Jonah Changed His Mind

Talk about feeling regrets at just the right moment, consider the biblical character Jonah.

You know the story. God asked Jonah to do a task he did not want to do--which was to share a word of warning to the people of Nineveh, the hated enemies of Israel. Jonah refused the task and decided he could outrun God.

Bad idea. Instead of outrunning the Lord, Jonah found himself in the middle of a raging storm, which was about to engulf his ship and drown all his fellow passengers. Jonah, knowing the storm was God's way of saying, "You can't run from me" told the sailors to throw him overboard and their lives would be saved. At first they refused, but when Jonah explained he had defied Almighty God, they agreed and heaved him into the raging seas.

The storm stopped and Jonah was swallowed immediately by an enormous fish.

As the fish was descending into the depths of the ocean, Jonah said he felt his life ebbing. He said he also remembered how much he loved God and that how thankful he was that God gave him an opportunity for service.

Isn't that just like us? We have the opportunity to do right when it is convenient, when saying "yes" means simply doing what stands before us. But no, how often do we act like Jonah and go to great lengths to refuse service. How often to we spurn performing acts of kindness and compassion when the need before us is clear. Why? Simply because we would rather do wrong than obey. God tells us to give food to the hungry man and we choose to go a different route. God tells us to help our wife and we stay longer at work. God tells us to pick up the telephone and call our parents, but we keep watching the game.

Then later, when we're far away, we remember the hungry person, our family members, and our responsibility to show love not just receive love, and we change our minds. But, perhaps the moment is lost.

In Jonah's case, God spared his life and he was given a second opportunity to take the message to Ninevah.

How many second chances do we have to do right? Wouldn't it be simpler just to obey at the outset, than to think we can outrun God. What was Jonah thinking, really? What am I thinking, really?

St. Paul Sings!

Biblical scholars agree that the letters of St. Paul include some very early Christian hymns. It's the best way to explain why his writings sometimes include bursts of poetry, right at the end of some complicated point of doctrine. It's as if that hard boiled saint, at the end of writing something really profound, just felt the need to belt out a song.

I know how the man felt because I too am often moved to sing at random times of the day. I have no idea how others react to this--and I'm not sure how many folks outside my family circle have actually witnessed my song and dance act. But, it's a frequent event. My life is a musical comedy--songs just appear for sometimes no apparent reason.

In today's lectionary reading from Paul's letter the Romans, our saint explained in passionate detail that despite their rejection of Jesus, God has not rejected his people Israel. After all, says Paul, "the gifts and calling of God are irrevocable." Being the beneficiary of God's gifts is like buying items at a going out of business sale--you can never take them back. Once bought, the sale is final.

Paul is so moved by God's remarkable goodness--giving gifts to people who don't deserve them, and then never wanting them back--he finds himself bursting into song. Read Romans 11:33-36. "Oh the depths of the riches, the wisdom and knowledge of God. How unsearchable are his judgments and inscrutable his ways." I actually have a tune for that hymn burned into my memory from days long ago at the Mulford Evangelical Free Church in Muscatine, Iowa. This passage was set to music and sung by our church choir on numerous occassions. The tune sounded like a football fight song and the choir sang it with zest.

God loves humanity completely and without regard to our behavior. Our failures, rejections, infatuations with other gods notwithstanding, God loves us, accepts us, and calls in into fellowship. This love is far different than the love we share. While our love is fickle and often depends on the object of our love acting a certain way, God's love is without condition. While our love is narrow in focus, rarely extending beyond those closest to us, God's love crosses all boundaries. Finally, while our love sometimes fades with time, God's love grows stronger by the day.

When faced with such boundless, perfect love, it's enough to make a person burst into song . . . just like St. Paul.

On My Own and All Alone

Here we go again. Two weeks in a row! It's Friday in Lent and time to reflect on today's Scripture readings that appear in the daily lectionary.

The Psalm selected for today appears often during the Lenten season: Psalm 22. Unlike the words of comfort from the 23rd Psalm, the 22nd Psalm is all about pain and anguish. Perhaps its most famous words are, "I am a worm, not a man." Hmm, as much as I feel that way sometimes (most recently the day after my hernia surgery), I was not feeling that pain today.

Instead I felt most attracted to Paul's words contained in the eighth chapter of Romans. Here Paul writes exuberantly about the Christian's connection to Jesus--saying that nothing, I mean NOTHING, could ever separate us from God's love given through Jesus.

His words are wonderfully optimistic and absolultely reassure us that despite any difficult circumstances we may face, Jesus walks with us. Thank God we're not alone.

Yet I sometimes wonder, simply the fact that Jesus is with us does not mean we are experiencing his presence. I can think of many comforts and safety nets available to us that we often overlook or ignore. When the pilot light on my furnace went out last week--the gas company was available to help me, but I went ahead and tried to restart the machine, without luck. When the repairman came, he told me the pilot line was broken and that I was lucky I didn't "burn my face off." Lucky? Hmm, blessed more like it. Why didn't I call the expert first?

I also wonder why my son, who knows his father is a great writer (in my own mind, maybe?), never asks me to read his school papers and essays. I bet I could help him improve his grades, yet he chooses to forego my help. It's not a bad thing to want to do things on your own, it's just sometimes you miss a blessing.

One of the reasons I avoid getting help is that I prefer to do things my way. If you ask for help, then you're kind of obligated to accept assistance. It seems a little rude to solicit advice then immediately reject it. Why ask if you do not intend on listening.

Which is why I think my son doesn't ask me to read his papers--kind of hard to say, "No Dad, I like it better my way."

Which takes me back to nothing separating us from the love of God in Christ Jesus. I can think of several blocks to my relationship with God that did not appear on Paul's list: pride, stubbornness and willfullness. If God has gifted me, then why do I need help from the almighty to land a deal--shouldn't my talents be obvious without some divine intervention? Why should I ask Jesus to be with me in that business meeting?

Or, after committing myself to fruitless efforts, should I change course simply because God's gentle prodding urged me to try a different approach. I mean seriously God, shouldn't I keep at it my way a little while longer? Do you really expect me to accept the humiliation that I was on the wrong road?

Or, why ask for God's help when you know God's will is contrary to my own. If I want something--isn't it enough that I want it? Why would God allow me to want something that isn't good for me? Sure God's laws are clearly written in scripture, but doesn't he give his children a little leeway? If you know the answer is going to be "no" and you really want something, why ask permission?

As hard as it is to accept, our God can simply demand things from us because he is God. And Jesus will advise us to do right even when we want to do wrong. Loving God requires respect for his will--and accepting that his will is perfect, despite what our will tells us. But, submission is hard, and getting one's way is addicting. It also separates us from the one who loves us most.

Nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus? Really? Perhaps nothing from God's end. . . . I'm just saying.

Where Am I Going? And How Do I Get There?

Yes life is a journey--and wouldn't we all like to own the map that tells us exactly where that journey ends--and all the interesting twists and turns along the way.

I seriously dislike a series of television commercials running right now produced by Fidelity--you know them, the financial management company. The commercials feature energetic looking mature couples walking down a green path that the Fidelity Company is laying out step-by-step. "Don't worry seniors," the message suggests. "If you invest with Fidelity, we'll take you to the promised land." I wish finding the promised land was that easy.

Sad truth is that many persons who once felt secure about their futures aren't so sure now. Sure the stock market looks better today--but for millions of Americans who invested a significant portion of their wealth in their homes our "nest eggs" seem rather puny. Worse, millions of workers in their 40s, 50s and 60s, who expected to work a certain number of years and earn a certain level of income before retirement, find themselves unemployed and quickly burning through resources. As unemployment benefits run out, COBRA premiums become unaffordable, and houses in nice neighborhoods with upside down mortgages are abandoned, many Americans worry that God has somehow forsaken them.

Especially in Michigan and other economically ravaged regions people understand David perfectly when he mourns in Psalm 102, "He has broken my strength in midcourse." And, "Do not take me away at the midpoint of my life." How terrifying it is to be on a journey and find yourself stuck in the desert, out of gas, without reception on your cell phone, and far from your final destination. What do you do?

People of faith rely on hope. While we may be in the dark at the moment, the God we worship knows the total picture. The God who created the world, who has showered us with blessings of life and companionship, will not leave us in the lurch, no matter how difficult our present circumstances.

Do these words comfort you? Maybe not if you face immediate needs and painful choices. However, know that beyond the present discomfort, God has promised to deliver us to a place of rest--both in this world and in the world to come.

So, if you feel your life is stalled in a wasteland, and the darkness of night deepens around you, fear not. Your deliverer draws near. Maybe not in an Escalade, or a Jag, but God is bringing you relief . . . soon! After all, if your goal is to get to the promised land, does it really matter whether you get there in a Maybach or riding on the Megabus? I just want to get there, and have a spot prepared for me. God never promised that the road to the promised land would be easy or comfortable, just that he would take us there.

The folks at Fidelity proclaim that they can deliver you to a promised land of financial ease, and maybe they can bring some comfort to their clients. However, for my money, I'm still banking with the God of Abraham. See you at the pool!

What Kind of Place is Panama?

Panama is the kind of place where you can back up on the freeway. I should know, because I did it. And I wasn’t the only one. Here, if you miss your exit, shift into reverse and hope for the best!

Panama is the kind of place where you can show your bare midriff, no matter your age. No matter your size! And no matter your taste in revealing clothes. Sequins are very big here. Who needs a holiday or party? Every day is a good day to show some sparkle . . . and a generous gut, too!

Panama is the kind of place where a waitress might answer her cell phone . . . while she’s serving your table. Gossip is like restaurant food—you got to get it while it’s hot!

Panama is the kind of place where a driver can hold his infant child in one arm, and the steering wheel of his Toyota in the other. Where bikers seem to believe their caps afford the same protection as a helmet. And where the rare jogger might be wearing a knit stocking cap and full sweats . . . in 85 degree weather.

Panama is the kind of place where bright yellow jungle flowers practically explode from the limbs of jade green trees, while piles of garbage fester nearby. The jarring contrast between natural beauty and manmade ugliness makes your head spin. My environmentalist daughter sees education opportunities in Panama. I see . . . well even though I’m an optimist, this is Panama, so I don’t know.

I’ve heard that Panama is one of the top five places in the world to retire. That’s true if you’re measuring weather and cost of living. Panama is a wonderful place, with exuberant, friendly people. At the same time Panamanians see the world differently from most Americans. Certain basic values now embraced in the U.S. (like safety precautions and picking up your own garbage) sometime seem in short supply here.

But in February, when life is gray back home, I can accept the difference much more easily.

I Touched A Dead Body Yesterday

It didn’t scare me, or even freak me out. I was surprised. I touched the body while my wife and two men preparing her aunt’s body (who we knew as Na) for a funeral that was taking place the next day. They were struggling with her dress. The slip was hard enough to put on, but now the dress, with its zippers and lace, it required three sets of hands to lift the body and keep Na’s head in place. I wasn’t going to just stand by—I had visions of the body slipping off the table, bursting open and embalming fluids splashing on my legs. Better I help and avert a potential disaster!

The place where the body was being prepared for the funeral was described to us as a “private morgue.” We had visited the public morgue earlier that day and had identified the body for the death certificate. The sight of Na’s body wrapped in a sheet, with cotton in her mouth and nose, was almost too much to bear. I was not looking forward to a second encounter with Na’s body.

To find the private morgue, we were told to look for the large Edwin Hardware sign off the side of the highway. “You can’t miss it,” I was told. Who hasn’t heard that before?

But I saw the Fereteria Edwin sign and the rutted, dirt driveway that led to what appeared to be an open garage where cars were being repaired. A forlorn dog, skinny with sagging tetes watched us walk warily up to the building. The garage doors were open and we walked right in. Inside we saw the coffin we had selected earlier that day, and Na’s body lying on a metal table. The room was clean enough, but lacked the sterile, medical atmosphere I expected. Perhaps that’s why I wasn’t nervous. Na’s body was being readied for her last public appearance in a garage! Fortunately she looked much better than she did at the public morgue. The cotton had been pulled out, her face was less puffy, and some makeup had already been applied.

The body itself was soft to the touch, but room temperature. There was no life in that skin. The faint aroma of Na’s perfume was evident, but her spirit had departed. I wasn’t scared, repulsed or nervous. We had a limited amount of time to make sure she was presentable. So my wife fixed the makeup, changed the earrings, combed her hair, and arranged her clothing and rosary beads. This was the best we could do.

The next day, 30 minutes before Na’s funeral, a hearse arrived at the church. It was not exactly a hearse, but a white minivan that transported the coffin. We were asked to find men to carry the coffin up the stairs into the sanctuary. For this funeral, the pall bearers really bore a burden, not symbolically accompanied the casket. So huffing and puffing, six of us carefully carried the coffin with Na inside up two flights of stairs. Once in the sanctuary, mourners crowded around the coffin to see Na one more time. My wife was grateful she spent the time carefully arranging the body the day before—fixing the makeup, choosing the right clothes and jewelry—because at this funeral people wanted to see the deceased—a closed casket simply would not do.

My wife said she wished she had one last opportunity to hug her Na before she passed. While they talked on the telephone almost daily, she hadn’t felt her warm embrace, smelled her perfume or seen the vibrant sparkle in her eyes in almost a year. While the corpse looked like Na, it was not her. You can’t feel love from a corpse.

My wife and I both touched a dead body yesterday. Fortunately, a life of warm memories is what we’ll remember.

I'll Spare You the Details

President Lyndon Johnson famously showed off his gall bladder surgery scars to reporters in the mid 1960s when I was a small child. The press had a field day. Such a vulgar man. How could the president, the most powerful man in the world, lift his dress shirt, and show reporters his ample mid section. Gross.

Gross, for sure, but I understand the impulse.

Maybe I too am vulgar and gross by nature. Or maybe there's something else going on when the president lifts his shirt and shows off his scars.

Johnson later said he wanted the country to know that he was fine. People worry about the health of the president--his well being impacts the stock market, the news, daily watercooler chat. The former president believed showing the world his healed scars was an act of reassurance--instead it became a big joke.

In the week since my own hernia repair surgery, I've had to repress the urge to ask everyone I see, "Do you want to see my scars?" What's going on in my head? I haven't popped a vicodin since Monday so I can't say it's the drugs talking.

For me, showing my scars justifies my current, albeit strange behavior. All week long I've done nothing but sit around, read, watch TV and eat. I even started playing video games, and am especially enjoying Bejeweled. No work, no exercise, no projects, nothing. How to explain this out-of-character behavior? I just had surgery for goodness sake! How long will that excuse work?

I am surprised that my body really seems to need this down time. I expected that two days after the surgery I would feel like doing my normal activities--all those restrictions were for softer people. Yet, turns out the man of steel has feet of clay after all. I'm kind of shocked. Makes me want to show off those scars even more!

It's amazing the physical changes I've endured this week. From swimming 4,000 yard workouts, running twice weekly 10ks, and doing reverse dips off a weight bench, now I strain to stand and I'm not allowed to lift more than 15 pounds. Earlier this week my walk resembled Mr. Tudball from the old Carol Burnett show. One week I'm physically fit, the next I'm a shuffling invalid. "Look at the scars, they explain it all," I think to myself.

I'm not used to physical limitations. Yet, in this my fiftieth year of life, physical limitations are becoming increasingly familiar. My eyesight is failing. And my hearing? Forget about that sense, too!. Is a walker all that far away?

Fortunately, some of the limitations I'm experiencing are temporary. I am on the road to recovery, which is reassuring. In fact, I should be better than ever because my surgery fixed a congential defect. However, I can't help but feel that these aches and pains, the trips to the hospital, conferring with doctors, will become ever more common, ever more familiar as the years roll forward.

Thank God I'm feeling mostly fine. My mind is as sharp as ever. I'm not too bad to look at even if the hair is more sparse--and increasingly gray. My wife still loves me and my children still talk to me. My mind still creates new ideas. And, if pulling all nighters seems impossible, there still seems sufficient strength in this body to get most jobs done.

This week I learned, however, not to take my abilities for granted. They sometimes need a rest--and may or may not come back once they're gone. My prayer is that as life becomes more challenging, that I have the wisdom to deal with these challenges, and the confidence to know that less is much more than nothing.