A MODERN PARABLE

 A PARABLE OF GRACE

Jesus was walking about incognito one day and happened to stop by a local coffee shop that was famous for turning water into expensive drinks. Jesus had no money as he’d left his wallet and ID back home in the high country. Fortunately, the gentleman in front, a lawyer by trade, had performed a subtle rite known as “paying it forward” for the next person in line.

“What a wonderful ritual,” Jesus said as he smiled. “It appears the Teachings have caught on.”

The lawyer ruined the moment, of course, when he replied, “Now you should do it for the person behind you.”

Jesus thought a moment and replied, “Ah, I would, but I haven’t any silver or gold.”

“Then you shouldn’t have come into the shop,” answered the lawyer. “What do you teach, anyway? How to be a bum?”

Jesus answered him with a parable:

There was a man who deigned to dine in a fine restaurant, to enjoy a delightful meal. It’s a large restaurant. It’s a busy restaurant. The menu is humungous, and there’s something for everyone. Beef, seafood, scallops, venison, ham, wild boar, escargot, octopus, salads, everything from hamburgers to five star French cuisine and more. Everyone orders what they wish. They’re all having a delightful time.

The owner looks out and says to her restaurant manager, “The meals are on me. Tell the guests”

The manager replies, “But what about your servers? How about their wages and tips?”

The owner smiles, “Oh, they shall be paid in full, and I shall pay them double their tips and gratuities. They’ll lose nothing.”

The manager reported this to the section leaders, but they did not pass this report along to the customers. In hushed tones they said to one another, “Perhaps they shall pay us for their meals, plus gratuities, and we’ll profit like never before!”

But the Manager strolled around the restaurant, visiting every table and declared, “The meal is on the house.”

The patrons were happy, but the servers grumbled. “He’s chopping our legs out from beneath us!” So they grabbed the manager, hauled him out back into the alley, killed him, and tossed his carcass into the dumpster with the rest of the kitchen trash.

The servers rubbed their hands with glee, but it was short-lived. The Manager came back into the restaurant with a fresh change of clothes and spoke into the loud hailer, “The meals are on the house, courtesy of the owner of the house. Thank you for making this such a joyous occasion.”

The manager returned to the office where the owner sat at her desk. “Thank you for coming out to the dumpster, finding me, giving me CPR, a shower, and a fresh change of clothes. I have repeated your message to our patrons that the meal and gratuities are on the house. What shall I do with those brutish servers?”

The owner paused a moment to think and replied, “Have them sit down, grab a meal, and enjoy it. It’s on the house for them, too. I shall be out to serve them forthwith.”

“But they don’t deserve to be rewarded for their wickedness, do they?” queried the manager.

“I don’t reward them for their wickedness. It’s not about crime and punishment, carrots or sticks. It gives me joy to share freely from out of my abundance. If they can’t handle it, that’s their problem, not mine. The meal’s on the house. The meal’s always on the house."

With that, Jesus enjoyed his latte and returned to strolling about and managing the little eatery known to the locals as Earth.

The lawyer sat there, slack jawed and amazed.

© Keith Axberg, 2023

NOTE: No theologians were injured in the making of this parable.

The Weeds Will Always Win

“Faith is looking beyond what is, and trusting what will be … (faith) is the presence of light in darkness, the presence of God in all.” Ellen M. Cuomo

The dandelions have taken over the lawn again. We did a fair amount of weed control when we first moved to our home in Western Washington six years back. Lawns take a lot of work, there’s no doubt about it. But we’d gotten the dandelions pretty well under control by digging them out one by one and engaging in a chemical warfare I’m not fond of (for the environment’s sake). But over time, they have crept back into our lawn once again to become a major eyesore. 

Why is it that children are so care-free and adults so uptight about things like neat lawns, prize winning roses, or hedges trimmed straight, level, and plumb? 

I recall sitting, as a child, on dandelion infested lawns, gazing in wonder at those fragile seeds arranged in a downy ball more wondrous than any fireworks display on the Fourth of July. I could pluck up a stem ever so carefully so as to avoid losing even one pif [sic] so that I could personally blow the whole ball of wax apart with a breath – delighted to see the wind pick up each and every seed, spreading them far and wide into neighbors’ yards. 

Those were also days I would hold bright yellow dandelion flowers beneath the chins of little neighborhood girls to see if they liked butter (for the old tale was told that if your chin glowed yellow, then you did, indeed, like butter). We didn’t ruin the effect by talking about the science of light rays, reflections, and the rods and cones in our eyes that allow us to see such things. We simply delighted ourselves with the experience of life, being silly, and having fun being kids.

Oh sure, we had our chores. We had homework to do during the school year. But play is (and was) a child’s primary work. That’s how we learned to get along and how to settle disputes. We learned about consequences, too. Mr. Grassley yelled at us, scolding us for spreading (“dander-lions,” he called them) and potentially ruining his pristine lawn. The wind blows where it will, and God doesn’t care where seeds blow, but Mr. Grassley sure did!

Well, I'm grown up now (for the most part) and the dandelion seeds have suddenly come home to roost. I live a sober life, so I’ve never yearned to make dandelion wine (and that which I tasted years ago never resulted in my wanting more), so the old saw about turning lemons into lemonade (in this case, dandelions into dandelion wine) simply doesn’t hold water today.

I can guarantee I am at the age where I will not be digging weeds out of the grass one by one with my pointy little dandelion tool any more. As much as I resist looking to utilize a chemical solution for a natural problem, I’m afraid I probably will. I know it is a losing battle. In a war of man versus nature, nature will always win. 

I wonder if I really need to control the weeds that crop up from time to time in my lawn or flower beds. I’ve often heard it said that the opposite of love is not hate or apathy, but control. How can we say we love nature if we seek continually to control it? How can we say we love our neighbor if we continually try to control them? How can we say we love God if we perpetually try to control God with our prayers or wishes? 

Jesus taught us to pray, “Thy will be done.” Maybe I don’t need to control weeds or life; I just need to make adjustments so that they don’t control me, for I believe it’s a two-way street.  

In the end, I don’t need to become an herbicidal maniac; I just need to look “beyond what is and trusting what will be” (in the words of the poet). In the meantime, it’s enough to know I DO like butter here in this, our valley. My dandelions tell me so.

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

Aging With Dignity

How long shall I have perplexity in my mind, and grief in my heart, day after day? Psalm 13:2

Sometimes life is hard. There was a day I could spring up from wherever I was sitting and go do what needed doing. Today I rise like some royal potentate from his throne: slowly, regally, and with dignity. It isn’t because I am important. No, it’s because I want to allow my body time to realize I’m on the move; it needs that time to send some fresh oxygenated blood to the brain so that I won’t collapse after I’ve gotten all vertical.

I’ve been doing some projects around the house and find myself somewhat irritated that tasks that used to take me minutes now take hours. I built some homemade storage shelves in the shed out back the other day, and a project that should have taken thirty to forty-five minutes took ninety minutes, instead.

Then last week I was putting together some raised flower boxes (as I no longer want to bend over to pull weeds or cut flowers), and the components were almost too heavy for me to carry to where I’d intended to place them.

That’s OK, though. Aging, as they say, beats the alternative, although there are some who might take issue with that, as well. Sometimes aging can bring with it a lot of pain and misery. If I can laugh about mine, it really isn’t that bad, is it?

One of the things that helps me most as I get older is being able to take stock in where I am, what I’m doing, and noting how I’m feeling. Even a toddler is getting older as they reach a new day. Aging is part of life, and the things I could do as a young whipper snapper are things that either take longer now, or are now beyond my ability to actually do.  I can either stew about it, or just give the task a nod and decide whether or not it needs to be done, if it needs to be done now, and if it needs to be done by me.

The key to aging gracefully is acknowledging that I’ve never done anything gracefully in my life, so why should I expect aging to be any different? Life’s too short to fret over all the “woulda, coulda, shouldas” of life. My goal isn’t to age gracefully as much as it is to continue doing things that matter. I want to be useful. I want to be helpful. I want to be light where there is darkness. I want to offer a selection of solutions where there’s a problem, or to at least sit quietly with someone who’s in pain so they don’t need to suffer alone.

I want my life to look like the Prayer of Saint Francis (Lord, make me an instrument of your peace; where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; etc.). None of that requires a strong back, six pack abs, or a brain as quick as greased lightning. It just requires a shift in focus. The key is compassion.

Compassion is the capacity to move beyond survival – to become one with the other. Too much time and energy is devoted to identifying differences, rather than commonalities. Yes, we’re all different. I can’t walk a mile in your shoes, nor you a mile in mine. What we can do, though, is walk together and talk about what it’s like to be who we are, and to do so without fear of judgment. That’s hard to do, though, because we’re under a constant barrage of judgment.

How many people fail to do the right thing because they’re worried about what someone else might say, think, or do? We all want to belong, but at what price? I don’t think God put me here to please you, but to please God. However, that doesn’t mean I can ignore you, injure you, or abuse you. My job is to love you. Full stop. 

Everyone’s a sinner, so God doesn’t say, “Hate the sin; love the sinner.” God says, “Love.” Period. I can do that – as long as I don’t try to stand up too quickly 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 through Amazon in Print and e-book)

To Dream is an Awfully Big Adventure

People think dreams aren’t real just because they aren’t made of matter, of particles. Dreams are real. But they are made of viewpoints, of images, of memories and puns and lost hopes. Neil Gaiman

I had a dream last night. Well, not so much a dream as a nightmare. I am sure I experience REM sleep like everyone else, but I don’t usually remember anything that happens during those sessions. I suspect my usual dreams are so boring they simply put me to sleep. But this one was different.

It was probably a typical “preacher’s” nightmare in that I found myself, first of all, late for church. For one who grew up believing that early is on time, on time is late, and late is inexcusable, the thought of showing up after a church service has already begun was absolutely horrifying.

Worse, was that it was apparently an important service and not the usual Sunday fare. The church was packed to overflowing; the air was filled with thunderous orchestral music emanating from a grand pipe organ combined with a symphony orchestra; the congregation was abuzz with great expectations as if, perhaps, Charles Dickens was in the house. 

My hands held a bit of drivel that was supposed to be my “sermon,” which meant I was apparently scheduled to be the preacher. I was mortified. The few words I could see scrawled on the tiny piece of paper clutched in my sweaty fists were complete pabulum compared to the grand oratory the gathered crowd was no doubt expecting.

I made my way down the side aisle. It was a tight squeeze due to the overflow-nature of the congregation. I tried to work my way up the right side onto the stage, but the door was barred by the organist and his symphony. That meant I had to traverse the front of the church (not a sin, but frowned upon by strict liturgists), and while the stairs to the dais were clogged, I was able to make my way up to my assigned place. 

Then I woke up, realized it had been a dream (or nightmare), and paused for a moment to give thanks to God it wasn’t real.

Or was it?

I am no Joseph, with or without a technicolor dream coat. I’m not trained in psychology or in the interpretation of dreams. I do know and I do believe God often speaks to us in our dreams, because it is in our sleep God can finally get a word in “wedge-wise” (to quote Archie Bunker). Dreams and nightmares are often personal and particular to the dreamer. What this night-time vision specifically means to me is mostly irrelevant to everyone else, but I can share what I would consider a key point that could be applicable in a more general sense, and that is ...

… Each of us is central to our own story, but few ever feel adequate for the role they’ve been given. I don’t think I have ever met a person who, on the outside, looks like they’ve got it “all together,” who doesn’t, on the inside, feel like a bit of a fraud or charlatan. And yet, each does his or her part as best they can. They know they’re highly unlikely to ever win a Pulitzer or Nobel Prize, or a Gold (Silver, or Bronze) Olympic medal. Their row of Sunday School attendance stickers may never come close to being as complete as those of their peers. And yet …

… while we see our own inadequacies, God sees us. Not our frailties. Us. Not our inadequacies. Us. Not our performances. Us. It’s not that our presence doesn’t matter, or that our preparation doesn’t matter, or that our presentation doesn’t matter. We’re here, so we may as well do our best, to do our part. But all of that aside, what matters to God is us. 

Motivational speakers urge us to dream big, or follow our dreams, but that puts the emphasis in the wrong place. I believe God dreams bigger than we ever could. We bring what we have in hand, and do our part when the time comes. God dreams of love and justice in the world. God makes what we bring more than adequate to accomplish that here in this, our valley. So wake up, sleepy-heads. Wake up.

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

The joy of roaming without a gnome

"Don’t make change too complicated. Just begin.” Anonymous

For the first time since the pandemic, I’m finally free enough to roam about the country as I had hoped to before it began – by car. As I’ve said before, I don’t care for air travel. I’m not afraid of flying; it IS nice being able to take a trip that would have taken months or years by covered wagon down to a matter of just a few hours in conditions we may complain about, but about which our ancestors would consider an absolute marvel, bordering on the magical. 

But today’s flying experience leaves a lot to be desired. While air travel may be quicker and less expensive than moving about by automobile, I prefer to keep my feet on the ground and my rump cradled in a seat designed to conform to my form. I like being able to change my destination with a turn of a steering wheel, taking a road less traveled or discovering vistas I’d have missed if flying overhead at 30,000 feet and 500 knots in a titanium tube.

Besides, I enjoy driving. Cruise control makes it very easy, and GPS has come a long way since the early days of NAVMAN. I remember driving down California’s central valley to Paso Robles. My electronic navigator had a slight malfunction and was convinced I was about fifty yards off the highway. “Please return to the road,” she suggested. I ignored her, for I was already firmly cruising down the blacktop. “Please return to the road,” she said a second time. I ignored her. No tin-plated Dalek was going to be the boss of me. And then, I swear, the voice turned cold and icy, and through clenched jaw, bared teeth, and curled lips she snarled, “Puhleaze … re … turn … to … the … road!” So I turned her off, concerned she might have a phaser hiding amongst her assorted accessories.

Today’s GPS units are much more accurate and helpful. Not only do they know where you are and where you’re headed, they can suggest alternate routes when there are accidents; they alert drivers to “speed traps” (a feature I don’t approve of – just obey the legal limits, folks). They know where one can gas up, put on the feed bag, find a place to hole up when needing sleep, and so much more. They really are a useful bit of technology.

What they can’t do, though, is carry on a decent conversation. I know AI (Artificial Intelligence) is making great strides – significant enough to worry teachers and philosophers alike. There’s certainly reason for concern. Yes, kids (of all ages) may short-circuit the learning process and have computers do their homework. They may produce reports and essays that don’t reflect original thought, research, or understanding the processes involved in communicating what’s going on between their ears. What’s new?

New technology always creates uncertainties. People often find creative ways to utilize that which is novel in a manner that could be used for ill, as well as good. Pagers connecting doctors to hospitals also connected pimps and pushers to their clients; the film that can capture an Ansel Adams masterpiece can also capture lewd and disgusting images; computers that send essays and reports around the world via the world wide web also enable terrorists (both foreign and domestic) to coordinate countless acts of evil amongst like-minded nihilists. 

Viruses and malware infect so many devices, too. What’s worse, though, is how those same devices have become their own viruses. Traveling across the expanse that is America, I couldn’t help but note how many eyes are downcast, not out of sadness, but wrapped up in videos or posts streaming through their mobiles. The only people I could chat with were the motel desk clerks and restaurant servers (who were all very nice, by the way). We are prisoners confined by the bars on our cells.

I am guilty of this, too, of course, but this trip is helping me break that addiction. I don’t text and drive; I don’t browse the web while on the road; I have looked up and noticed the roses are blooming. All I need to do is stop to smell them. Change is as simple as that here in this, our valley. Thank goodness!

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

The Cure for Boredom is Ice Cream

"Everyone is a bore to someone. That is unimportant. The thing to avoid is being a bore to oneself." Gerald Brenan

I hate it when the dog days of summer are here, and it’s only May. That’s another way of saying, “I’m bored.” 

Usually I’m not bored. Life is good and there is plenty to do, but every so often my brain and body go on strike; production ceases; living color takes on faded, dreary, sepic tones; chewing gum takes on the texture and flavor of synthetic rubber that’s been masticated all day long.

I have to be careful. I learned at an early age never to let my parents know I was bored. If my demeanor ever looked like it was going to wilt or turn listless, my mother could immediately find a thousand and one alternatives to address a state of boredom. As vapid as I might feel, it was critical to feign a case of hyperactive-kinetic-ADHD and go melt into nothingness someplace else far away and out of sight. 

It’s not that I was lazy, but Mom’s go-to-solution in the war on childhood lethargy was to either have them weed the flowerbeds or mow the lawn. Our lawn mower was people powered – it had no gasoline engine or electric motor. It was a reel mower that hadn’t been oiled since the days of Moby Dick, with blades so dull they would only beat grass into submission, rather than actually cutting the wiry agropyron that tried to pass for grass. We’d have been better off raising sheep or goats (although cleaning up after them would have been less pleasant than pushing our mechanical lawn muncher).

As for the weeds, they were the only thing in the flowerbeds that could be classified as flora anyway, so why pull them? Everything else was just sand and rocks, and the weeds’ roots clung to the boulders so tightly that pulling them would have eroded the lot upon which our house sat to such a degree that if I’d pulled all the weeds as requested, we’d have ended up homeless!

Fortunately, bouts of boredom were pretty unusual. My siblings and I grew up in a neighborhood with a fair number of kids our age, so we managed to find a variety of things to do to keep ourselves occupied. If they weren’t around, my brother and I would either hop on our bikes or catch the cross-town bus and hang out at Greenlake to the east or Golden Gardens to the west. Either option took a fair amount of peddling and effort, and the rewards upon arriving were delightful, what with ice cream cones for a dime, or shaved ice with fruity-flavored syrup for a nickel.

Boredom is a state of mind, really. I don’t mind relaxing, and for the most part I would describe my quiet periods as times of contentment more than boredom. I like keeping busy, being creative, and yes, I don’t kick or scream too badly when there is a little yardwork to be done (underscoring the word “little”). There is satisfaction to be had in tackling a task or two, finishing them, and then finding something fun and rewarding to do in celebration. Ice cream still hits the spot!

One of the challenges of adulting is having and taking responsibility for one’s own decisions and choices. When I’m bored, it is seldom because I have nothing to do, but because I’ve let go of other things that are important – creative things like prayer, meditation, connecting in meaningful ways with others, or exploring the world and my place in it. God created us to be human beings, rather than human doings, but that doesn’t mean it's ok to be do-nothings. We need to stay connected, and we need to be connected, and that takes being actively present.

I suspect Jesus was never bored. My guess is that whenever we see him jump up and tell the disciples they need to get moving, it wasn’t boredom that motivated him (or getting away from Momma Mary), but curiosity. “I wonder what God is doing over there,” could easily have been his guiding light. Perhaps it could be ours as well here in this, our valley. Now, fold up your newspaper and go have some ice cream!

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

Reflections on the beauty of weeds and smiles

"[I]nspiration does not come like a bolt, nor is it kinetic, energetic striving, but it comes to us slowly and quietly, and all the time …." Brenda Ueland

A couple were walking down the street. As they strolled past a house, one said, “Boy, those flowers are sure pretty.” The other replied, “The beds need weeding.”

One sees beauty. The other sees weeds. One sees what is. The other sees what needs to be done. One enjoys the moment. The other frets over a mental to-do list. One appreciates the neighbor’s taste in flowers and design. The other judges them for the eyesore and some apparent laziness.

Now, I must confess that this story is made up, but it is also true. And the couple? That’s me. Those are the kinds of conversations going on all the time within that squirrel cage that is occasionally referred to as my mind. I’m a “both/and” kind of guy. I make every effort to be a positive, edifying, energizing individual, looking for beauty, and appreciating everything that surrounds me. But beneath that friendly, smiling exterior lies the heart of a scowling, judgmental curmudgeon (not that there’s anything wrong with that).

Most of the time the kind, gentle soul is the dominant person pacing about the house, traipsing through the neighborhood, driving down the boulevard. But there are times when Monsieur Jerk du Jour shoves his way to the front of the queue and has his say. Those discordant notes are like nails on a chalkboard; I’m usually able to send him back to the basement. What I find, though, is that while I’m striving to make nice outside, he’s downstairs working out, and getting stronger – or at least trying to.

Strength is dependent on diet and exercise.  I’ve found over the years that if I feed the beast in the basement, it gains strength. If I feed the angel that flits above, it grows lighter, brighter, and happier. One drives me to despair, the other to hope. One sends my gut to churning like the Bering Sea beneath an Arctic storm, the other to a peaceful calm of a Buddha under the spell of a tryptophan-induced coma. 

The Dalai Lama and Archbishop Desmond Tutu were engaged in a conversation a few years back, and each acknowledged the power of a smile to affect positive change in the world around them. When we walk past someone and smile, they most often will smile in return, and often it will be subconscious. They won’t even know they’re doing it. But they smile. Our smiles often trigger a response, a release of brain chemicals related to pleasures, and it’s that immediate release of dopamine or oxytocin that makes people feel good. 

One may not always feel like smiling, obviously. There is a lot wrong with the world, and yet there is also a lot right with the world. There’s a lot that’s good, true, wholesome, and beautiful. What we see is generally what we choose to look at. Philosophers may argue whether a glass is half full or half empty, but I look and see: the glass isn’t half of anything; it’s full, containing both fluids and air!

I do not believe for a moment that a smile will end war overseas or stop a virus in its tracks, but if a smile or small act of kindness helps lighten the load for one’s fellow travelers, isn’t it worth the effort? One may not feel like smiling, and yet sometimes the effort will create its own reward. As is often said in Twelve Step groups, sometimes we just have to fake it ‘til we make it. 

What I find helpful in keeping the beast in the basement under lock and key is getting out of my “self” and into caring for others. As the late archbishop, Desmond Tutu, says, “I mean simply to say that ultimately our greatest joy is when we seek to do good for others” (The Book of Joy, p. 59). 

Being kind feeds the angel; being selfish feeds the devil. I choose to feed the angel every chance I get in this, our happy valley. May God help us to see the beauty of the flowers, and acknowledge that even the bees make use of what the weeds provide!

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