testament. It removed any lingering questions about there being two different gods in the two different testaments.

Take the concept of 'commandment.' I grew up, probably like most folks, believing that the commandments given in the OT, especially the Top Ten, were "orders" given to us by that stern and punishing God who shook the mountains. If I took a candy bar off the shelf, God would turn up the flames in hell a little bit. If I gossiped about a friend, the dial was turned to medium. And if I wanted to sleep in on Sunday instead of going to church - well, I was toast!

Then I learned the Hebrew word 'mitzvah' (which we translate into English as 'commandment'). What a difference! Instead of an order, I discovered a honor and privilege given to us by God who has given us life. Rather than a rule, I found a responsibility that is mine as part of the covenant God has made with me. A burden that was almost impossible to carry became a good deed that I am longing to perform over and over. Grace replaced guilt, love overcame law, faith trumped fear.

No wonder the psalmist could talk about these words being a delight. God gave them to us, not so we would become lawyers, but so we would become lovers.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Rosa Parks

When I was growing up in Alabama, her name was spoken with the same kind of contempt and hatred one would use when uttering a profanity.

For some, it was because she was a woman who did not know her place. For others, it was because she was a black person who did not know her place. For many, it was because she was the one who 'started' all the trouble that plagued the state and the nation. And for just about every one around me, it was because of all three that her name was anathema.

We'll never really know if her feet hurt so much that she couldn't take another step. But we can be certain that her soul ached from years of the pain of people looking down at her because of the color of her skin.

She may not have been so physically tired that she could lift herself from that seat in the front of the bus. But there is no doubt that her heart was weary from all the names she had been called since she was born.

While she could have simply acquiesced to the request to give her seat to a white man (even though the seats on either side of her were empty; but then no white could be seen sitting next to a black person), she simply refused to move . . .

. . . causing a seismic shift in America by her simple act of courage.

This past weekend, the body of Rosa Parks was viewed by thousands in Montgomery, Alabama, where the civil rights movement began. The descendents of her spirit, black and white, came to honor her courage, her character, her witness.

For this former "cuss word" is now the by-word for justice, for hope, for action throughout the world.

And today, her body lies in the Rotunda of the nation's Capitol building, the first woman to be so honored, because she honored us with her grace, her wisdom, her gentleness.

How appropriate that yesterday's Gospel reading contained these words: 'The greatest among you will be your servant. All who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all who humble themselves will be exalted.' (Matthew 23:11-12)

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Hangers

I am not sure how it happens, though it seems to take place either at night, while I am sleeping, or during the day, while I am away from the house. But whenever, and however, they reproduce themselves over and over and over.

Hangers.

I bundle up all the clothes-less ones in my closet, and take them to the cleaners to be recycled, and by the time I get home that evening, my closet is overflowing once again. I take them down to the basement, so we can re-use them after doing laundry, and they tip-toe back upstairs in the dead of night.

Just like my prayers.

I go through my list of people I pray for, and by the time I am done, it is time to pray for them all over again. I cross one name off the list because the person has been released from the hospital, and three more calls come into the church about folks. I can stop praying for so-and-so since they have found a new job, and what's-her-name calls to tell me of troubles in the family. I just get through lifting up those who were devastated by Katrina and Rita, and the news comes on about the earthquake in Pakistan and India.

The needs, the hurts, the losses, the hopes, the dreams, the failures - whether it's at night while I am sleeping, or during the day when I am away from the church, they reproduce themselves over and over and over. It doesn't matter how often I try to recycle them, or store them in the basement of my soul. They just keep tip-toeing back into my life.

What's a person to do?

I guess I will keep hanging my prayers on that Rod who comforts us,who hears us, who heals us, who struggles with us, who suffers with us, who is always with us.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Embarassed

Embarassed.

That's how I feel about being a Christian this week. Embarassed by the comments of evangelists and mega-church preachers who are going around claiming that Hurricane Katrina is God's punishment on that "sinful" city called New Orleans. Seems there was an 'unholy trinity' operating down there, comprised of satanists, voodoo worshipers, and homosexuals, according to these folks. I want to ask these folks, 'haven't you ever read Hosea 11:8-9; or Matthew 7:1-5?'

It's embarassing, and frustrating.

Frustrating that these are the folks who get quoted by the media, and not the preachers who are talking about compassion, about grace, about the opportunities we have to minister to those in need, just as God asks us. They don't interview the folks in those churches that continue to serve as shelters for the refugees from Katrina. They won't show the father in my congregation who has gone through Red Cross Disaster training, and who is leaving tomorrow for three weeks of service in Baton Rouge. They won't feature the youth groups, the ministries, the laity who are out there every day, cleaning and rebuilding and serving meals and mending lives.

It's embarassing and frustrating.

And I can only begin to imagine how God must feel . . .

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Every Day Communion

This coming Sunday, October 2, is World Communion Sunday. For me, it is one of the holiest days in the life of the church, ranking behind only Christmas, Easter, and Pentecost.

It is a day when we remember that we do not worship in isolation, even in particular churches, but we gather with Christians around the world, often reading the same scriptures in a Pentecostal chorus of tongues; we sing songs of praise and lament; we tell stories of our hopes, our dreams, our life in God. And we believe that God continues to work in, and for, and through us.

It is a day when we are reminded that there is a unity in Christ that can overcome every division we try to maintain; that there is a Body which welcomes, which affirms, which values each and every member; that there is a place where all people are accepted and loved.

For Presbyterians in the States, it is a day when we are reminded of our calling as peacemakers. We receive a special offering - specifically for Peacemaking. Our portion this year will go to support the work of the Corrymeela Community in Northern Ireland, enabling their work of reconciliation and hope in the midst of divisions and pain.

And as we gather around the Table this Sunday to celebrate God's feast, we will do so with folks whose families came to these shores a very, very long time ago. And we will break bread with folks who have come from Ghana, Cameroon, Germany, and other places. Visible reminders of that day when all of God's people will gather around the Table in the Kingdom and feast together on God's grace and love.

And today, just down the hall from my office, folks from Mexico, from Peru, and from India are sitting around tables with church volunteers, working together to improve the English skills of our newest neighbors.

A visible reminder that 'worldwide communion' doesn't happen just once a year, but every day of our lives.

Thanks be to God!

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

My Rambling Boy

On August 12, 1990, I was installed as the pastor of Greenhills Community Church, Presbyterian. My family was here, many of Bonnie's family came, the church family attended and, of course, there were the clergy and laity representing the presbytery for the installation service. Like many such services, there was scripture, singing, prayers, 'charges' to the pastor and congregation. Like many such Presbyterian services, it was done so decently and in such good order, there were no surprises.

The surprise came after the service when a fellow came up to me and introduced himself, "Hello. I'm Robert Keefer, the new associate pastor of Wyoming Presbyterian Church." Now, the surprise was not that he came up and introduced himself; no, it was that he was there at all! In my experience with installation services, the only clergy who attended were those appointed by the presbytery to do so!

But as I have discovered in the last 15 years, that was just Bob being Bob.

Part of his calling as a Minister of Word and Sacrament was to be a faithful presbyter. And so he goes to the ordination and installation services of other pastors. He does it because he is faithful, he does it because he likes the services, he does it because he wants to welcome, to support, to encourage his colleagues.

And he has been a faithful presbyter, and model for me, with his attendance at presbytery meetings, his service on committees and commissions, his sharing his gifts with all of us as Stated Clerk. But especially with his singing. When worship takes place, when the opening hymn is sung, when the Doxology breaks out spontaneously, Bob's voice is loud and clear and beautiful.

He is a gifted pastor and, while most clergy's 'pastor' in a presbytery is one of the executives, I have always thought of Bob as mine, always willing to listen to my whining, my joys, my frustrations, my wild ideas. He is an excellent preacher, a craftsman who shapes words into doorways into God's heart. He is a true Presbyterian minister, committed to careful study, diligent prayer, and continual improvement of his skills.

He is also highly committed to fun, and to activities and interests outside the pastorate. For years, he was a cast member as well as unofficial chaplain for the local Renaissance Festival. He is a diehard Columbus Crew (soccer) fan. He enjoys good food, good beverage, good company, and especially great humor.

And for 15 years he has been God's biggest surprise to me, for I did not expect to find such a gifted, such a good, such a genuine friend. Bob has been there for me in the toughest times we have experienced with Teddy, especially in the months dealing with cancer; he has been there for me in the tough times of the pastorate; and he has been there for all the good times, the celebrations, the laughter, the joy of life and of serving the God we both love. And unless one of us was out of town or on an emergency, we have shared breakfast every week for nearly 15 years, talking shop, sharing gossip, telling about books we have read or movies we have seen, or just sitting in that silence with which God graces true friends.

But now, I will be eating alone, for Bob has been called to be pastor of a church out in Iowa. Joy for the church, sadness for me. I have no doubt that I will be visiting Iowa sometime soon, and that Bob will be through here at some point; there is always email, and phone calls. But nothing will replace 15 years of friendship, of closeness, of gentleness, of sharing, of a indescribable relationship.

Bob and I share a love for traveling by train and, as I was driving away from the restaurant this morning after we said goodbye, the words of the old folk song, 'Rambling Boy,' about two friends who rode the rails together, came to mind:
'He was a man and a friend always,
He stuck with me in the bad old days.
He never cared if I had no dough,
We rambled round in the rain and snow.
So here's to you my Rambling Boy,
May all your rambling bring you joy.
So here's to you my Rambling Boy,
May all your rambling bring you joy.'

As you have brought me.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Just around the corner

Horror; devastation; death; families forced to evacuate and live all over the country, some in shelters, the lucky ones with family, friends, or even compassionate strangers. Children and parents separated and wondering where the other is; pets stuck in styrofoam coolers so they could float on the foul and fetid water. We have been witnesses to tragic, tragic scenes coming from the wilderness created in the wake of Katrina.

But we have also been witnesses to incredible deeds as well. A six-year-old boy leading younger children to safety, because there were no adults around. Helpers, from paramedics to truckers to chaplains to caregivers, arriving on the scene with no other motive than to reach out to those in need. People willing to go door to door, expecting to find the worst, and being surprised by the best in people.

And now, even nature is starting to bear witness.

The fruit trees in Mississippi are starting to bud. A sight one would never expect to see in September, but the leaves on the trees were ripped off by the winds of Katrina, and so the trees believe it is springtime. And if it is spring, it is time to bud, to bear new life, to scent the air with beautiful aroma.

Springtime - a good sign for the people who are seeking to rebuild their lives and their communities.

And if it is springtime, Easter is just around the corner.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

A verb, not just a noun

At Morning Prayer today, we read Psalm 56. The psalmist says, "My vows to you I must perform, O God . . . "

Would that the vows we have made to God be performed, not just spoken! But that's so hard to do these days, with so many demands competing for our time, that we just can't seem to carve out a moment for prayer.

Would that the promises we have made to God be achieved! But in a culture that continually teaches us that the individual reigns supreme, how are we able to fulfill that covenant we made to be as just and compassionate as God?

Would that the affirmations I made to God on that day so long ago continue to percolate in my soul! But with a sermon 'due' every week, with meetings piling up on the calendar, with emergencies knocking at the door, how can I ever love God with all my heart, my soul, my mind, my strength when they are poured out in so many other directions?

Would that we could learn as the psalmist apparently has, that 'vow' is not a noun, but a verb.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

We are what we wear . . .

"Who is your fashion star? Who do you look to in picking out what you will wear each day?" were the questions coming from the talking head on television as I (thankfully!) was walking out the door with Cocoa the Wonder Dog.

I imagine some folks talked about DK, about Ralph, about Tommy, about whoever-is-the-name wherever it is you live. The ones whose names we wear, whose creations we model, whose pockets we fill.

I doubt, however, if anyone talked about that new line coming out of Tarsus, created by P. Diddomy: those shoes of peace which can bring reconciliation wherever we walk; that sash of truth which can confront all the fasle words the world flings at us; the coat of righteousness that always seeks justice for every single one of God's people.

And I am fairly certain that no one mentioned that carpenter turned creator of common couture, who sells that simple little outfit consisting of a bowl, a liter of water, and a towel to wrap around one's waist in order to be a servant.

Pity.

If these were our fashion 'stars,' think of how different our lives, our culture, our world might be.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Just Gone Home

Death.

It's hard enough for adults to understand, to deal with, to handle. But kids? How do we explain death to children?

A father in the church recently lost his grandmother (she was 98, so it was not a sudden loss, but still a loss). And he wanted to be able to talk with his children about the service they would be attending, and why people might be sad.

His six-year-old son, Drew, said, "But Daddy, people shouldn't be sad."

The father asked, "Why not, Drew?"

"Well," this very young, very wise boy replied, "being here on earth is like going to the store. But heaven is home. Great-Grandma has just gone home."

She's just gone home.

Any wonder why Jesus keeps pointing us towards the children when we ask about faith, about the kingdom, about God?

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Desperation

He was one of the kindest, gentlest, most compassionate, most Christ-like and Christ-filled people I ever met. He taught at the college I attended, and I always thought of him as someone who could do no wrong. Then, one day, in class, he talked about his experiences during World War II.

He was one of the rare conscientious objectors for that war, and as such 'served' in the military but not in combat. No, he took part in studies the military did on how troops might react in certain situations.

For instance, part of his group would be given incredible amounts of food, while the rest got nothing. Part of the group could have all the water they needed, while others had mere spoonfuls. In the winter, certain folks would have the warm clothing they needed to survive, other soldiers had only their summer gear.

And what happened? Just what you would expect. The CO's - all compassionate, caring, gentle people of faith - stole water, stole clothes, hoarded food. Pushed to the extreme, our professor related, he realized that even he might take a life in order to survive. In the right (or maybe it is really the wrong) circumstances, the most faithful person can become the most desperate person. Placed in situations we do not choose, any one of us can do what we know to be wrong.

So, when I see those folks in New Orleans who are looting stores for food, I hear Professor Smith's voice, and shut my mouth before I put both feet in.

When I see mothers who are filled with anger and violence because they have no diapers, no milk, no water, no food to give their infants, I remember his stories and try not to rush to judgment.

When I see people who are driven to desperation by circumstances they did not choose, I ask God to forgive me for judging their choices, and pray that I will be faithful enough, and that my country will be just as faithful, to make sure this never, ever happens again,

to anyone.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Helpless

Helpless.

That's how I felt when my brother, Steve, was about six or seven and got hit by the flu so bad, and dehydrated so quickly, that we ended up in the ER with him. And I was sure he was going to die.

Helpless.

That's how I felt when we were playing touch football (American style) in the front yard and Steve was running full out with his head down, right into the big oak tree, and bounced off, lying dazed on the ground.

Helpless.

That's how I felt a few years ago when I got a call from Steve telling me he was in the hospital with chest pains. He had been attending his denomination's annual meeting in Louisville (about two hours away), when this happened. I drove down to be with him as he went through all sorts of tests and all (ending up with a diagnosis of about 10% blockage, but nothing required to treat it).

Helpless.

And that's how I felt last night, and feel this morning, and will continue to feel until we hear from him. He and his wife live in Jackson, Mississippi, and other than about a 45 second call to my Mom on Monday night, saying they were 'okay' (and then the call abruptly ended), we haven't had a word.

In the age of instant communication, there is no way to reach him, with 80% of the state without power. In the time of cell phones, emails, internet, Mother Nature has taken control of the situation, and we are all helpless. In a day of being able to talk with strangers halfway around the world, I cannot hear the voice of my younger brother, who is so precious to me.

Helpless.

But not hopeless.

For God is there, and it is in God I place my hope and trust. God is with Steve and Denise, and that is where they place their hope and trust. God is speaking, God is comforting, God is helping, God is reassuring me that whatever happens, my brother, like all the children of God hit by the devastating power of Katrina, are in God's care.

Our help is in the name of the Lord,
who made heaven and earth.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Maybe it's time

If you promise not to tell my New Testament professors, I will make a confession. I don't always do what they taught me back in seminary. Take today's Gospel reading found in Mark 1:29-45.

As Mark often does, there is a lot of action compressed into a few verses. Jesus heals Peter's mother-in-law; he cures a lot of sick folks and casts out demons; he goes off by himself to pray; he goes around preaching and casting out more demons (I guess I missed that class!); and he heals a leper.

And there it is. In verse 41, where the NRSV says that Jesus is "moved with pity," a little footnote letter appears (in my Bible, it's an'o'). Now, that is a signal to look down at the bottom of the page for a textual variant (in seminary-ese). And, in a highly unusual move for me, I glance down at it, thinking I will find the word 'compassion' or 'sorrow' or some other sympathetic word. But I don't.

I am told that other ancient authorities read 'anger.'

Anger.

I expect Jesus to be compassionate; I expect Jesus to feel sorry for folks; I expect Jesus to be moved with pity. But when he is about to heal someone I don't expect him to be angry. But he is, in some of the ancient readings that were passed around in the early church.

He's not angry at the interruption, but at the disease which is another symbol of the brokeness in God's creation.

He's not angry at being asked to do a healing, but at the misery which comes along with the physical debility.

He's not angry at the leper, but at the powers that continue to defile God's world, that continue to challenge God's justice, that continue to separate people from the One who has created them in the divine image.

And so it is with passion, not pity, that Jesus heals the leper. It is with that holy righteousness that cannot stand to see another suffer, that Jesus brings hope to this outsider. It is with that divine willingness to stand with those who have been cast out by the world, those who have been judged unworthy by society, those who have been condemned because they are not as wealthy or wise or wonderful as we, that Jesus reaches out and touches the man and, in doing so, brings him back into God's family.

We are so easily moved by pity, we find it so easy to feel sorry for others, we complain about compassion fatigue.

Maybe it's time for some passionate anger on behalf of others.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Requiem in pace

I sat next to him one evening after the service was over. His wispy white hair showed the life of service to God's people; his face was etched with the stories of pilgrims; his hands reflected the years of prayer. As a brother translated, I told Brother Roger of Taize of Teddy's pilgrimage through a life of struggle and pain, and heard this gentle man's whispered prayers on behalf of my son.

Brother Roger should have died, with his beloved community surrounding him, singing Nunc dimittis and Ubi caritas. He should have died in his sleep. He should have died in peace.

But he was stabbed to death today during one of the services held in the Church of Reconciliation, surrounded by the community he had called together, and, no doubt, several thousand young people from all over the world. I grieve for the young people, who came to Taize seeking peace and hope in a violent world. I pray for Brother John, Brother Jean-Marie, and all the other brothers who seek to find meaning in their living response to God's call. I think of the father from Holland I met four years ago who, with his now adult daughter, had been going to Taize each year for over 40 years.

All these people responded to Brother Roger's vision of a world that could be healed of its brokenness and warring ways; of communities that could make journeys of reconciliation, Protestants visiting Catholics and so forth, in efforts to understand one another better; of a Church that could set aside its differences and doctrines to live out its common belief in Jesus as Lord.

His voice is gone but lives on in the meditative songs, the prayers, the writings, the silence.

His heart is stilled, but beats on in the thousands and thousands of people throughout the world who seek to bring peace, healing and reconciliation to their neighborhoods, their churches, their families.

His gentle spirit is with God and has been passed on to all the young people who have journeyed to Taize, and will continue to make pilgrimages there, in the simple, yet radical, belief that barriers can be broken down, that unity can be found, that goodness is better than evil, that love is stronger than hate, that peace is the way of all of God's people.

Requiem in pace, Brother Roger.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Wherever Jesus is . . .

The week of Vacation Bible School,
they were there.

The entire month we offered English as aSecond Language classes for children and youth in our school district,
they were there.

Yesterday, when a group from the church went into the city to serve a meal to several hundred homeless folks,
they were there.

Like most teenagers, Lydia and Millen could have been walking out at the mall, talking on the phone, sitting at the pool, shopping. But whenever, and wherever we, as a church, are serving God's children, they are there.

Some would say it is because 4 1/2 years ago, when they and their family immigrated to the States from Eritrea, they needed food, they needed help with their English, they needed folks who reached out to them. So they come out of a sense of gratitude.

Some might say they show up because folks are 'encouraging' them to participate, and so they come out of a sense of obligation.

Me? I think it is because, like most kids and young people, they have distilled the Gospel down to the basics.

Wherever there are hungry people, that is where we will find Jesus. Wherever there are people who need help with their language skills, we will find Jesus there. Wherever there are children to be taught (and shown) how much God loves them, that's where Jesus will be. Wherever there is a mother who needs help with a baby, wherever there is a father struggling to educate his children, wherever there is a grandmother who cannot afford the prescriptions she needs - wherever there are people in pain, in sorrow, in need, that's where Jesus is.

Lydia and Millen have decided that wherever Jesus is, that's where they want to be.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman