Too Late

Now it's too late.

I first got to know Billy O. Wireman when my campus job had me delivering the mail to all the offices at Florida Presbyterian College (now Eckerd College) in the mid-60's. If his door was open, and it was only closed for the greatest of crises, he would ask how I was doing, genuinely concerned for me as a person.

I came to know him over the next few years as a warm, compassionate, humorous human being. His was not the false bonhomie of a person on the rise, his life was one which truly reflected those fruits of the Spirit Paul talks about. Billy Wireman was a strong Presbyterian, he was an even stronger Christian. I know this because I had the opportunities to see Billy in his professional life, his personal life, and his religious life - and he was the same person in every situation.

He began at FPC as a teacher of physical education and the school's first basketball coach. But his vision, his energy, his commitment to liberal arts education, and especially international education, soon had him coaching a generation of young people to learn, to grow, to lead, to serve. When he was only 35, he became president of the college, the youngest in the States at the time. He led the college out of a financial wilderness into a time of stability and growth - always with good humor, grace, and compassion.

I left college in the middle of my senior year, and probably would not have gone back if not for Billy Wireman. Some four years after leaving, I was back in the area visiting some friends, and we were out on the college campus. They encouraged me to stop by and say hello to Billy. Which I reluctantly did. As usual, his door was open. As usual, we had a great conversation. As usual, he was genuinely concerned for me as a child of God. "What do we need to do to get you back here as a student?" he asked at the end. Which began a process that led to my returning to that campus as a student, and graduating (finally!). One of my great memories of life is receiving my diploma from Billy O. Wireman 10 years after I had started at FPC/Eckerd.

He left Eckerd, and moved on to another small, struggling, church-related college and with his grace, energy, vision, compassion, and faith, transformed it as well, influencing still more and more young people to lives of service and leadership. Over the years, in various denominational publications, I would read about Billy, and make a mental note to myself that I should drop him a letter, I should tell him how he shaped my life, I should tell him what that one little question meant to me. And I always misplaced that note.

Now, it's too late. Billy O. Wireman died this past Saturday after a three-year battle with cancer.

I guess now I will have to write Billy that note by the life I try to lead.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

The Wait is Over

I was probably about 11 when it happened. I was at the library, checking out some books from the 'juvenile fiction' section. The librarian looked at my choices, and then looked at me."Haven't you read these before?" she asked. "Oh yeah, several times," I replied, "but there aren't any new books out." That's when she opened my world.

"Have you ever read Sherlock Holmes?" I didn'tknow what he wrote, I told her, but I would try anything that had words on paper. She laughed and took me into the holy of holies - the adult section. There, she pulled out a slim volume and handed it to me. "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes" by Arthur Conan Doyle. "Give this a try," she said, "and let me know what you think."

Think? The foggy streets of Victorian London; Watson and Holmes calling for a transom cab; wondering who the man with the Twisted Lip really was; imagining how beautiful Irene Adler had to be; shivering in the dark, with Holmes and Watson as they saw the Speckled Band for the first time. Think? It's not rational, but I fell in love with Doyle's creation. So much, that by the time I walked home, I had read the entire book! Only the fact that the library was closed kept me from turning around and going back for more. But I was there the next morning, sitting on the steps when the librarian arrived to open the doors.

For millions of kids (and people who wish they were kids), the wait is over. "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" is finally out, and now the adventure begins. Forget about getting the kids to help with the chores; dinner may be late the next few weeks; the pool water will barely be rippled because everyone is sitting on the sides reading. The adventure of Harry, Hemione, Ron and the wizards and witches of Hogwarts continues.

I love the HP books. While they may not be "great" literature, they are a delight to read. And even more delightful is the fact that they give kids the incentive to read. Like my librarian of long ago, J. K. Rowling has opened up the world of reading to a whole new generation. What a gift!

And, intentionally or not, she reflects many of the gospel values. While not called as such, the characters and stories live out the fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. There are marvelous accounts of self-denial and sacrifice. There are even those who are willing to lay down their lives for their friends. And through it all is the assurance that evil and death do not have the final word in anyone's life, even that of a young wizard.

So, when I see the kids carrying around their copies, with the books sitting open on their laps as they immerse themselves in that magical world, I will smile and remember the magical world the librarian introduced me to years ago, and give thanks: for her, for Conan Doyle, for J. K. Rowlings, and especially for the gift of words that reflect the Word.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Jack Nicklaus

It was during my second year in the ministry. I was at a presbytery meeting and, at dinner, I was seated next to a female clergy whose father was a "famous" member of this presbytery. He had been there for years, and was well known for his commitment, his passion, his hard work. But his daughter told a different story.

He was so committed to ministry, that he never made it home for a single birthday celebration. He was so passionate about serving God's people, that every anniversary was spent at some meeting, at some event. He worked so hard, that he could not tear himself away to attend either of his daughter's graduations from high school and college.

I thought about that conversation this morning as I watched an interview with Jack Nicklaus. Certainly the best golfer America has ever produced, if not the best in the world, Nicklaus is playing in his final 'major' event, the British Open. He talked with the interviewer about his golf career, his legacy, the tragic drowning of his small grandson earlier this year, about his decision to "put away his clubs."

Then the interviewer asked, "Over the years, with all the tournaments, all the victories, all the tours, it must have meant you missed a lot of family events." To which Nicklaus replied, "Not a one. I was there for every graduation, every birthday, every anniversary. I never missed a football game or any other school event my kids were in." He intentionally arranged his tour and practice schedules so he would be there for his family.

Wow!

Now, I know that he could probably afford to charter a private jet to fly home after a round of golf, attend an event, and fly back in the middle of the night for the next day's round. Even so, it would have been a sacrifice to lose time, sleep, and energy to fulfill that desire to see his kids, to see his wife, to be with his family in such moments. He obviously made some choices, along the way, about tournaments he would willingly miss for the sake of his family.

Committed, passionate, hard working -
I think I know who is the better role model.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Psalm 151

Hallelujah!

Praise God for purple-haired women!
Praise God for teenagers with mohawks!

Praise God with tattooed arms!
Praise God with athritic hands!

Praise God for children with runny noses!
Praise God for parents with pockets
stuffed of hankies!

Praise God with street rap!
Praise God with Bach cantatas!

Praise God in stainedglass sanctuaries!
Praise God in smoky pubs!

Let every living, breathing,
cranky, curmudgeonly,
kindly, loving, gracious,
bigandtall, shortandsmall,
beloved and longing-to-be
creature praise God!

Hallelujah!

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Where???

I've been on one of those double-decker buses. I've used the London Underground, and gotten off at King's Cross Station. I've walked the streets where the people were being treated for their injuries.

Maybe that's what makes the images on the television this morning so painful, so personal. Having visited London only once, yet falling in love with it so deeply, I feel violated, I feel wounded, I feel attacked.

Was the worker at the British Museum who was so helpful in answering my questions riding the underground at the moment of the explosion? Was the waitress at the pub where we had lunch on the bus? Were any of the people I know personally over there injured, or worse?

So many questions.

Of course, inevitably the question will be asked: "Where was God in all this?" People will ask us, because we are believers. And even though we are believers, we will ask it as well. "Where were you, God?"

The late Fred Rogers, Presbyterian minister and creator of the marvelous children's show,"Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood," here in the States, knew that children who witnessed such scenes as we see today, were especially frightened because they could not always comprehend what they were seeing. So he always told them to look for the helpers. That when people are hurt, when scary things happen, helpers are always around.

That's what I noticed this morning: the yellow-jacketed police, doing their jobs with heavy hearts; the London Ambulance people, professionally caring for people while nursing their own personal grief; the bystanders who rushed to give aid to their neighbors, even as terror ran along beside them.

Where was God? God was the young paramedic visiting from New Jersey, who helped to give triage to the injured. God was the doctor, who instinctively knew which patients needed her care the most. God was the aid worker handing out blankets to the less-injured. God was the stranger gently wiping the blood off the face of another stranger.

Whenever something happens that frightens us, that we cannot begin to comprehend, we should always look for the helpers, because that is where we will find God.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

The Do-Rag

We went to a motorcycle rally yesterday. These are great places to take Teddy - there are a lot of motorcycles, making lots of noise; there is live music; there are vendors of all sorts of esoteric items (though the bikers might not use that descriptor) and, of course, there is a lot of food.

Interestingly enough, Teddy ended up wanting to buy only two things (other than food and drink!). First, he got some peel-the-backing-off and stick-on purple and gold flames for the side of my truck (so it would look 'bad'). Then, after seeing all the bikers wearing them, he wanted a 'do-rag.' Now, if you don't know what a do-rag is, it is a scarf-like piece of cloth you place on your head and tie it in the back (think about what the pirates in old movies wore and you will have an idea). And, of course, Mom and Dad had to get one as well.

So, there we were: three Midwestern, middle-class folks trying to 'blend in' with the crowd. Without some sort of leather garment, without a rash of tattoos all over our bodies, without a swagger that cannot be taught, we stuck out like three Midwestern, middle-class folks trying to blend in.

Which was okay with the bikers. No one stared, no one laughed, no one pointed at us. It confirmed what we have learned over the years. Despite their tattoos, their apparel, their swagger, bikers (for the most part) are just like us: good, compassionate, caring people. The only difference is the passion they have for motorcycles.

Want to raise money for a family whose house has burned down? The bikers will be there. Know a kid who has cancer and the family can't pay all the medical bills? The bikers will organize a charity ride, and repeat it as often as needed. Want partners in preventing child abuse, rare diseases, lost causes? Call a local biker club. These folks will show up, work their tails off, and ride off into the distance, without needing a lot of pats on the back.

And on most Sunday mornings, dressed in their leather, sporting their tattoos, riding in on their bikes, and walking in with a swagger, you will find a lot of bikers attending Bikers Church, seeking to be as faithful in following Christ as we are, dressed in our Sunday best, sporting our jewelry, riding in our SUVs, and walking in to be with the God who loves us all - each and every one of us.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

A Glimpse of the Kingdom

It happened again yesterday.

Jesus took two little children and put them among us during worship, and we saw the kingdom around us. Two sisters, one 10 and the other 6, were brought forward to be baptized. The words we speak at every baptism were said, the promises we make at every baptism were made, the Apostles' Creed was affirmed once again.

Then the prayer over the water was made, and the Spirit began to play in it, laughing and splashing in delight. She allowed me to caress the living waters with my hand, and bring them to Caroline and Leigh Ann: a palmful for the God of Grace, a palmful for the Christ of Love, a palmful for the Spirit of Life. And as I touched their heads, I saw the baptismal waters reflected in the tears brimming in the eyes of their parents.

And last night, when Leigh Ann and her Mom were out in the back yard watering the vegetable garden, Leigh Ann (who has some developmental challenges), dipped her hand in the cool water, and placed it on Mom's head three times, repeating the words spoken to her that morning.

No wonder Jesus tells us we have to become like a child in order to enter the kingdom of heaven.

They get it.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Fireflies

When I went out with Cocoa the Wonder Dog last night, for her last piece of business before bed, I saw them . . .

fireflies.

For some folks, it is the last day of school; for others, it is the first day the swimming pool opens; but for me, the first sign that summer has truly arrived are the fireflies.

Flickering off and on in the gathering darkness, playing hide-and-seek in the wildflower garden; trying to see which one can go the highest in the air - I love to watch fireflies on a summer's evening.

As a child, I tried to collect as many fireflies as I could in an old mayonnaise jar (with holes punched in the lid, of course), and would fall asleep by the flickering light the captives cast on my bedroom wall. Now, I just love to stand out on the deck and enjoy their evening dance.

Until Cocoa comes up and nudges me with her nose, and we go in for the last dog treat of the day, go upstairs, curl up on the bed, and fall asleep, the fireflies still dancing in the night.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Grace upon grace

What a gracious God!

Sarah is worried about there being no direct heir for Abraham, so she insists that her maidservant, Hagar, be the bearer of such an heir - and grace upon grace, Ishmael is born!

What a gracious God!

God appears to Abraham and Sarah, sits and talks, eats and drinks, and makes them a promise about a child being born to Sarah - and grace upon grace, Isaac is born!

And, as so happens with so many folks who have been given grace upon grace, Sarah turns into one of the most ungracious people in the Bible. She becomes so jealous of Ishmael (and Hagar), so worried about the share Isaac will get (and her share?), that she insists that Abraham cast them out of the fold.

We can certainly read this story as one of the culture of the times, in which flesh and blood is everything.

But note what a counter-cultural movement God makes - God responds to the cries of the outcasts...God listens to the cries of a woman, as well as a boy who might as well be an orphan. God listens, God saves, God makes a great nation out of the ones cast out by the one who was called to be a blessing to all nations.

We who have been given grace upon grace, we who have been gifted beyond all imagination, we who have been blessed with more than we could ever ask for or expect - how do we respond to such grace? What do we do with all our gifts? How eager are we to become a blessing to others?

And what counter-cultural moves are we, as individuals and churches, willing to make as we look around and cannot fail to see the ones cast out in our societies?

What a gracious God!

Dare we be so gracious?

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

At the Abbey of Iona
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How Ordinary!

I have to admit that on some days, especially Mondays, whenever there is a knock on the door, there is a part of me that says, "I hope it is someone important, some celebrity who is just dropping by to meet me because they've heard what a gifted preacher I am, what a witty conversationalist, what a charming bon vivant."

So when the knock came on the door yesterday morning, I could hope that it was Angelina Jolie, here to talk to me about the latest crisis in her life, or her journeys around the world with her humanitarian work. But it was a single mother from the neighborhood, who wanted to chat about her desire to be married in the church this fall.

And the next time there was someone at the door, I could fantasize that it was the owner of the Cincinnati Reds, come to ask my advice on how to turn his team around. Instead, it was a young man from a couple of streets over, who had just lost his job, his fiancee was struggling with medical issues, and rather than giving in to (as he put it) all the wrong things he could have done to deal with his life, he decided to stop in a church.

I can hope/dream/imagine all I want about the "beautiful people" stopping in for a chat, for advice, for a respite from their lives. But what God sends to me are all those ordinary people with bills to pay, with kids to find child care for during the summer while they work two jobs, with aging parents who worry them with diminishing lives, and all the ordinary, everyday struggles with which celebrities never have to deal.

Ordinary people - like all the tax collectors, sinners, hookers, women, children that Jesus used to hang out with on the street corners, and sit down to eat with at the local greasy spoon.

Ordinary people - like the money launderers, the blue collar Joes, the deniers, the betrayers the ones Jesus called to follow him, and then sent them out to share his good news.

Ordinary people - just like me.

Ordinary . . . and the most beautiful people in the world.

Keep 'em coming, Lord, keep 'em coming!

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

The Face

And there they were.

Those faces we had grown so accustomed to 30+ years ago: the Plumber, the Burglar, the Chief of Staff, the guy who would run over his own grandmother if it would help thePresident, the Trickster - all those folks who put the USA through a constitutional crisis perhaps unparalleled in our history.

And there they were, the same faces, a little more lined, a lot more gray, but the same voices: spinning, justifying, obfuscating, accusing, denying.

But the face I will always remember from theWatergate era is that of Bob. A white-haired fellow in his early 70's, he was a part-timer in the campus post office. He had been through some of the most difficult times in the 20th century: the Depression, World War II, coming home from war to start a life. And because he was of that generation, even in retirement he was always moving. The only time he ever sat down was for coffee in the morning and afternoon, and when he would open up the brown bag lunch his wife lovingly packed him each day.

But when the hearings started to be broadcast on the radio, he started to move a little slower and would do more of his work sitting down. At first, he had the look that most folks had then: disbelief at all the fuss over a minor break-in in some office. But then more and more people testified, more and more was revealed, and Bob's face went through all the classic stages of grief that we are familiar with, until he was sitting there nodding his head in belief at what most of the folks were saying about his government, his president, his leaders.

And when the famous "smoking gun" tape was released, and the proof could no longer be denied, Bob reached over, turned off the radio, got up and went back to work. And while my memory may be a little hazy after 30+ years, I am pretty sure he was humming:

'On Christ the solid Rock, I stand;
all other ground is sinking sand,
all other ground is sinking sand.'

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Remembering and Forgetting

With a parade in every community, with a flag in front of just about every house, with every war movie ever made showing on TV, and every window in the stores promoting Memorial Day sales, it wasn't that difficult to "remember" yesterday (Memorial Day here in the States). In fact, it would have been pretty darn hard to forget what day it was!

But today, it's easier. Going back to work after a three-day weekend, one suddenly realizes the loss of a day to get the work done. With the regular shows and soaps back on TV, it is easier to focus on the struggles of mythical folks than the realities that neighbors face. With all the visual reminders put away until July 4th, the fact that we have young women and men a long way from home and in harm's way can be shoved to the back of our minds.

It's like our relationship with God. When we are in worship, of course we remember to bring our prayers to God. As the hymns are played and sung, we recall the ways that music can heal us and inspire us to go out and serve others. When scripture is read, we remind ourselves that we need to be more faithful in our daily devotions.

But then we leave the sanctuary, and immediately join in a discussion about our favorite sports team, and poof!, there goes that mental 'post-it' to spend more time in prayer. We meet friends for lunch and, whoosh, we forget to say a prayer of thanksgiving, not only for the food, but for the folks who have worked to provide the meal while we were in church. We go home and turn on the TV and the tune of our favorite commercial drives "Amazing Grace" right out of our brain.

It's not the the struggle of remembering that causes me problems, it's the ease of forgetting!

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

The Manna Jar

Usually it's stuck up on the top shelf of the bookcase next to my desk, but lately, I have been keeping my "manna jar" close to my side.

Well, actually it is not a jar, but a Stainsbury's Assorted Biscuits tin from England. And instead of being filled with delicious treats (which are long gone!), it is filled with 'manna,' that bread of heaven, all those gifts from God to remind me that I am God's beloved child.

There are cards from families thanking me for funerals, weddings, or baptisms which I have done; there are crayoned notes from children who now have children of their own; there is a picture of my mother, taken when she was much younger; there are emails from friends and colleagues; there is a ribbon which wrapped chocolate that a dear friend brought back to me from France; there is a stone from Lindisfarne, some sand from Martyr's Bay at Iona, a rock from Omaha Beach, a pressed flower from Taize.

They are reminders of places where God has led me, people whom God has graced me, all the gifts God has poured out upon me over the years. They are, as the liturgy puts it, 'outward and visible signs' of that invisibly and spiritual bread of life God gives to us each and every day, if we only take notice.

When I am spinning and whirling from a life of stress, I open my manna jar and breathe the sweet aroma of the Spirit's healing presence, and it seems my hyperventilating soul begins to calm;

when the demands of ministry have stripped me bare, I touch the words, the paper, the stones - all those inanimate objects that put sinew and muscle back onto my dried bones;

when I hunger for a friend, an affirmation, a reminder that God loves me and cares for me, I feast upon these tender sweets, and my emptiness is filled to overflowing, my broken spirit is made whole.

And I put the lid back on my manna jar, and continue on through the wilderness.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Kids!

There's a part of me that knows I went into ministry to save myself. After all, if I am a minister, I get to go to the head of the line at the pearly gates, don't I?

There's a part of me that knows I went into ministry to save the world. It's a messy job, but somebody has to do it, and who better than someone who is on God's "side?"

There's a part of me that knows I went into ministry to save my denomination. The only place in a bigger mess than the world is a church denomination, and since the whole structure of redemption would crumble without denominations, it's an important job.

There's a part of me that knows I went into ministry to save a church - whichever one I am serving at any particular time. After all, there are always people who need to be healed, problems that need to be solved, budgets that need to be met. And who better to tackle these than an ordained minister?

But now, now, all of me knows that I'm in ministry for the kids. The kids who ask all the questions adults think are too "silly" but are at the heart of the human condition. Like Dennis the Menace yesterday, who asked, "If we're made out of dust, how's come we don't turn to mud when it rains?" kids are willing to put the pastor on the spot with just the right question at the most inconvenient moment.

And kids are willing to learn. Like the sower in Jesus' parable, every pastor learns that kids are the good soil - the place where the seeds of kindness, of justice, of hope, of compassion can be planted; and where they will blossom and flourish - in a year, in 10 years, in a lifetime - but the seeds do not lie fallow in kids.

And kids model the best attributes of God. They are willing to forgive in the heat of the moment, not waiting until the other person is frozen by the cold shoulder of hurt and rejection. They are willing to run up and hug, when you least expect it and most need it. They are willing to love - unconditionally, unsparingly, unfailingly, for all eternity.

Thank God for the kids!

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Sabbath

I called another pastor this morning. "Sorry," the secretary said, "she is not in today." "Oh, you mean the pastor takes a day off?" Yes!" the secretary replied, and then added a heartfelt, "Thank God!"

Because of the lectionary readings for this coming Sunday (about God creating and taking the seventh day off) there's been a lot of talk on one of the chat lists I belong to about'sabbath' - about doing it, honoring it, taking it. About how we "need" that time off, how we are "supposed" to take such a break. The conversation with the secretary this morning reminded me that sabbath is not only a break for us, but it is a break "from" us for other people.

Sabbath is a break for the people we work with, whom we often push when we are falling behind, whom we often blame when we are being criticized, whom we often forget when we are being recognized.

Sabbath is a break for the people we live with - when we are intentionally more patient than usual, when we are more loving than we normally show, when we are more focused on our spouses, children, and friends than we are on ourselves, our needs, our petty concerns.

Sabbath is a break for God, as well, when God sees us taking the time (whether it is an hour, an evening, a day) to truly be the people God dreamed of when God scooped up that clay off the floor of the earth, pottered into a familiar form and blew the Spirit into our lungs.

If I keep sabbath only for myself, I continue to be self-centered. If I give others a break from me, then sabbath becomes a gift for everyone, even God.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

On the day after . . .

On the great Day of Pentecost, a mighty wind surged forth from heaven, pushing the followers of Jesus out of the house where they had been hiding, and into the streets. Flames danced above their heads, their tongues began to wag, and people from all over the world heard what they said, no matter what their native language. Peter gave a sermon which would cause Billy Graham to turn green with envy, and 3,000 (!) people were baptized.

The Church of Jesus Christ was born!

On the day after Pentecost:

Peter's wife had to yell at him three times to get out of bed, so that he would get his sermon on the website before 9:00 a.m.;

the deacons grumbled about cleaning out the baptismal pool;

and the apostles began to argue about who got to preach on Trinity Sunday, who would choose the hymns, and who would be stuck chairing the Nominating Committee.

Come, Holy Spirit, with your uniting peace;
come, Holy Spirit, with your gracious language;
come, Holy Spirit, with your passion for all people;
Come, Holy Spirit!

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Phobia of the Day

Okay, admit it. You are not superstitious. But, were you afraid to go to work today? Won't go out to eat in a restaurant today? Definitely won't get married today?

If so, you may just suffere from the dreaded paraskevidekatriaphobia (try saying that three times real fast!) But not to worry, you are not alone. In fact, if you suffer from para-----, you are one of 21 million people in the United States alone (or about 8% of the population). What is it?

The fear of Friday the 13th.

We all joke about it; we all laugh at such 'fears,'; we all pooh-pooh such fears. But for a lot of folks, it can be very, very real.

Why Friday? Why 13?

Some say Friday is a bad day, historically. According to tradition, it was on a Friday that Eve enticed Adam with the apple, and they got driven out of Eden on that same day. Another old tales says that God scrambled languages at Babel on a Friday; a similar tradition tells us that the Great Flood came on Friday. And, of course, there is that Friday Christians call "good" when Jesus went to his death.

Friday was considered such a "bad" day, that for centuries, Christians would not begin travel on that day, or initiate new projects. (Of course, I am sure that the fact that Friday comes from the Norse goddess of love and sex, Freya, has nothing do do with our attitude towards the day!)

13 has been seen as a bad luck number for even longer. Hindu lore says that if 13 people gather for a meal together, all will die within a year. Norse mythology tells of the hero Balder being killed by the evil Loki, who crashes a party of the gods, making a total of 13 in attendance. And again, there were 13 gathere at the table at the Last Supper.

13 also figures into the names of folks who are considered to be the epitomes of evil: Jack the Ripper, Charles Manson, Theodore Bundy, and others all have 13 letters in their names.

Yet, in other cultures, 13 is considered to be a very lucky number. The Chinese have seen it as one of the most favorable numerals.

For the ancient Egyptians, 13 represented the highest goal for a human being. Believing that life consisted of 12 stages, they viewed the 13th (and final) stage as that of life beyond death, when one would be gloriously transformed into the image they would have for all eternity.

Isn't it interesting how, over the centuries, we have corrupted a belief that symbolized reverence and respect for life beyond what we know now, into an attitude that represents the fear of death?

So, maybe we should break the "spell" of Friday the 13th by going out and having a party, inviting 12 of our best friends to a sumptious meal, meeting someone who has 13 letters in their name for drinks after work, laughing in the face of phobias and fears. Isn't that what trust in the risen Christ is all about . . .

. . .or, are we too superstitious?

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

Veni Sancte Spiritus

I have to admit that I have never had any tongues of fire dancing on my head. Though, come to think of it, there was that time when I was in children's choir at the Christmas Eve service, and the lighted candle in the hand of the little girl behind me got too close to the hair on the back of my head! (But I am not sure if that counts).

I don't recall my folks mentioning anything about a white dove appearing at my baptism and a voice speaking from heaven.

Even though there were several wild geese flying over me on this morning's walk, I apparently don't have the spiritual gift to discern what they were saying.

But, there are those times when Paisley curls up in my lap after a long day, and starts purring, and I feel the healing presence of the Comforter.

In the middle of the night, when I hear Bonnie softly breathing next to me, I am filled with a Peace that is impossible to describe.

And this morning, like every morning, the Holy Spirit bounded up onto the bed and started licking my face, saying, "Come on; get up, lazy bones! Let's go see what God has in store for us today!"

Come, Holy Spirit, come!

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman

V E Day

I was in France four years ago, when VE Day (the "end" of World War II in Europe) was celebrated. Unlike the United States, it is a national holiday in France, and I was impressed with the reverence with which people treated the day and its meaning.

Now, in 2005, it seems to have special meaning, throughout the world, as we remember the 60th anniversary of this special date in the life of humanity.

And one of the things the anniversary has spurred, at least among us clergy "types," is a discussion about the meaning of war, the validity of war, the value of war, the reality of war. Most of us, however we feel about that war or any other, seem fairly well convinced that our position coincides with the one the Lord had. WWJD? Well, it seems he would do what I would.

But maybe it is not so much what Jesus did that is important, as much as what Jesus knew. Jesus seems to know, more clearly than we seem able, that we are are war - within ourselves.

When I am immersed in Scripture, when I am reading about loving my enemies, it's "Right on! That's the way to live." When Jesus speaks about turning the other cheek, "Amen, brother! I can do that." And when he talks, and walks, about caring passionately and unconditionally about those people who don't give a damn about me, "You go, Jesus!"

Oh yes, when I am deep within Scripture, I can be incredibly brave, unbelievably strong, committed without any sort of reservation or question.

But when I shut the Bible, get up, and walk out the door into my life, I become a wimp with a capital W, I, M, P. With a single bound, I can jump into a conflict adding my anger. I can leap tall steeples to land with my right foot of hostility and my left foot of righteousness into the midst of any debate. I can pick up my weapons of pride and arrogance and do mighty battle with any one, and every one, who dares to disagree with me.

The abyss, cut deep by the raging waters of all our anger, hate and bitterness, between where we want to live and the world we really inhabit is precisely what Jesus came to bridge, that we might follow him across into that peaceable Kingdom of God. And fortunately, in the Spirit he leaves behind, Jesus gives us the tools to keep the bridge standing long after he is gone.

(c) 2005 Thom M. Shuman