When God Comes Knocking

 He who has not Christmas in his heart will never find it under a tree. Roy L. Smith

There is a tale of a man who found himself standing outside a massive wall and a single door. Beyond them was the kingdom of heaven. The man knocked on the door, but there was no answer. As he walked along the wall looking for a way in or through, he noticed other people entering through the door, but it was always closed by the time he’d get back to it. He sat beside the door for days, and eventually for years. Each day he would rise and knock, but nobody would answer. Whether he stood by the door or sat by it, others would come and go, and yet the door was always closed before he could reach it, and no one would answer, no matter how long, hard, or persistently he knocked. And yet, never did a day go by where he did not rise and knock, despite the seeming futility of the act.

Have you ever seen one of those drawings that seem to be one thing, and yet if you look carefully, you see something else? The first example that comes to mind is the drawing of a vase, and upon second view what you thought was a vase is actually the outline of two faces staring at one another. Or the drawing of a young lady in a hat facing away that, upon closer examination, becomes a wrinkled old woman facing forward.

When I first heard the story above, I found it alternatingly frustrating and delightful. It is frustrating in that the protagonist wants to get into heaven, but can’t. It seems like God’s not listening. That’s terrible! On the other hand, there is the delightful persistence of the person who is seemingly content to rise each day and knock on heaven’s door. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? It’s not our door; it belongs to God. We don’t have the key; God IS the key. So we knock.

As a problem solver, I’ll confess that when I first heard the story I just shrugged my shoulders and said, “Well, if it were me, I’d just go around the corner and use the Servant’s Entrance.”

I thought more about the story; it wouldn’t let go of me. Something in the tale nagged and nibbled on the back of my mind until a different picture emerged. What if that story isn’t about a man – about us – but about God? What if it is a story about God standing beside the door to the kingdom of heaven – but not one “high in the sky in the great by and by,” but one that resides in you, me, and every other creature here-abouts? What if it is God seeking entry into the kingdom we call “our heart,” but which is really God’s heart – a heart that belongs to God?

There is a famous painting from the Gerffert Collection of Jesus standing beside a door. Jesus holds a lantern and knocks on a door that has no handle or knob. It is latched on the inside, and it is up to those who reside within to open the door and let him in. 

I confess I often struggle to hear God knocking at the door to my heart day by day. I don’t believe God ever comes in once and stays. God has work to do, errands to run, life to manage, and I think part of that thing we call the love of God requires our listening for God’s daily knocking at the door so we can open up and share with one another our thoughts and dreams, adventures, misadventures, frustrations and delights fresh each day, just as we do with all those whom we love.

God knocks. That’s a miracle. This week, God knocks as a migrant family with an overly pregnant woman whose water has just broken. Will we hear the knock at the door? Will we open the door? Will we make room for God to be born under our roof, and under the shelter of our wing? That’s the question we face at Christmas, and each and every day here in this, our valley. Merry Christmas!

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

When God went Plumb Loco!

Behold this day. It is yours to make. Native American Proverb

I was a young lad of about twelve or thirteen and was trying to come up with a gift idea for my grandfather. I was a child, so I wasn’t expected to get anything for anyone, but there was no way I could let Christmas come and go without finding something for those I loved. Grandma was easy. I got her some really sweet smelling spritzer juice at the local drugstore. It looked a bit like windshield washing fluid, but smelled a lot nicer, so I just knew she would love it.

But Grandpa was a tougher nut to crack. When us grandkids came to the house he primarily sat in his chair reading the paper, drinking coffee, and smoking his camel cigarettes like there was no tomorrow. If we got too boisterous, he would head down to the basement where he would busy himself with some project or other. His hobby was building lighthouses out of concrete and seashells. They were highly sought after in the neighborhood, in fact.

I knew he was a craftsman, so I found myself down at the local hardware store seeking inspiration for a gift, and suddenly I found it. There amongst the bric-a-brac (the large majority of which I had no idea what they were, what they did, or how one used them) I saw a shiny hunk of steel in a bin marked “plumb bobs.” A passage of scripture leapt immediately to mind  from a recent Sunday lesson from the prophet Amos: “Thus He showed me, and behold, the Lord was standing by a vertical wall with a plumb line in His hand.”

For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine my grandfather would have anything as rare or precious as a plummet in his collection of tools. On those rare occasions I had spent with him in his workshop, I’d never seen anything like it. It was expensive when compared with the cost of Grandma’s eau de toilette, but I couldn’t imagine a better gift for a builder – a craftsman.

Christmas Eve came for the traditional gathering of the extended family dinner and gift exchange. The aluminum tree was up; the lighted color wheel turned ever-so-slowly. All was as Merry as it had ever been. The meal was served; a baker’s dozen of us crowded together around a table barely big enough for six, but Grandma made it work. My cousin, Gayle, and I were smushed in our usual corner of the room with aluminum tv trays that fairly well buckled under the weight of all the food we piled on our plates. It was loud, noisy, crowded, and chaotic – perfect in every way.

Afterwards, of course, it was time to gather in the living room  for the giving and receiving of gifts. Hidden in the tree were small envelopes into which Grandpa had placed Silver Dollars for the grandkids. He complained that silver dollars were getting harder and harder to find. Other gifts were handed out and opened one by one to the oohs and ahs of the clan. Grandma thanked me for the spritzer; I blushed and smiled at the compliment.

Then Grandpa opened his gift, looked at it with wide-eyed amazement and said, “What the heck is this? What do I need a plumb-bob for?” Then he remembered himself for half a moment and added (with a slightly hidden eye-roll), “Thank you,”  after which he tucked the worthless chunk of steel aside while taking another sip of Old Grand-Dad.

Christmas isn’t always full of warm fuzzies and pleasant memories, and that’s okay. When the Magi told Herod about the birth of a king, Herod no doubt muttered to his counselors, “What the heck do we need with another king?” God just ignored the ignoramus and dropped Jesus – the plumbline – down on Christmas day.

The world rolled its collective eyes and asked, “What the heck is this? What do we need this for?” A wall ready to topple is too dumb to know it isn’t square or true. That requires a carpenter, an experienced eye, and a plumbline.

God does not drop the line to judge the wall, but to repair it – to make it vertical. God drops the line for love. The line drops down with the beating heart of God attached, and that’s what matters. The question now is, will we remember ourselves this season and recognize God’s love here in this, our valley?

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Staggering into Mercy

I will sing of faithfulness and justice; I will chant a hymn to you, O Lord. Psalm 101 (from the Jewish Publication Society translation of the TANAKH)

When I was in college, I was taking a science class of one sort or another – I forget if it was Biology or Oceanography – but I was taking a class where the professor  was talking about the balance of nature and then, suddenly, stopped. He stumbled forward as if falling, catching himself on the edge of a nearby desk. After a moment, as he beheld the class holding its collective breath, our professor stood up ramrod straight and said, “There is no balance of nature.  Predators eat up the prey, and when the prey disappear,  you get an overabundance of predators, so they starve for lack of prey, which then bounce back for lack of predators, and nature cycles up and down like that. Nature is always in a state of imbalance!”

Me too. I stepped out of the shower the other day and noticed a fairly decent-sized bruise on my forearm. I didn’t remember doing anything to injure myself, but I did recall stumbling through an open doorway, so I’m sure that’s when it happened. I don’t drink or do drugs, so I know I wasn’t lolling about the house like a beached Beluga waiting for the tide to come get me. I am convinced the home’s portals expand and contract with the weather, and I just happened to catch the doorpost while it was on the squeeze.

Speaking of imbalance, I was reading the psalm quoted atop this column and discovered that the word translated “faithfulness” there is rendered “mercy” by some translators, and “loving-kindness” by still others. I’ve learned that when there’s a discrepancy like that, either the Hebrew original is unclear, or it is far too rich to be condensed into one English word. The fascinating point, though, is that the psalmist doesn’t identify whose faithfulness (or mercy) and justice are being sung about. Is it his, or is it God’s? 

A cursory glance reveals a very egocentric song. It is almost an ode to the author’s own goodness and holiness: “I will sing a song … I will study the way of the blameless … I will live without blame … I will not look at anything base … I will know nothing of evil …” and finally, “... I will destroy all the wicked of the land ... etc.” Being a psalm of David, that seems a pretty daring claim coming from one who is both an adulterer and a murderer.

When I was a young lad, I’d get excited at the idea of God smiting bad people. There was Noah and the flood, Moses versus the Egyptians, David and Goliath, not to mention all the smitings in the books of Judges, Samuel, Kings, and Chronicles. I would have revised Luther’s tune: A Smighty [sic] Fortress is our God. I loved the idea of God as Zeus or Thor (only bigger and badder). 

As I matured, though, I began to notice that Jesus never smited* anybody (although he did get a little rough on the money-changers). James and John never smited anyone (although they wanted to, at least once – Jesus told them that wasn’t their call to make). Peter never went on a smiting tour. Neither did Paul and Silas (although Paul was a smiter before his conversion). If God was addicted to smiting, then Jesus was “God, a smite-o-holic in recovery!”

The psalmist comes across as though he’s “tough on crime,” but he’s missing something immensely important. The mercy, loving-kindness, and faithfulness of which he should be singing is God’s! Humans lost Eden because we wanted to be like gods, knowing good and evil, right and wrong. Humans are home-sick for Eden, and it turns out the way home is not through Smite Alley, but Highway One: The Mercy Highway. 

Maybe God’s way was once a tollway, but now it’s a freeway. God doesn’t collect a toll; God’s paid the toll in full – out of God’s Treasury of Mercy! That’s why I choose to chant this hymn, rejoicing in the faithfulness and justice of God here in this, our valley.

* Note: The proper word is “smote” (past tense of smite), but the author is exercising poetic license here and throughout the paragraph.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

The Dangers of Gratitude

I will praise the Lord all my life, sing hymns to my God while I exist. Psalm 146 (from the Jewish Publication Society translation of the TANAKH)

November is Gratitude Month. We cap it off near the end with Thanksgiving, but each day we’re invited to take a moment and consider who or what we are thankful for. Who are the people who helped us become the people we are? What are the events that helped shape our lives? What are the challenges that compelled us to grow up and/or do what we thought was impossible?

While the psalmists in the Bible can often be found weeping, wailing, and crying in their beer, bemoaning one catastrophe or another, or lamenting some revolting development du jour, we find they’re also capable of rising out of the ashes in joyful praise. We don’t know what’s happening around the psalmist, precisely, but we can imagine it’s something wonderful. Perhaps he is among those who have found out they’re leaving captivity and going home. Perhaps the chains of a debilitating illness have been smashed asunder and he or she is finding health and strength returning to body and limb.

Only those who have known great hardship or deepest darkness know what it’s like to see the dawn break or the pressures ease up. Just writing those lines, I hear the voice of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King rising above the crowds before him: Free at last! Free at Last! Thank God almighty, we’re free at last!

Having received vaccines for both the seasonal flu and Covid-19, I must confess I rejoice in doing what I can to keep myself, my neighbors, and my community safe. I received some new and improved masks to replace those a fellow parishioner had made “back in the beginning.” They were wonderfully and lovingly made, and proudly worn, but wear and tear were taking their toll. My new masks come with lanyards that allow me to wear the mask like an amulet over my heart, and when entering public space, pull it up and over my face and nose (without wondering where it is or if I have it). I praise the Lord with my whole being!

I say that because, if you continue reading the psalm, it becomes clear that praise and hymn singing aren’t simply a quick turn of phrase. Anyone can say “Thank you, God.” We do it all the time. In fact, every time I pass a police car and see it isn’t turning around in my side-view mirror, I offer up a quick prayer of thanks to the Almighty – our celestial Peace Officer!

No, for the psalmist, praise, thanksgiving, and hymns of joy are translated into acts of mercy. Those who are thankful provide justice for the oppressed and food to those who hunger. They set prisoners free. They lift up those who are bowed down. They care for the stranger. They make sure widows and orphans are supported in their distress. They act as a shield against those who would do harm. That’s what the psalmist is talking about: a God who transforms the world through people whose backbone is Thanksgiving. Gratitude is the backbone, not the wishbone, of faith.

It is easier said than done, of course. It is easy to say, “I’m all in favor of justice, taking care of people, and being kind to strangers.” Saying it is one thing; doing it is quite another. What is your attitude toward America’s 2.3 million prisoners? Do you want them released? What is your attitude toward people whose first language isn’t English? Do you welcome them with open arms and joy, or do you assume they don’t belong?

I should note here that Gratitude does not mean we turn a blind eye to danger or behave with foolish, empty-headed naivete. It does mean, however, that were called to see the world and every person in it through God’s eyes, and work with God to transform the world the way Jesus said it must be done, or we can close our hearts, minds, and eyes with fear, and let life to continue its slide towards perdition.

I detest fear. I choose to live in Gratitude and Grace here in this, our valley. I hope you’ll join me (and the psalmist).

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

The Wisdom of Our Elders

We have heard with our ears, O God, our forebears have told us, the deeds you did in their days, in the days of old. Psalm 44

I grew up in Ballard, a Scandinavian community in Seattle, just north of the Ship Canal and sitting between Phinney Ridge and Puget Sound’s Shilshole Bay. Our extended family lived within minutes of each other, some within walking distance and the rest within ten minutes driving time. Although one would never consider people of Scandinavian stock gregarious (especially when compared to folks from around the Mediterranean), nevertheless, when our families got together for birthdays and holidays, we had fun.

One of the things I truly enjoyed about our family get-togethers was listening to the stories the larger family shared. Conversations ranged far and wide from what was happening now, what was happening around the world or the country, and what life was like growing up during the Great Depression or the two world wars. Our families weren’t particularly religious or church-going, so we never talked or argued about religion, but our political positions varied enough to have sparked lively debate on those matters. Remarkably, no one ever got mad during those discussions. No one ever left the house or table in a huff. No one ever questioned another’s integrity or sense of loyalty to flag or country. In fact, if anything, loyalty to flag and country were almost defined by the capacity to have reasoned conversations, differences of opinion, and respect for what the others brought to the table.

I grew up admiring the people among whom I lived. We certainly weren’t perfect. Over the years I learned we had things we didn’t talk about. There were skeletons in our closets, there were elephants stumbling around our living rooms. There were ghosts and goblins knocking things about while we tried to keep up appearances or make things work. But a child doesn’t always see or hear those things, although children often absorb them in ways that give lie to the idea that we don’t learn things by osmosis. We most certainly do.

What mattered, though, is that we all had our stories; I feel sorry for those who don’t have the grizzled veterans in life to share their stories with them. I remember sitting for hours, watching my grandmother, with those big, gnarled, arthritic knuckles working on quilts. She’d have been about five-foot-three, but curvature of the spine dropped her down about a foot. She never allowed her infirmities to slow her down, but you could see her wince from pain every now and then as she cut and sewed and talked away our time together.

Although she didn’t teach me anything specific about God, I learned things about God from her. Part of my love of history and biography is a consequence of learning history from one who lived through those “ancient” times, and biographies from others who had actually met historical characters like Charles Lindburg or Carl Sandburg. I have been able to apply those two loves to my love of the Bible, the stories of the “heroes of faith,” and developing an appreciation for a God who primarily calls, blesses, supports, and heals. While a moment of misbehavior could result in an admonishment from my grandmother, she never, ever, withheld her love or affection, and that’s how I have learned to see and experience God in my own life.

Grandma wasn’t religious (at least not in the years I knew her), but she knew her Bible. She knew the Golden Rule (Do unto others how you would have others do unto you). She valued (and demanded) honesty, respect, and dependability, and she passed and impressed those values and characteristics onto her family. If humans were created in the image of God, those godly attributes shone most brightly through her!

She was a woman who was matter-of-fact and straight-to-the point. Facts mattered, and she had no trouble sorting out the chaff of opinion from the wheat of facts (a skill sadly missing from so many people today). “Facts are the engine;” she said, “opinions are the caboose. Never let the caboose push the train.” 

Those are words to live by, for they are the wisdom of our elders. I pray they live on here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Which Tribe is the Dia-Tribe?

Our heads are round so our thoughts can change direction. Francis Picabia

Thinking is hard. It’s actually harder to think than most of us realize. Part of the reason for that difficulty is that we’re accustomed to starting with our conclusions because that’s where we’re at. I mean, I already know what I think about most things, so anyone who comes up to challenge my opinion on something is already starting off on the wrong foot.

When I was in Junior High, I remember science classes where we were learning about “the scientific method.” I don’t remember much about it now, of course, but I do remember that we would start with an observation, ask a question, then develop a hypothesis to explore the matter, and then we’d do some experiments to prove or disprove the hypothesis. Well, believe it or not, I wasn’t very good at crafting hypotheses, so I would do my experiments first, then go back and craft a hypothesis that fit the facts as they developed. That meant I was never wrong; my conclusions always fit my hypotheses, but I really didn’t engage in “the scientific method,” did I?

Why not? Because thinking is hard. Admitting I didn’t know something from the get-go was embarrassing. I knew my ignorance, of course, because I knew I was taking shortcuts. I don’t know if my science teachers ever caught on to what I was doing, but they didn’t need to. I knew the truth – something from which I couldn’t hide.

I wonder if some of the violent rhetoric we find flying around these days on social media, letters to the editor, and such whatnot isn’t the result of people taking shortcuts on matters under consideration. 

We know what we know, but do we really know what we know? Those who have had military training know the importance of depersonalizing the enemy, because it is really hard to kill someone if you think about their parents, siblings, friends, lovers, and children. The enemy isn’t a person – not a part of “my” tribe – but an object to be scorned and killed before “it” kills you. Sociopaths and psychopaths are able to commit their atrocities because they don’t see their victims as people, as equals, or as peers.

I may not be a psychopath or sociopath exactly, but I know how easy it is to act like one. My heart fills with violence when someone says or does something I find unconscionable. If I think, however (which is hard to do), I realize they may well be thinking similar thoughts about me. This attitude is exactly what led Cain to slay his brother Abel, and the religious and secular authorities to torture and kill Jesus. How can I claim to be better than them when the same illness resides in my heart, in my soul?

I can’t. That’s the truth of the matter. I can’t, unless I’m willing to do that which is very hard: think. People can look at the same facts and reach different conclusions. We can agree that oysters are edible, but we don’t have to agree about whether or not they are delicious. Oysters are oysters and there is a lot we can learn about them by studying them, but taste is subjective and it is also a fact that not everyone will appreciate an oyster except for its pearls.

How about issues that are more important to our lives than oysters? Well, I would say we need to remember that God gave us two ears and one mouth. I believe Jesus calls us to listen to one another. I believe he calls us to think first, and speak second. He definitely calls us to honor one another and treat one another with kindness, including those who would abuse us and mistreat us. Like thinking, that’s hard to do and, like thinking, it is something we hope Jesus was just kidding about when he said it.

That’s fine if your goal is to fight, but Jesus calls us to learn. The word he uses is “disciple,” the root of which is discipline. That doesn’t mean punishment, by the way; it means thinking. And that’s what I want to do here in this, our valley – always, even if it’s hard.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

The Heart of the Matter

 Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none. William Shakespeare

September 29 is World Heart Day. The focus is on that thumper hiding behind one’s ribcage. I am told (via the media) that some 17 million people die from heart disease each year. A friend of mine wasn’t feeling too well a few months back, went to his doctor and from there was rushed to an emergency department for something much more serious than “not feeling well.” Five bypasses later, he’s doing much better. 

Although hospital resources around here are being stressed, stretched, and strained to address the climbing number of patients with Covid-19 related issues, they are still able to eke out emergency treatments for people with other needs. One reason I signed up for (and received) my Covid vaccinations was to help keep at least one more hospital bed open for people who might really need it.

I don’t make that statement out of arrogance or ego gratification. It’s just a boring fact. I don’t want to see the inside of a hospital for any reason, but if I can do something that helps keep those facilities open for those who need them, then I believe that’s what Jesus would have me do. As he said on a number of occasions and in a variety of ways, “Do what the law requires” (“render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's''), and “do what God requires” (“and to God that which is God’s”).

Jesus didn’t seem too heck-bent on rights, freedoms and privileges. Love was his North Star, his Guiding Light. Back in the 1990s there was a bunch of “WWJD” paraphernalia sold or distributed everywhere you went. It stood for “What Would Jesus Do.” That sounded good on the face of it, but it always made me uncomfortable because, well, frankly, I can’t imagine Jesus doing anything different from what I would want to do in a given situation. Too many people rationalize their behavior, and then simply add, “I’m sure that’s what Jesus would have done.”

I prefer to change the question slightly, asking: What Did Jesus Do? It is more difficult to rationalize bad behavior if we set it up alongside what Jesus actually did. I know the government didn’t mandate masks or vaccinations in Jesus’ day, but what they did mandate, Jesus said, “Do it.” 

In one story we find Jesus paid taxes that were required (Matthew 17). He didn’t argue about it. He didn’t whine about it. He didn’t grab a sword and threaten to kill over it. He had the disciples go fishing, and from the mouth of the fish, discovered money needed to pay the tax. 

The tale derives from a question about freedom. “Must we pay?” he asks. “We’re free to pay,” he answers. 

Some people rise up in the morning and say, “I have to go to work.” Others rise and say, “I get to go to work.” The result of their labor is the same: income. But their attitudes make all the difference. 

Jesus worked the field. Jesus kept busy. He took time off to recharge, refill, and reconnect with God. He also got grumpy from time to time. I have no doubt there were times Jesus took his disciples aside and said, “Friends, I am down to my last nerve and you’re getting mighty close to stepping on it.” To the best of my knowledge, he never took a two by four to them, but he spoke directly, clearly and plainly to them. He gave Peter what must have felt like a gut-punch one day when he said, “Get behind me Satan, for you’re not looking at things through God’s eyes, but your own” (Mark 8).

I suspect many of the world’s problems are caused by looking through lenses made of green-eyed envy, or huddled behind walls of fear and loathing (and calling it “being realistic”). That’s fine. I just ask that we be honest about it and stop trying to pretend our words or actions are either godly or Christian. Perhaps the world is in desperate need of heart bypass surgery.

I only know of One Surgeon who can do it. Love is how God heals and bypasses hearts of stone in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

The Milk of Kindness

There is probably something in the world that tastes amazing but we refuse to try it because it doesn’t look appetizing to us. Anonymous

When my daughter and her family moved east, they left an unopened carton of milk designed for people who have issues with lactose. The producers say they want people to be able to “fall in love with milk again.”

I have never considered myself a snob, and I have never been one to throw away perfectly good food. I had lunch in a restaurant with a parishioner many years ago who had no desire to take his leftovers home. He said, quite matter of factly, “I ate this meal and enjoyed it once. I don’t need to eat it again.” I knew it would be uncouth (and probably not just a little weird) to offer to take it myself, so I let it pass. But letting that food go to a dumpster just seemed so grossly indecent (to me). 

So now the cow is on the other foot, of course, as Mama Karma has gifted me with sixty-four ounces of nutrition that I, frankly, don’t want to deal with (and which won’t expire for another month or more). I grew up in a family where we were not encouraged to eat what was put in front of us; we were EXPECTED to eat what was put in front of us. We were not encouraged to try new things; we were EXPECTED to try new things. 

As a consequence, there is virtually nothing I won’t try, and most things I eat, I enjoy. Yes, I enjoy liver and onions. Yes, I enjoy broccoli and brussel sprouts and – stop the presses – baby green lima beans. I think escargot is overrated (if you use enough butter, garlic, and wine, I am sure banana slugs would taste delicious, too) but if escargot is being served, I’ll do my duty and take my share.

The problem with new things, of course, is not their newness, but the mental barriers we erect to avoid dealing with them. I have done enough laundry in my life to appreciate the chemicals that get my whites their whitest and colors their brightest, so I’m offended by products that are touted as being “new and improved.” They may well be better, but my mind (or what’s left of it) isn’t convinced. I can’t bring myself to wash in cold water. I can’t. I won’t. I refuse with all the stubborn stupidity I can muster, for to change might suggest the way I’ve always done things wasn’t right, or isn’t the best way to do them. It’s a silly attitude when one thinks about it, but that’s what keeps therapists in business, isn’t it?

We don’t feel that way about all new things, though, do we? Or at least I don’t. I compare my sixty-five inch high definition television (which is properly termed “monitor” in modern parlance) to the thirteen inch black and white set I grew up with back in the days when programming ended with the National Anthem, followed by hours of a static test pattern, and I’ll admit I have no desire to go back to the way it was. My ability to send and receive instant messages online with speeds measured in gigabits per second compared to the “blazing fast” .056 megabits per second (56k) of dial-up is nothing less than miraculous!

So our response to new things tends to be more of a subjective mind-game we play than an objective analysis of what is set before us. It really isn’t the newness of a thing, but the attitude we bring to what’s new. If I’m convinced I’m not going to like something, I can pretty well guarantee it will live up or down to that expectation. Perhaps that age-old parental admonition to “try it before you decide whether or not you’re going to ‘like’ it” is worth revisiting, for my experience had been to actually appreciate most of what they “made” me eat in my youth.

What is true of food may also be true with other aspects of life, but we’ll explore that next time we meet up here in this, our valley. For now, I’ve got to go have a bowl of cereal with some moo-juice.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Meditation for Proper 19B

Mark 8:27-38

Jesus went on with his disciples to the villages of Caesarea Philippi; and on the way he asked his disciples, “Who do people say that I am?” And they answered him, “John the Baptist; and others, Elijah; and still others, one of the prophets.” He asked them, “But who do you say that I am?” Peter answered him, “You are the Messiah.” And he sternly ordered them not to tell anyone about him.

Then he began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again. He said all this quite openly. And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. But turning and looking at his disciples, he rebuked Peter and said, “Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”

He called the crowd with his disciples, and said to them, “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it. For what will it profit them to gain the whole world and forfeit their life? Indeed, what can they give in return for their life? Those who are ashamed of me and of my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, of them the Son of Man will also be ashamed when he comes in the glory of his Father with the holy angels.”

(Text from the NRSV): https://www.lectionarypage.net/YearB_RCL/Pentecost/BProp19_RCL.html

Life is burdensome. I don’t talk about it often, but I occasionally find life unbearably burdensome. I don’t talk about it much, I suppose, because we’ve all got burdens of one sort or another, and if you really wanted to listen to someone cry in their beer, you would just go to any bar, stick some money in a jukebox, and listen to country-western music. Dogs die, lovers leave, the truck breaks down. Wah wah wah. We all have burdens. Burdens are the pain that accompany us in life.

Life is also full of thorns. I have rose bushes I stay far away from. I think the flowers are pretty, but I have found at my age that I only have to look at a rose bush and my arms and fingers just start gushing blood all for the heck of it. To paraphrase a line from Jurassic Park, “(Thorns) will find a way.” We can do all the right things, eat all the right foods, practice social distancing and proper hygiene and still get run over by a drunk driver, wounded by an IED, contract an illness, or lose a friend. These are thorns. Thorns are the pains that are inflicted upon us in life.

And then there is the Cross. “Take up your cross,” says Jesus. “Follow me,” he says like a good scout leader marching off into the wilderness with saints and sinners all packed in together. The Cross is neither a burden, nor is it a thorn. It is the pain we take up on behalf of another. It is the pain we choose. It can’t be forced upon us, except by our own choosing, our own choice. Jesus says we MUST take up our cross and follow, so it sounds like we’re being ordered to, but the MUST here is different. 

It is the compulsion of compassion. It is the compulsion you feel when the right thing to say or do is put in front of you, and while you may want to run away screaming, “Not my table, not my problem,” you feel just the lightest little tingle from the finger of God, right about two inches below the solar plexus, about where your heart sits on your gut, and you know, you just know you MUST say or do the right thing. 

For Christians, the Cross is the compulsion of compassion we feel in our heart and know in our head, just like Jesus knew about his cross when he turned and set his face to go to Jerusalem. He took the burdens of the world, and he took the thorns of the world, and he made them his burdens; he made them his thorns; he made them his cross to bear.

We’ll talk more about this Sunday in church. I hope to see you there in person, or by live-streaming, or coming to you somewhat Messianic-like from “the” cloud. 

Peace and Grace,

Fr. Keith+

A Hard Road

We do not have all the answers. We are on a spiritual journey. (A welcoming sign outside St. Martin’s, Canterbury)

I looked out the living room window. The sun broke through a flock of clouds that had been breaking up since the earlier evening’s rainfall. Rays of light covered the spectrum of colors generally reserved for the richest and ripest of citrus fruits. There was a burst of tangerine, surrounded by rays of orangey orange, limey greens, and lemony lemons. The display was truly radiant and spectacular, and one of the things I truly love about this part of the world. The colors were so vivid, and despite the many fires out West, I wasn’t catching any of those reddish browns that often accompany sunsets during the fire seasons. Nevertheless, the colors were gorgeous and bore witness to the One who creates all that is.

The beauty of the scene drove home ever more sharply the pain of grief that accompanies loss. In this particular case, it was the final night our daughter and her family would be in our neck of the woods for quite some time as they packed up, loaded up, and prepared to move away first thing in the morning. Her beau has been transferred by his company to another assignment located in Indiana. 

A couple of weeks ago their son (our grandson) made the move east, not so much to scout the region (as most twelve year olds don’t do that kind of scouting), but to get enrolled in and start middle school (about three weeks earlier than schools around here). So he’s been living with another set of grandparents, going to school, running daily in Cross Country, and is now, this weekend, anxiously awaiting what should be a grand reunion in just a matter of days.

The dying rays of the evening sun spoke much more eloquently than I ever could of the darkness that comes with loss. I want to fast-forward to the darkness that precedes the morning dawn, but that’s not where I’m at. Besides, morning will bring the grief of actually watching them back out the driveway in their car, following a brother in law and father in law who flew out specifically to help load the truck and drive it “home” for them.

The sun continued to dip below the mountain range just to the west of us, and I turned my attention back to the task at hand – the Last Supper. Well, not exactly like the more famous meal one reads about in scripture, and if everyone drives properly, probably won’t end up with arrests, trials, or executions over the next few hours. But it was our last supper together for now. And it was a simple meal of microwaved pizza singles (courtesy of Costco), some cool beverages, and the sharing of life stories of the “Remember when …” variety.

The time for bed eventually came, as it always does, and each took their leave as necessary. No one slept well, of course. Most endured the anxiousness that comes with knowing they had about 2,200 miles to cover as quickly as (legally) possible (and the restlessness of sleeping in beds that were not their own), while we being “left behind” had a future full of empty blanks coming up (birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, simple babysitting duties, school sports, etc.).

Morning eventually broke. The skies were lead-gray and weeping. Birds were snuggled in their trees and nests and making no effort to look for meals. After downing my first cup of coffee for the day, I hustled about the kitchen preparing a simple breakfast casserole, served with toast, butter, and a variety of jams. Family members rose and took care of their ablutions one by one. The adults packed up their overnight bags and loaded the vehicles. We continued lighthearted conversations as breakfast was served and consumed (and griefs suppressed).

Finally, time came to say our goodbyes. We know we’ll see each other down the road, so they weren’t really “goodbyes” but “see you laters.” We hugged and kissed, and waved final “I Love You” signs (used between members of the deaf community). As they backed out of the driveway, the rains stopped, but moisture – signs of a hard road – began to fall from other sources here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

When Things are Closer than They Appear

The great thing about getting older is that you don’t lose all the other ages you’ve been. Madeleine L’Engle

Do you realize I have never seen the small of my back? I have seen photographs of it, of course, and in those angled groups of mirrors found in dressing rooms one is using to try on clothes to see how they fit. But I’ve never actually seen, with my own eyes, my own backside.

I was pondering that totally uninteresting tidbit of information as I set down a book I’d just finished reading dealing with a bit of American history. As my mind wandered the deserted streets between my ears, I found myself thinking about history as those times or events that lie behind us. Many of us look at history as if we’re passengers on a train pulling out of a station that falls further and further behind. 

Another history buff and I were talking about our common interests and he made an interesting observation. He said, “You know, we westerners look at history as something that lies behind us. We're constantly moving forward, away from it. Other cultures look at the past differently. They see the past in front of them. It’s receding, of course, but it’s the future that’s out of sight – behind them, so to speak. It hasn’t happened yet.”

Interestingly, people in addiction recovery take that second view of history. The Promises of twelve-step recovery programs states, “We will not regret the past, nor wish to shut the door on it.” Rather than running from the awful or shameful things they may have done to themselves or others while in the throes of their addiction, they use those experiences to help them grow into a future filled with hope rather than shame; with courage rather than fear.

There is an old saying that those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it. I suppose that is true, to a degree, but I prefer a more positive approach: Those who study history are bound to find solutions to current conundrums. I know it hasn’t got the same panache as the original, but perhaps it is more helpful. I don’t like doom and gloom. I can’t recall a time when doom and gloom saved me from anything. If anything, it paralyzes me, whereas a clear-eyed view of lessons learned has helped keep me out of the deep doo doo I might otherwise step in.

Now, I know that walking backwards around the house or driving in reverse down the street would not be very healthy for most of us (I wish I would beep when walking backwards), but keeping an eye on the past can be very helpful. For instance, I could be worried about receiving one of the Covid-19 vaccines. I don’t have a crystal ball, so I can’t look into the future and see whether it is safe, effective, or whether or not I will get the disease and die without the vaccine. The future is a mystery.

However, I can look into the past and see the polio and smallpox vaccines I have received and, voila, I have not gotten those diseases. My kids received their MMR (Measles, Mumps, Rubella) shots at the prescribed times and, voila, never came down with those particular diseases. My father received tons of shots when he entered basic training in the army back in the 1940s and, voila, lived to be ninety years old. Consequently, when I made an appointment to receive my Covid-19 vaccine, I did so with full confidence in the scientists who developed the vaccines, the labs that produced the product, and the medical personnel who put those doses into my arm.

Some folks may remember the thalidomide debacle in the 1950s (a drug which caused major issues, like birth defects). Of course that is precisely the sort of rear-facing history that helped to prevent a lot of mistakes after that. Science practices, tests, refines, improves. Scientists aren’t perfect, but they’re willing to acknowledge their mistakes and learn from them.

I may never see the small of my back, but I’m glad it is there to lead me forward (masked and vaccinated) here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Time Marches On – I’d Prefer It to Dance!

 

Perhaps the misfortune that you do not like, leads you to a beautiful destiny that you never dreamed of. Anonymous

Life is a pilgrimage, or so it is said. We travel a road full of twists and turns, beginning in a womb and ending in a tomb. We find ourselves eventually holding court beneath a stone with name and dates engraved, but it is really the tomb of an unknown. Immediate family may pop by for a visit, but it won’t last long, and when that generation passes on, the stone with its engravings will sit and, over time, begin to wear away with exposure to the constant bombardment of sun and rain, snow and ice, and the vegetative mastication of not-so-innocent mosses and lichens that latch onto the engravings, seeking to devour the very stone itself – over time.

“Time marches on; it waits for no man,” said my grandmother. She knew a thing or two about time. Although she was in her nineties when she died, I am sure I thought she was in her nineties back when I was just a child, and she was likely in her forties or fifties, instead. The concept of time is wasted on youth. What the heck do we know? 

Time. Nothing lasts forever. Heck, some things come broken straight out of the box. I bought a new laptop that I spent months troubleshooting online, as well as shipping it back and forth with their technical support staff. It is still a five pound paperweight. The manufacturer insists it works fine. Their computers tell them it meets all their specifications and returns no errors. My experience tells me something different. Life’s too short to keep up the fight, so I’ll just have the bleeding thing cremated with me when the time comes to topple from the frying pan into the fire.

Time. It seems there is a magazine with that moniker, although odds are pretty good my mug will never grace the cover of that periodical. That’s OK. I’m not out for fame or fortune, although a little more fortune would be nice. Fame, on the other hand, isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I’m not famous and (by Somebody’s good grace) I’m not infamous. It has been ages since I have even looked at a magazine rack in a store, so I don’t know what periodicals are left standing. Perhaps their time has passed, too.

Time. It comes and goes. I have a desk clock I inherited from my great uncle, Gus. It hasn’t worked in years. Clock experts have looked at it, but none have been able to restore it to a functioning condition, but that’s OK. It has the correct time twice a day and dresses up the curio cabinet in the living room very nicely. I may try to find a specialist to look at it, but only time will tell if I will ever get around to it.

Time. I am obsessed with the topic, it’s true, and I think my interest was inherited. The first thing I ever coveted from a very early age was a wristwatch. My mother told me I could have one when I learned to tell time. I studied the hands on the kitchen clock daily until I knew far more than the basics. Hour hands and minute hands were easy. I made sure I knew the “quarters past and the quarters to” and the “half pasts and the thirty minutes tils.” 

I saved money from odd jobs, allowances, and birthdays until one day I was finally ready to buy a decent wristwatch. I went to the jewelry counter at Ballard’s JC Penny store and picked out a wonderful looking timepiece for which I had exact change. Sadly, I didn’t have enough extra to cover the sales AND luxury taxes imposed at the time, so I left empty handed.

That’s OK, though. Empty handed is exactly how we enter this life, and that’s how we’re going to leave it. It’s what we do between those two points that gives time its value, and that’s all the time or space I have for now in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

A Calm in the Storm

 I’m not afraid of storms, for I’m learning how to sail my ship. Louisa May Alcott

Friends put out word a few weeks ago that they were scheduled to go away for a wedding and needed someone to take care of their house and dogs. Their usual caretaker had also scheduled time away, so they were desperate; they feared they would have to cancel their trip.

Being retired, I had the time necessary to read their email. Having pulse and respiration, I had a sudden urge to “be of service” (as we say in a number of organizations to which I belong). I found my fingers flying across the keyboard and offered to help if Obiwan Kenobi was otherwise unavailable. I am of an age where my fingers used to do the walking through the yellow pages, so it is not surprising that they decided to do the talking through the internet. I just wish they had spoken to me first. Why?

What do I know about dogs? I know how to take care of houses, of course. I’ve lived in many over the years. “I can open and close windows and doors with the best of ‘em,” says I. But dogs? While I am mildly acquainted with dogmatics from my years in the cloth, the four-legged critters of the canine persuasion are not all that high on my list of competencies (which could fit, in its unabridged entirety, on the inside cover of a match-book). 

Anyway, my friends had a need, and I had time, so I applied for the gig. I dropped by to get acquainted with Katie and Georgia (whom I’d not met previously due to Covid restrictions) and hit it off right off the bat, by which I mean they didn’t tear me from limb to limb. That was a pleasant surprise because, well, I’ll admit I’ve not always had good experiences with dogs, but I’ll spare you the tales of those tails and their scary details for another time.

Meanwhile, I am on day six watching the house and taking care of the dogs and everything is going well. I had hoped to have had some major adventures to report, but the critters are well-behaved and, aside from needing to take some medications for various ailments, they are very low-maintenance. If you put up one of those wildlife cameras so you could keep an eye on us 24/7, you wouldn’t know if you were watching video or looking at stills; it is that calm.

And that’s the point. I have discovered that my imagination is a far more potent opponent than life has ever been. Where I look for and anticipate a catastrophe around every corner and the apocalypse around every bend, very little has ever occurred that has lived up to my mind’s billing. I am my own worst false advertiser! I need to learn how to block the spam that comes into my cranial inbox, but if I did, with what would I fill the void? I must admit that while I don’t care for spam of the inbox and phone-call varieties, I do like the processed meat that goes by my name, but I digress.

No, I have found that whether dealing with work, family, church, politics, or any one of the myriad facets of life we face, things are seldom as bad as we make them out to be. There are those who say, “Plan for the worst and hope for the best,” but it seems they are whistling their way through the graveyard. 

Look ahead; sure. But don’t look so far ahead you trip over the dog beneath your feet. Do what needs to be done today, and have a sense of what needs to be done tomorrow, but don’t fret. After all, one may be high strung, but that doesn’t make them a guitar.

Working with Georgia and Katie, my new canine amigas, I’ve seen how dogs live “in” the moment. They know their needs, and their needs are few. My job was simply to pay attention. When I did that, the storms of anxiety faded and the ship sailed on toward a beautiful sunset, as it always does here in this, our valley. 

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

The Ayes of Faith

To you I lift up my eyes, to you enthroned in the heavens. Psalm 123

I was driving home the other day from a Book Club that meets along the Swinomish Channel on the western edge of the Skagit Valley. As I was driving, I glanced to the south and spotted Mount Rainier, which lies about 164 miles away. I didn’t realize it could be spotted from that distance, what with hills, low cloud cover, fog, agricultural haze, smog, smoke from seasonal fires, and other stuff that clogs the view. I’d simply never been able to see through it all to spot that beautiful cone off in the distance. I suppose the fact that my eye is normally on the road in front of me has also prevented me from enjoying all there is to see in the world around me.

It was a clear and gorgeous day, however, so I was able to take in that spectacular vista for a moment before turning my attention back to the road I was traversing. There is something mystical about mountains that impels us to look skyward. “I lift up my eyes to the hills,” says the psalmist in Psalm 121. “I lift up my eyes to you,” he says again here, “enthroned in the heavens …”

The psalmist is a realist. There is a God, and neither he nor any of the rest of us mere mortals is Him or Her. One’s temptation, of course, isn’t to confuse who or what is God, but to think of God living “up there” on a high mountain, like Zeus on Olympus, or far away in heaven – out of sight and out of mind. I worry that my life, like my driving, is so focused on what I’m doing and where I’m going I don’t even bother to turn my head and look to see if God is “there” or not. People and situations are often obstacles to being able to see God clearly, let alone draw near. 

“It’s a jungle out there,” says the Monk theme song, and I agree. I often can’t see the Divine through da vines! I suppose that’s one reason the Almighty decided to climb down off the throne and join us here – up close and personal. 

While there are certainly passages that describe God-the-Warrior, the stories that really capture my imagination are those where God is not the complete Other, but One who steps into the Garden in the cool of the evening to chat with us. “Adam; how was your day? Eve; I love what you’ve done with the place; those orchids are really flourishing, aren’t they?” Or the story of Moses finding God playing hide-and-seek in a fiery bush on one mountain, and a game of peek-a-boo in the cleft of another mountain. Or the story of God whispering softly to Elijah when the prophet was feeling so alone and forsaken. Or the most dramatic story of all – God lying in a feeding trough (manger), totally dependent on the willingness of a young, unwed girl (and her fiance), to take him in and raise him up right.

When Jesus prayed, he spent hours talking to Poppi more than to the Almighty God of Heaven and Earth. He didn’t navigate the halls of heaven and make his way past a host of angelic bureaucrats. He spent his time conversing with God the way you and I might chat with friends and family about matters both profound and mundane.

When I lift up my eyes to the hills, I am profoundly aware there is a universe of which I am not the center. But I know, too, that when I lift up my head, it allows God to look me in the eye and say, “Aye, that’s better.” God’s desire is not to be remote, out of sight, or out of mind, but right here, right now, looking us full-on in the face and nodding, “Aye, I understand.” 

God doesn’t look down, as I see it, but across. I lift up my eyes unto the hills, and suddenly I realize our eyes have become God’s Ayes, for God is now (and always will be) our Poppi here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available exclusively through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Who Makes Us Who or What We Are?

O Lord, make us have perpetual love and reverence for your holy Name … (Collect for Proper 7, Book of Common Prayer)

One day, out on the playground of the elementary school I attended, one of my classmates got into a tussle with some bullies. The mate wasn’t a friend; it’s even possible he had said or done something that instigated the childish taunts and abuses that were directed at him, but I never liked bullies or cruelty, and so I butted in. I told his tormentors to leave him alone. They laughed, of course, because I had no standing on the playground. I was just another nameless, faceless kid who worked hard to blend seamlessly into the scenery.

Not this time. For some reason I have yet to grasp, I felt I needed to address the situation, which I did. The biggest of the toughs turned, snarled, and asked, “Who’s gonna make me?”

I ignored his question, but he didn’t. He let go of his hapless victim and turned his attention on me, and while I would love to say I cleaned his clock in a battle amongst Titans, we simply wrestled a minute or so until he got tired of holding me in a headlock, or the bell rang, whichever came first. The other lad had run off, leaving me to face the three toughs solo, but I guess I had won in that they let the first kid go. That was good enough, and I returned to my life as a chameleon.

The prayer quoted above begins with a strange request: Lord, MAKE us … Make us have perpetual love … Make us have reverence … Make us. We’re asking God to do something unnatural. We’re asking God to force us to do something we may not want to do. Who’s going to “make us” love? “Make us” revere? If there’s force involved, can it be voluntary or genuine? It is an awkward thing to pray for.

On the other hand, “make” can also refer to a manufacturing process. When I make a sandwich, I am doing something. I’m taking bread, butter, mayonnaise, meats, cheeses, and lettuce and creating something that would please Dagwood no end. Asking God to “make us,” in that sense, is asking God to take the raw ingredients of our humanity and mix it with a wide variety of other ingredients so that the end result is something or someone who is pleasingly reverent and loving.

I suppose the starting point of such a prayer assumes that you and I (who, together, form the “us” in the prayer) aren’t yet who or what we should be – right? Prayer can be quite dangerous that way – almost subversive. I mean, the intent of prayer isn’t to change God’s mind or God’s plan; it’s to change us! At first blush, prayer looks like a wish list aimed at God to “get up and do something,” but in reality, God most often effects change through people like you and me.

If we are serious about wanting God to develop perpetual love in us (presumably love for God, neighbor, and self), God may well answer by sending unlovable people and intolerable situations in our direction. If one wants to become stronger, one needs to exercise, right? If I want abs of steel, I need to do more crunches and situps and whatever else fitness gurus insist will get the job done. Asking God to improve our love-life, in effect, may require numerous unpleasant encounters!

The fact is that we are always under construction. The world makes us cold, selfish, arrogant, bitter, quarrelsome, and more (Galatians 5). We have a God who is willing and able to make us lights with which to chase away the darkness, brightening up our neighbor’s day. St. Paul reminds us the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, and so much more.

Jesus is the Bread of Life; we pray for God to make something delightful, loving, and reverent of us. That’s actually a great prayer, isn’t it?

Between the world and God, it’s God who makes the better sandwich with the bologna we have to offer. God always will here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available exclusively through Amazon in Print and e-book)

The Joy of Community

 Waste not fresh tears over old griefs. Euripides

Summer is upon us. Oh, I know it doesn’t officially happen for another week or so, but the weather outside tells me what time of year it is. I don’t need a calendar to tell me we’ve come a long way from the sub-zero days of winter. We may still struggle against an occasional, blustery breeze, and a nightly chill that demands we bundle up, but still, the days are longer and warmer. 

My garage frog continues to call for friends and/or mates. I’ve learned where he lives; there is a gap in the expansion joint that divides (or unites) the garage’s concrete pad and the driveway, and the frog has made him a comfortable home therein (photos below). I thought about removing him, but only for half a moment. It occurred to me that, first of all, he’s not hurting anything by being there, and secondly, his dietary needs are apparently being met, which means he’s keeping ants, beetles, termites, flies, earwigs, and assorted riff-raff out of the garage. I just wish I could claim him as a dependent on my tax returns, but I think he provides enough benefit so that I don’t need to bother Uncle Sam over it.

In addition to the days being longer and warmer, and a frog living quite contentedly in a symbiotic relationship with his landlord, there is much to be thankful for. The long, hard season of pandemic is nearing a tolerable end. I believe Covid-19 will be around for a long time to come simply because not enough people will have taken it seriously enough to eliminate it, but that’s OK. It’s not my job to control the world in which we live, and medical science should be able to keep us about as safe as we can be in a world as uncertain as the one in which we live.

I am blessed. I contracted Covid-19 and survived. I acquired the two vaccine doses when they became available, and will accept the boosters when the time comes, just as I do for the flu. I continue to wear my mask in public, not for fear of contracting the virus or spreading it, but so those around me don’t need to wonder whether I am safe to be around or not. I can go into restaurants to order a meal, and actually take off the mask to eat and converse with others.

This Sunday will mark the first return to in-church worship for my parish since March 2020. We will observe the appropriate precautions, but Good Lord, we’ll be together again! I will continue to work with the A/V and online Live-Feed crew to provide worship to those who are traveling or who cannot attend in person. One of the bright sides of the pandemic has been the need-filling motivation to learn how to use modern technology to share the Gospel more widely than we ever thought possible.

While nothing will replace in-person worship, the ability to bring the good news to the people in their homes has been nothing less than miraculous and, simultaneously, apostolic. As the prophet says, “The people who lived in darkness have seen a great light!” The psalmist also declares: “Light shines in the darkness for the upright; the righteous are merciful and full of compassion” (Ps. 112).

Sometimes folks think a church is all about rules and commandments and, maybe, not just a little bit of hypocrisy. That’s all true, of course, but only to a degree. Churches aren’t perfect, but they do cast light in dark places. A church, as best I can tell, is a community of people called to love others as God has loved them. We fall short, of course. Not everyone is loveable, including us! That’s why we need practice (and a community to hold us accountable for our words and actions).

Left to our own devices, most of us would find reasons not to love. That’s why the world is in the mess it’s in. The church, for me, is a place where that sad reality can be altered, and I’m glad others have found that to be true for them, as well, here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available exclusively through Amazon in Print and e-book).

The Battle of Grease and Sticks: A Tale of True Friction

Kindness makes any road easier to travel. Margaret M. Painter

I was emptying the dryer the other day, finishing my laundry for the week, and noticed a few black spots on my socks and tee shirts. They looked like grease marks and I hadn’t, to my knowledge, done any work in or around grease recently, so I made a mental note to investigate (which “note” lasted about 22.3 seconds).

After folding, hanging, and putting away the laundry, I went to clean the lint-trap out of the dryer, and as I removed that little screen I saw the cause of the aforementioned spotting – a silly little grease marker I’d used earlier on a project and had apparently left and forgotten in a pocket of the shirt I’d worn. It was smaller than a standard pencil or pen, so it lay nicely in the pocket until the agitation of the washer brought it out to do its dirty work.

               The Valley of the Shadow of Death

That would have been fine. I’m usually pretty careful about checking pockets for loose change (normally finding only lint, instead), but accidents happen. Nonetheless, in the nanosecond it took to remove the screen and see the black marker, it immediately rolled into the now-vacant slot the screen usually occupies. I let out a mighty Viking war cry: (Uff Da!), as if that would stop the tiny implement from rolling into the space destined to become its Valhalla. I moved as quick as lightning to intercept (assuming said lightning has mated with a turtle or snail), but all to no avail. Greased lightning is apparently faster than its Swedish counterpart.

                        The Offending Marker

Well, as tempting as it would be to let sleeping markers lie, I knew I couldn’t leave it down the slot to risk it clogging the dryer’s exhaust and possibly resulting in a fire, but my hands were too thick to slip through to retrieve it. That meant I needed to remove the lint screen housing. I did some quick research and discerned the housing was only held fast by three tiny screws. That was the good news. One screw was quite visible. The other two, of course, were only accessible by taking apart the dryer’s door and front panel (converting a fifteen minute rescue operation into a two-hour project).

I’m always up for a challenge, but not if it requires dismantling an appliance that costs the equivalent of a month’s wages working at a local big-box store! So I decided to put my superior intellect to work, instead. I grabbed a folding pruning saw and snagged a handful of lint that had collected over the years, thus taking it out of the equation for the solution my gray matter was whipping up. Then I located a small, skinny dowel that was about a foot or so long and attached some reverse-rolled scotch tape to it (using blue painter’s tape). Holding a flashlight with one hand while keeping a spring-loaded hatch down with a finger, I poked the pole down the hole with my right hand, stuck the grease marker with the tape, pulled it up, and managed to nab it with the swift and deft movement of what became my now-free left hand… Success!

   The first effort used only blue tape (and only captured lint)

The Successful End of the Stick: Invisible Scotch Tape

Is there some great wisdom to be gained from the telling of this tale? Probably not. While I would like to think life hands us teachable moments (and life tends to resemble the multi-limbed Durga or Kali of East Indian lore with which to toss detritus our way), sometimes a tale has a sufficient raison d’etre to stand on its own.

Life happens. It is how we respond to those happenings that tells us who we are. Sometimes I think I would like to be Thor, the Norse god of thunder. But really, I find it more in keeping with my temperament to be Freyr – a god connected to peace and good harvest. As most people are aware, I am (glad to admit) certainly no god.

In any case, I’m pleased to be able to share these stories, and pray they will continue to delight and inform all of you. Until next time: be sure to check your pockets when doing laundry here in this, our valley!

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available exclusively through Amazon in Print and e-book)

The Heart of the Matter

 

The door to the mind should only open from the heart. An enemy who gets in, risks the danger of becoming a friend. Joy Harjo (U.S. Poet Laureate)

Each morning I go outside and raise the blind so that the sunlight (or cloud-light) may make its way into the living room. I also step over to the birdbath that sits near the corner of the house and fill it with fresh water for the day from a handy, nearby spigot. If the bluebells or shrubs look a bit dry, I’ll give them a drink while I’m there, for I’ve got a nozzle that ensures they’re all within reach. Once I’m finished with the front, I head out back and repeat the process for the birdbath and variety of flowering bushes and plants that are quite pleasant to behold.

I’m very much a minimalist when it comes to yardwork. I clear away the dead stuff, of course, and tidy up the grounds every little bit, but I’m not a fanatic about it. I have no interest in trimming bushes and plants to create some artificial balance or artful topiarial effect. I’m content to let the plants get scraggly, if that’s how nature has made them. 

There are a few varieties that need to be hacked back, of course. The blackberries will absolutely run roughshod all over the place if one doesn’t take a whip and chair to them. You can’t kill them with weed killer, of course. Blackberries just laugh at such puny and paltry efforts. All you can do is dig down deep and remove as much of the roots as you possibly can. They’ll still come back, though, because nature always wins. But one can keep them under some semblance of control, and that’s all I want. 

There’s a healthy strain of blackberry that holds up the fence between us and our neighbor, so we get all the blackberries we ever want from that one group of bushes. Aside from that, though, the rest must be rooted out and disposed of. It doesn’t take too much time, and that’s fine with me. I think nature should be enjoyed and isn’t something to be conquered or beaten into submission. 

One of my great joys is watching birds fly down to the birdbaths to bathe. I never know if they’re trying to tidy up before flying off to work, or if there is some other purpose. I suspect they may simply be playing in the water because it’s something fun to do. I never see that “I’m late for work” look on their faces, While beaks tend to look pretty hard to the untrained eye, I’d swear I can see smiles on those little avian faces. 

Not only do the birds smile, but they often invite their little buddies to come join them, and I’d swear I’ve seen them get into little water fights and splash-fests. It’s no wonder I have to fill those bowls each morning; the water doesn’t evaporate: it gets splish-splashed all the way to tarnation and back!

We could learn a lot if we would take time to observe the natural order more thoughtfully. Oh sure, there are carnivores and herbivores and not a small amount of violence taking place out there – survival of the fittest and all that guff. But I am talking about watching the ways animals and birds and plants go about tending to what they do, and ignoring all the rest. I’ve never seen a squirrel criticize a bear for eating fish, or a tulip critique a rose. Each does what nature has made it to do, and the rest let God be the judge.

I’ve gotten to appreciate nature more and more in my old age. It makes sense. It won’t be too long down the road before I’ll be filling the earth with my remains, and I’d rather have the planet welcome me home than hold resentments against me for things done or left undone.

The earth is a friend, and the least I can do is love and embrace that from which all humans sprang. It’s the berry/bury least I can do. At least that’s my gravest perspective here in this, our valley. 

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available exclusively through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Economics 101

People seem perplexed by the increased prices on homes, steel, lumber, and fuel, so let me help put some perspective on it and, no, it isn't the current President's doing (or Congress).

During the Pandemic (most of 2020 and into the current year) there was a major disruption on life in general. Construction, travel, manufacturing, etc. People didn't go places, so supplies dwindled. Remember the Toilet Paper Shortage?

As we roll out of the Pandemic (with vaccinations making a return to normalcy possible, while resistance to vaccinations by 30+ percent of the population means we'll probably never get past the disease or its variants and mutations like we did for Smallpox or Polio), life is returning to normal, and demand for lumber and steel has outstripped the current supply and desire to travel means demand for fuel has increased. When demand outstrips supply, prices go up. That's not politics; that's Capitalism.

As a side-note, regarding employment: Congress (i.e. Democrats) believe people should make a Living Wage, which is closer to $15/hr than $8/hr. The public has heard that and the majority of Americans are in favor of raising the Minimum Wage to $15/hr (or that neighborhood). I suspect people don't embrace unemployment benefits, as such, as much as they now believe many current "Now Hiring" businesses aren't willing to voluntarily pay a Living Wage. So, if businesses need workers to survive, they ought to consider offering decent wages and see if things don't turn around.

Ironically, when businesses pay increasingly good wages, income tax receipts increase, and the National Debt goes down. The Rich will continue to get rich, and the people, as a whole, will find their lives improved significantly.

Leaping Frogs!

I will praise your name, O Lord, for it is good. For you have rescued me from every trouble, and my eye has seen the ruin of my foe.” Psalm 54

Last week I heard a frog croaking, which in itself isn’t all that unusual. We have many cute little green frogs playing around the house out in the backyard. When I’m mowing, I take special care to watch for them as they strive to flee the noisy grass lopper. Just as people fleeing Godzilla or other monsters in the movies, they tend to run or hop the same direction in which I’m going, when they could just as easily hop left or right for a few froggy paces and be out of danger. But, Oh no; they’ve got to do it their way. So I, with eagle eye, keep watch as I walk and mow, and adjust my pace or direction of travel. The grass-lines are more erratic when I do that, of course, but then I remember that the outdoors is their domain. I am but a caretaker and should not fault frogs, snakes, slugs, or lizards for living life on their own terms.

Anyway, I heard a frog singing out in the night, but he or she wasn’t outside. It was calling from inside the house! Before you get the idea I’m going all Stephen King on you, rest assured it wasn’t actually calling from inside the house, nor did it have a homicidal intent (as best I could tell). It was calling from the garage, so I decided to put my frog-hunting skills to the test. I figured it should be pretty easy, for I was a major frog-hunter back in the day. My siblings, cousins, and I would wander ‘round the docks at Lake Cavanaugh where my grandparents had a summer place, and I prided myself on my ability to sneak up on frogs or toads as they sat on pads, logs, or mudflats doing their own hunting (for flies and mosquitos, I presume), and capture them before they even had a chance to elude my wiley clutches.

I always let them go after a minute or so, of course, because frogs and toads aren’t much for conversation. They sit in your hand, blink and, frankly, look pretty bored, so I would relax my grip and when they were good and ready, they’d shift in the palm of my hand, survey the lake, take a lazy hop back into the water and swim away like the creature from the black lagoon.

So, I brought back to the fore my hunting skills as I entered the garage for this battle of wits – this Great Frog Hunt. I wasn’t really hunting the frog to do anything harmful, by the way. Our frogs here are so tiny and inoffensive that a meal of frog’s legs would require about a thousand just to barely serve as an appetizer and, honestly, I haven’t got the time or inclination to provide all those frogs with wheelchairs if I were to do such a thing with them. No, my only interest in the frog in the garage was to find it, rescue it, and return it to the great outdoors from whence it sprang.

Well, that frog apparently has better hearing than I do; it was able to elude not only my clutches, but also my seeing it. Davy Crocket I’m not (apparently). That’s OK. 

That tiny creature with the big mouth has patiently eluded my efforts for weeks, now. It had neither asked for nor expected my intervention, and has been happy to sing me to sleep nightly since it moved in. The beastie simply keeps its trap shut until I tire of the chase, and when I return to my couch, Mr. Toad cheerfully sings its version of the Hallelujah Chorus.

I suspect that if Dear Frog knows the psalms, the one it prays each night is this: “I will praise your name, O Lord, for it is good. For you have rescued me from every trouble, and my eye has seen the ruin of my foe.”

That’s all this ruined foe has to say on that from here in this, our valley. He sure toad me off!

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available exclusively through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Atomic Ants and the Science of Love

Now the whole group of those who believed were of one heart and soul...everything they owned was held in common. Acts 4

I was meeting with our online Men’s Group and mentioned I was scheduled to receive my second Covid-19 vaccine shot. The first shot four weeks earlier had knocked me for a loop with a slight fever, chills, general body aches, fatigue, and all the other things guys tend to complain about whenever it comes to anything medical. It’s true. You can shoot a guy in the face while bird-hunting and they’ll just walk it off, but stick them with that itsy bitsy vaccination syringe and it’s “pour me into bed and plug ‘911’ into my phone’s speed-dial.” Sheesh.

The fact is I am writing this just hours after having received the vaccine precisely so that I’ll be able to send it off from the grave before the deadline comes and goes. Hey, I am ALWAYS thinking of others!

Anyway, I found myself wondering, all kidding aside, just what it is that prevents people from voluntarily wearing masks and getting their vaccines as soon as they can. I want to be vaccinated and reduce the likelihood of contracting or passing the disease along. I will continue wearing my mask in public simply because I don’t want you – my neighbor – to wonder whether or not I am safe to be around. The issue isn’t my rights, but our community.

The problem with Covid, and most microbial viruses and germs is that they are so darned small. We can’t see them to avoid them. We can’t look at one another and know for certain what contagions we each might be carrying. I did offer one alternative to the men’s group that anti-maskers and anti-vaccers might want to consider. It addresses the size issue, and it is based on science.

We need to bring back outdoor nuclear testing like we had in the late 1940s and early 1950s. I remember seeing a movie that I’m sure was based solely on modern science where atomic testing allowed desert ants to mutate and develop into twelve foot monsters. They were big enough to require machine guns and flamethrowers to deal with them. Well, bring back outdoor atomic testing and wait for the viruses to mutate big enough to whack them with baseball bats or fly swatters! I mean, if we can see the little beasties lolling around like beach balls, we can deal with THEM and go back to our maskless ways.

In the meantime, it seems one key to getting the pandemic behind us is to actually do something even harder: we need to get ourselves under control. I don’t wear a mask for me; I wear it for you. Why? Jesus said, “Love your neighbor.” If I bring you a smile, isn’t that loving? If I wear a mask so you don’t get as much salivatory ejecta from me, isn’t that loving? If I obtain a vaccine so the virus has no place to go and no way to get there, isn’t that loving?

The early Church grew quickly in the early days, not because of membership drives or paid advertisements, but because those early followers did something counter-intuitive; they loved their neighbors – including outsiders and persecutors. They didn’t concern themselves with their rights, but when their neighbors were in need, they did all they could to bring relief to their little corner of the dog-eat-dog world in which they lived; their neighbors took notice.

Followers of the Way recognized they were part of a community that didn’t end at their front porch, but included the wider community, including those who did not look, think, or act like them. In a world of “us and them,” they learned to embrace the “we.”

When it comes to masks, consider this. Painters mask off walls or trim they don’t want paint to stain. I, just as reasonably, mask off my face to avoid spraying you with unpleasantries. 

If we follow the science rather than the science fiction, it is quite possible we can slow down or end this pandemic, allowing us all to breathe a little easier here in this, our valley. 

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available exclusively through Amazon in Print and e-book)

An Empty Tomb -- A Full Heart

 Grant us so to die daily to sin, that we may evermore live with (You) … Collect for Easter Sunday

I don’t talk a lot about sin. It’s all around us, like the air we breathe. There’s no getting away from it. There’s no avoiding it. Even if we deny there is such a thing as sin, the fact is we see the evidence of people behaving badly, and so even if we want to give it a different name (like shortcomings, mistakes, or bad choices), it covers the same territory.

One reason I don’t talk about sin is I worry the minute someone hears the word, they will close their ears and stop listening. No one likes to feel like they’re being judged, or the person talking to them is a narrow minded nincompoop or holier-than-thou prig (all of which may be true anyway).

No, I just think that when we start with what’s wrong, we’ve started from the wrong spot. Yes, we are all sinners. We all fall short of the mark, whether it is the mark we set for ourselves or a mark some one or some One sets for us. Even the Rifleman, Lucas McCain missed every now and again; there’s no shame in that. The only real question we have to answer is what we can do to improve, and then do that.

A friend of mine is a bow hunter, and he went out to a ranch to get in some target practice before hunting season. The first few arrows never came close to where he wanted them to go. Not being an archer, I asked him if his bow had adjustable sights. He just looked at me a moment and said, “No, I just need the target to cooperate and move to where the arrows go.” The rancher said, “No, you just need a larger target (and maybe a bigger barn to shoot at).”

As a photographer, I’ll often move my subject if I don’t like the background or lighting, but I’ve found that mountains, trees, and barns often don’t move. When that happens, I need to find a different time of day or a different place to stand to get the shot I want.

Sin isn’t anything to be ashamed of. Our task is to identify what we’re looking for, what we’re aiming at, and discerning if we need to adjust our sights, move our subject, secure a bigger target, or find a better time and place from which to take our shot.

Sin, for me, you see, isn’t breaking a commandment as much as it is a distortion of who we are meant to be. It’s losing focus on the big picture: Loving God with all we’ve got; loving our neighbor (even when it is nigh on impossible – for with God, all things are possible), and loving ourselves the way God loves us – for God thinks we were worth the ultimate sacrifice.

This week marks the ending of Lent and our final approach to Easter. Once again we will peer into an empty tomb and some stranger in white will say, “The One you are looking for is not here. Go home, for he promised to meet you there.”

All of a sudden, we who tramped around during our Lenten pilgrimage will discover we’re home, and God is there waiting for us. God will have put on an apron and invited us in to feast because, well frankly, God doesn’t look at either sin or sinner. God looks at us. We don’t need to move. God moves. We don’t need to be perfect (or ashamed), for God is perfect and perfectly happy to have us join in the festivities.

The only sin God cares about is God’s SINcere love for each and every one of us. Enjoy your Easter and bask in the warmth of God’s love. Remember, God hung up the bow – God is no longer using us for target practice, and that is good news for everyone here in this, our valley! 

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available exclusively through Amazon in Print and e-book)

Doing the Splits With a Muffin

 

To a hungry person, God can only come as bread. Ghandi

I was not feeling well the other day, so I decided to have an English Muffin and juice for dinner. It was not a very healthy or filling choice, but it was something.

I pulled the muffin out of the package, as per usual, and then set about trying to split the top from the bottom. I’ll confess I don’t exactly know why muffins aren’t either left whole (so the consumer can slice it properly with a knife) or completely split so the halves can be easily toasted. Who is the brainiac who decided the best way to package muffins is ninety percent split, with the remaining substance determined never to let go? I mean, it’s a muffin, for heaven’s sake, not a Shakespearian tragedy!

But it is what it is. I hate that phrase, but nothing says it better. It is what it is.

I finally managed to split the muffin without making too ugly a mess of it, and it was worth the effort. Sadly, the toaster was set too low, so it didn’t get quite as crunchy as I had hoped, but when one is struggling to simply survive, perfection isn’t a prerequisite. My package of muffins contains five more little darlings, so I know each one will bring me closer to toasting perfection. Until then, I’ll make do.

That’s life, though, isn’t it? We take it a day at a time – a meal at a time – and we make do with what we have and make adjustments as we go. When my mother would make a meal and guests would drop by, or visitors possibly stay past their welcome, she never fretted. She would add this and that to the menu so that no one ever had the impression it had been watered down or stretched thin. She was a marvelous host and, to be honest, no one ever stayed past their welcome. If it was approaching dinner time, she’d specifically ask them if they wanted to stay for supper, and she’d prepare a feast!

I think she embodied the spirit of generosity (and culinary creativity) that allowed her to flourish as a friend. She lived out the Jesus-itude*: When I was hungry, you fed me; when thirsty, you gave me to drink; when lonely, you visited; etc. She made every effort to see Jesus in the other person. I don’t believe she ever saw a relationship as transactional (If you do this, I’ll do that).

Ghandi once said, “To a hungry person, God can only come as bread.” I suspect he was speaking of the real poor of the world for whom survival depended upon real sustenance. But I think it is true, also, for those who hunger for things less corporeal, but just as essential – like justice, peace, equality, or even companionship.

When I miss a meal, it is always by choice. I don’t believe I have ever missed a meal in my life due to an empty bank account or because the nearest grocery store was too far away and/or transportation non-existent. When reporters told Marie Antoinette the people had no bread, she is said to have replied, “Well, let them eat cake.” It never dawned on her, as a child of luxurious privilege, that those with no bread in their cupboards would be even less likely to have cakes in their pantries (or muffins!). 

What keeps us from being bread to a hungry world? What prevents us from working for justice or peace? Most of the time, I presume it is fear or greed that keeps us from being all God wants us to be. The question is: Can we do something about it? 

Sure. The muffin is partially split so it can be divided and shared – but with effort; we just need to work on it so as not to make a mess of it. Sharing the muffin unites those who eat of it. Even if it isn’t toasted perfectly, who cares? Just enjoy it with a smile and Jesus-itude* here in this, our valley.

*That’s a word I coined,  referencing and combining a platitude and attitude of Jesus.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available exclusively through Amazon in Print and e-book)