Gathering Wool: Tales of a Black Sheep Living inPost-Christian America

'The Media?' What are ya tryin' to do, make me sick?

2012-01-23T07:39:00.002-05:00

My colleague Annette Spence, who serves as editor of Holston Conference's news organ, The Call, posted this on Facebook late last night:

"Republicans hate the press more than they hate Gingrich's breeches of virtue." -- Newsweek commentator on PBS

She later identified the commentator as Eleanor Clift.

What I hate about "the press" is that people talk about "The Media" as if it were a singular entity rather than the diverse communications community it truly encompasses. "The Press" referred to by the Republican party and PBS commentator Clift is the national broadcast media with the likes of Matt Lauer, George Stephanopoulos, Jeff Greenfield and John King. (Are these the so-called "Media Elite?") And yet, in a perverse sort of bigotry, those of us who have given decades to local newspaper newsrooms get painted with the same brush.

Believe me, I speak from experience.

One day, back in early 1990s, I had a former UT philosophy prof sit in my office and tell me that my newspaper served as an arm of the Religious Right. I had the joy of truthfully responding, "That's interesting. I've had people tell me we were a Democratic rag, so I guess we're doing our job."

Other times, I've sat in on conversations where someone derogatively refers to "The Media" and I get a sideways glance and smirky expression.

I guess that's my leprosy to bear.

But that's OK.

I've long known it comes with the calling.

It's just that these tend to be seemingly intelligent people when it comes to other matters, and yet they parrot bigoted statements about "The Media this," and "The Media that." In the spirit of Rosanne Rosannadanna, ""What are ya tryin' to do, make me sick?!"

So, whether you're Republican, Democrat, Tea Party, or No Party, do me a favor, will you? If you've got a problem with unbalanced coverage, take this journalist's advice: Name the source and get specific. Don't generalize and slander all newsrooms by saying, "The Media."

-30-

Don’t dig a new hole when trying to fill one in your spirit

2012-01-17T14:49:00.000-05:00

There’s something about not finishing what one starts that leaves a hole in your spirit.

That was the case when I failed to complete the three-day Hughes Gap to Apple House Shelter hike along the Appalachian Trail on Memorial Day weekend 2010.

It didn’t even help when we picked up my son, David, and the rest of the hikers on Labor Day Monday and I heard the stories about how treacherous the rain-drenched rocky trail had become leading down to Apple House Shelter, the last leg of the hike.

“Dad, it’s a good thing you got off the trail,” David said, recounting how slippery the rocks were and bringing up the possibility that my unstable feet would give way.

I may have been smart to exit the trail on the second day, but it wasn’t intelligence that led me to bug out early. In my mind, it was an irrational fear that I would somehow get crippled up along the way -- and I felt a void.

I couldn’t get the image of my hiking buddies climbing Round Bald without me out of my mind.
Truth be told, the stories of being rain-drenched and discovering an Overmountain Shelter mouse had gotten into David’s trail mix (“I thought Cole had eaten it!” he said) only added to a sense of loss.

I’d missed the adventure.

Even as we drove back to Knoxville, I couldn’t wait to get back on a trail again. I felt like that pilot from “Top Gun” who had to bail out of a fighter jet and his superiors knew he had to get back into the cockpit before he lost his nerve.

After about a week or so, my wife, Donna, asked me, “What do you want to do for Father’s Day?”

“I want to do a family hike,” I said, promising to find an easy trail.

I picked up my Great Smoky Mountains trail book, looked for some nearby trails, and decided on Abrams Falls Trail. It was billed as a “fairly easy 5-mile trek (round-trip) that is ideal for the beginner or a family.”

When Father’s Day arrived, my first mistake was thinking we could leave Green Meadow United Methodist Church in Alcoa after Sunday morning worship and make it to the Abrams Falls trailhead in a reasonable amount of time – an error I realized after creeping along on Cades Cove Loop Road for well more than a hour with the trailhead nowhere in sight.

“Great,” I groused. “We’re behind on time before we even hit the trail, and Elizabeth (my daughter) has to be at work no later than about 5 p.m.”

Not a good start.

Next came the realization that a rocky trail doesn’t make for a pleasant experience for first-time hikers. As a result, my credibility within the family has diminished somewhat and no one believes me when I cite a trail’s difficulty level as being “easy” or “moderate.”

As for me, the benchmark was now a particular 2,100-foot climb, and I trucked on along with little reluctance: “Well, it’s not as tough as Hughes Gap.”

No one seemed impressed.

At the end of the day, I was just thankful just to be able to complete a hike and began to look forward to Labor Day weekend when we would once again join up with the Kentucky brethren. This time we would hike from Dennis Cove Road to Wilbur Dam Road, adding a portion of the old Appalachian Trail that includes Coon Den Falls.

Looking back, it was on that hike that I truly began to experience life lessons along the trail.

Buzz Trexler is managing editor at The Daily Times. You can email him at buzzt@thedailytimes.com.

You need to learn which voices to listen to when hiking the Appalachian Trail

2012-01-08T21:40:00.001-05:00

Every once in a while, hike leader Steve Gilreath and my son,
David, would shoot me worried looks while we hiked Hughes Gap.
If this photo is any indication, it's little wonder they were worried.

Holiday decorations had yet to be put up Friday morning when I decided to step on the Wii balance board to see how much weight I had put on over the Christmas season.

Imagine my joy when I learned that I had actually lost 2.2 pounds, logging in at 227.75 -- yet, it was short-lived as the scale remained in the “Obese” category.

When it once suggested that my weight should be 157.2 pounds, Donna exclaimed, “You’d look like a frail old man!”

For me, progress along the trail is all that matters.

When I first hoisted a pack on Memorial Day Weekend in 2010, planning to journey about 18 miles on The Appalachian Trail from Hughes Gap to Apple House Shelter, the scales jockeyed back and forth between 237 and 240 pounds. Scaling Hughes Gap with its climb of 2,100 feet in 2.5 miles, I felt every ounce of that weight as well as the 37-pound pack.

Less than halfway into the climb, I was gasping and wheezing with streams of sweat covering my glasses to the point of obscuring my vision. As I hoisted myself up craggy parts of the trail, my two bad feet would occasionally shoot twinges of pain into a mind already filled with doubts. Next thing I knew, my mind was caught up in “The Tyranny of What-ifs,” such as, “What if I lame up on the trail? How will they get me out?”

Every once in a while, hike leader Steven Gilreath and my son, David, would shoot me worried looks.

“Are you OK, Dad?”

“Sure, son,” I’d wheeze. “I just need to stop a minute.”

Too bad I didn’t recognize The Enemy who seemed to be perched on my shoulder, whispering, “You’re not going to make it. You can’t do this thing. You’re too old and too out of shape. You shoulda started 30 years ago. It’s too late.”

But I didn’t, and the next thing I knew I was thinking, “OK, you need to think about getting picked up Sunday morning at Carver’s Gap.”

Our first overnight stop was to be Roan High Knob Shelter. At 6,275 feet, it’s the highest backcountry shelter on The Appalachian Trail. Family tradition maintains it always rains on Memorial Day Weekend at our place near Roan Mountain and we weren’t disappointed. What did disappoint us was that the three-man Coleman tent David, Cole and I were going to share leaked like a sieve. We weren’t alone though and several of us piled into the shelter, occupying the upper floor while two apparent insomniacs shared the bottom level.

All night long, The Tyranny of What-ifs disrupted my sleep: “You know, it’s about 15 miles between here and Apple House Shelter with no take-out. What if you lame-up? You’ll ruin it for everybody.”
So, the next morning, I took Steven aside, and literally tearfully told him I was going to have to beg off at Carver’s Gap.

Getting a cell signal wasn’t easy, but Steven’s son, Josh, managed to pick one up at the top of Round Bald.

I watched the five of them -- Josh, Steven, David, Bobby and Chris — hike up Round Bound, getting smaller and smaller, until they were out of sight.

And I felt incredibly alone ...

Later, I vowed to never suffer that fate again.

Every journey begins with a single step ... on the Wii balance board

2012-01-06T18:55:00.000-05:00

Recently, I loaded up the Wii Fit and stepped on the balance board and joyfully discovered that I had lost about six pounds since I last weighed in months ago, currently tipping the scales at a not-so-firm 230 pounds with a body mass index (BMI) of 32.22.

Three days later, I found that holiday food added two more pounds to my frame and increased my BMI to 32.5.

“This is not good,” I told myself. “I’m heading in the wrong direction!”

Heading in the right direction is extremely important, particularly if you’re planning on hiking nearly 60 miles through a section of Great Smoky Mountains National Park on The Appalachian Trail -- which, Lord willing, I’m planning to do in the coming spring.

It’s a continuation of a journey that began nearly 25 years ago when a friend of mine, Steve Gilreath, and I talked about someday hiking along The AT with our sons. Alas, the Gilreaths’ military career took them around the world and it was decades before we talked about it again.

By fall 2009, Steve was retired from the Army and flying a medical transport helicopter in Glasgow, Ky. During a visit, Steve shared with me that he was planning on taking some friends on an AT hike near Roan Mountain.

The timing was right.

I had just watched “The National Parks: America’s Best Idea” and was ashamed at how little I had traversed this beautiful backyard -- unless, of course, it was inside the confines of an automobile.

So, just after Christmas 2009, I began preparing for what was to be a three-day Memorial Day weekend hike on The AT with Steve, his Kentucky friends, my son, David, and a longtime friend of his named Cole. We were to begin at Hughes Gap in Upper East Tennessee and end at Apple House Shelter, a journey of about 17½ miles.

At the time, I was closing in on 240 pounds and obviously not in the best shape. Another factor that concerned me: a teenage injury left a screw in my right ankle, and I suffered severe trauma to my left foot while in the Navy. The result: arthritic aches that lead me to walk like Frankenstein in the morning and the added joy of occasional bouts of plantar fasciitis.

In short, at nearly 54, I was beginning to feel like a fat, broken-down old man.
So, I started walking when the weather was nice; using the Wii Fit when it was lousy; and trying to watch my diet.

David and I began buying hiking and camping gear: backpack, hiking boots, tent, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, water filter, rain/wind gear, trekking poles, map packs ...

My wife, Donna, sometimes looked rather doubtful that I would ever hit the trail -- and if I did, it would be a short-lived enthusiasm.

In spring 2010, David, Cole and I did a warm-up hike along Lumber Ridge Trail near Tremont. David and Cole chose this trail knowing that part of our Memorial Day weekend hike started with a 2,100-foot climb in about 2.5 miles at Hughes Gap. Lumber Ridge Trail climbs over 1,000 feet in two miles. We covered about 8 miles in four hours or so. I didn’t get that winded; however, about halfway through it seemed like my left foot (the one injured in the Navy) was breaking in half.

I began to wonder whether I could do these hikes.

Not long after the test hike, I went for my physical and shared with Dr. Bruce my hiking plans and concerns about “my two bad feet.” He prescribed a high-powered anti-inflammatory medicine that I could take daily.

Meds in hand, I continued to “train,” so to speak, for Memorial Day weekend.

But it wasn’t enough.

What I would learn about myself on that and subsequent hikes would go far beyond the physical.

And just as every journey begins with a first step, every trail brings with it life lessons.

Vote for Yellow Dog!

2011-11-15T18:07:00.000-05:00

Vote for Yellow Dog!

As the ruling parties' nominee wannabes bark and bite amongst themselves, a truly electable candidate emerges from his West Knoxville doghouse.

He's every man and woman's best friend.

He'll always be by your side.

He scratches where it itches and, in the common man's vernacular, "There ain't no fleas on him!"

Friends, family, neighbors, and strangers in my Friends list, I give you the next President of the United States:

Yellow Dog!

Let's "Occupy The Kingdom of God" for the sake of all

2011-11-07T17:48:00.026-05:00

The "Occupy" movement has occupied my mind recently.

This is no surprise to me: I was a latter-day hippy, having entered my teenage years in 1969 and coming of age toward the end of the Vietnam War. Likewise, my collegiate days in the 1970s were filled with all things counterculture. With a dual major of journalism and sociology, papers were often penned on topics such as the underground press in America, drug references in rock music, and the socioeconomic background of the primary players in the Youth International Party (Yippies).

Blend that background with my own personal dis-ease when it comes to corporate greed and the politicians whom we've elected to power in this country, mix in the the co-mingling of those two forces, and you have the fuel for a cautious cheerleader on the sidelines.

Why cautious?

Consider the Washington Post report that T-shirts, coffee mugs and other stuff emblazoned with a variety of "Occupy" locations and slogans are being hawked online and at locations across the nation. Almost in lock step, the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office received a number of applications from enterprising merchandisers, lawyers and others seeking to win exclusive commercial rights to such phrases as "We are the 99 percent," "Occupy" and "Occupy DC 2012."

In the words of Walt Disney's immortal Goofy: "There's sumpthin' wrong, here."

I feel the same way about those who capitalize on the anti-establishment songs of the '60s to try and pry cash from aging baby boomers. Nothing like hearing The Beatles' "Revolution" in a Nike ad, or Mercedes-Benz using the Janis Joplin classic "Mercedes Benz" to peddle its four-wheeled messiahs. Of course, I don't consider The Beatles really that countercultural, so maybe that works after all; however, Janis Joplin said her song was "of great social and political import," but said nothing of selling great imports.

A real countercultural movement today would be to "Occupy the Kingdom of God," to truly care about the things that the ultimate homeless one, Jesus Christ, cared about -- chief among those were the poor, the infirm, those whom society and the religious authorities marginalize. To occupy one's self with those needs, to identify with the least and last among our society, is to "Occupy the Kingdom of God."

Not to diminish the needs and concerns of "the 99 percent," but U.S. Census data tells us that there are those who were disenfranchised by corporate greed and governmental injustices long before "the 99 percent" arrived to "Occupy" anything.

Now that I think of it, didn't Jesus leave the 99 to go in search of the 1?

Certainly that's a clue to how we "Occupy the Kingdom of God."

The whole scene is reminiscent of the words of the anti-Nazi theologian Martin Niemöller, who is often quoted along these lines (though in a number of variations):

In Germany they first came for the Communists,
and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Communist.
Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Jew.
Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Catholics,
and I didn't speak up because I was a Protestant.
Then they came for me --
and by that time no one was left to speak up.

To "Occupy the Kingdom of God" is to occupy ourselves with speaking up for those who are not like us, to be concerned with the others, and to not wait until there is no one else left to speak.

Perhaps if the 1 percent had been concerned with the 99, or even concerned about those who were impoverished and disenfranchised before the 99 came to "Occupy," our nation would not stand in need of occupation.

Perhaps the 99 would do well to go in search of the one who has long been disenfranchised by the 99 percent whom the 1 seek to "Occupy" today.

Then perhaps we would all learn that to "Occupy the Kingdom of God" is a far greater occupation than to "Occupy Wall Street," "... Main Street," or even "... Sesame Street."

'What if it were my son who killed someone ...'

2011-09-23T15:59:00.005-04:00

Within the span of 48 hours, three men were killed in state-sponsored executions within the span of 48 hours.

The Associated Press stories followed this way:

From Georgia: “Strapped to a gurney in Georgia’s death chamber, Troy Davis lifted his head and declared one last time that he did not kill police officer Mark MacPhail. Just a few feet away behind a glass window, MacPhail’s son and brother watched in silence.”

From Texas: "White supremacist gang member Lawrence Russell Brewer was executed Wednesday evening for the infamous dragging death slaying of James Byrd Jr., a black man from East Texas.":

From Alabama: “A man described by a police informant as trying to make a name for himself was executed Thursday evening for the 1994 shooting death of an Alabama store clerk during a robbery. Derrick O. Mason, 37, was administered an injection and pronounced dead minutes later at 6:49 p.m. local time at Alabama’s Holman Prison.

Mason was the fifth prisoner to die in an Alabama execution this year.

Even as a Christian, I was somewhat undecided about the death penalty until I read about Carl Songer in a 1989 Charisma magazine column by the late Jamie Buckingham.

Carl Songer was a 20-year-old drug addict when, according to court documents, in 1973 he walked away from a prison work-release program in Oklahoma. Several days later, on Dec. 23, hunters watched as a Florida highway patrolman was gunned down after approaching a car in which Songer and a companion were sleeping.

The hunters captured Songer and he was ultimately convicted of murder and sentenced to die in Florida’s electric chair.

Songer lived on death row as the usual appellate process moved through the courts: Sentence affirmed in 1975; remanded for a new sentencing hearing in 1977, where death was again handed down and affirmed; an appeal in 1979, denied; and a new sentencing hearing ordered in 1985, with death again imposed.

Each time, Buckingham says, Songer was returned to the death watch cell, which was only 30 feet from the death chamber.

Buckingham says it was John Spentkelink, the first man to be executed by the state of Florida, who gave Songer his Bible while on the way to the electric chair. Songer put the Bible on a shelf in his cell.

“It seemed irrelevant to his situation,” Buckingham writes. “Why was he on death row when others, who had committed far worse crimes, were being paroled — or acquitted. Why did those who had money to hire expensive lawyers seem to get out of prison, while the blacks, mentally retarded, and poor whites like him rot away in dismal existence?”

And then an agent of transformation entered Songer’s cell and heart.

Seven years after being convicted, Songer was sitting on his bunk when “suddenly he was aware of a ‘light’ in his cell, above and behind his head.”

“‘When I tried to look up and see what it was, it moved back,” Songer told Buckingham. “I knew it was more than a light. It was a presence.”

Songer was confused and frightened.

“‘God,” the condemned prisoner whispered, “Is that You?”

Buckingham writes, “Instantly the light swept down in front of his eyes and in a silent explosion entered his chest. Carl Songer dropped his head into his hands and wept.

“The weeping continued for three days.”

Buckingham describes a scene that is filled with remorse and conviction — not only over the events of his life, but the misplaced blame and the denial of guilt. Songer knew he was a murderer who had “taken the life of a woman’s husband, a child’s father, a mother’s son. He was a sinner. He was a murderer.”

And Songer turned to the one he read about in the Gospel, and the one he believes visited him in that cell: Jesus.

Buckingham goes on to tell how several years later he met Carl through a woman at his church — a woman who had been on the jury that convicted Songer. The woman wrote the condemned man, asking Songer’s forgiveness and later sharing Buckingham’s books with the prisoner.

Songer wrote Buckingham and made an incredible request: That the writer come and stay with Songer in his cell the night before he was to be killed — and to witness the execution.

Once more, Buckingham’s words, in July 1989:

“I made several trips to see him. I spent the week with him before his scheduled execution. I met his parents, poor but godly people who had driven their pickup truck to Florida so they could return his body to Oklahoma for a ‘Christian burial.’

“I enlisted my church in prayer, and, 10 hours before he was to be executed, the U.S. Supreme Court granted another stay.

“That was four years ago. Few things have shaken me as that experience. I had always been a passive believer in capital punishment. But this time it was evident the state of Florida was killing the wrong man. The old Carl Songer died nine years ago. The man they planned to execute is a new creature. ...
“Some ask: ‘What if it were your son that he killed?’ But that’s not the right question. The question is: ‘What if it were my son who killed someone?’

“The basic question is not, ‘Did Carl Songer deserve to die?’ No, we all deserve to die. The real question deals with Jesus. Would Jesus pull the switch? He came to fulfill the law of retribution with the higher law of transformation. The question that must be asked with capital punishment — as with all social issues — is, ‘What would Jesus do?’”

On May 25, 1989, Songer’s sentence was commuted to life in prison.

A pastor friend of mine once reminded me that it is only because of time and culture that we Christians are not walking around with little electric chairs around our neck.

Knowing that, they really need to keep me off of any jury hearing a case involving a capital crime.

I just can’t see God smiling when someone is executed.

Combatting the Horrible Heffalump of the What Ifs

2011-08-26T09:10:00.004-04:00

The past few days have been pretty depressing.

Earlier this week, we were told that Lady Vols Coach Pat Summitt had early onset dementia. While not a Lady Vols fan per se, I have a great deal of respect for her -- respect that continues to grow as I've watched how she's publicly handled this diagnosis.

Then last night, during our time on the phone with my mother who is herself in the midst of a medical battle in Richmond, Va., I learned that my biological father has dementia. We have no idea how long he has suffered with this, because he is estranged from our family; however, it was unsettling to say the least.

My grandmother, his mother, likewise suffered from dementia before her death some years ago.

As I thought of both of those facts, a rising fear came from within me in the form of "What if ..."

It's the kind of question that just sort of hangs in the air ... like a thousand-pound anvil waiting to drop on your head, threatening to send you into what you perceive to be mental darkness the remaining days of your life here on earth.

It's the reality equivalent of the "Horrible Heffalump" in Winnie the Pooh.

God has given me words -- and experiences -- in the past to combat the Heffalump of What Ifs known as dementia, as well as Alzheimer's and any other disease or circumstance that looms ahead.

It's not an easy fight, but they are the sort of words and experiences we need to hold on to in the coming years as baby boomers age.

I once preached a funeral for a woman named Frances who had long suffered from Alzheimer's prior to her death, recalling that her daughter had occasionally brought her to Green Meadow to celebrate Holy Communion. During her funeral service I shared that her spirit was alive, for even as she battled Alzheimer's she could still recite the Lord's Prayer.

The experience with Frances, as well as one with a friend of mine named Don, who also suffered from Alzheimer's, left me with a remarkable hope -- no, a truth -- that I hold on to: The Holy Spirit lives so deeply within us, that even the dark valley of Alzheimer's can not overcome the light of God.

It is a hope that I must claim as truth.

Earlier this week, I also discovered that an acquaintance from high school was suffering from medical issues related to Hepatitis C. He had undergone treatment in 1999 and 2008, but was a non-responder, meaning it did not knock back the virus, which continued to destroy his liver.

In a conversation on Facebook, I asked Billy, "Anything specific I can put on the prayer list?"

He responded, "Praise Him for His Grace which is sufficient and pray for healing."

Billy reminded me of another weapon with which to fight the Heffalump of What Ifs: God's grace is sufficient.

Finally, there is this experience: When I was in the midst of being diagnosed with Hepatitis C in 2000, the first clue was an abnormality in my liver enzymes. My doctor said he wanted to do an ultrasound.

It was my first real experience with the Heffalump of What Ifs -- at least, the first experience where I began to recognize just how paralyzing the monster of fear can be, and the knowledge that God has given us weapons to use in this battle.

During that same week, I was interviewing Michael Card who had recently released a CD that is something of a soundtrack to the Book of Hebrews. Among the songs is one entitled "Never Will I Leave You."

I hung on to that song, and the Scripture from which it was penned (Hebrews 13:5, which has its own parallel in Deuteronomy 31:6), whenever the Heffalump of the What Ifs started stalking me:

Never will I leave you,
That's something I'll never do.
Forever remember that it's true,
Never will I leave you.

When you fear,
The scars and tears.
Remember what I have sworn,
I'll be with you through the storm.

And when you fear,
That's when I'm near.
Your soul's security,
When will you believe?

Never will I leave you ...

The Horrible Heffalump of What Ifs arises with age, but the one who has already saved me from myself reminds me, "Never will I leave you ..."

Even in the mysterious darkness of dementia, may God give us the grace to remember that the Holy Spirit assures us, "Forever remember that it's true, never will I leave you ..."

Making way for new memories

2011-08-19T15:39:00.003-04:00

This photo of our cabin at Ripshin, circa 1979, was on the memory shelf. I was pleased to see that the negative was there, too. To see other photos from the memory shelf, click the headline link above.

I’ve been doing a little housecleaning these days while my wife has been out of town — not so much with dishes and laundry, mind you, but with files and books and ... well, memories.

There’s a bookcase that I’ve been cleaning out; it sits in our bonus room, which serves as my office. In earlier times, it was my grandfather’s gun cabinet, which is a memory in itself. At some point, my Uncle Mike decided to convert the glass-doored gun cabinet into a bookcase, which I eventually inherited.

When I look at the case, I not only see shelves filled largely with ministry-oriented books, but I also think of the days when Grandpa would pull out our Browning shotguns and we’d hit the fields. The guns themselves are nothing more than memories.

Maybe that’s why the very top shelf of this bookcase has served as my “memory shelf,” the repository for everything from baseballs, to birthday and anniversary cards, to cherished photos, and even a postcard featuring the USS Independence, upon which I briefly served. Once I started cleaning off that shelf, I found myself reminiscing over such far-off places as Estonia, Guatemala, and not-so-far-off places such as Ripshin, a mountain lake near Roan Mountain.

But, as I said, I’m doing a little housecleaning, which is why there is now a box labeled “Buzz’s Memory Box.”

The shelf will be wiped off, a few of the old things will stay, but new memories will gather.

'His only desire is to bless'

2011-08-08T07:36:00.000-04:00

I love it when Holy Spirit does these sorts of things to me.

As I continue to move through this series on "The Parable of the Two Lost Sons and Their Loving Father" (my new title for this parable), I've often thought of purchasing Henri Nouwen's "The Return of the Prodigal Son." This morning, the text in the devotional I've been using since the beginning of the year ("When You Pray: Daily Practices for Prayerful Living," Rueben P. Job) was taken from Nouwen's reflections on Rembrandt's "The Return of the Prodigal Son" (above).

"Here is the God I want to believe in: a Father who, from the beginning of creation, has stretched out his arms in merciful blessing, never forcing himself on anyone, but always waiting; never letting his arms drop down in despair, but always hoping that his children will return so that he can speak words of love to them and let his stired arms rest on their shoulders. His only desire is to bless. " ("The Return of the Prodigal Son," Henri J.M. Nouwen; pp 93-94, as quoted by Job)

We should all come home to such a Father.

Beware of heretics, but be more wary of Pharisees

2011-08-02T08:26:00.001-04:00

One of my favorite contemporary Christian theologians is Brennan Manning.

That statement is no surprise to those who know me well.

Still, while a number of evangelicals (note the lowercase "e") have found Manning's writings inspiring, others label him a heretic. Just Google his name and you'll see what I mean. But if you do that, beware: You may find yourself in my shoes and find that some of your favorite emerging church writers are similarly labeled.

One such site, deceptioninthechurch.com, had "expose" links on nine writers -- six of whom are among those in my library.

OK, I expected to see Rob Bell there, and maybe Dan Kimball, but Richard Foster? The Quaker? You've got to be kidding me ...

At first I was surprised to see Len Sweet there, but then I started thinking about the "why" of such lists. Why is there such animosity toward anything resembling a fresh look at our understanding of God?

And then I thought of the crowds following Jesus: You had the tax collectors and sinners in one group; the Pharisees and scribes in the other.

Jesus was offering a fresh look at the 1st century understanding of God, and the sinners were drawn to this new portrait that was being created with strokes of grace, love, mercy, compassion and kindness.

Guess who didn't like it: The religious establishment, the artists behind an entirely different portrait of God -- one painted with strokes of rule, law, vengeance and fear that is not a fear made perfect in love, but one noticeable absent of love.
(Glad we don't have any of that today.)

I'll be honest with you: There have been times when I have questioned the writings of Bell, McLaren, Manning, and even my fellow Methodist Leonard Sweet, but to me that's one mark of what it means to grow in the faith.

I wonder if some of the heresy hunters ever question the theology in which they find themselves heavily -- dare I say eternally -- invested?

Likely no more than Jesus' counterparts.

Grace and peace ... to all.

P.S.

If you are not familiar with Brennan Manning, here's the devotion I had for today. You might want to see if you can spot any heresy in this text:

"The dream of Jesus Christ is the Kingdom of God, and the committed Christian buys into his dream. It ought to be noted that the Kingdom is not an abstraction. It is a concrete, visible, and formidable reality forged by the personal commitment of many memvers. A commitment that does not issue humble service, suffering discipleship, and creative love is an illusion. The world has no interest in abstractions, and Jesus Christ is impatient with illusion." (A Glimpse of Jesus: The Stranger to Self-hatred," Brennan Manning, 2003 Harper-Collins, New York; p104)

Ice, ice baby ...

2011-07-29T08:18:00.000-04:00

I'm fortunate to have good medical care, thanks in large part to Christian community. I'm also dismayed when I learn of others who are not so fortunate.

Recently, I had my annual physical and while sharing with Dr. Bruce about my plantar fasciitis he told me about Vitalsigns, a medically based wellness group that he and some other doctors had formed. He strongly believed that a little work with Kaleb would do wonders for me.

I visited with Kaleb earlier this week and he walked me through some excercises. I've been doing them in the morning for the past two days and right now I'm icing down my left foot -- the one that's mangled from a Navy injury and is suffering the worst with PF -- after doing the stretches.

It's early in the game, but Kaleb may have gotten me on the right track. At least I've been able to walk without extreme pain when I get out of bed.

In that first consultation with Kaleb, he noted at the very beginning that I should probably do some low-impact exercises other than walking. (This after my sharing with him how I have two bad feet, the mangled one I spoke of above and a screw in my right ankle that's been there since 1971, I think.)

I looked at him like a sad hound dog.

"I'm gonna tell you right now, if you tell me I have to give up hiking, you're going to break my heart."

"No, no," he said. "We want to get you back to hiking."

Words of encouragement that did me well.

I'm motivated.

"Rapture" and 1 Thessalonians: A musing

2011-05-10T21:56:00.001-04:00

So, I got this phone call from a family member last night. She's taking Bible classes online from a fairly conservative university and was asked to write a paper on the "The Rapture," using the familiar text from 1 Thessalonians 4 and comparing it to at text in Revelation.

Admittedly, I haven't thought much about the theology of "The Rapture" in a fairly long time. I do recall seeing a T-shirt I wanted to buy once in a Christian bookstore back in the late 1980s. It showed a skateboarder soaring high into the clouds with the words, "The Rapture: The Ultimate in Grabbing Air." I took a stab at finding one online tonight; alas, it was to no avail.

After doing some devotions this morning, I thought about that conversation and decided to go a little further into the discussion with her via an e-mail. I'm recounting it here, with some corrections to grammar, spelling, and replacing an omitted word or two. (I was late for work and didn't do much self-editing before sending the e-mail.) I've also omitted her name, because I haven't asked her permission to post this. I mainly wanted to capture it for myself, because I'm thinking about digging a little more deeply into John Nelson Darby, who is largely credited with laying the groundwork for Dispensationalism and the theology of "The Rapture." The sociologist in me wonders about the timing of that discourse as it relates to the approaching 20th century mark and how its popuarlity as we approached the 21st century, a la the "Left Behind" series.

Dear ____,

When I was talking to you last night, I made mention of a scholarly study of Paul's letters, including 1 Thessalonians. Just FYI: Here is a list of those letters that are fairly undisputed as having been penned by Paul compared to the "disputed letters." Don't get me wrong: Just because they were written only in the name of Paul, which was common for followers to do, does not give them any less biblical authority. It does, however, mean that we always judge the disputed by what we see in undisputed writings. Scripture must always be taken as a whole, not as a part.

The Undisputed Letters
1 Thessalonians
Galatians
1-2 Corinthians
Philippians
Romans
Philemon

The Disputed Letters
2 Thessalonians
Colossians
Ephesians
1-2 Timothy
Titus

That list is from "Introduction to the New Testament: Interpreting the Message and Meaning of Jesus Christ," Carl R. Holladay, a text we used in New Testament I and New Testament II in my Course of Study.

Holladay notes, "While the debate about the pseudonymity of 2 Thessalonians is important, it should not obscure how valuable both letters are to the church and contemporary Pauline scholarship."

1 Thessalonians is believed to be the earliest Pauline letter and, in fact, the earliest Christian writing. Holladay notes it is thus the earliest apocalyptic (speaking of when good finally defeats evil at the end of time) text in the New Testament.

Holladay explains that Paul had only been gone from Thessalonica for "a short time" (1 Thess. 2:17) when he penned this letter, so his visit was still fresh in his memory. There are lots of details concerning his visit in the letter. There apparently was great opposition to his preaching during this visit, which may have been three to four months. In the letter, he reminds them:
-- The "apostles of Christ" who started the church, Paul, Timothy and probably Silvanus;
-- Paul's Spirit-empowered preaching and its message of the one God and the Son, who would "as eschatological deliverer";
-- Paul's preaching in the face of "great opposition," the "persecution" and suffering from their own countrymen";
-- Instructions on how "to live and please God";
-- and God the avenger and the certain, yet sudden, Day of the Lord.

There is more to the letter, obviously, but I just wanted to share this with you as a reminder that these letters were not written in a vacuum, but to a particular people, at a particular time, and a particular place. In theology, one of the questions we ask is, "What was God saying to God's people at that time?" We also ask, "What is God saying to God's people today?" As well as, "What is God saying to me, today?"

That having been said, Holladay notes, and I agree, that "First Thessalonians is best read as a paranetic letter [a pastoral letter of exhortation] whose overall goal is to encourage and strengthen its readers." One aspect of this is the text from 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18, which deals with the question of "What about those who die before Jesus Christ returns," sometimes called the "Parousia," or "Second Coming." And so, pastorally, Paul tells them not to worry: "But we do not want you to be uninformed (Paul's always teaching), brothers and sisters, about those who have died, so that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope." And then he goes on to paint a comforting scenario, using the image and language of the day.

I wish I had more time, but I have to go to work. I would really like to see how Darbey constructed his pretribulation rapture theology as a "comfort" to those who were consumed by apocalyptic writings, obviously asking, "What's going to happen to Christians during this great tribulation and end-times battle? It's going to be horrific!" And during the 19th century, particularly as the turn-of-the-century approached, people had a lot of that on their minds. It's fascinating stuff.

Thanks for giving me something to ponder ...

Love,
Uncle Buzzy

Remembering God's hand at work in Estonia

2011-05-05T23:07:00.000-04:00

The Rev. Tiit Henno (left) listens as Niina Suudla tells her story.

It's been nearly 12 years since I spoke with Niina Suudla and I have no idea whether she is still with us on this side of heaven.

But as I listened Wednesday night to the Rev. Gita Medniz tell about life in Latvia during Soviet occupation, my mind went back to that fall day in 1999 when I tried to get the then 77-year-old Estonian woman to tell me her story. We were sharing coolies and tea at a Lutheran church in Kuressaare.

Her voice reminded me of a British schoolmarm, but Niina's life was decidedly Eastern European, seasoned by decades of living in a closed society.

Niina told her story to women on our short-term mission team, who relayed part of the story to me. I later asked the retired English teacher and translator if she would mind retelling the story. Niina's cheeks red as she said, “That was so long ago and it was such a bad thing.”

When she was encouraged by the team members to talk to the journalist, Niina's said simply, “We’ve learned not to talk about things of that matter.”

The next day, however, she relented and me her story in these words:

“First of all, in my school days, the central core of our life’s teachings … was the church.

“My mother was a Lutheran, my father was of the Orthodoxy, so it was a sharing of all kinds of traditions during the year. But it was such a not a very easy point. But it was quite friendly and same time I have very happy memories of that time.

“Of course, then came the moment when we were deported and it was a great help from God that mother and the children are left behind … and it gave me such a taste of God’s help. And, later on, life went just so with little ups and downs.

“I wasn’t allowed to go to school. I wasn’t allowed to go to church. But we had such moments with our mother, who was a religious person, and (strengthened) our faith.

“During my teaching period, of course, base life was very oppressed. Teachers were not allowed to go to church and no religious teaching at school, and so on.”

I asked how she came to learn English.

“I learned at school. I learned in high school when I was in Kuressaare. But later on I managed to enter the Tartu University. It was also the last moment when students were admitted to the correspondence course. It was not the general. Because my father was arrested, I was not allowed to do that. But it was the last time when there was no special committee who questioned all of the applicants. There was no interview. The interviews came a few months later. I was the last who was admitted without the interview. And so, I could enter the university and could study the correspondence course.

“And I have experienced God’s hand so many times.”

I asked why her father was arrested by the KGB, but the answer is still a bit unclear.

“In his youth, he had been to the … police once.

“Now, of course, in 1941 tens of thousands of Estonian families were taken away to Siberia one night and never came back.

“But, you know, again – again! – we were in the camp … for six weeks and KGB needed the wagons, the railway, for the troops against the Germans. And so they had very few possibilities to transport all of the people who were arrested and they brought back the women and children and only the men were taken away.

“Again, it was the only time in the Estonian KGB history that the arrested people were brought back. My mother and I were there, who were brought back.

“So, you know, there were so many moments in my life where I had a special guardian angel.”

“It is such a story that you can hear from very many people.”

Niina talks a bit more about her family and another time when she experienced the grace of God:

“But then my brother fell ill at the end of Soviet time … and it was a very difficult time for me and I found that only with God’s help I could overcome that time.

“My brother died in 1985 (mother, 1965). After that, came a change in our Estonian Republic. Of course, it was a great feeling to see our flags again, to hear our beloved songs again, and to be able to talk to people again and to go to church again. It was such a big happy surge in all of our feelings and all of our religious feelings, too.

“There is one occasion that showed I had a special guardian angel during my life.

“We made a trip to Sweden with a group of our Evangelical Lutheran Church in September 1994, just five years ago. And, you know, it was on a Saturday and we had to come back on a Wednesday. But that morning, when we had our tickets, packed all of things, we learned that the ship Estonia had sunk.

“And it was such a terrible moment, but it shows we’re just saved by God.”

Even now, I pray that God continues to bless and protect Estonia and Latvia.

Domenic, Rob Bell and our God of radical grace

2011-04-16T16:21:00.005-04:00

In reading Rob Bell's "Love Wins: A Book About Heaven, Hell, and the Fate of Every Person Who Ever Lived," my memory takes me back to a class in 2004 where we were exploring the Trinity. The teacher, Domenic, shared something with us that has intrigued me for nearly seven years.

"I'm a word guy," I told the teacher during our Friday night setting. "So, when we say the 'Spirit proceeds from the Father and Son,' what are we saying?"

Domenic paused before saying, "This is going to take about 30 minutes, but we're going to do this."

(Truth is, we spent nearly three hours talking about what follows.)

He first drew a circle that was comprised of three synergistic arrows representing the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Domenic used this to describe the Divine Dance of perichoresis, explaining that what the Father experienced, the Son experienced; what the Son experienced, the Holy Spirit experienced; what the Holy Spirit experienced, the Father experienced; what the Father experienced, the Son experienced; and ad infinitum.

At some point, it came to me: "So, when we as Spirit-indwelt believers share the Christian cliche, 'God knows what you are going through,' it's a greater truth than we can ever know. Because the Spirit lives within us, what we experience the Spirit experiences; what the Spirit experiences, the Father experiences; what the Father experiences, the Son experiences ... ad infinitum."

God Withdraws Within God's Self

Domenic went on to say that since God was all there was at the point of Creation, God had to withdrew within God's self to make a space to create Creation. It was a space of nihl, of nothingness, until God rolled up his sleeves, so to speak, and went to work making heavens, earth, light, waters, dry land, vegetation, stars, creatures and humankind.

And when God was done, God looked upon Creation and said, "It is good."

So good, that God at some point decided to become part of Creation in the form of Jesus Christ, who lived, ministered, suffered, died and was resurrected so that all of humankind would be reconciled to God. While explaining this, Domenic draws another circle to represent the incarnation, the reconciliation, and the resurrection.

That is the essence of God's story.

Domenic then draws two more circles, one larger than the other.

Pointing to the larger of the two circles, he makes lots of little chalk dots representing "those who believed" and are now partying for all time. Domenic then shades in the smaller circle, representing the "nihl," the nothingness of separation from God, which is said to contain all those who did not believe -- and, thus, are not at the party.

Thus far, he indicates, the succession of circle represents Christian orthodoxy.

"Now, this is just Domenic," he said, making the clear departure from what is considered the orthodox understanding of the Trinity and the part that Jesus Christ plays in the redemption of the world. "This is what some of us are thinking."

"How can a God who withdrew within God's self to make a space for Creation, a God who loved Creation so much that God interjected God's self to experience this Creation -- living, suffering, dying, then rising again -- how can this God be happy knowing that there is a part of Creation that is beyond redemption?" he asked, pointing to the nihl.

And so, Domenic said, "What if the invitation continues? What if one by one, the invitation is given to join the party, and one by one the nihl is emptied -- not to escape the fires of hell, but to fulfill the prophecy that one day every knee shall bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord."

Wow.

What a thought.

The Reckless, Furious Love of God

I was captured by the possibilities -- and I still am. Now, I'm not saying I totally buy this line of theology, but I remain captured and have shared it many times on napkins in restaurants.

Why?

Because I have long proclaimed that the reckless, furious love of God knows no bounds, and that it manifests itself in an ever-expanding circle of grace -- a circle big enough to hold every human being that has ever lived, and ever will.

Now, this is not universalism, for an acceptance of what Jesus Christ has done is involved in the equation.

Having finished Rob Bell's book, I'm not ready to classify it as universalism, either. It seems Bell is saying, "Look, people can choose hell on this earth and certainly choose hell in the hereafter. But God leaves room for their choice."

Certainly, in Domenic's scenario the same could be said: People could choose to stay in the nihl.

But I'm betting a God filled with mercy, compassion, and reckless love, flanked by a Savior who offers a ginormous bowl filled with grace would not make it easy for them.

Grace and peace ...

-30-, old friend. You've served Democracy well ...

2011-03-13T00:37:00.002-05:00

The front page from The Last Run.

As I type this, my fingers still carry the ink from having pulled five copies from the last run of the Goss Urbanite press that has served Democracy at The Daily Times since 1982. I can't bear to wash my hands just yet, so this iMac keyboard will just have to suffer a little.

It wasn't until we started researching "The Last Run" that I realized the cylinders had only run at this location for seven years when I arrived in December 1989. A lot of ink has flowed throw its veins since then, marking history for then and future generations. Front pages carrying headlines of events such as:

Saddam Hussein's invasion of Kuwait on Aug. 2, 1990, which if memory serves correct took place the week The Daily Times became a morning newspaper. The front page was done and the press had to roll, so we stuck a paragraph in the left ear at the top of the flag. It wasn't much, but it was all the story we had at press time.
The Blizzard of 1993, which took place this very weekend and was sometimes referred to locally as the storm of the century. A certain metropolitan newspaper missed an edition, but not The Daily Times. At least one person slept in the newsroom and the Goss kept rolling, giving our readers important information for days as they waiting on the streets to clear.
The 1995 bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, which left 168 people dead. I can still see the iconic photo that came off of our press: firefighter Chris Fields holding the dying infant Baylee Almon. I played it big; three or four columns, if I recall. Sometimes you just know: Photographer Charles Porter won a Pulitzer Prize for Spot News Photography for that historic shot.
Space Shuttle Columbia's ill-fated re-entry on Saturday, Feb. 1, 2003. I was helping a band set up for Sunday worship at Green Meadow UMC when I got a call on my cell phone. I left and spent the afternoon gathering wire copy, photos and designing Page 1A.
And then there was the 2000 presidential election that rolled off of our press. Well, the press got it right, even if I didn't.

But the runs I'll really remember began the night of Sept. 11 ... followed by Sept. 12 ... and then Sept. 13. The newsroom rocked for what became 15- to 17-hour days. The Goss cranked out what became award-winning front pages.

There were many others, to be sure. But it's 12:30 a.m. Sunday. I have to get up in a few hours and preach. I couldn't sleep; I had to be here. My flock already knows.

Within 12 hours I'll be back at this keyboard, helping to put together the pages that will become our first edition to be printed on the Knoxville News-Sentinel's press later tonight.

In the coming years, I'm sure there will historic Daily Times editions printed across the river as well.

But as for our own press room ... it's -30-, old friend. You've served Democracy well.

No longer a 'lost ball in high weeds'

2011-01-08T10:22:00.000-05:00

Photo by Jolene Keller. Check her photos out.

When I was an adolescent in Richmond, Virginia, I spent a lot of time at Parker Field, home of the AAA baseball club, the Richmond Braves. Youngsters such as my boyhood friend Alan Armstrong and myself were sometimes called "ballpark rats."

When the game got boring, we would station ourselves in strategic foul-ball positions hoping to catch an International League baseball. If we had an extremely unlucky night, we would hang around the bullpen and either run peanut errands for players in trade for a ball, or pester them to the point that they would give us one just to go away. Another trick we had: Go down to the dugout after the game and try and score a baseball, or whatever bat was cracked during play. None these actions were hurt by the fact that my grandfather, Jim Trexler, once played for the Richmond team and was at the time a Major League scout. It also helped that he had been a Richmond city police officer (as did my father) and the officer stationed at the dugout usually knew my grandfather, or father.

We were pretty good at being ballpark rats: If memory serves me correctly, I once had more than 30 International League baseballs.

Alan and I needed scores of baseballs for our sandlot season, because we were forever losing them to backyard brush, water-filled ditches, and tall weeds beyond the fence of the baseball field we used near Lakeside Elementary School. (It was actually next to a home owned by former Pittsburgh Pirate shortstop Gene Alley's family.)

In 1 Peter 2:9-10, we read:

"But you are not like that, for you are a chosen people. You are royal priests, a holy nation God's very own possession. As a result, you can show others the goodness of God, for he called you out of the darkness into his wonderful light. Once you had no identity as a people; now you are God's people. Once you received no mercy; now you have received God's mercy." ("The Life Application Study Bible")

Around the same time as those ballpark rat years, I was baptized at Hatcher Memorial Baptist Church on Dumbarton Road in Richmond, Virginia.

As with all who are baptized, God claimed me as God's own.

Once I had no identity, but I was then given an identity.

Within a few years of being a ballpark rat, I became "a lost ball in high weeds," as my brother in Christ Woody Woodson once described himself during his own "lost" years.

And once you lose a baseball, it's hard to find it again.

There was a particular hedgerow behind the apartments we lived in on Hilliard Road in the Lakeside community that consumed our baseballs. It was like a monster just waiting for one of us to miss a throw. One day, I decided "Enough is enough." If I recall, I found something like an old broom handle went to work using it like bush-hog, knocking down weeds and vines until I found that ball.

Unfortunately, I later discovered that the vines were either poison ivy, or sumac, or poison oak and I spent weeks of the summer covered in calamine lotion and Ivy Dry.

What a mighty, merciful, compassionate God we serve, for God did not leave me alone in those high weeds to become water-logged, then dried out until the stitches deteriorated and the cover gave way.

Grace and peace ...

When Advent becomes a Lenten experience ...

2010-12-15T08:31:00.000-05:00

This Advent has been more like Lent for me as there's been an intentional move toward growing closer to Christ. Very briefly (because I have to get to The Daily Times), three books have been a part of this experience:

The Bible, of course;
"When You Pray: Daily Practices for Prayerful Living," compiled by Rueben P. Job;
and "The Relentless Tenderness of Jesus," by Brennan Manning.

The Rueben Job book helps keep this ADD preacher connected to God through prayer, even when my worldly self says, "There's much to be done! Get on with it today!" Consider the Richard Foster quotation he cited as I began Week 3:

"To pray is to change. This is a great grace. How good of God to provide a path whereby our lives can be taken over by love and joy and peace and patience and kindness and goodness and faithfulness and gentleness and self-control. The movement inward comes first because without interior transformation and movement up into God's glory would overwhelm us and the movement out into ministry would destroy us. (italics mine; p18, quoting from Foster's "Prayer," p6)

Too often I have found myself moving outward without moving inward first.

Advent is becoming Lent for me.

Grace and peace ...

Seeking a "renewed spirituality" in this season of Advent

2010-12-09T08:42:00.000-05:00

In my devotions this morning, I read the following from "The Eye of the Storm," by Kenneth Leech:

"A renewed Christian spirituality will be a spirituality of justice and of peace. It will seek to know and follow God in the pursuit of justice for all people, in the struggle against racism and other forms of domination, in the movement for world peace and nuclear disarmament, and in the campaign against poverty and inequality. In the struggles for a more human world, a renewed spirituality will come to discern the face of God, the holy and just one, and to share the peace of God which passes all understanding."

Thus, it stands to reason that a spirituality in need of renewal will care little about justice or peace, denies the reality of racism, is unconcerned about war and the spread of nuclear weapon, and steps over the poor as the Rich Man stepped over Lazarous every morning.

In some ways, that must be the state of my own spirit; therefore, I stand in need of renewal.

Fill me anew, O Holy Spirit, in this season of Advent.

Grace and peace ...

Fred 'got it' through Christ

2010-11-25T11:21:00.001-05:00

Fred got the last word, and it was a good one.

When hundreds of people gathered for his funeral service Sunday at St. John’s Cathedral, an Episcopal church in Knoxville, much was said about the life of Maj. Gen. Frederick Harwood Forster, affectionately known as “Fred,” “Colonel Fred,” or “General Fred.” (My wife, Donna, long admired him, but never called him anything except “Colonel Fred,” even after his advancement in rank. “He’ll always be Colonel Fred to me,” she said, because that was how she was introduced to him some 15 years or so ago.)

During the service, the liturgy for which was drawn from the Book of Common Prayer, Chris Soro gave a moving reading of Isaiah 61:1-3, interspersed with various reflections about Fred and the virtues he shared with the community. Soro explained that the Germanic origin of the name “Frederick” is that of “peaceful ruler.” Soro, whom I was told was part of Fred’s prayer group, said that just as Isaiah held together the Southern Kingdom of Judah, “Fred’s leadership held us all together.” The Alcoa engineer pointed out the text from Isaiah was quoted by Jesus as he announced the arrival of his ministry while speaking at a synagogue in Nazareth. He drew an analogy to Fred’s acceptance of his military and community mission, saying, “Fred recognized and embraced the mission that was given to him by God.”

“Isaiah accepted the challenge. Jesus accepted the challenge. Fred accepted the challenge,” Soro said. “Fred knew he had the opportunity, knew he had the mission, and he accepted that challenge.”

Ken Foster read from Psalm 91, and then offered a salute to his close friend.

Sue Dawson closed that portion of the service with a reading from Philippians 4:4-9, said to be Fred’s favorite passage. “Fred was very clear about from where his own source of inspiration came,” Dawson said, adding that the retired pilot claimed “God’s words for his own personal flight plan.”

The Rev. Martha Sterne, formerly of St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church in Maryville, gave the homily, during which she said, “We have never seen an outpouring of love and gratitude like this.” Sterne said that despite his military and community standing, Fred “never big-shotted it, ever,” but embraced people from all walks of life.

“He got it: In Christ there is no east, or west, or black or white, or general or private,” Sterne said. She went on to speak of his leadership and “optimistic insight into God’s world,” as well as his contributions to what Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. called the “Beloved Community,” whereby one serves to, as the prophet Micah said, “act justly, to love mercy, to walk humbly with our God.”

In the early 1960s, Marshall McLuhan coined the phrase “the medium is the message,” meaning that the medium influences how the message is perceived. If one were able to poll the hundreds of people who attended Fred’s funeral, it’s likely a number of them did not know the depth of Fred’s relationship to his faith in Jesus Christ until they heard it expressed through the readings and homily. Still, they would know the medium that presented that message in the form of Fred Forster, and it was one they apparently accepted.

And what was Fred’s last message? It was in the offering of what is sometimes called the Eucharist, Holy Communion, or the Lord’s Supper, where those of the Christian faith celebrate the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

Much of what has been said in Fred’s passing has pointed to Fred, and the Blount County and community leader likely knew that would be the case. In the offering of Holy Communion, Fred was saying, “Want to know why I lived my life in love and service to others? Look to Christ. Don’t imitate me; imitate Christ. That’s all I have done.”

That’s Fred’s legacy, and it is a legacy that flowed organically from his Christian faith.

In “The Wisdom of Tenderness,” Brennan Manning writes, “Wisdom teaches that the goal of our lives is to live with God forever. We’re pilgrims passing through, and Jesus counsels us to count how few days we have and thus gain wisdom of the heart. When I accept in the depth of my being that the ultimate accomplishment of my life is me — the person I’ve become and who other persons are because of me — then living in the wisdom of accepted tenderness is not a technique, not a craft, not a Carnegian ploy of how to win friends and influence people, but a way of life, a distinctive and engaged presence.”

It’s been said that if one strives to leave a legacy, the legacy they leave is one of striving. That was not the case with Fred. The legacy he left is one of living ... in Christ.

Lessons Learned Along The Trail

2010-10-07T17:25:00.001-04:00

As most of The Meadow Folk know by now, at least those in regular community at Green Meadow United Methodist Church, my recent infatuation with hiking has brought about some Spirit moments -- personal, but also corporate.

The Labor Day Hike from Dennis Cove to Wilbur Lake Road was the first three-day hike that I completed, having begged off after the second day of the Memorial Day Hike from Hughes Gap to Apple House. The Hughes Gap climb of 2,100 feet in 2.5 miles nearly did me in, but it also revealed that too much time in my own head can lead me to rationalize giving up in tough circumstances.

I think that was my first "personal" insight for "Views Along the Trail."

Our hike leader (sometimes called Papa Smurf, other times "Grizzly"-something or other) is Steven Gilreath, a great American flying machine now serving in Glasgow, Kentucky. He's a great Christian leader and encourager, but sometimes I wonder about his judge of distance. Greg, who was also among the Kentucky bunch, said it's because he's usually flying from Point A to Point B. About halfway up a 1,000-foot climb on Pond Mountain during that Labor Day Hike, I was longing for his rescue chopper.

The way the group was arranged went something like this for most of the hike: Steven led, with his bionic son, Josh, behind him, both from Kentucky; then came me, then my son, David, who was followed by Greg and Chris, who came with Steven from Kentucky.

Greg and Steven are both EMT-trained professionals, which gave me great confidence that any medical emergency could be handled on the Trail ... if we could convince them to go on duty.

Immediately, the trail was dry and dusty, with loose rocks here and there. I joked that it looked more like some scene from a Humphrey Bogart movie where he was some criminal hiding out in Death Valley or some other foresaken place. Likewise, it took us out of the cool canopy in which we had been hiking along and placed us in a bit more heated environment. About halfway in to what was supposed to be a 1.5-mile climb, I sucked the Camel Back dry, but I later discovered I wasn't alone.

At various points it would appear that we were approaching the ridge, but the switchbacks kept coming. I lovingly chided Steven occasionally about his pre-hike comment of, "It's a climb, but it's nothing like Hughes Gap." That was a true statement, but we also hiked a number of miles before ever getting to the Pond Mountain climb and three-quarters of the way there, I was definitely feeling my 54 years and extra weight.

There were times when I wanted to give up, or at least fall back, and Steven knew it.

"I can cross your pack for you," he offered.

"No, no. I can make it," I said. "I just need to get my wind."

We'd climb along for about 50 yards and I'd have to stop and get my breath when we approached another switchback or some other resting spot. "Give me a second, guys," I'd say, sometimes using the resting time to make an equipment adjustment, but careful not to make that as an excuse to stop. After all, there was no sense in covering: These brothers, including my son, know me well enough.

But then the 50 yards of progress would drop to perhaps 40, then 30 ...

"I can take that pack for you," Greg offered from behind me.

"No, I've gotta do this thing," I said, then added. "It's not pride. I just have to do this myself."

We climbed so more and then I recall hitting a level area for awhile. Steven would say something encouraging and I'd feel good, not so winded.

"Things are looking up," I thought. "I might make this leg after all."

But then we'd hit another switchback and climb again.

Twenty yards ... break. Then 10 ... break.

I turned and looked at Greg, who I think offered again to take my pack.

"No, you guys just need to go on ahead," I said, knowing that we now had very little water left within the group and there was supposed to be an "undeveloped water source" near our camping spot at Pond Flats.

Greg looked straight at me and said, "I'm a Ranger. We don't leave a brother behind."

I had to smile.

I also noticed that Josh, Steven's bionic son, was not in the group and was told he had gone on ahead to see how further it was to the camp site. Not long afterward, I noticed Steven wasn't in the group.

We rested some more and then Steve showed up and led us on. We came to something of a bend in the trail with another trail cutting off to the left and downhill.

"We shoulda run into Josh by now," Steve said with a tone of concern. "I bet he mistakenly went down that trail," he added, pointing to the left.

"Josh!" he shouted. "Josh!"

There was no answer.

"Josh!"

We then heard the pitter-patter of feet coming up the errant trail and then Josh emerged. I noticed for the first time that he appeared a little winded.

"I kept going down the trail and then thought, 'This doesn't look familiar,'" Josh said.

I then asked the most common question you get on the trail when you run into somebody on the trail coming from the direction you are heading: "How much further is it?"

Josh gave me something of a sad look. "It's still a good ways," he said. "And that last leg is pretty steep."

I let out a sigh.

"I can take your pack," he offered, explaining that was why he went on to the camp site and dropped his own pack.

"No, let me keep going," I said.

We trudged on about another 20 yards, and I gave up the ghost. We stopped and I grudgingly started unsnapping my pack. "I didn't come on this hike to have someone carry my [expletive] pack!"

Josh hefted my pack. "Better to let someone help you than not finish the hike," he offered. I knew he was right. We went on, but I still had to stop about 20 yards into that last, steep grade.

"It's not pride," I had told Greg. If it's not pride, what is it?

Sometimes we have to let someone else carry the load.

Isn't that why Jesus came?

A new kind of journey ...

2010-09-15T22:02:00.000-04:00

Some goals take a long time to reach.

That's the case with my recent journeys on the Appalachian Trail -- journeys that started more than 20 years ago.

It was in the late 1980s that Steve and Karen Gilreath came to Knoxville for a visit. Steve and I had crossed paths at East Tennessee State University before I met my wife, Donna. Yet, it was a friend of Donna's, and Steve's, who introduced me to the woman who would become my wife. If that isn't round-about enough, Donna later worked with Karen.

Steve entered a military career that took him, Karen, and his growing family around the world in service. It was in the midst of that career that we stayed in touch, thus their visit to Knoxville.

Steve, who was way more outdoorsy than I, had done a good bit of hiking on the Appalachian Trail and began to talk of the day when he and I could take our two sons on a hike. I'd never hiked before, but David was starting Cub Scouts and I envisioned our being able to do so someday. Still, as life would have it, that vision grew more and more dim.

That is, until Steve and began to talk about it again last fall.

His oldest son, Josh, and my son, David, are now both in the mid- to late-20s. Both are married; David is a new dad.

And I'm 54 … and starting to hike segments of The AT and other trails.

It was just after Christmas 2009 that I began preparing for what was to be a three-day hike on The AT, beginning at Hughes Gap in Upper East Tennessee. The group would include Steve, Josh, Chris and Bobby, two friends of Steve's from Glasgow, Kentucky; from Tennessee, it would be me, David and friend Cole.

As hike leader, Steve sent a list of recommended gear. Nothing too expensive, but certainly gear that would keep us out of trouble. Good solid boots; a lightweight sleeping back; lightweight, but rugged, backpacks; Camelbacks for water; and other necessary gear.

As the shopping bags continued to come home and the UPS guy dropped off boxes, Donna needed some convincing that this was not going to be a one-time deal.

As for me, I started loading up the pack and doing one- and two-mile jaunts around the subdivision, certainly an odd sight for some of my neighbors.

Still, I was closing in on 240 pounds and was not in the best shape.

In the cold winter months, I whimped out; however, we bought a Wii and I would do those step exercises in the morning before going to work; however, when David, his friend Cole and I took out on my first day hike, I would discover it was not enough.

We headed up Lumber Ridge Trail near Tremont. Cole chose this trail knowing that part of our Memorial Day Weekend hike wincluded 2,100-foot climb in about 2.5 miles. Lumber Ridge Trail climbs over 1,000 feet in two miles.

I think we covered about 8 miles in four hours or so. I didn't get that winded; however, when we did the turnaround it seemed like my left foot was breaking in half.

This truly scared me as I began to wonder whether I could do these hikes.

You see, I had an accident onboard the USS Independence while serving in the Navy nearly 35 years ago that literally ripped my left foot in half. As for my right foot: A screw's been holding my ankle together since I was 15 years old.

On the hike, I would learn that it's not only "Feet don't fail me now," but there are other parts of my body that aren't in the best of shape.

Sometime after the test hike, I went for my physical and shared with Dr. Bruce my desire to do these hikes, but wondering about the injury. He prescribed a high-powered anti-inflammatory medicine that I could take daily.

Meds in hand, I continued to "train," so to speak, for Memorial Day Weekend.

But it wasn't enough.

And what I would learn about myself would go far beyond the physical.

Grandpa's Trunk and its Magical Mystery Tour ...

2010-08-12T00:38:00.004-04:00

In my mind's eye, the elders of a nomadic tribe gather around a campfire some 5,000-plus years ago and listen as someone tells the story of how God brought order of chaos: "So it was that in the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. ..."

Theologians say this is how The Story began, with what we know as "oral tradition." Somewhere along the way, some tribe's scribe said, "You know, we ought to write this down ..."

And, voila! We have the Bible.

Well, there was obviously a lot more to it than that.

For me, a sizable amount of oral tradition was passed along while sitting on a concrete floor in the basement of 112 North Nansemond Street in Richmond. There, next to the work bench where Grandpa and Uncle Mike cleaned the family guns, sat "The Trunk." It was actually an olive green military footlocker, but I always called it The Trunk and referred to it in almost spiritual tones. For when Grandpa lifted the lid on The Trunk, the stories would permeate the air, mixing with the smell of Hoppe's No. 9, brass and leather.

Seemingly transported to other times and places, you never knew what he might reveal. It could be a funny World War II story about ferrying beer rations in a jeep bedecked with skulls on each side of the windshield, journeying from one side of a Pacific island to the other. Other times, the stories could be something far more serious and even occasionally confessional. When The Trunk was closed and we climbed the basement stairs back to the kitchen, there was always the distinct feeling that I had been given a place and time of honor, for it did not escape my attention that no one else in the family ever joined us on that journey.

I say "the family" because after returning to Richmond in 1969, my sandlot baseball friend Alan Armstrong seemed to relish those times when we paid homage to The Trunk and "Big Jim," as he called Grandpa. It was a name he picked up from his dad, who grew up watching the left-handed pitcher square off against batters at Mayo Island and Mooers Field.

Alan knew, as I knew, that The Trunk contained mysteries and memories. We would thumb through black-and white baseball cards carrying the images of players like Whitey Ford, Virgil Trucks ... and even Jim Trexler.

So we would look through the trunk, with it's Japanese kamikaze flag, foreign currency and scrapbooks filled with newspaper clippings detailing the highs and lows of his baseball and police career.

And we would listen for as long as Grandpa would tell the stories.

It was part of our oral tradition.

C.J. will learn the value of stories, and The Story

2010-08-10T07:58:00.007-04:00

It was two weeks ago today, July 27, 2010, that Camden James Trexler, a.k.a "C.J.," became a part of our world. He is the son of my son, David, and his wife, Elizabeth. With his 7-pound, 2-ounce arrival, his story enters our stories.

As he grows, Camden will begin to understand the power of story as we journey through this life -- the power to create joy and laughter, anger and tears, awe and inspiration. Perhaps he will join me in marveling at the redemptive value of telling your own story as it intertwines with The Story; at least, that's been my story. Perhaps this blog and my Web site, The Buzz Trexler Experience, will survive my eventual passing beyond this life-space and will assist in keeping our stories alive.

My grandfather was Frank James Trexler Sr. -- my father's namesake, as well as my own, as we were Frank James Jr. and Frank James III, respectively. (Occasionally when telling stories to others, I mused that it was some sort of homage to the outlaw Jesse James' brother, Frank.) When our son was born, Donna and I broke the trend by honoring my stepfather and her father in naming C.J.'s dad William David. Her father's name is Robert David (Bob) Perrenoud, while my stepfather was William Harold Thompson, better known in our family as "Pa." Truthfully, my life was greatly changed for the better when Pa entered our family and it seemed more than fitting to give him the honor. Over time, we would marvel at how David inherited many of Pa's characteristics, despite the lack of biological relationship.

My paternal great-grandfather was John Joseph Trexler, whose story certainly has far more depth than has been shared in the family: "He dressed to the nines each day. He played baseball and we think he worked for the city." (That story seems to be a common one for the family, given that his two sons both worked for Richmond safety departments and also played baseball.) I have a picture of him posing, bat in hand, in a baseball uniform. He truly looked the part of a turn-of-the-century baseball player, though I have no idea for whom he played. Beyond that, my Uncle Mike once told me that the Trexler clan lived somewhere off Three Chopt Road in Richmond. Perhaps one day the story will expand with a few more facts.

My grandfather was more commonly known in Richmond as Jim Trexler and was something of a local baseball hero. The words I would hear from old-timers in the city when they found out my lineage: "Your grandfather was a helluva pitcher, but he was bad to drink." The newspaper clippings and statistics bore out the former; perhaps his stomach problems were an indication of the latter. He and I did get drunk once together when I was a junior in high school. I had journeyed from Elizabethton, Tennessee, to Richmond during spring break 1973 and stayed a week or so with him while my grandmother was in the hospital for some ailment or another. Regrettably, he died about a year and a half latter while I was in Navy boot camp in Orlando, Florida. I had kept my enlistment a secret and planned to surprise him when I completed training. He was, after all, a Navy veteran, having played baseball for the Great Lakes Association during World War II.

Whenever Jim would "retire" from baseball, as seemed to have happened at least once in the Richmond newspapers, he would work for the city police department. His brother, also John Joseph Trexler Jr., but more commonly known as Joe, was fittingly a catcher (the Trexler battery, if you will) and worked for the city fire department. Joe died after suffering a heart attack at an early age, somewhere in his 50s, if I recall.

The only story I have of my great-grandfather, Ignatius Trexler, is that he worked for Tredegar Iron Works in Richmond and is said to have made cannon for the North and the South during the Civil War, presumably for whomever was paying legal tender at the time.

If newspaper clippings are to be believed, my grandfather carried on that mercenary tradition with baseball.

If stories from The Basement Trunk are to be believed, it's possible the same was true of his police career.

Cleaning up ...

2010-04-26T17:38:00.003-04:00

I had a bit of outpatient surgery today that left me in something of an incovenient way.

So, I spent the day getting some of my digital stuff in order.

It's amazing how much you can accumulate when you've been at this for about 14 years. It would really take me about a week to get everything in order; however, it would probably be time well spent.

Blogger Woes

2010-04-26T14:50:00.003-04:00

Well, I finally bit the bullet and moved this blog straight to Blogger, who said we FTP'ers could no longer host the files on our own Web site. They gave some lame excuse along the lines of this: the small percentage of us who did so took up too much techie time.

I'm not happy about it, for several reasons -- the main one being that I liked having my stuff on my own Web site, and at some point may find a way to move back. Another sticking point: When I tried to net GatheringWool.blogspot.com, someone else already had the name. So, I tried for BlackSheep.blogspot.com. No dice. I settled on Ripshin.blogspot.com

As it stands, I'm having a difficult time finding time to blog, which is why it took me to nearly deadline to move this and what is now PastorsBuzz.blogspot.com.

Grace and peace ....

This blog has moved

2010-04-26T14:00:00.001-04:00

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The Creator vs. Created Things

2010-04-14T08:26:00.003-04:00

Continuing my pre-hike training by back-packing a 1.2-mile loop around the subdivision to get used to the weight of the pack and build up my 53-year-old legs.

Maybe I can shed some of this body weight as well.

When I began, my mind was already full of the day's madness: Donna's windshield was struck by a flying rock; the den TV was acting up.

As I neared the end of my morning "hike," my mind fast-forwarded to the upcoming Great American Male Expedition on the Appalachian Trail and a prayer began working in my spirit:

Oh God, as we begin this journey through your Creation, we repent of worshipping those things created by man. For those of us who do not know you, may the beauty of your Creation speak to our hearts and reveal your love for us, possibly for the first time. For those of us who know you, may we grow even closer in the knowledge of your love, your beauty, your grace, your very nature ...

Grace and peace ....

Packin' it

2010-04-08T08:26:00.002-04:00

I added the tent bag (minus poles and stakes) to my backpack today before taking my morning 1.2-mile walk around the subdivision. I figure I'll add a little more each day as we grow closer to the Great American Male Expedition.

The weather is beautiful and during the walk I wondered what it was going to be like doing the trail. The wind was blowing on my face as a front moved in from the west. They said it was raining on the Plateau and I decided that when I picked up my sleeping bag I would purchase some rain gear and possibly forge ahead in training in whatever weather arrived. After all, rain and Memorial Day sometimes go together in Upper East Tennessee.

As the wind blew on my face, I thought of the Greek word that is sometimes used to denote Spirit: Pneuma. I found myself saying, "Pneuma Santos." There was a sweetness to the sound.

I've decided to find out if that is the correct usage for "Holy Spirit."

Even now, I can hear thunder in the distance.

The rain is falling.

I should probably go ahead and shower for work.

Prepping for the journey ...

2009-12-31T07:38:00.006-05:00

It was five years ago that I began the year-long journey of Hepatitis C treatment; in fact, it was five years ago Tuesday that Nurse Amy and I went to Dr. Scott's office to learn about administering PEG-Intron and Rebetol.

It seems like so long ago, but it's not too difficult to remember some of the struggles. I suffered the normal side-effects of the interferon and ribivarin, and even a few abnormal ones. Nonetheless, I'd do it all over again to reach that wonderful phrase "virus undetected."

There was another benefit to the treatment: I went from about 245 pounds down to 222 in 52 weeks. Tough way to lose weight, though. Today, I popped the scales at 239, which is one reason why a few days ago I started a walking regimen.

During my last physical, which was months ago, Dr. Bruce told me I needed to exercise more and eat more sensibly or I was headed for blood pressure and cholesterol meds.

"I used to walk nearly daily," I told him. "But ever since my schedule changed ..."

King of Excuses.

The truth is, though, I did walk more when I worked nights. I also used that time to pray and gain some spiritual focus.

About three weeks ago, Donna and I drove to Glasgow, Kentucky, to visit with Steve and Karen, longtime friends of ours whom we would love to see more often. I met Steve during those wild years at East Tennessee State University. He was in ROTC and I was on TDRL (Temporary Disabled Retirement List) awaiting final disposition from the Navy. Because of that military status, I was allowed to drink beer at the ROTC table during Happy Hour at Poor Richard's.

As fate (God) would have it, I met Donna and she worked with Steve's then girlfriend, Karen, at Western Steer. Steve and Karen later married, beginning their journey in the world of career military. Donna and I married, beginning our journey in the world of career journalism. We never lost touch, but always wished we lived closer to each other. This sense of family became more intense because of our common faith journey.

In the mid- to late 1980s, Steve, Karen and kids visited us in Knoxville. While there, Steve talked about having hiked portions of the Appalachian Trail. We mused about how neat it would be to take our boys hiking on the AT one day. It never came to pass. Still, while visiting in Glasgow three weeks ago, we talked again about taking that journey; in fact, Steve had a group of men from the outdoors ministry at his church who were interested.

So, with that goal in mind, on the five-year anniversary of that visit to Dr. Scott's office, I began what will be a five-month regimen of getting in shape for a three-day, two-night hike on the AT. It's a stretch from an area in Upper East Tennessee to Damascus, Virginia.

Not sure if the hike will come to pass; however, I pray it does. Whatever the case, it's a worthy goal.

At that last physical, Dr. Bruce said I need to walk two miles in 30 minutes, five days a week.

The past three days, I've walked a little over one mile (1.2 miles, I think) in 20 minutes, so it's doable.

It's raining outside and the temp is about 37. Weather.com expects it to be clear about noon today. So, I'm taking my walking shoes to get in my regimen on the Greenbelt.

Maybe I can dethrone the King.

Grace and peace ...

The baptism of Rhodyjane revived my soul ...

2009-09-19T18:00:00.002-04:00

Rhodyjane Meadows

Christian baptism takes on different forms, sometimes depending upon tradition.

In the United Methodist tradition, some pastors liken our view of the mode of baptism to Burger King: We'll do it your way. You can be sprinkled upon, poured upon, laid upon with wet hands, or dunked, the latter of which has taken place in venues ranging from oceans to swimming pools.

Still, there's something about a river baptism that brings a certain amount of nostalgia and romance to the faith experience — an experience that was heretofore foreign to me.

But then along came the baptism of Rhodyjane Meadows and her son, Zachary Zan Collins.

One mid-summer Sunday morning, Rhodyjane showed up during worship at Roan Mountain United Methodist, where my mother attends. The story goes that after worship she asked if she could play the piano and, after playing a while, was invited back to play the next Sunday. On another occasion, she showed up with her guitar and played both piano and guitar during worship.

As it turns out, Rhodyjane is a storyteller, “flatfoot” dancer, and plays a variety of instruments — autoharp, clawhammer banjo, guitar, piano, bass fiddle, dulcimer, and who knows what else — with an old-time Appalachian music band known as the Roan Mountain Moonshiners.

Rhodyjane wasn't there on the Labor Day weekend Sunday when I preached at Roan Mountain, but I heard something that piqued my interest: Rhodyjane was to be baptized in Doe River the next Sunday afternoon. Despite the many river baptisms that take place in Blount County, it was beyond my own experience — but that would end.

Following worship at Green Meadow United Methodist in Alcoa, I high-tailed it to Upper East Tennessee, turning down Bear Cage Road off of U.S. 19E. The baptismal “font” was a spot on the river at the farm of Hershel Julian. Slowly, the people gathered, set up tables that were eventually filled with pot-luck dishes of barbecue, fried catfish and other Southern delicacies, with the crowd eventually moving to the riverside. The faithful gathered along the river bank and on the bridge spanning the waterway to watch.

Once the water had been tested and a suitable depth found, Rhodyjane gathered her “sisters” around her to sing:

“As I went down in the river to pray
Studying about that good ol' way
And who shall wear the starry crown?
Good Lord show me the way!
O sisters let's go down
Let's go down, come on down
O sisters let's go down
Down in the river to pray ...”

Dennis Milhorn, pastor at Roan Mountain, was joined in the water by Tony Palubicki, who pastors Big Stone Gap (Va.) Presbyterian Church, which Rhodyjane says “raised me up to love the Lord.”

“My 85-year-old mother plays the organ in this church, and has for over 50 years,” Rhodyjane told me in an e-mail.

As the community gathered along the banks of Doe River, as well as a bridge crossing the water, there was a real sense that God was present in that Sacrament — that “sacred moment” where Rhodyjane and her young adult son went down into the river and proclaimed in the “sign act” that they were believers in the saving grace of Jesus Christ.

Zach was taken down into the water and after rising up out of the water, Rhodyjane exclaims, “Look! A rainbow!”

United Methodist Bishop William Willimon writes in “Remember Who You Are: Baptism, a Model for Christian Baptism”: “Baptism is the passageway into discipleship, the fitting response to the proclamation of the gospel, the model for what the Christian life is: a life of obedience, servanthood, love, and faithfulness — even unto death.”

Rhodyjane has a vision for where her discipleship is taking her: She's just finished a CD entitled, “Seems Like a Sunday,” which will be marketed by the Alzheimer's Association. She is also seeking certification as a “Therapeutic Musician” for people who find themselves in clinical settings, such as post-op, birthing mothers, children's hospitals and hospice. As she explains, “A therapeutic musician learns to play at a pulse rate and can actually help to stabilize a patient's heart rate, lower blood pressure and pain levels, increase oxygen saturation.”

She emphasizes that it's a ministry of healing.

Sounds like baptism to me.

Maybe Michael is at peace now ...

2009-06-25T22:48:00.005-04:00

Like most 50-plus-year-olds, I remember Michael Jackson long before the days of "Thriller."

In my adolescence, there was "I Want You Back," ABC," and "Ben," the latter of which always seemed a little creepy to me. After all, Ben was a rat, if I recall.

While the Jackson 5 was way too bubble gum for me in 1969 to the early 1970s, Michael and his family always seemed harmless enough. Their music was a strain of pop along the lines of The Archies, The Cowsills and 1910 Fruitgum Company.

Still, you have to wonder how stardom affects a 10-year-old boy -- particularly in USAmerica where we treat pop stars like little gods. On the other hand, we know how it affects the little gods we make in celebrity culture. Wipe the cobwebs from your mind and the names surface like so many ghosts in a Smoky Mountains cemetery: Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Elvis Presley, Jim Morrison, Brian Jones, Keith Moon. And you don't have to look very far to see the ones that are still alive, but are bent on self-destruction.

I read somewhere that the average lifespan of a rock musician is about 37 years. If true, I guess Michael Jackson beat the system in that regard; however, as he became more and more of a caricature of his own character, I found myself often pitying him. As I watched his physical transformation and obviously troubled soul, I would often wonder what it was that drove him to such bizarre behavior.

I'm not a psychiatrist -- I don't even play one on TV -- but it seemed obvious that there was some sort of self-loathing going on inside his head.

I was washing our cars and thinking about him, which was strange since I never really cared for his music. Then again, it wasn't the music, or the talent, or even the bizarre antics for which many people will remember Michael that was crossing my mind as I wiped the grime away. I was thinking -- no, praying -- that Michael finally found the One who accepted and loved him just as he was, not as he wished himself to be.

Rest in peace, Michael.

Take my hand, and meet me at the Cross

2009-06-24T22:43:00.003-04:00

I just stumbled upon Brian McLaren's "synchro-blogging on sexuality" post. I had no idea this was going on today, which means I am really out of the loop or this movement was really under the radar.

Nonetheless, I thought I would prayerfully post on this issue. I have a great deal of respect for Brian, as well as Tony Campolo, who has also written and posted on this subject.

Personally, I am nowhere near where I was on this issue some 20 years ago; in fact, I find myself in a very questioning position because it is far more complex than it is often presented in the Christian community -- which means, it is more complex than I presented in prior writings.

Truth be known, I am nowhere near where I was theologically or positionally on this issue five years ago. The main commonality between the hugely conservative viewpoint I had in the late 1980s, the viewpoint I had when writing about it in 2004, and the viewpoint I have today is this: If your heart is as my heart is, then give me your hand.

In other words, meet me at the Cross.

I want to be a part of Bridging the Gap, so if I had to stake some ground tonight it would likely be somewhere in the same acreage of Bridging The Gap: Tony Campolo's take on "Love the Sinner, Hate the Sin."

Still struggling, but still open ...

Grace and peace ...

Life with Aunt Ginna ...

2009-05-23T17:37:00.006-04:00

My Aunt Ginna was a complex woman.

She could be tough as nails.

When I pick through the cobwebs of my mind, there is this family story of Ginna sitting at a stoplight in downtown Richmond in her blue and white Oldsmobile. The light turns green, and Ginna’s a bit impatient to get moving, but there’s this woman walking slowly in front her. The woman stops, turns her head, glares at Ginna and says, “You wouldn’t DARE hit me!”

Ginna guns the engine and shouts, “You wanna BET?!”

It was probably the hard-scrabble life of the 13 Harris children that toughened their young hides. When Ginna was 14, both of her parents were gone … and there were three children younger in the brood: Nora, Clifford and Bobby.

Tough circumstances can put a hard edge on your shell, but they can also create a place for grace -- and compassion. Because it is no longer, “There but for the grace of God go I,” rather it is, “I have been in your place …”

It is not the grace and compassion of sympathy; it is an incarnational grace of empathy.

That was Ginna: tough as nails one minute; full of grace and compassion the next.

Even though her toughness is legendary, it is the grace and compassion of Ginna and my late Uncle Russell – the grace and compassion of those two Christians — that sticks with me … and my mother … and my sister, Sheree.

And there’s good reason for that: We three who were sometimes vagabonds were great recipients of that grace, and compassion.

The three Harris siblings who lived in Richmond as adults – Ginna, my Uncle Willard, and my mother – sort of looked out for one another, even as adults.

I have commonplace familial memories of holiday jaunts from Horsepen Road to the Miffleton house in Lakeside, as well as Uncle Willard's residence.

But the … uh … uniqueness, if you will, of my family situation led to some likewise unique opportunities for grace and compassion on the part of Aunt Ginna and Uncle Russell – and I would be remiss if I did not offer thanksgiving for those acts.

In the summer of 1969, my mom was in the throes of a horrific marriage, to say the least, and she brought my sister Sheree and I to stay in Richmond while she sorted things out in Florida.

Sheree stayed with the Miffletons, and I went back and forth between my paternal grandparents’ house and the Miffleton household. I sort of had the best of both worlds for a 13-year-old boy. I’d go shooting with my grandpa, and travel with him and my grandmother. He was a professional baseball scout, and what red-blooded American boy wouldn’t love to spend a summer shooting and traveling around watching baseball games.

Ginna and Russell were gracious enough to not only let my sister live with them for the summer, but were also patient enough to allow an adolescent boy to pop in and out as he felt the need … or, perhaps, as the grandparents felt they had experienced all of the shenanigans they could take for a while.

As Linda will so often remind us, that was the summer of the infamous Virginia Beach vacation … where I sincerely drove Ginna and Russell nuts. No one knew what ADD was in 1969, I am certain, but I bounced around the two of them like so many beach balls.

“Where’ we eatin’ breakfast Uncle Russell? Can we go to the pancake house again? How about the water slide? Can we do that again?”

Five of us crammed in The Emperess hotel room for a week; me harassing Linda every single chance I could get; and Linda and Sheree doing their best to lose me on the beach.

That was the same week the men walked on the moon.

It was a beautiful thing for Ginna and Russell to invite Sheree and I along, and it was a a beautiful thing for them to open their home and hearts to a niece and nephew.

A truly memorable summer.

But it was at summer’s end where we truly experienced the sacrificial Christian love that Ginna, and Russell, had for their family … maybe even a unique love for her sister Nora and her children.

Sometime late that summer, my mother exits the truly horrible marriage and makes her way back to Richmond.

Broke … and broken.

A single mom in 1969, with two teenage children.

No job.

No money.

No place to live.

Ginna and Russell are there, putting hands and feet to their faith, the teachings of which maintain that pure religion is to care for the widows and orphans.

Sheree and I were spiritual orphans.

My mother was a spiritual widow.

And in familial and Christian love, Ginna and Russell help her pick up the pieces and move on.

They help us find an apartment -- one that’s close by, I would note -- and Uncle Russell takes care of the rent, deposit, you name it, to enable us to move in.

He and Ginna then take us to Kenneth Lord Furniture, the business he had worked his way up to own on Cary Street, and we spend the evening picking out furniture for the apartment.

Even as my grandparents took me shopping for school clothes as the summer of 69 drew to a close, Ginna and Russell bought my sister Sheree’s clothes that year.

Afterward, Ginna would stop by our apartment while my mother was at work and put groceries in an empty refrigerator.

There are many other acts of grace and compassion on the part of Ginna, and Russell, that I could tell you about, but I’m going to close with something that is most important to me … and by osmosis, if you will, to my family.

Ginna and Russell were heavily involved in Hatcher Memorial Baptist Church as an extension of their faith. Uncle Russell was a deacon, and in the fall of 1969 I was strongly urged to begin attending.

I really didn’t fit in that well; after all, the closest I likely came to a church while in Florida was when I rode my bicycle past one.

But I hung in there for a while. Even sang in the youth choir.

And was baptized sometime within the next year.

My life being what it was, I went through my own struggles, and Ginna and Russell helped me pick up the pieces on at least one occasion.

And when God finally got a good grip on me at the age of 29, and I truly gave my life to Christ, I made sure Aunt Ginna and Uncle Russell knew, because God, through His Holy Spirit, was reaching down to me through these Christian actions.

I spoke with Aunt Ginna sometime after I committed my life to Christ on Easter Sunday, 1985, and wanted her to let my Uncle Russell know – particularly how grateful I was for his having led me to be baptized.

In her words, he said, “Well, I guess it took.”

We who live on this side of eternity can not know the exact nature of the experience of on the other side, but I can imagine Uncle Russell greeting Ginna in this way: “Dahlin, I didn’t mind waitin’ …”

And Ginna perhaps responding, “Russell, you’re not gonna believe what’s been goin’ on since you’ve been gone.”

Thanks be to God for the Christians in our life.

Grace ... and peace.

Thankful for brothers and sisters in Christ ...

2009-05-19T22:49:00.002-04:00

I'm really thankful for brothers and sisters in Christ.

I'm particularly thankful for the brothers -- men of faith whom I can call on and say, "Bruddah, I'm standing in the need of prayer." I say that because women of faith have long carried the church. It's only been in recent decades that I believe contemporary men have began to stand up and be counted as men of faith.

I knew a tough day was ahead of me and I called on one of my brothers as I was driving to work. It made the morning go easier. It was still tough, but knowing a brother was praying with me gave me strength, peace and courage.

I stand in grace ... and peace.

Taking a break ...

2009-05-05T22:56:00.001-04:00

Sometimes you've just got to take a break. But for some of us, even when we get a break we can find ourselves having to work.

For instance, I'm taking three days off to spend some time at Ripshin. I've got a few chores to do, but that's not really "work." The work I have to take with me is a 10-page paper on Karl Barth that's due in a little more than a week.

I'm printing out the material, some of which I have been reading, and taking it with me.

Well, at least the class will be over before Memorial Day weekend, which is my next break.

Remembering the Rev. Ray Robinson ...

2009-03-22T12:09:00.002-04:00

We were at The Meadow taking part in a fairly extensive work day with other Meadow folk and volunteers with Family Promise of Blount County when Carol Green told me Ray Robinson was in critical condition at UT Hospital. I learned later that Ray had died.

I knew of the Rev. Ray Robinson long before I met him. He was held in high regard by longtime members of Middlebrook Pike UMC in Knoxville, which was my home church for more than 15 years. Ray served that church from 1965-69, the church's history records it as "a time when we needed a boost."

The history, some of which I still have on my hard drive, goes on to say this:

"It was as if we had 'bottomed out' into a low plateau of enthusiasm, interest and church growth. The Rev. Robinson got the church 're-organized and re-vitalized.'

"Fellowship dinners were started; a newsletter, the 'Messenger,' was published; the old Hammond organ was replaced with a new and larger one; landscape improvements were made; and our first pictorial directory was completed.

"Attendance and programs increased as a new feeling of spiritual alertness permeated the congregation. Plans for a new education building came into focus."

After Ray retired, his charge was at Maryville First UMC. He knew of my connection to Middlebrook as well as of my work at The (Maryville) Daily Times. He would occasionally take me to task about something he didn't care for in the newspaper -- never in a mean way, but in a challenging way.

I'm guessing that was the way he served at Middlebrook, as well as his other pastorates: Challenging disciples to move forward for the Kingdom.

Please pray for his wife Jane, daughters Anne and Joy and their families, as well as for the many friends and family members who are affected by his passing.

Grace and peace ...

Editing 'In His Steps' may let a little more light shine through

2009-03-20T21:24:00.003-04:00

I first read “In His Steps,” by Charles M. Sheldon, in the late 1980s.

My Pa’s mother, "Momma T.," had it on her shelf, but the inscription indicates it actually belonged to his sister, Emily. Since I expressed an interest in reading it, it was placed in my hands.

In the Sheldon tradition, it has no copyright; however, the author’s introduction indicates it is a 1935 edition. Based upon a series of sermons by Sheldon, the book was originally penned in 1896 and the author notes that, “Owing to the fact that no one had an legal ownership in the book, sixteen different publishers in America and fifty in Europe and Australia put out the book in various editions from an English penny to eight shillings.

“Mr. Bowden, the London publisher, sold over 3,000,000 copies of the penny edition on the streets of London.”

In the early 1990s, the once public domain book and the “WWJD?” acronym for “What Would Jesus Do?” became a Christian subculture pop craze. I always felt a little funny about that, and I’m fairly certain Sheldon rolled over in his grave.

Today, my somewhat inherited copy of “In His Steps” — with its brittle, yellowed pages — has a high place of honor in my bookcase. The reason: It greatly influenced how I attempt to practice journalism today. One of Sheldon’s central figures was a newspaper editor, who stopped to ask himself "What would Jesus do?” before printing any story or advertisement.

When I first read the book, I was working as a copy editor at what was then Knoxville's other daily newspaper, The Knoxville Journal. At the time, I was struggling whether to remain in the vocation of "secular" journalism. The result: I eventually decided that there really was no difference between the secular and the sacred when you are on this Christian journey. When every day is viewed as a day of worship, and not just Sunday, it is all sacred.

Christians struggle in every vocation, but journalism offers some unique struggles for people of faith — not the least of which is a feeling that we sometimes peddle gossip for a living. That feeling serves as a reminder to me that the calling is much higher than merely peddling the darker side of the world.

Though we journalists often crack crass newsroom jokes about the events of the day, the responsibilities are far greater than we sometimes realize. We can be a cynical bunch, but the opportunities to impact our community in positive ways are evident -- if we have eyes to see and a willing pen to record. In the Christian vernacular, it can be “Kingdom work,” which is not to be confused with proselytizing for the faith.

Kingdom work is looking for places where the community — particularly, but not solely, the community of faith — is letting down its responsibility to care for the widow and orphan, to feed the hungry, to clothe the naked and to ensure that ‘justice rolls down like a mighty river.’ Once identified, it sometimes spawns a news story.

Few people know that Charles M. Sheldon was actually invited to edit The Topeka Daily Capital newspaper as Jesus would for one week beginning March 13, 1900. Heather Hooper, writing for The (Topkea) Capitol-Journal in a Sheldon centennial section published in 2000, notes, “At that time, the Capital's average weekly circulation rate was around 11,200, and 12,300 on Sundays. During Sheldon week, the number skyrocketed to an average daily circulation of 362,684, with more than 2.1 million copies printed all together, according to an article published March 25, 1900, in the Capital.”

The March 13, 1900, New York Times carried a story headlined, “The Rev. C.M. Sheldon’s Newspaper Experiment.” The lead paragraph, datelined Topeka, Kan., read, “The main purpose of the paper will be to influence its readers to seek first the Kingdom of God.”

As a journalist-pastor who continues to follow two callings, it’s comforting to know that those who chronicled the original Good News struggled with discipleship as well — and yet, God worked it out for good.Perhaps God can do the same with those of us who are called into the world of journalism today.

In no way would I suggest that the person at the center of every news story that crosses my desk is treated with the same grace, mercy and compassion that would be provided by Christ. After all, this editor is 100 percent human, with only a spark of the divine. Yet, I can not help but believe that the spark of the divine that lives within a Christian journalist makes him, or her, better at plying their trade.

Perhaps it allows a little more light to shine through the darkness.

Grace and peace ...

Lent: A stimulus plan for The Church

2009-02-24T15:39:00.002-05:00

“You’re sounding a bit apocalyptic today,” my mentor said between bites of chicken at Buffalo Wild Wings recently.

Truth be known, it seems as if we are on the edge of an Apocalypse — and that’s likely a common feeling today.

Barely an hour goes by during the day without our receiving another disastrous economic report concerning layoffs, foreclosures, and the subsequent Wall Street plunge.

Federal bailouts and stimulus plans swirl around with mind-boggling numbers approaching a trillion dollars. Billions have been poured into the War on Terror, and newly inaugurated President Barack Obama is now upping the troop ante in Afghanistan.

What prompted my munching mentor’s response was the question of whether the Church would be up to the challenge of being the Church if the economy continues to fall.

“If we did plummet into a 1929-style Depression, would the Church answer the call to house the homeless, feed the hungry, and clothe the naked?”

To me, it is more than a rhetorical question.

In the past year, those of us working with Family Promise of Blount County have struggled to find enough Blount County churches who are willing to step up and either house homeless families for one week every three months, or support another church that is willing to do so. This is astonishing, given the fact that can you hardly throw a stone without hitting a long-established community of faith and it seems new churches are cropping up nearly monthly.

OK, so maybe the stone throwing is a poor analogy given that this could be taken as high criticism of my brothers and sisters in Christ. Believe me when I say it is not my intent to throw stones at my Blount County brethren, because I believe it’s merely a reflection of the Western Church at large. Let’s be honest, which of these building programs are you more likely to see in church newsletters across the nation: Family life centers and sanctuaries for the flock, or shelters for the homeless? If this is any indication, are we the sheep or goats in Matthew 25?

The mentor and the mentee munched on some more chicken, then the mentee the posed the question: If the economy continues to fall, sliding into a full-blown Depression, would the Church in USAmerica be there to serve those outside of the confines? Would the multitudes who flock to consumer Christian churches (sometimes referred to as “attractional,” or “program” churches) be willing to turn the massive resources that point inward to an outward focus? If the pastor at an attractional church were to stand up and say, “Sisters and brothers, the amenities that you have for so long enjoyed will no longer be available to you. We must now turn our entire resources to serving the least, the last and the lost outside of these walls.” Would the cost of discipleship be too high for most of the flock? Or, would the Church itself be in need of a stimulus plan?

Maybe it’s in need of one now.

Maybe the Holy Spirit is getting ready to write the check.

We’re less than 24 hours away from Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent, the ancient Christian tradition of engaging in 40 days of prayer, penitence, almsgiving and self-denial leading up to Resurrection Sunday (Easter).

What better stimulus plan for the Church?

Grace and peace ...

Oh, I forgot to mention ...

2009-01-20T18:07:00.002-05:00

Sixth, I got a call saying that a pipe had burst at the back of the church, creating Superman's Fortress of Solitude.

At least it didn't burst inside the church.

Guess there is hope, after all.

Grace and peace ...

It began with hope ...

2009-01-20T17:50:00.002-05:00

I was really looking forward to today as a historical day of hope with the inauguration of Barack Obama.

First, I awakened about 2:30 a.m. with the same congestive crud that I have experienced twice before in the past few months.

Second, I paid for about $105 worth of meds to get rid of this crud.

Third, I arrived at the office and spilled part of the meds over the floor.

Fourth, I hitched up my pants only to pop a button.

Fifth, I felt way too bad to enjoy, or even take part in, what should have been an incredible day of online coverage.

So, I packed it up and went home.

Barack, tell me tomorrow's going to be better ...

Grace and (cough) peace.
Buzz

Steven Doyal's message on hate ...

2009-01-19T08:57:00.001-05:00

"Smoldering Cauldron" is absolutely one of the most concise, resounding messages on hate I have read. On this day of historic note, and the day before another historic moment, it would do everyone well to read it and take it to heart.

Grace and peace,
Buzz

On missional and attractional churches

2009-01-01T11:23:00.007-05:00

I'd never heard of Julie Clawson until I was perusing Jonny Baker's blog for worship tricks that I can stockpile for Advent 2009. (I know it may come as a surprise that I would plan that far ahead, but it's sort of like buying Christmas presents ahead of time and forgetting where you hide them. I sometimes gather worship tricks only to forget where I have them.)

Jonny's headline on a post caught my eye: "when did christianity become a popularity contest?" Call it a post about a post, I guess. (There's probably a geek-word for those things.) I clicked over to Julie's post, "Missional effectiveness." Jump over and read it, if you get a chance.

I was hooked by the first few lines:

"Foolishly entering the fray…
So the whole missional vs. attractional church debate has risen to the bloggy surface yet once again sparked by Dan Kimball’s recent post on the Out of Ur blog. ..."

Why did those lines hook me? Well, I know about Kimball and some years ago read two of his books, "The Emergent Church" and "Emerging Worship." I mean, hey, I've long been up to date on discussions concerning emergent Christianity. But when I saw the words "missional vs. attractional church debate," I thought, "Uh-oh. My intense vocation at The Daily Times has put me behind the curve in this arena.

The more I read, the more I decided I was wrong.

I arrived at Green Meadow UMC in April 2002, having just closed the doors on a fairly young church, Pellissippi UMC, which had been in decline for some time. At the time, my home church was Middlebrook Pike UMC, which was a resource-heavy, program-intense church where I helped start an alternative worship experience in 1996. I was an evangelist for those sorts of worship experiences, and still believe they have a place in the church. But when I arrived at Green Meadow, something started changing in my spirit.

Green Meadow was a new-church startup in 1965. From what I can determine, it likely never grew beyond an average attendance of about 100 to 120. (I should probably check the books on that estimate.) Just before my arrival, the church split. So, I thought, "Well, here I am again at a struggling church. Wonder where this will lead ..." To my surprise, these were not defeated people, merely wounded travelers. And so, our journey began.

In the discovery process, we began by asking, "What is God's purpose for this church, in this time, and this place." "This place" was a big one, for we discovered that within a five-mile radius, "The Meadow" is surrounded by nine United Methodist churches alone -- including a new church startup, Sycamore Tree.

As we discussed the purpose and future of the community of faith who worshipped at The Meadow, I would often say, "Green Meadow is not likely to ever again be a 'program' church." In a world filled with options for consumer Christians, or those entering the faith with an eye toward consumer Christianity, Green Meadow is not one of those options.

The question became, "If we are not now, nor ever will be again, a 'program' church, then what are we?" Over the years, the focus has moved from trying to create programs that served the flock to missions that serve others. The community knows little about buzzwords such as "missional," but that is exactly what has developed: a missional community.

This is what is fascinating about the Clauson-Kimball debate: In 2004, I was asked by Dan Benedict at the General Board of Discipleship to provide a perspective on what was happening at Green Meadow in terms of emergent Christianity. In that discussion, I used the word "missional" in describing The Meadow, and "consumer-oriented program churches" in apparently describing what Clauson-Kimball would refer to as "attractional."

What bothers me is the "us vs. them" tone that these things tend to take. When I first read Kimball's books, it seemed as if he was offering an alternative to traditional Western Christianity, which might be attractive to those who are put off by the current state of the Western church. Likewise with Clauson and missional churches. The problem: bickering among the flock is what likely turns off the unchurched the most. (Believe me, I've got my own log to deal with in this arena ...)

One more thought: In terms of the "effectiveness" of missional vs. attractional churches, why not let God make that decision? Do what God is calling you to do, and do it faithfully.

Whether conversions are evident, or not, a missional church with a heart for God's people will lead people to Christ. A missional church without a heart for the people is nothing more than a civic club with a cross and candles.

As for "attractional," consumer Christian churches: You can forget about conversion scorecards, or counting the notches on your Gospel gun, because only God knows who is truly converted anyway.

In short, we've all got our cross to bear when it comes to living out the faith, at this time, and in this place. It's my prayer that in 2009, the world will look at the Church and say, "See how they love one another ...," not "Gee, wish they'd quit bickering and pointing fingers."

Grace, peace and the love of Christ ...

Christmas and the Advent Conspiracy

2008-12-25T22:37:00.006-05:00

As I began worship services for Advent at Green Meadow UMC, I stumbled upon the Advent Conspiracy. I led off with a worship experience with a Conspiracy theme, and introduced the congregation to the idea of an Advent where we sought to Worship Fully, Spend Less, Give More and Love All -- the idea behind the Advent Conspiracy.

As we moved through Advent, I believe we actually did those very things:

The Wednesday before the 1st Sunday in Advent, The Meadow conducted a charge conference where the community agreed to formalize our cooperative mission with Family Promise of Blount County, which includes renovations for the purpose of housing the day center under a lease agreement to be negotiated by the trustees of Green Meadow and Family Promise of Blount County.

On the 1st Sunday in Advent, the community held its annual benefit auction and dinner, raising about $1,400, with half going to help with renovations for Family Promise of Blount County Family Day Center, and the other half going to School of Hope.

The community of faith at Green Meadow contributed just under $200 out of $1,500 that was raised to provide for families whose bread winners had been laid off by a local company. (Pastor Buzz and Donna made deliveries to eight families, ranging from Rutledge to Niota.)

The Rev. James R. Green led worship on two Sundays in Advent, allowing Pastor Buzz to attend to daughter Elizabeth's graduation and relocation.

To be sure, this was a different season of Advent and Christmas. And while I believe it was unintentional, for we were merely living out life as a community of faith, the people of The Meadow lived out the Advent Conspiracy: Worship Fully, Spend Less, Give More and Love All.

Grace and peace ...

Does God Have a Sense of Humor?

2008-09-25T16:27:00.004-04:00

It takes a different kind of faith community to embrace a different kind of pastor.

I guess that’s why I’m in my seventh year as pastor at Green Meadow United Methodist Church — aka “The Meadow.”

Some Christians see the media as anti-Christ and, if Bishop James E. Swanson appointed me to their church, would call for the ritual of exorcism upon my arrival. Thankfully, that’s not been the case at Green Meadow UMC.

Over the years, we’ve found a lot of things in common:

We embrace the missio dei, the “mission of God,” in seeking and serving others outside of the church walls.
We resist using our size — we average about 20 to 25 people in worship — as an excuse to not engage in that mission.
We believe in the “connectional” system of the United Methodist Church in that we can do far more together for the Kingdom of God than we can do going it alone.
And while the Gospel is serious business, we try not to take ourselves too seriously and believe God wants us to have fun.

It’s that last part that appears to raise a few eyebrows around my parish.

When the newspaper isn’t keeping me too busy, I like to put sermon titles on the sign, and sometimes I get a little feedback about those titles.

For instance, a few years ago I preached a sermon based upon Donald Miller’s “Blue Like Jazz” that led to the title of “Christian Belief is Like Penguin Sex.” At least one church member got a call from someone asking, ”I Googled ‘penguin sex’ on the Internet and saw where a study showed some penguins were homosexuals. Is he preaching about homosexuality?” The parishioner assured the caller that, no, the sermon was not about homosexuality.

Sometime after that I received my first anonymous note at the church, the contents of which escape me right now; however, I have the distinct recollection that it was not complimentary.

More recently, I preached another sermon entitled, “The World Needs More Jedi Christians,” the idea for which came from a Leonard Sweet sermon. The next week I received a note that read something like this: “I don’t know Jedi, but I do know Jesus. I can’t find ‘Jedi’ in the Bible.”

This note was accompanied by two Christian tracts. Apparently, this anonymous writer thought I needed some instruction in the very basics of Christianity.

My first thought was, “I wonder if this is the same sort of Christian who leaves tracts instead of tips for waitresses on Sunday mornings?” Which brought to mind another sermon title; “Why Are Christians Such Lousy Tippers?”

I was beginning to think some Christians were a pretty mean bunch until this past Wednesday evening. I had just finished a pre-marital conferencing session (I refuse to call it “counseling,” because I’m not a trained counselor) when the husband-to-be said, “Buzz, when we came in there was a package on the sidewalk. We were afraid to pick it up.”

I thought something along this line: “This guy’s career military, and he’s afraid to pick up a package on my church’s sidewalk? He must have heard about the notes.”

He went on to say, “It’s got a note on it that says, ‘Does God Have a Sense of Humor?’”

We walked out the front door.

On the sidewalk, near the parking lot was a package wrapped in gold foil paper, all poofed up on the top. Sure enough, there was a tag that read, “Does God Have a Sense of Humor?” Inside the card was a smiley face and the expression, “Hmmmmm ...?”

I held the package away from me, untied the note, spread open the foil and peered inside to find a small metal pail holding a purple stuffed animal in the form of a duckbill platypus.

Looking at such an animal, even turn-or-burn, tract-passing Christians must admit that God does indeed have a sense of humor.

I laughed out loud and recalled this passage from G.K. Chesterton’s “Orthodoxy” in which he speaks of the playful child-likeness of God:

“It is possible that God says every morning, ‘Do it again’ to the sun; and every evening. ‘Do it again’ to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.”

God created us in his image, and it’s obvious that there is a divine sense of humor. After all, he played the greatest cosmic joke ever on Death: He raised Jesus from the dead.

What a gas! Brilliant!

Buzz Trexler is pastor at Green Meadow United Methodist Church in Alcoa (www.themeadow.org) and managing editor print/online at The Daily Times. You can e-mail him at PastorBuzz@nxs.net.

Nothing like honest struggle ...

2008-07-24T09:27:00.002-04:00

I was cleaning out my e-mail and ran across a link someone sent me to a blog. I think Timothy H. sent it to me. I decided to follow the link as I drank my first cup of coffee this morning.

The blog is called Real Live Preacher, and contains the musings of Gordon Atkinson, pastor of Covenant Baptist Church in San Antonio. When I hit the About page, I followed the link to "The Preacher's Story," a posting he says was made once-upon-a-time when the blog was anonymous. It's a good thing, because some Christians can only take but so much honesty about struggles in "The Dark Night of the Soul." Some Christians also have a problem with colorful language, particularly when it is emitted from their pastor's mouth.

I wonder where Gordon was serving at the time ...

I encourage you to read "The Preacher's Story," because there is nothing like honest struggle in this journey with Jesus Christ.

But be forewarned: It's not for the faint of heart, nor the faint of faith.

Grace and peace ...

Can't believe it's been nearly two months

2008-07-15T23:56:00.002-04:00

It's difficult to believe that it has been two months since I posted on this blog.

Man, time flies when you're consumed by work.

I had a voice from long ago contact me concerning information on Hepatitis C and I went into the archive to get a link to the first entry I made the week I was starting treatment. When I saw my last post was May 19, I thought, "Surely not!"

Wow.

At any rate (fast, slow, or whatever, I suppose), I'll try to get better.

Been writing some letters seeking donations for School of Hope and listening to sermons from Mars Hill. Heard Walter Brueggemann. Pretty powerful stuff.

Grace and peace ...

What do you do when the news comes to you?

2008-05-19T21:20:00.004-04:00

I spent last week in the Caribbean with my wife and another couple. Normally, the first day back from vacation is spent going through 900-plus e-mails, getting caught up on problems and accomplishments from the past week, and generally just getting your feet on the ground. That's what I did from 9 a.m. until 3 p.m. today.

But then, things changed.

We came out of the daily news budget meeting today to hear the scanner report a fire at the back of The Daily Times.

About a half-dozen news staffers headed down the back stairwell to check things out. I grabbed a fire extinguisher along the way.

I half-expected to see a smoldering fire beneath the pallets that were stacked on a loading dock, but was shocked to see flames climbing up the side of the building, melting away the siding and sending black smoke billowing into the sky.

I pulled the pin out of the fire extinguisher, aimed and fired a blast of fire retardant at the base of the pallets. Comptroller Danny Williamson was standing at the loading dock above me, doing the same. His extinguisher ran out and I handed mine up to him, believing that he had a better angle; however, the extinguishers were no match for the fire, which was growing by the second. Fortunately, Maryville Fire Department trucks were now arriving on the scene.

Fire Chief Ed Mitchell and crew did an outstanding job controlling the blaze and saving our press. It was a testament to their professionalism, and we owe them a debt of gratitude.

Waiting on Pentecost

2008-05-05T22:02:00.002-04:00

Pentecost is one of my favorite seasons of the Christian year. This will be the first Pentecost Sunday that I have missed in worship since I can remember. Out of habit, I went to the General Board of Discipleship's Web site.

If you are creating Pentecost worship experiences, check out Safiyah Fosua's "Pentecost Fire."

Grace and peace ...

Finding my way on "The Road to Daybreak"

2008-04-23T07:48:00.003-04:00

Those around me have occasionally heard the name Henri Nouwen escape from my lips. Nouwen died in 1996, but I am certain his writings have continued to inspire others in the same manner in which they inspire me.

Over the past two years, I have written many times about walking through a spiritual desert. I recently picked up my copy of "The Road to Daybreak: A Spiritual Journey" and have been reading it as a devotional. It was recommended to me by my first assigned mentor, the Rev. Jim Bailes, in 2000. I was preparing for a short-term mission trip to Antigua, Guatemala. God used Nouwen's journal as a way to prepare me for many things, not just that singular experience.

I believe God is once again using Nouwen in my life.

Grace and peace ...

Still get the occasional Hep C e-mail ...

2008-03-27T23:03:00.005-04:00

I still get the occasional e-mail from someone who is beginning the combo tratement of PEG-Intron and Ribavirin. It's hard to believe it was three years ago that I was in that boat.

When I was first diagnosed, you had to do two Interferon shots a week and the success rate stunk for Genotype 1's, which was the genotype I had. I waited five years for something better to come along, and a year after pegylated interferon hit (PEG-Intron and Pegasys), I decided it wasn't going to get any better for a while. So, I took the plunge. It was a long journey, but I would likely do it again.

So, if you stumble upon this blog looking for Hep C information, let me be an encourager. I know not everyone had the same positive outcome, and I pray often for a cure, but it was worth the journey for me.

You can track my journey, beginning with these posts:

The Pre-Journey Column
The Friday Before Beginning Treatment on Sunday
The Treatment Begins ...

And from there, it goes on.

Grace and peace ...

P.S.

Remembering Larry the Lamb

2008-02-26T20:07:00.011-05:00

Larry was kind enough to sign this CD cover from "Only Visiting This Planet."

NOTE: I penned this column in The (Maryville, TN) Daily Times a few years ago. (I think it was in 2004.) With Larry the Lamb now in the arms of the Great Shepherd of the Sheep, I thought it was timely to put it on the blog. The line drawing is a self-portrait by Larry.

It was an interesting plea on Larry Norman’s Web site:

“Could you look around your city and find the names and phone numbers of Christian bookstores and the churches which sell music inside their building? We’d like to contact them and see if they’re interested in Larry’s music. Thank you so much.”

So, I thought I would call one of the area Christian bookstores to get their response.

One store representative said something like, “Who? Never heard of him.”

The next one was a little more diplomatic, saying she never had anyone request his music, pretty much attributing it to a lack of airplay. “They (customers) usually come in asking about songs they’ve heard on the radio,” she explained, noting that stores don’t have time to individually deal with “just any artist.”

Pardon me for taking offense, but my response was along the lines of, “He’s pretty much the reason those folks (Christian music groups) are in your store to begin with.”

I neglected to mention the fact that Larry Norman’s breaking of fallow ground has yielded a great crop of green for Christian music retailers.

OK, Norman would admit that it wasn’t his work alone, but this really gripes my butter.

Granted, most of you readers have never heard of Larry Norman, particularly if are not Contemporary Christian Music (CCM) fans.

But for more than 30 years Norman has been referred to as the “father of Christian rock.” Nowadays, with the exploding CCM industry arguably entering a second and possibly even a third generation, he should probably be referred to as the “grandfather” of CCM. (Sorry, Larry.)

According to The Gospel Music Hall of Fame’s biography of Norman, his recording ministry began in 1966. His band People! opened for groups such as The Grateful Dead, The Doors, Janis Jolin and The Byrds. People! had a pop song entitled “I Love You!” that topped the secular charts and is among the more than 300 covers done by variety of non-gospel artists.

Rock artists ranging from Bob Dylan, to John Mellencamp, U2 and Van Morrison are said to be fans. The most telling statement of his originality and creativity in the rock arena: “Pete Townshend (of The Who) credited Larry’s own rock-opera, ‘The Epic,’ for inspiring the rock-opera ‘Tommy.’”

Unfortunately, it was all of those accolades from secular sources that caused suspicion in Christian quarters.

By 1969, Norman had recorded three albums for Capitol Records, the last of which was “Upon This Rock,” that included the original “left-behind” song, “I Wish We’d All Been Ready.” As “evangelical” a song as it was, becoming an anthem for the Jesus Movement, the album “Upon This Rock” was banned by Christian bookstores for about two years.

There is far more to the Larry Norman story than can be told here, but the question remains: Why does Larry have such a hard time getting into Christian bookstores? Truthfully, in 1999, a CD project of various artists covering his songs, entitled “One Way: The Songs of Larry Norman,” made it to the shelf. However, Larry’s classic albums — “Upon This Rock,” “Only Visiting This Planet,” “Stranded in Babylon,” and others — never seem to see the light of day in U.S. stores. Truth be known, Norman’s music does well in Europe, where retailers appear not to have any problem dealing with smaller labels, such as Solid Rock or Phydeaux.

Perhaps it’s not a retailer or airplay problem at all. Perhaps the issue has its roots in the attitudes of the church.

True, the lyrics are probing, even risqué at times — so much so, they are a bit uncomfortable, even though evangelical. Take, for example, “Why Don’t You Look Into Jesus,” from “Only Visiting This Planet”:

Drinking whiskey from a paper cup, you drown your sorrows til you can’t stand up.

Take a look at what you’ve done to yourself, why don’t you put the bottle back on the shelf.

Yellow fingers from your cigarettes, your hands are shakin’ while your body sweats.

Why don’t you look into Jesus, he’s got the answers.

If you’re going to affect society, sometimes you have to face it squarely on its own turf.

Again, given the sameness of much of CCM today, Norman’s approach may be part of what makes the industry — and the church — uncomfortable.

In one interview, cited by Donald Hughes’ in a column headlined, “Being Larry Norman,” Norman minced few words:

“Christian music barely affects society anymore. It’s really become a microcosmic subculture without much power to change lives. It’s like a soda fountain for Christians where they can go to taste different flavors. The best Christian music comes from the artists who work outside the industry and consider themselves ministers of the message, not purveyors and panderers.”

Norman told an interviewer for CCM magazine, “Christian music isn’t supposed to be polite. It’s supposed to be relevant.”

In a way, Larry kisses the culture; however, you could never say he beds down with it the way some CCM artists do.

Outside of his ministry struggles, Norman has faced other problems:

There was a 1978 airplane accident resulted in partial brain damage that took years to overcome.
In 1992, he suffered a severe heart attack, and like so many people has had to deal with issues of what insurers will and won’t cover in terms of costly treatments.

When he was inducted into the Gospel Music Hall of Fame in 2001, his son Michael flew to Nashville to accept the honor
and deliver a speech to the attendees.

Last fall, he performed what is likely to be his last concert.

As one who has benefited from Norman’s artistry, and the fields he plowed and seeded for others to harvest, this less than benign neglect on the part of the church — and the money-making machines associated with the church — pains me.

I’ve e-mailed the names of Christian retailers to Solid Rock with hopes that the stores will see fit to stock Norman’s records. I guarantee they’ll sell at least as well as some — if not better than most — of the artists they stock. ...

The Official Larry Norman Web site: www.larrynorman.com

‘Jesus Music’ Web site: www.one-way.org

Larry Norman's gone home ...

2008-02-26T12:23:00.003-05:00

God has a way of keeping me humble as a journalist: He usually lets my wife find out about the big stories before I do. Now it seems he's taken to using others: Richard Richter, a real mentor to me, called me today and some time into our conversation he said, "Man, I saw on the news ticker that Larry Norman died and I thought of you."

"What? Larry Norman died?"

I hadn't been on the wire today, so I missed the news.

Sure enough, Larry has gone home. you can read the news on LarryNorman.com.

My kids tease me about how most of my favorite artists have left this world. I now have to add Larry the Lamb to that list.

I'll post more thoughts later.

Grace ... and peace to his brother, Charles, and the rest of the family.

Inspired, but unsettled ...

2008-01-26T23:42:00.001-05:00

Daughter Elizabeth interviews Shane Claiborne at Divine Rhythm.

It’s after 11 p.m. Saturday night and I really should be in bed, but I feel a need to get some of my emotions on paper (OK, in bits and bytes) before going to bed.

The past 24-plus hours of word and worship at Divine Rhythm have been inspiring, unsettling, and even filled with hope.

Joining with hundreds of others in worship led by the Michael Gungor worship team renewed my spirit. They were authentic worshippers leading others who sought to engage the Spirit through authentic worship. It was inspiring and filling.

But I was also unsettled in that Shane Claiborne’s words reminded me of my own life of spiritual contradictions (of course, it was not the first time). The contradictions did not fill me with guilt, but with hope in that I continue to recognize them for what they are: The struggle to live like Jesus while walking in the world.

And therein lies the hope, for as long as there is a struggle, there is hope.

Grace and peace ...

We are God-dust ...

2008-01-26T23:27:00.000-05:00

One of my favorite songs from 1969 was written by Joni Mitchell, but it was really made famous by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young.

If you are a baby boomer, you likely know the song and the festival it memorializes: “Woodstock.”

The chorus goes:

“We are stardust, we are golden; We are billion-year-old carbon; and we got to get ourselves back to the garden.”

The song personified the baby boom generation — a generation of which I was on the cusp, having been born in 1956. I was only 13 when “Woodstock” took place, but within a year or two I began to embrace the countercultural persona. The last photo taken before I left for Navy boot camp shows me in a Wrangler jacket, hair flowing to the shoulders, and a copy of Abbie Hoffman’s “Revolution for the Hell of It” in my hands.

The hair didn’t last long and I have no idea what happened to the book. (If you doubt the hair, thinking I’ve always been this bald, go to http://www.buzztrexler.com/.)

“Woodstock” has run through my head for nearly four decades, but I only recently discovered the second line of the chorus: “We are billion-year-old carbon.” I always mumbled my way through that second line, because I didn’t have the lyrics — they didn’t come with 8-tracks.

What’s more fascinating is that in the last refrain that second line is replaced with these words: “We are caught in the devil’s bargain.”

Are we merely “billion-year-old carbon?”

Are we hopelessly “caught in the devil’s bargain?”

After the 13-year Human Genome Project completed the human DNA sequence — the molecular stuff of life — it didn’t take took long for companies to find a way to make a profit off of everyday consumers through such a discovery.

The New York Times reported that companies are creating services to help consumers interpret information contained in their genomes. The prices range from $985 to $2,500, depending upon the level of services.

Embryo-screening technology has been around for several years, allowing parents to identify embryos that carry serious genetic diseases. The technology is also being used to select children of the desired sex.

What characteristics might we want to propagate? What characteristics might we want to weed out of the gene pool? What about people of certain hair color, height, weight, or intelligence? What if there were a “gay gene?”

Why not make such choices, after all ...

“We are stardust, we are golden; We are billion-year-old carbon ..."

The Associated Press recently reported that scientists in California produced embryos that are clones of two men. The cloning approach involves inserting DNA from a person into an egg, and then growing the egg into an embryo about five days old before extracting the stem cells — thereby destroying the embryos.

After all …

“We are stardust, we are golden; We are billion-year-old carbon ..."

Stop.

We are not merely billion-year-old carbon.

In a sermon that recently led me to think about this “ethical quagmire,” contemporary theologian and author Leonard Sweet suggests “it’s time for Christians to call humans what the Bible calls us: ‘God-dust.’”

In a previous generation, I would say, “Right on!”

We are God-Dust! We are golden! We are far more than merely billion-year-old carbon. And we’ve got to get ourselves back to the Garden!

Certainly, there are monumental benefits that have been gained — and can be gained in the future — from genetic technology, but let us not be “caught in the devil’s bargain” of playing God by cloning humans and manipulating genes to determine an unborn child’s gender.

Let’s find our way back to the garden.

Grace and peace ...

"The Final Post"

2008-01-08T12:30:00.000-05:00

Major Andrew Olmsted was serving in Iraq and maintained a blog on The Rocky Mountain News. He was cut down by a sniper Thursday, Jan. 4.

I didn't know the soldier, but judging from the blog and others' comments, he appeared to be a remarkable man.

Grace and peace to his family and friends ...

"The most profound things in life are often the simplest"

2007-12-23T19:09:00.000-05:00

I received this from Tony Jones of Emergent and consider it well worth sharing in this season:

The most profound things in life are often the simplest.

The birth of a child. The birth of THE child. So simple, yet so profound that theologians have wrestled with it for 2,000 years. And, often, their prose has failed them. Instead, they've resorted to poetry.

"One of the first to wrestle the nativity into words was the author of the Fourth Gospel. "In the beginning," he wrote, "was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it."

In the year 380, in the first recorded Christmas sermon, Bishop Gregory Nazianzen preached, "Christ is Born, glorify ye Him. Christ from heaven, go ye out to meet Him. Christ on earth; be ye exalted. Sing unto the Lord all the whole earth; and that I may join both in one word, Let the heavens rejoice, and let the earth be glad, for Him Who is of heaven and then of earth. Christ in the flesh, rejoice with trembling and with joy; with trembling because of your sins, with joy because of your hope. Christ of a Virgin; O ye Matrons live as Virgins, that ye may be Mothers of Christ. Who doth not worship Him That is from the beginning? Who doth not glorify Him That is the Last?"

Fifteen centuries later, Charles Spurgeon preached of the incarnation: "Everything here is simple; everything is sublime. Here is that simple gospel, by which the most ignorant may be saved. Here are profundities, in which the best-instructed may find themselves beyond their depth. Here are those everlasting hills of divine truth which man cannot climb; yet here is that plain path in which the wayfaring man, though a fool, need not err, nor lose his way."

Merry Christmas, friends. May you make room in your hearts, lives, and families for the babe in the manger. And may your mouth be filled with poetry!

Thanksgivings ...

2007-11-22T17:13:00.000-05:00

There's lots to be thankful for on this day.

I'm thankful for being able to share this meal with family. Donna was up early to take the turkey off the smoker. (I stayed up late to put it on.) My son David, daughter Elizabeth, and daughter-in-law Elizabeth gathered with us today for our meal. We had it a bit early to enable David and his wife Elizabeth to share a meal with her mother. Herb also drove in from Greeneville.

I'm thankful for health. It was only a couple of years ago that I was in the midst of Hep C treatment and wondering each day where I would be at the end of that treatment.

I'm thankful that I have a job, particularly during a time when many others are suffering from unemployment. Not only that, but my wife has a job, too.

I'm thankful that God has given me the privilege of serving him through pastoral vocation. I feel so ill-equipped to do so, and yet Green Meadow is so gracious to me.

I'm thankful God rescued me from the mire more than 22 years ago. For if it had not been for God ...

Grace and peace ...

If this one holds true ...

2007-11-02T10:03:00.001-04:00

... it's an outstanding development for Hep C patients:

Roche announced that new investigational drug for hepatitis C, R1626, has shown promising antiviral efficacy when given in combination with PEGASYS and COPEGUS. After 4 weeks of treatment with the triple combination, the hepatitis C virus could no longer be detected in up to 81% of the hepatitis C-infected patients. The new data were presented at the American Association for the Study of the Liver (AASLD) meeting held in Boston, November 2-6.

Grace and peace ...

Hepatitis C News

2007-11-02T08:50:00.000-04:00

When I arrived at work today, there was a release from Roche in my e-mailbox:

PEGASYS/COPEGUS Treatment Gives Hope to Hepatitis C Patients Failing to Respond to PegIntron
Roche announced that treatment with once-weekly PEGASYS and daily COPEGUS can achieve viral clearance in a number of patients who did not respond to initial treatment with PegIntron, another drug commonly used to treat hepatitis C. The study, called REPEAT, revealed that a patient's response to treatment at 12 weeks is a powerful predictor of the eventual outcome: the majority of patients with undetectable virus levels at 12 weeks went on to achieve a sustained virological response (SVR), indicating treatment success. Few patients with detectable virus at 12 weeks achieved SVR. Data from this international study were presented at the 58th Annual Meeting of the American Association for the Study of Liver Diseases (AASLD) held in Boston on Nov. 2-6, 2007.

I went in search of Ron Metcalfe's blog and sent him an e-mail. I wasn't able to find the community group that he helped start. I may have the link at home.

I pray I never have to go through that again, but this could be good news for non-responders.

Grace and peace ...

Finishing up with Geek school ...

2007-10-13T16:01:00.001-04:00

I just finished a couple of days at Kevin Slimp/UT/TPA's Institute of Newspaper Technology.

I'm beat.

We did time with DreamWeaver (oh, whattta dream!), Photoshop CS3 Extended, and Soundslides. I loved it all, but I need more time with the stuff.

It was all pretty interesting, but it seems like I'm doing an awful lot of "school" these days: Saxotech/Publicus, INT, not to mention Course of Study for my pastoral vocation.

All in all, it sometimes seems as if I'm spread too thin.

Do ya think?

I think I'll go watch a movie.

Grace and peace ...

We need 'Fresh Rain!'

2007-10-11T22:26:00.000-04:00

"Let us acknowledge the LORD; let us press on to acknowledge him. As surely as the sun rises, he will appear; he will come to us like the winter rains, like the spring rains that water the earth." Hosea 6:3

It’s really been dry.

It’s been so dry that it’s becoming an Internet joke

Last Tuesday, my mother sent me this e-mail:

“Please pray for rain:

"It's so dry in Tennessee that the Baptists are starting to baptize by sprinkling;
the Methodists are using wet-wipes;

"the Presbyterians are giving out rain-checks;

"and the Catholics are praying for the wine to turn back into water.

Now, that’s dry!”

The lack of rainfall has made normally green yards look like the Mohave Desert.

What’s worse is that when you walk through subdivisions, the normal ffft-ffft-fft-fft sounds of sprinkler systems are no more; they are silent as towns put water-usage restrictions in place.

The heat and lack of water has everyone on edge — farmers who may not have enough winter hay for their cattle, mayors who don’t have enough water for their towns; and then there are the snakes …

Say what?

That’s right: Snakes.

Back in June, the Decatur (Ala.) Daily News had the Page 1 headline of “Snake alert in the Valley.” The drought has brought out the snakes in search of food and moisture, leading them to the dog’s water bowl, drain pipes and crawl spaces.

There is good news, though: The drought could be helpful in depleting the snake supply as rats and mice die from starvation.

Folks, despite the fact that we got a little bit last Thursday night, we’re still in need of heap more fresh rain.

Fresh rain.

In the Christian tradition, the thought of Fresh Rain has been associated with an outpouring of God.

As an elemental picture, water, and thus rain, has been associated with the pouring out of God’s Holy Spirit.

It is a pouring out of God’s grace.

In the agrarian age, when farmers depended on the land for living, rain was most often seen as a blessing of God … though, at the wrong time, it could also mean disaster.

A lack of rain is seen as abandonment by God; certainly as a lack of favor.
In Jeremiah we read, “The ground is cracked because there is no rain in the land; the farmers are dismayed and cover their heads.” (Jeremiah 14:4)

It is a picture of a dry and thirsty land where there is no water.

Throughout the story of God and his people Israel, there is this back-and-forth visual of abundant fresh rain interspersed with periods of dryness.

Hosea was an 8th century BCE prophet. You might remember him: He married Gomer, a prostitute, as a living parable concerning Israel. Hosea represented God. He creates humanity; he brings Israel out of Egypt in the Exodus; Israel rejects him. Israel is God’s chosen, just as Hosea chose Gomer as his wife, and yet they do God a disservice. Gomer betrayed her husband; Israel had broken the covenant.

In Hosea’s language, Israel lacked hesed; Israel lacked mercy; Israel lacked steadfast love; Israel lacked goodness; Israel lacked loyalty.

Instead, Hosea proclaims, “Israel’s covenant faithfulness was like a transient morning cloud, or like the dew that evaporates quickly. (Hosea 6:4)

Hosea’s prophetic painted a picture of divine judgment, yet there was this promise of restoration and renewal. Because of Yahweh’s love for the people, he saw a fresh rain coming on a dry and thirsty land.

“Let us acknowledge the LORD; let us press on to acknowledge him,” Hosea proclaims. “As surely as the sun rises, he will appear; he will come to us like the winter rains, like the spring rains that water the earth.”

Israel was in need of a fresh rain.

As I was researching this idea of fresh rain, I ran into the story of Evan Roberts, who had been a committed Christian from his early teenage years. He was a regular churchgoer and even taught Sunday school.

The story goes that one spring night in 1904, Roberts was awakened from sleep and went into "deep communion with God for hours." It was an experience that continued for the next few months until he went away to school in preparation for seminary. Two weeks after arriving at the school, he received what he termed a fresh “Baptism of the Spirit” as he responded to the prayer, “Bend me, O Lord.”

It was then that Evan Roberts the Sunday School teacher, the young man preparing for seminary, became a revivalist with a message for Wales.

Evan came home to Moriah Calvinistic Methodist Church at Loughor within a month, and he brought this message to an astonished church:

Confess all known sin.

Deal with and get rid of anything ‘doubtful’ in your life.

Be ready to obey the Holy Spirit instantly.

Confess Christ publicly.

By the end of the end of the first week, more than 60 responded to the call.

By the end of the second week, Evan began a whirlwind tour of South Wales. Within a year or so, more than 100,000 were said to have come to Christ. (Thanks to Welsh Revival Homepage for this great story of an outpouring of the fresh rain of the Holy Spirit.)

Wales had received a fresh rain.

Oh, and by the way: It all started in what was known as young people’s meetings.

Sisters and brothers, I don’t know about you, but I’m in need of a fresh rain …

Fresh rain — a soothing rain that washes away the stress, the anger, the resentment, that leads me to open my mouth before I have engaged my heart and my spirit.

Fresh rain — a divine deluge that washes away my self-centered motives that diminishes the call of Christ on my life …

Fresh rain — a cleansing rain that washes me clean of all things that call me away from God, that gets my priorities all screwed up.

Fresh rain — a gully-washer of a storm, that rinses clean the cluttered gutters of mind.

Do you ever feel as if you need a fresh rain, a cleansing rain -- or, am I all alone?

Grace and peace ...

A shift in the wind ...

2007-10-02T23:42:00.000-04:00

When I first began exploring alternative worship movements in the mid-1990s, I picked up on what the Spirit was doing elsewhere through reading various writers. Some of it was cheesy stuff, while other writings were quite thought-provoking.

In 1999, I picked up the second edition of "Worship Evangelism: Inviting Unbelievers into the Presence of God," by Sally Morgenthaler. Some of what she was saying was not new to me, but it would have been new in 1995 ... the year before we started an alternative service at Middlebrook Pike. Most of what I read seemed right on target for the time.

I still do a fair amount of exploring in the world of alternative worship, even finding time every so often to create a different experience at "The Meadow." However, much of what do there is not what most would call a "contemporary" setting. There is no band and no team of praise singers. You will hear songs from the old Cokesbury hymnal, blended with tunes from the United Methodist Church Hymnal, Hymns for the Family of God, as well as Chris Tomlin, Matt Redman and others in the pop praise and worship arena. I use digital imagery, still and video, on most Sundays. Some folks might find some of the other stuff I've done downright strange -- but that's OK, my flock is quite flexible.

My flock is also quite missional. I think they understand that we are called to something beyond ourselves, and beyond our Sunday worship experience. I guess that's why they put up with what I do on Sunday: They know that's not all there is to the walk.

I tell you all of that to encourage you to read this piece from Sally Morgenthaler.

Sally put words to what I sometimes feel when I find time to attend a contemporary worship service. Something is unsettling in my spirit when I engage in that experience, and I have not been able to put my finger on it. I think Sally has ... and I think there's been a shift in the wind.

If you are open-minded and have some time, read her words; if not, that's OK.

Grace and peace ...

Getting ready to check out of Pirate City ...

2007-09-19T21:04:00.000-04:00

I flew in to Tampa with Wes Miller on Tuesday afternoon, checking in at the Hampton Inn in Ybor (pronounced e-bore) City, which has some sort of pirate-related history. Nearly everything in this area has a pirate, spanish-Cuban, Italian or other Meditrranean theme. It is really interesting, and the food is fantastic. We ate Greek on Tuesday night and Spanish-Cuban tonight.

After we arrived on Tuesday, Wes and I drove to Sarasota to have dinner with Layla. As we waited for her to get off of work, we strolled on the beach, picking up seashells for Wes to take to his girlfriend.

We had dinner with Layla and her boyfriend, Mike. Wish we could have spent more than an hour and a half, but we had to get some rest before engaging in fairly extenstive training. (The instructor called it "basic" training, but it seemed like Parris Island to me.)

The Publicus programming was a bit difficult for me to grasp. Wes, Dave Wiekel and Letisha Sparkman (our colleagues from Peninsula Daily News) had a bit more previous experience, so they grasped it somewhat quicker.

I'm just a bit more right-brained, I guess. Still, if I was adept at computer programming, I likely would have exited the newsroom some time ago.

We fly out on Thursday after about five more hours of training.

Grace and peace ...

Bloggus interruptus ...

2007-09-13T10:13:00.000-04:00

OK, yesterday I put together a post concerning the Heifer Project and it posted OK. I updated it and now it has disappeared. I'll have to check into that and see what's going on. My apologies.
Grace and peace ...

The World's Biggest Blog Party ...

2007-09-06T08:37:00.001-04:00

It's being billed as "The World's Biggest Blog Party: Bloggers Connecting the Globe for Good."

With as much time as most of us spend on the Net and in front the keyboard, I think it's a fantastic idea. So, I'm signing on ... so to speak.

If you want to read more about it, check out today's story on TheDailyTimes.com, or you can go straight to the Web site at TheWorldsBiggeestBlogParty.com.

I'm compiling a mental list of favs even now. I can probably only register one blog, so I think it will be Gathering Wool rather than The Pastor's Buzz. I may change my mind, though.

Grace and peace ...

Found this on Steve Camp's Web site ...

2007-08-17T22:54:00.000-04:00

Steve Camp was a friend of Keith Green's and another musical influence on my Christian journey. Here is a YouTube video he had linked on his site. It is of Keith singing "Asleep in the Light" at Jesus West Coast 1982, the year he died:

Finding that video made my night!

I am working on Part III of a message on the Means of Grace, this one having to do with fasting. I'm struggling a bit with it, so this was a great break. I had never seen a video clip of Keith singing that song and it was a blessing to me.

You might visit Steve Camp's blog:

http://stevenjcamp.blogspot.com/2007/07/
remembering-friend-25-years-ago-today.html

Grace and peace ...

Keith Green's impact lives on

2007-08-09T22:26:00.000-04:00

It’s difficult to believe it’s been 25 years.

I was working the wire desk at the Johnson City Press-Chronicle when I saw a brief story move from The Associated Press that told of a Christian songwriter being killed in a plane crash with two of his children. His name was Keith Green.

“How sad.” I thought to myself. I wasn’t even a Christian at the time, but I had a little baby boy at home and could not even imagine the loss.

I had no idea how his music would impact my life in years to come.

In April 1985, I became a Christian. About a year later, my next-door neighbor, Dick Pace, introduced me to Keith Green’s music. The songwriter’s honest, hard-hitting words to the Church spoke to me. I often say that Green’s life and lyrics taught me about discipleship, while the words and life of Rich Mullins, who died in accident about 10 years ago, taught me about grace.

Here are some of the ways that Green’s music has touched my life, and even continues to do so:

It was while listening to “Here Am I, Send Me,” one morning that I first surrendered to God’s call on my life to vocational ministry. I had known for some time that God was calling me in some fashion and, quite honestly, it was driving me nuts. We were living in Jackson Hills and I was alone in the bedroom, listening to the song, and found myself sobbing, and it was like, “OK, God. I give up. Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it.”
Green’s “Asleep in the Light” continues to indict me at times when I find myself “playing church,” rather than serving the least, the last and the lost.
The song “Grace By Which I Stand” reminds me not to rely on emotions when it comes to my relationship to God:
“Lord, the feelings are not the same,
I guess I’m older, I guess I’ve changed.
And how I wish it had been explained, that as you’re growing you must remember,
That nothing lasts, except the grace of God, by which I stand, in Jesus.
I know that I would surely fall away, except for grace, by which I’m saved.”

My family and close friends are aware of what Green’s music has meant to my Christian journey. My children gave me “The Ministry Years” collection of his music in 1989, and his biography, “No Compromise,” penned by wife Melody Green, truly impacted my understanding of what it means to be a discipleship of Jesus Christ.

Sure, he was a bit legalistic, but in an age where the Church is filled with practitioners of what German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer might refer to as “cheap grace,” hard words from musical prophets such as Green can help bring about some balance.

I was reminded of all of this last week when my daughter, Elizabeth, was helping put together the Family & Faith section front at The Daily Times last week and she said, "There's a story here about Keith Green."

I quickly moved to look over her shoulder. It was a story about some unreleased recordings that his widow Melody has that are going to be digitally recovered and released.

I look forward to that because much of Keith's music has been repackaged and resold as the contemporary Christian music machine in Nashville continues to gather gold.

I wonder what Keith would say about all of that.

I think I have a good idea.

Grace and peace ...

A morning prayer ...

2007-07-12T10:35:00.000-04:00

I found this great morning prayer that was part of John Baille's devotions. While I found it elsewhere, there is a book entitled "A Diary of Private Prayer" that apparently can be purchased on Amazon.

"My First Thought"

Eternal Father of my soul, let my first thought today be of You, let my first impulse be to worship You, let my first speech be Your name, let my first action be to kneel before You in prayer.

For Your perfect wisdom and perfect goodness:
For the love with which You love mankind:
For the love with which You love me:
For the great and mysterious opportunity of my life:
For the indwelling of Your Spirit in my heart:
For the sevenfold gifts of Your Spirit:
I praise and worship You, O Lord.

Yet let me not, when this morning prayer is said, think my worship ended and spend the day in forgetfulness of You. Rather from these moments of quietness let light go forth, and joy, and power, that will remain with me through all the hours of the day;

Keeping me chaste in thought:
Keeping me temperate and truthful in speech:
Keeping me faithful and diligent in my work:
Keeping me humble in my estimation of myself:
Keeping me honorable and generous in my dealings with others:
Keeping me loyal to every hallowed memory of the past:
Keeping me mindful of my eternal destiny as a child of Yours.
Through Jesus Christ my Lord. Amen.

Wow. I find that a powerful morning prayer.

Grace and peace ...

Headin' west to get my whole-hog fix ...

2007-07-05T07:43:00.000-04:00

EDITOR"S NOTE: OK, I'm cheating in that this is really a column I wrote about a year ago for The (Maryville, TN) Daily Times ... but don't stop reading. It's timely in that this is the day I head out to my annual whole-hog cookout at the Wood family gathering in West Tennessee. I gotta warn ya: This isn't for the squeamish.

Hello, my name is Buzz, and I'm a hog-aholic.

I've always loved pork barbecue, and have talked up places like Corky's and Rendezvous in Memphis, Calhoun's and Buddy's in Knoxville, and usually speak of my first taste as a kid at Bill's Barbecue in Richmond, Va.

Places like that were the baseline for me -- that is, until my good friends Dr. Lytle and Susan Brown of Knoxville introduced me to whole-hog barbecue in 1998. Now, I'm obsessed with barbecue -- particularly whole-hog barbecue and ribs. Even on vacations, if I see a sign that says, "World Famous BBQ!" I'll try to cajole my wife, Donna, into stopping.

"Hmmm ... Big Dawg's BBQ. Wonder if it's any good?"

We'll drive a few more miles, and then another sign will move toward us: "Big Dawg's BBQ! Best in Georgia. 3 miles. Exit 38"

"Wonder what Georgia-style barbecue tastes like? Think it's minced, or pulled?" I'll hint. "I'm a little hungry, how about you?"

Sooner or later, she gives in, because she knows I have to stop.

I generally issue a challenge to the waitress. "Is this place supposed to have good barbecue?" I do this because I know it'll be a matter of pride for the cook to serve up the choice pieces, and plenty of 'em.

Sometimes I'll line up the proprietor's sauces, tasting each with a cracker, light-bread, or even a spoon, swishing my mouth with water, like some sort of connoisseur passing judgment on a fine wine.

"Mustard sauce, huh? Whatta sin. ... Too much tomato and sugar in that one. ... Oh, yeahhhh. Carolina red. Nice vinegar-based sauce. ... They call that hot? ... Whew!! Makes you wanna smack yo mamma, that one does!"

And then, no matter how impressed I am, I'll allow as how none could match Donna's secret dippin' sauce, nor Joy Wood's West Tennessee special.

After all, it's the truth.

My addiction to whole-hog barbecue started with a simple invitation for my family to join the Browns at the home of Susan's parents, Elston and Joy Wood. They live about five hours west of Knoxville. (You know, near Blue Goose.) Lytle and Susan described it as an annual Fourth of July picnic, where friends and neighbors gathered to celebrate Independence Day.

Just a private little affair ... with about 100-plus people feeding on three whole hogs and countless covered-dish delicacies: cole slaw, potato salad, banana pudding, ice-box pickles, homemade ice cream, stack cakes and other such Southern dishes.

It's been going on for decades.

But the Wood Family Barbecue is not just about the end result, it's more about the process.

Here's what you need ... well, mostly:

WHOLE-HOG BBQ

Preparation

3 live hogs, kept in trailer overnight with running water to keep 'em cool.

1 .22-caliber rifle

1 box of .22-caliber longs (you should only need three, but don't use .22 shorts as they only bounce off the hog's skull and make him mad)

1 stickin' knife

1 cuttin' knife

3 or 4 scrapin' knives

1 scalding vat with two lengths of chain

1 singletree with a length of chain, connected to the lift pole on a tractor

3 old bedsheets to cover dressed hogs

Gather up about seven men, one of whom has to be a good shot and able to move quickly on his feet, while another has to be a good cutter. Give the shooter a .22-caliber rifle while a helper coaxes one of the trailered hogs into position, so the shooter can get off a shot. The shooter then jumps into the trailer, with stickin' knife in hand, and wrestles the hog awhile before doing the deed. Drag that hog out of the trailer and hook him up to the singletree, then haul him over to the scalding vat. Four men -- two on each side of the vat -- use the chains draped across the vat to lower the hog into the water. Roll him over once or twice, then lift him out. Scrape the hog, then use the tractor and singletree to lift him into dressing position. The cutter then dresses the hog out before putting him on the flatbed trailer, covering him with a sheet and hosing him down for good measure. While the scalding is taking place on the first hog, the shooter and a helper go through the trailer process again. By now, the other two hogs are getting wise and hidin' in corners with their backs to the shooter, which makes the process a little trickier each time around.

Cooking

2 gallons of cookin' sauce

1 box of salt

Cooking pit with three racks

1 long-handled shovel

1 barrel to burn wood, making hickory coals

A full load of hickory

Have someone start a hickory fire in the barrel to make hot coals while the hogs are being prepped,. Lay one dressed hog on each of the three racks. Use the long-handled shovel to place coals under the pigs. Cover and cook 24 hours, adding more coals and turning as you feel led. Tell tall stories so as not to fall asleep and burn hogs.

Of course, I turned 50 years old on July 2 and my memory's not what it used to be, so I might have left something out. But you'll figure it out ...

This addiction has a cost, mind you, and it has a tendency to spread.

For instance, I haven't spent a birthday with my momma since the addiction set in, having been in West Tennessee for the past nine Fourth of July weekends.

And every once in a while the sermon title on Green Meadow UMC's sign is replaced with something like, "Greenway Music and BBQ Festival."

After all, burnt offerings didn't really end with the Old Testament, did they?

Things Dwight introduced me to ...

2007-05-16T00:00:00.000-04:00

Rolling a newspaper so you could throw it. (He convinced a district manager to hire me in my neighborhood, but I didn't keep the job long. Surprise ...)

Hitting a golf ball.

Old Milwaukee beer (Maybe I shouldn't have noted that ...)

Cable TV

Squirrel stew (we actually had it at his family's house in South Boston)

League softball (He could really run the bases)

Country music

Being Weird Al Yankevich before Weird Al made it big. Dwight had this knack for making up lyrics to country songs ... some of which were real doozies.

I'm sure a whole lot more, but those are the ones that come to mind.

Passing of a surrogate brother ...

2007-05-15T23:13:00.000-04:00

My mom called early this evening to tell me that Dwight Holt had died. It wasn't unexpected, as he had been seriously ill for some time.

It's hard to remember a time when Dwight wasn't part of our lives. If memory serves me correctly (I'll have to check), Dwight first worked with Mom at Mailing Services in Richmond, Va., when I was in elementary school.

That was a long time ago -- more than 40 years.

We moved to 2646 Fleet Avenue (Hermitage Manor Apartments) in 1966 about a year after my mom and dad split up. We were living with another divorcee and her kids, Garland and Janet, who were corresponding ages to me and my sister, Sheree. At some point, Dwight and his wife, Marianne, also moved to Hermitage Manor.

But it wasn't until my family's excursion to hell -- that is, the days of rage in Florida with mom's second husband, Jim Nestor --and our subesequent return to Richmond in 1969 that my own connection to Dwight deepend.

That fall, my Uncle Russell (one of the few true saints in our family) helped Mom, Sheree and I get set up at Hilliard Road Apartments, just down the road from Hermitage Manor. I was trying to earn some money selling Christmas cards door to door (one of the few times I tried to earn an honest buck as a kid) and had made my way to Hermitage Manor where I was knocking on door after door. I came to this one apartment, heard some poodles yapping and, lo' and behold, Marianne answered the door. She was as surprised to see me as I was her. I had forgotten they were living in that complex and told her we had moved back from Florida and gave her the address.

In the meantime, my Aunt Ginna (Saint Russell's wife and my mother's sister, Virginia) gave my mother a black cat that was part persian. She said it was a stray. Within a week, Dwight and Marianne showed up for a visit at our Hilliard Road apartment. When Mom answered the door, the cat was standing nearby. Dwight didn't say, "Hello," "How are you?" or anything of the sort. The first words out of his mouth were, "Where'd you get my damn cat?"

It seems the cat was, in fact, the Holts' "PJ."

Who knows where Ginna picked it up.

Dwight and Marianne were kind enough to let us keep him. PJ remained a member of our family until 1979, moving with us several times around the Richmond area, then to Newport News, then to Tennessee (Elizabethton, Johnson City, Ripshin), until becoming ill and dying in 1979.

During my pre-adolescent and adolescent years, Dwight became something of male role model and a surrogate brother to me. At that time, the Holts had no children, but Mom, the Holts and I fished together, camped together, you name it.

Dwight had an incredible work ethic and I think greatly influenced me in that regard. At one time, he was an accountant with Phillip Morris and was also a district manager in circulation for the Richmond Times-Dispatch. I remember Mom, Marianne, Dwight and I leaving whatever fishing or camping expedition we were on to deliver Sunday editions together -- Mom and I putting them together in the back seat, Dwight driving, and Marianne stuffing the paper boxes.

In late winter 1972, when I was in the 10th grade, I had one of my many freak accidents: I broke my ankle running at school. They had to put a screw in the ankle and I was laid up at home for some time. Part of that time, the Holts let me sleep on the couch in their den.

It's obvious we had grown together as family.

Dwight became one of the few positive male figures in my life. My biological dad was pretty much out of the picture, so the primary family males were my grandfather, Uncle Russell and my Uncle Mike (my biological dad's brother). As for non-family members who were male role models, it was pretty much Dwight and Phil Prater, who died a few years ago, who influenced me. Phil was a bachelor who lived next door to us at Hilliard Road Apartments.

Now, you need to know that in the late 1960s and early 1970s, an adolescent male with a single mom looked at the primary males around him for guidance on certain aspects of male life, but sometimes those primary males needed a little bit of guidance themselves. One of these days I might write something about that ...

(Incidentally, we sometimes called Dwight "Daddy Rabbit," though I have no idea where the name originated. As crazy as we all were in those days, I'm not sure I want to know ...)

I was thinking about Dwight early this morning, knowing that he was close to death. There was something besides his work ethic that touched my life: It was his sense of grace and love for friends and family.

I won't go into details, but one day I let Dwight down. In his own way, he let me know that I had disappointed him ... but he never brought it up again.

It was like Dwight tossed the incident into the deep waters we sometimes fished, never to be reeled in again.

Pure grace.

Even though our lives grew apart over the years, I'm going to miss Daddy Rabbit. I'm thankful I called him on the spur of the moment one recent night to tell him how much he meant to me, how thankful I was that he was around in those early years.

I needed someone like him.

Grace and peace ...

Of BBQ and other honors ...

2007-04-26T23:21:00.000-04:00

I just finished rubbing down three cases of pork butts and am winding down to go to bed.

Friday is a big day; in fact, so big that I had to take a vacation day. Not only do I have to ready for the Festival of Hope, fire up the smokers, etc., but I have to head up to East Tennessee State University Friday afternoon to be -- get this -- inducted into the Alumni Hall of Fame on behalf of the school of journalism. I'm pretty humbled by it; after all, who would've thought? (Go to www.buzztrexler.com and pick me out in a pix of the college newspaper staff in 1979 and you'll see why ...)

I then come back and stay up all night cooking BBQ.

Ah, the life of a journalist/pastor ...

Grace and peace ...

What can be done for an old heart like mine ...

2007-04-19T00:07:00.000-04:00

"My eyes are dry, my faith is old,
My heart is hard, my prayers are cold.
And I know how, I ought to be,
Alive to You, and dead to me.
So what can be done, for an old heart like mine?
Soften it up, with oil and wine.
The oil is You,
Your Spirit of love,

Please wash me anew in the wine of Your blood."

-Keith Green

That old song by the great-granddaddy of Christian rock (and even praise and worship music) resonates with me these days.

I'm struggling with my prayer life ... and have been for some time now.

I know, I know: That's a terrible thing for a pastor to admit.

Still, it's the truth.

But something I've struggled with for even longer is the way in which events such as that of April 16 on the Virginia Tech campus roll over me.

Not long after I arrived at the newsroom that morning, I discovered that two people were shot to death on that campus. I cut the broadcast news on and thought, "Well, at least we'll have something for the front page if nothing else breaks."

It was a news story.

It wasn't that I had no regard for the lives of those two unknown people, but at that point in time it was a news event like any other.

I left The Daily Times Newsroom on Monday around 11:30 with the understanding that two people were dead on that campus. I stopped at this church, chatted with the School of Hope girls, grabbed some Wendy’s chili, brought it back to the Newsroom and as I passed the television outside of my office I caught the CNN headline of “22 dead.”
“Twenty-two dead?” I shouted in disbelief.

It was no longer a news event like any other, but one that demanded decisions: Make sure we have enough space in the paper to cover the story. Look for local angles. Discuss the play.

Before the day was over, the number had jumped again: 33 dead, including the shooter.

It’s all work.

On Tuesday, I drove to Bristol, Virginia, for a clergy session with the Bishop.

Many ministers from United Methodist Churches in Virginia were in attendance. One such pastor even drove a Virginia Tech bus and knew at least one of the students who was killed, Ryan “Stack” Clark, the RA who was among the first two killed that morning. Other pastors lifted up the names of students and staff members who were connected to the tragedy in some manner or fashion.

I was away from the newsroom and began to think of the Virginia Tech massacre as something other than news.

Believe me, folks, I know how this all sounds. But if I'm nothing else in this life, in this role as pastor/journalist, I'm truthful. Furthermore, this is something I have struggled with since coming to Christ in 1985.

The magnitude of the sorrow only hit home Wednesday morning when I saw a father of one of the fallen students talk about his daughter on NBC's "Today Show." It was then that I felt the grief.

This seems to be the pattern for me, more often than not. The event happens, I go into coverage mode, and then when all is said and done in the newspaper world, my own emotions might kick in.

I can think of a couple of exceptions, one of which was 9/11. I learned of the attack just after 9 a.m. that day, raced to the newsroom, went straight into coverage mode, and sometime around 11 a.m. I found myself unraveling in the sanctuary of Broadway United Methodist Church. At some point, I gained my composure and returned to the newsroom. About mid-afternoon I began to think of the need to open Pellissippi Church for a time of worship and prayer at lunch the following day.

Another exception involved the death of a toddler as the result of child abuse. The event occurred while I was working the desk at the old Knoxville Journal and my emotional response prevented me from editing the story. "I can write the headline," I said, "but I can not edit the story."

That was 20-odd years ago, and even then I struggled with hardness of heart. I don't think my heart has become more hardened in those 20-plus years, but I do think I have become more aware of how my occupation affects my spiritual life -- whether it be shifting hours that interrupt a disciplined time of prayer (I tend to pray on the run, when at times my spiritual life is in need of structured and contemplative prayer), or the business of news creating grief-interruptus, urging me to attend to coverage before spiritual business.

Oh, how I wish it would be the other way around: To feel the sorrow first, to grieve as the world grieves before worrying about the press start.

Oh God, what can be done with an old heart like mine?

Please soften it up, with oil and wine.

Grace and peace ...

Better late than never ...

2007-03-26T22:38:00.000-04:00

I never did report back on the Chris Tomlin interview and concert.

You can read the interview for yourself, but I want to note a couple of things about both.

I kept the telephone conversation brief, about 15 minutes, because I am certain Tomlin had interviews lined up left and right and I wanted to be a good steward of his time. I had some fairly thoughtful questions, or so I thought, but he seemed rushed and appeared to have ready-made answers, regardless of the questions.

Later, I thought it might have been my imagination.

But then I went to the concert, and something else came to my mind ... and heart.

OK, it wasn't a concert, it was a worship event. I know, we in the Christian ghetto come away from a lot of CCM concerts saying, "Wow! That was a great time of worship." Believe me, this wasn't some cliche; this was the real thing.

The first tip-off was a bit aggravating to me: They wouldn't let me take my camera in. At first blush, I thought, "I knew it! This guy's gotten into the rock-star thing." It made me want to leave.

But then, once it started, I began to understand why the pre-event T-shirt and CD sales setup included, "Please, no video cameras or flash photography." (Incidentally, most people respected the request.) Despite the big "check-out-our-stuff-for-sale-at-the-tables" pitch from the stage, the majority of the evening had this feeling of worship, augmented by about 40 minutes of Louie Giglio's preaching. (Donna and Elizabeth said it was a little much. To be honest, it was good to hear someone else preach. I'm sorta into that, ya know, and get tired of hearing myself.)

And so it was that I left that event a bit changed -- a little less quick to judge, and wondering about my own heart.

Nonetheless, I still think Tomlin is something of a fish out of water. Waiting for him and watching him during the "meet-and-greet" after the event, I still got the sense that he would be more comfortable leading worship at Austin Stone Community Church than being part of the CCM empire.

Then again, given that he has been so involved in Passion conferences with Giglio, maybe I have this whole thing wrong.

It wouldn't be the first time.

Grace and peace ...

Chris Tomlin interview ...

2007-03-06T22:55:00.000-05:00

I interviewed worship leader/songwriter Chris Tomlin today by phone from his home in Austin, Texas. The man sounded a bit harried, but he has every right to sound that way. Chris told me he was home for a quick break from the "How Great is Our God" tour, so I only kept him about 15 minutes. I figured the guy had plenty of other things he wanted to do besides talking to some smalltown journalist.

This was the first time I did a digital recording of an interview and I'm going to do something a little bit different. I closed with a rather intriguing question that I will not be using in the write-up, but will be posting an audio file that includes his answer. I plan on promoting it with the story, which will run in The Daily Times Weekend section on Friday, March 16, along with Amanda Greever's interview with Matt Redman.

It's as close to a cure as I can get ... for now

2007-02-28T23:37:00.000-05:00

I quit counting post-treatment weeks long ago, but it doesn't mean it wasn't on my mind.

The blood to check my viral load was drawn on Feb. 5 and I received the report about a week later. I checked the numbers and determined it was in the undetectable range. Even though I was certain I was reading it right, I waited until my meeting Monday with Dr. Scott.

I was down with a cold, but determined to make the appointment.

"So, are you cured?" he asked after looking at the report.

"Well, the virus is undetectable," I replied.

He knew me well enough by now to know that I, too, knew the score. The best folks like me can hope for at this point is "virus undetectable."

"Well, your AST and ALT is in the normal range, and that's great," he said.

"I notice my bilirubin is up slightly ..."

"It's like driving 58 in a 55 mph zone," he said.

He wasn't bothered, and neither was I.

My next stop is an ultrasound. Dr. Scott noted that I haven't had one since 2000, when the Hepatitis C virus was found in my blood and this long journey started. So, March is going to be a big month for me: The 50-year-old colon check, an ultrasound and my annual physical, all in one month. It wouldn't have been this way, except that once my treatment was done, I wanted nothing to do with doctors for a while. I normally have a physical done every September, but I just didn't do it in 2006.

What can I say?

I just wanted to be ...

And so, once again I thank God for his immeasurable grace.

'Tis grace that brought me safe thus far
And grace will lead me home"

Grace and peace ...

Going deeper ...

2007-01-24T23:08:00.000-05:00

I'm doing a series of messages entitled The New Exodus that are based upon the teachings of Don Golden and Rob Bell of Mars Hill Bible Church in Granville, Mich.

Last year during Lent, I picked up several of Rob Bell's Nooma videos for Wednesday night gatherings. They went over pretty well. The videos led me to Mars Hill Bible Church's Web site, where I was able to download some of Rob's messages. The first series that really capitvated me was The New Exodus. I downloaded the four messages onto my Palm Pilot and consumed them on summer vacation. The more I listened, the more I thought, "This is a message for God's people in The Meadow."

In the meantime, I was sensing that God was drawing me into the Old Testament, which fit with the texts touched upon during the messages: Genesis, Exodus, I Kings, Isaiah 61, and others.

This past fall, I decided that the time between Epiphany and Lent would be appropriate for the messages and, as God would have it, my winter Course of Study class was Hebrew Bible I.

Gee, go figure ...

The first message centered upon how personal sin always has a social and global impact; sin building an empire for itself; always moving from the garden (of Eden) to the city (Jerusalem).

The second message was how God has been looking for a body for thousands and thousands of years. He told Moses, "You will be like to Pharaoh." He told the Hebrew people, "You will be a kingdom of preists and a holy nation."

This week, it's The Dark Side: How Solomon forgot the story of how they had been rescued from slavery, from bondage, and began accumulating slaves, marrying foreign wives and following foreign gods (Molech, etc.), and becoming an arms trader.

The teaching style has been a departure for me, but it's been great hearing those pages flip in the Bible as the congregation follows along -- not to mention my own growth during this time.

Makes me want to continue to go deeper.

Grace and peace ...

Sabbath experience promotes worship

2007-01-05T15:48:00.000-05:00

The Apostle Paul and I have something in common: We’re both tent makers, so to speak.

No, I don’t work for Coleman, or L.L. Bean; however, like Paul, I have another job that helps pay the bills in the Trexler household. Paul made tents to help put bread on the table while preaching the good news. I put out news — some good, some bad — to pay the bills while preaching the good news.

Prior to becoming a part-time pastor in 2001, I had spent about five years leading the contemporary worship team at Middlebrook Pike United Methodist in Knoxville. Do the math and you can see that for the past 11 years, I’ve been working in worship.

Sounds sort of strange, when you put it that way, but that is often how it seems.

With two jobs, I often find myself living day to day, week to week without truly experiencing Sabbath — that time of personal rest and renewal. Yet, I am grateful to serve a community of faith that understands and provides a number of Sundays “off” so I can experience renewal.

Such was the case on New Year's weekend, when my family took up three chalets at Fairhaven Ministries, a retreat for clergy, missionaries and Christian lay workers in Roan Mountain.

On Sunday morning, I decided to walk the trails on the grounds along Roaring Creek. It was a wonderful time of quiet contemplation ... a time that I greatly needed.

The weather had an early spring-like feel to it; the breeze was cool and brisk. At one point, I stood on a trail that was transformed into a wind tunnel and watched rhododendron leaves shimmer rhythmically. It seemed all of Creation was dancing in the Spirit!

A beautiful waterfall caught my eye in the distance, but the trail only allowed my tennis-shoed feet to pursue it but so far. As I journeyed toward an easier passage I stopped at the creekside: Rushing water steadily roared in my ears and a brisk breeze heightened my senses. Instinctively, I lifted my arms in praise, with my face to the heavens.

Worship ...

The late A.W. Tozer served in the Christian Missionary Alliance and is considered by many to be a prophet and possibly the closest thing to a mystic Protestantism has produced. Tozer once wrote, “It is a fact that God made us to worship Him, and if we had not fallen with Adam and Eve, worship would have been the most natural thing for us.” He later adds, “In the Bible, God takes the matter of worship out of the hands of men and puts it in the hands of the Holy Spirit. It is impossible to worship God without the impartation of the Holy Spirit!”

Buzz’s exposition on Tozer: It’s difficult, if not impossible, to experience the full impartation of the Holy Spirit in the absence of Sabbath experiences.

Grace and peace ...

Ending 2006 with a Sabbath experience ...

2007-01-03T22:34:00.000-05:00

It was the final day of 2006: Sunday, Dec. 31.

I was at Fairhaven Ministries and it was strange being in a place where I didn't have to get up early on a Sunday morning to prepare for worship. I still found myself listening to a Don Golden/Rob Bell series called "The New Exodus." (It's a pre-Lenten series I'm planning to use at The Meadow.)

The night before, I dreamed about a community I've never worshipped with, yet I know exists: All Souls Church in Knoxville. The community was celebrating Holy Communion. I can normally discern why I dream certain things, but this time it is a puzzle. The only clue I have is that I was composing some Great Thanksgivings in my mind when I went to sleep. (I know, I know, that sounds strange ...)

Every weekend that I am at Ripshin I ponder the possibility of attending worship somewhere. Sometimes I think about going to the small Baptist church located across the lake from our cabin.

What is it that so strongly pulls me to corporate worship?

Even in the midst of a Sabbath, I find it difficult to shut down and just "be" ...

Grace and peace ...

It seems Christians still need Santa Claus

2006-12-22T11:58:00.000-05:00

Christians need Santa Claus — not nearly as much as we need Jesus, but we still need the fat guy.

Some might see that as blasphemy, but it could be those are the same people who need Santa the most.

Whenever I sense the joy of Christmas has left me during the season of Advent, I remember Miller & Rhoads Tea Room and the real Santa Claus.

Every family has Christmas traditions, whether it be mimosas and crab dip on Christmas morning, shopping on Black Friday, or braving the crowds at Fantasy of Trees. Growing up in Richmond, Va., the traditions included a ride on the real Santa Train, taking in the annual Christmas parade down Broad Street, and going to Miller & Rhoads Tea Room to have breakfast with the real Santa Claus and Snow Queen.

I kid you not.

We have the pictures to prove it.

We were able to share this joy with son David, who made his own pilgrimmage to the real Santa’s lap in Christmas 1985. Daughter Elizabeth was too small to care, but at 21 she knows the family legend well. After all, she’s seen the pictures ... you can, too, if you’d like. I'm going to put them up on www.buzztrexler.com when I get the chance.

The bearded fat guy whose lap my sister Sheree and I sat upon was the same bearded fat guy who summoned my nearly 4-year-old son with the words, "Come on over here, David."

(Now, how did he know David’s name if he wasn’t the real Santa Claus?)

Such memories flood my mind at Christmastime and bring a smile to my face — even when life experiences threaten to make Christmas dull, even dreadful for some. This is the human reality of Christmas: There is a need to embrace legends and fantasy because the reality is even more difficult to fathom.

The reality is that God cared enough for all of creation to put on skin, walk among us and experience death — even death on a cross — so that we might fellowship with him. Instead of leaving us to wonder what God is like and what our creator wants us to do in this world, he showed us in the perfect example of Jesus Christ. Even as that light shines, many Christians continue to live dark, joyless lives, because there is a failure to understand the reality.

So, we need Santa to bring a smile to our face.

There’s a part of me that says, "Well, whatever gets the job done." And yet, as a disciple of the God-man, who started out as the God-child, there is the knowledge that the heart should swell at the reality, not just the legend and fantasy.

Then again, maybe it’s the same syndrome that causes us to be drawn to the "baby Jesus," but run from the God-man Jesus.
Sometimes the knowledge is just too difficult for mere humans to face.

I've moved ...

2006-11-24T01:45:00.000-05:00

After years of reluctance, I finally purchased a domain name, buzztrexler.com.

It wasn't the one I wanted. I wanted gatheringwool.com, but someone snatched it up a month or so ago. I hesitated too long.

Still, I think this is one is OK. After all, I've had the name for some time now.

So, I relocated my blog to this place and, thankfully, got the archives corrected. I would have hated to lose my HepC journal.

At some point I'll redesign my Web site again.

Grace and peace ...

Sweet's "The Purple Church"

2006-11-21T19:47:00.000-05:00

I looked back in my files today and discovered Leonard Sweet's sermon "The Purple Church." So I should really give him credit for this concept of purple being the color of faith. You can find his sermon on preachingplus.com. It's a great piece.

Grace and peace, Buzz

Purple is color of faith in politics

2006-11-11T01:20:00.000-05:00

"If you're going to call people sinners, you better be perfect."

That's what self-professed culture warrior Bill O'Reilly told NBC's Matt Lauer earlier this week concerning the Rev. Ted Haggard.

Haggard, who was founder of the megachurch New Life Church and president of the National Association of Evangelicals (NAE), had confessed to unspecified "sexual immorality," accepted responsibility for his actions and asked forgiveness. He resigned from the NAE and was subsequently fired by the church he founded.

On the day before voters went to the polls, Lauer questioned whether the revelation about Haggard's indiscretion would have an effect on "evangelicals" turning out at the polls, giving Democrats an advantage -- the premise being that evangelicals always vote Republican.

That's a pretty narrow view; however, having been in the media for 26 years -- 21 of those as a Christian -- encountering narrow-minded journalists when it comes to matters of faith is nothing new to me.

Lauer claimed to have read O'Reilly's "Culture Warrior" from "cover to cover." I doubt it will ever grace my bookshelves, which are lined with everything from various Bible translations, to works of Henri Nouwen, to Brian McLaren's "A Generous Orthodoxy: Why I Am a Missional, Evangelical, Post/Protestant, Liberal/Conservative, Mystic/Poetic, Biblical, Charismatic/Contemplative, Fundamentalist/Calvinist, Anabaptist/Anglican, Methodist, Catholic, Green, Incarnational, Depressed-yet-Hopeful, Emergent, Unfinished CHRISTIAN."

McLaren's verbose title challenged me as much as G.K. Chesterton's "Orthodoxy." Chesterton led me to do mental gymnastics, but McLaren forced me to reconsider preconceived notions.

Lest anyone think I'm unsympathetic to the so-called culture war, and culture warriors, think again: I am empathetic, and for good reason.

Francis A. Schaeffer's "A Christian Manifesto" (1981, Crossways Books) can be found on one of my many bookshelves, while "Turning Point: A Christian Worldview Declaration," by Herbert Schlossberg and Marvin Olasky (1987, Crossways Books) has somehow disappeared. Both of those books influenced a great many culture warriors, including this one.

As a Christian who was young in the faith during those years, Schaeffer and Olasky's words literally jumped off of the page and into my mind and heart, and occasionally into newsprint via columns. Those words and thoughts remain a part of my journey, but only a part.

Prior to converting to Christianity in 1985, my reading included such works as James S. Kunen's "The Straweberry Statement: Notes of a College Revolutionary," Jack Kerouac's "On the Road," Abbie Hoffman's "Revolution for the Hell of It," and Tom Wolfe's "Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test." You could say that I journeyed from an anti-Christian ghetto to the Christian ghetto of culture warriors. While residing in either subculture, rarely did I journey into the other neighborhood — except to argue. To do otherwise would be tantamount to treason.

Sometime after 2:30 a.m. Wednesday, when it became clear that the congressional sea was experiencing a tidal change from Red to Blue, I left The Daily Times newsroom and headed home. As I drove along the Pellissippi Parkway, my thoughts turned to pondering whether those on either side of the culture war -- many of whom are part of the Body of Christ -- would ever make peace.

I was reminded of a close friend who died some years ago. His name was John Hanna, and we were once culture warriors together.

John was head of the Christian Media Center in Knoxville and one-time president of the Tennessee Christian Coalition. We would gather for lunch and talk about faith, and eventually talk about politics. I remember one particular lunch when John and I were in deep discussion.

"John, you and I both know that salvation isn't found in Washington."

It was pretty much a rhetorical statement, because John most certainly knew it then, and it's something he knows with even greater certainty today. But in the 1980s and early '90s, the prevailing thought among culture warriors was, "If we could only get the right people on the Supreme Court, in the White House, in Congress. ..."

Of course, the "right people" were Christians who thought the same way we did.

It's the same mindset today, but it's not restricted to evangelical culture warriors; it crosses political and religious boundaries. The deep Red and the deep Blue are part of the same culture: It is the culture of, "We're right, and everyone else is wrong."

Jesus is not Red -- except for the blood he shed.

Jesus is not Blue -- even though he did ride a donkey into Jerusalem.

Given that his body is spread throughout all political parties, Jesus is something of a mottled purple.

Someone once said it's time for a Purple Revolution.

Color me purple.

Grace and peace ...

Does Monopoly Man live inside of you?

2006-10-15T22:28:00.000-04:00

If there was ever a game that served to instill the concepts of capitalism into young minds, it’s Parker Brothers’ “Monopoly.”

With “Monopoly,” anyone can be a slumlord, maintaining houses for the impoverished along Mediterranean and Baltic Avenues, extending the low-income neighborhood to Oriental, Vermont and Connecticutt Avenues.

With “Monopoly,” a 10-year-old can relive the glory days of robber barons by buying up the Reading, Pennsylvania, B&O and Short Line railroads.
And adults who fancy themselves as Donald Trump can erect hotels all along the backstretch from Pacific Avenue to Boardwalk, laying in wait for the unsuspecting who happen to land on their empire.

As a youngster, I loved to play “Monopoly.” I especially liked it when I was rolling in the dough and had vast stretches of houses and hotels. When my opponents would land on them and be nearly bankrupt, ready to throw in the towel, I would talk them into hocking their property, loaning them the money with hopes of keeping the game going.

As an adult, no one in my family will play with me — despite the fact that we have two boards in the house. It’s been years since we’ve played, quite possibly because we have no time at all for such games. But then again, it’s probably a good thing.

Because somewhere deep inside of me lives “Monopoly Man.” Somewhere inside my psyche lives the spirit of the “Rich Young Man” whom Jesus confronted.
Jesus was walking down the street when the man came running up to him, asking, “Good Teacher, what must I do to get eternal life?”

Jesus told him what he already knew: Don’t murder, don’t commit adultery, don’t steal, don’t lie, don’t cheat, honor your father and mother.

The rich young man said, “Teacher, I have — from my youth — kept them all!”
Jesus surely knew that was going to be the young man’s answer. This was a matter of the law, and the young man believed he had conquered the law.
“Teacher,” he declared, “all these I have kept since I was a boy.”

Jesus looked at him and loved him, and took him to the place of the heart. “One thing you lack,” he said. “Go, sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”

Those are words Monpoly Man just can't handle. Look through Community Chest and Chance and all you will find is Monopoly Man being given money, earning money, or having it taken away from him. Never do you see him give money away out of pure altruism.

In “Monopoly,” you can lose everything you have with the roll of the dice. It’s sort of like Las Vegas, when you think of it.

But you don’t have to travel that far to experience the same thing. Any one of us can be evicted from our lives of relative comfort with a mere turn of events.

Life is like that.

At that point, in the game of life, where do you turn? To whom can you turn but to God?

If you are a believer, and you live day to day outside of the Kingdom of Comfort that many of us know so well, you have no one to turn to but God … and you rely solely on His providential care.

If you are “Monopoly Man,” if you are the rich young man whom Jesus confronted, you likely see no need for God in your life … nor have you ever seen the need … and there is very little in the form of sacred history in your life.

Jesus knew that as long as the rich young man could rely on His possessions he would never see the Kingdom of God at work in his life … and so, he challenged him.

Sometimes I am certain “Monopoly Man” has built a hotel inside of me.

Sometimes I am like the rich young man, relying on my stuff ... my job ... my 401(k) … my whits … to get me through life in the here and the now.

Jesus calls you and me to chuck all of that and follow him.

We need to arrest “Monopoly Man” and tear up those "Get out of jail free" cards.

Grace and peace ...

Under the gun ...

2006-09-01T02:08:00.000-04:00

It's been a pressure-packed two weeks, and I can't wait for this week to be over.

What's been happening?

We're in the middle of launching a new Web site at The Daily Times, and I'm the point person. I've been putting in about 55-60 hours a week the past two weeks.
I have a pre-class paper due -- postmarked today, Friday.
Not to mention I haven't struck a lick on Charge Conference documents.

Thanks be to God I'm healthy ...

One man's dirt is another man's miracle ...

2006-08-16T23:48:00.000-04:00

I had a bit of a medical scare last Friday that brought visions of more Interferon. However, God was gracious and there was nothing to it.

I'll share more later. Suffice it to say that one man's dirt is another man's miracle.

Grace and peace ...

Journey back to health: Week 33

2006-07-31T14:25:00.000-04:00

In-credible!

I just now counted what week it ws on my Journey Back to Health: I'm in Week 33, and this morning I received results from my latest viral load. I remain in the category of "undetectable." Dr. Scott said: See you in six months.

Earlier, as I ironed some shirts, I was listening to Peter Scazzero, a guest speak at Mars Hill Bible Church near Grand Rapids, Mich. He was teaching on "Daily Offices," which is discipline you can use to be in the presence of Jesus throughout the day. The Scripture he used in presenting the method to a Sunday night group was Colossians 2:6-7, which reads:

"So then, just as you received Christ Jesus as Lord, continue to live in him, rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness."

Today, I am indeed overflowing with thankfulness ... and I pray that you, too, remain in Christ Jesus with an attitude of thanksgiving.

Grace and peace ...

Ron Metcalfe's been taking a break ... and so have I

2006-07-24T21:08:00.000-04:00

I was playing around, googling my name, and came across an old post from my British friend Ron Metcalfe.

Ron started the Hepatitis C forum that was a great source of comfort and information during the days when I was undergoing treatment -- and I will be forever thankful for his companionship on the journey. So, I headed over to his Web site and saw his post Taking a Break. I read it, and again I don't feel so all alone.

Ron's been taking a break from posting about his Hep C journey; I knew I had, and figured I was all alone in not knowing what else to say. It again was a comfort to know I was not alone in this part of the experience.

As I shared with Ron, I had a viral load done last week and am waiting on the results — actually, not really “waiting” in the same manner as I did so many times before. I have tested negative at least twice now. (It's great not to remember how many times!)

Like Ron said, Hep C rarely crosses my mind; however, I occasionally have a strange experience. It's an experience where my immediate thoughts are elsewhere, but my senses quickly respond.

For instance, there are some eyeglass wipes that I use every once in a while to clean my glasses. This past weekend, I tore open a pack, pulled out the wipe and it registered a familiar smell: the alcohol swabs I used to prep my injection area before a shot of Neupogen or PEG-Intron.

Every once in a while this summer, while wearing shorts, I'll absent-mindedly rub the areas I used as injection sites on my thighs. During treatment, they were even more bald than my head; now, they have hair. Still, lest I forget, there is the scar near the inside of my right knee where the largest of the knots (the previously unknown side-effect known as Erythema Nodosum) was biopsied.

I have felt guilty at times for not being part of the Hepatitis C Forum. Like posting on this blog, as well as The Pastor's Buzz, it's partly a lack of time. I must confess, with the Hep C Forum, it's also something of what Ron noted: I'm taking a well-deserved break from Hep C.

Even when you test negative, you are well aware that there is no known cure. In the back of your mind, you know it can surface with the next test. Who can take for granted testing negative for something that only a year ago consumed my life?

So, for now, I will enjoy the "undetectable" status, and every once in a while check in on my friend Ron .. and Paul ... and Martin ... and the many others with whom I have journeyed ... and still journey with, even from afar.

In the meantime, I am hard at work at the newspaper, as well as the church, and am enjoying life with my family.

Thanks be to God!

Grace and peace ...

Lynrd Skynrd likely had it right ...

2006-06-26T22:39:00.000-04:00

One of my media colleagues sent a link from Editor and Publisher (E&P) magazine concerning a GOP congressman seeking to bring charges against the New York Times for reporting on the "secret financial-monitoring program used to trace terrorists."

I hadn't seen the E&P story, but I heard the rumble. It's not a surprising move, on either side of the issue.

Prior to Vietnam, much of this stuff was held close to the chest by the military, as well as the press. The Fall of the House of Nixon helped change that -- even though much of America years later sang along with Lynrd Skynrd, "Watergate does not bother me/does your conscience bother you? Tell the truth ..."

In the past 30 years, it's become a different world: Most of the mainstream press sees its responsibility in a different light, as that of a watchdog with varying degrees of political allegiance to one side of the aisle or the other: Watching one side, while ignoring the other. Interestingly enough, while many of us in the media say we're merely looking out of the public interest in reporting a number of stories, a great deal of the public (maybe even a majority) disagrees with our actions. But we'll never secede the ground that we know best; after all, somebody has to know best.

I showed one former military person the E&P story, and we both noted that the lawmaker doesn't have a legal leg to stand on: We haven't had a formal Declaration of War since World War II. Korea was (and remains) a police action, while Vietnam was a "conflict." I believe it was only in the past decade that The AP Stylebook changed its own characterization of the debacle in Southeast Asia to that of the "Vietnam War," while acknowledging both "War" and "conflict" with the Korea action. I'm guessing it's because those who served would say they were both hellish wars and who gives a flip what someone chooses to call it when bullets from an AK-47 are flying your way.

As for all of the recent media and political (is there really a difference?) angst over wiretaps and such, I long ago accepted the fact that the government (and a great number of non-governmental folks) knows what's in my bank account, and would listen in on my calls (and read my e-mail) at will. I guess it's because I'm a child of the Cold War, but to me it's old news.

Grace and peace ...

Encountering "The Irresistible Revolution ..."

2006-06-15T11:03:00.000-04:00

We United Methodists in the Holston Conference gather each year in June at Lake Junaluska, a peaceful spot in the mountains of North Carolina. There, we worship, do the business of the church, ordain new elders and deacons, license local pastors, and "fix" pastoral appointments. (The latter is what we call the final step in appointing pastors to their congregational charges, but I always consider the chosen word a bit troubling.)

We also engage in something we call "Christian conferencing," where we talk with others about matters of worship, mission and discipleship. There is also probably more than a little unChristian conferencing going on, too, which likely troubles the Bishop ... not to mention Jesus.

Some of the sessions can get a little tedious, so I use the time to work on sermon planning, getting tips from others in ministry, pray, and do a little reading.

It was the evening of Day 2 of the Holston Annual Conference when I came back to my room after spending some time chatting about movies and BBQ with some of The Meadow folk. I decided there was nothing worth watching on the tube, so I picked up Shane Claiborne’s book, “Irresistible Revolution: living as an ordinary radical.” I could have stayed up all night reading it; in fact, I probably should have. It would have made being awake off and on more interesting.

The reason I was awake is that I started thinking, and that’s a dangerous thing for me. One big question began rolling around in the gray matter: “What happened to me? How did I go from experiencing Jesus to experiencing church?”

Don’t misunderstand me, Shane's “Revolution” didn’t bring up feelings of guilt as much as it did images of the years after I first encountered the Savior -- images such as:

Going with my wife and children to deliver food to The Projects and others in need through the FISH program.
Taking in a homeless guy I met at a Christian coffee house in inner-city Knoxville.
Challenging some Christians protesting “The Last Temptation of Christ” about how they could picket a movie, but ignore a guy not 50 yards away who was holding something like a “Will work for food” sign … and then getting him a motel room for the night.
Explaining to my wife that I had to buy lunch that day rather than eat my bagged lunch because I had left it beside a man sleeping under an overpass near work in downtown Knoxville.

Somehow, I had moved from the days of wondering how the church could build Jesus Cathedrals and family life centers when Jesus never said to do that, to helping to lobby for one in my home church.

Somehow, I moved from being critical of those who are “playing church,” to actually playing church.

Somehow, I moved from being a Jesus freak to being a church freak.

When did that happen?

How did that happen?

More importantly, what am I going to do about it?

Bishop Swanson preached a wonderful "Holy Ghost rant," as one of my mentors called it, that paralells some of what Shane's getting at: We need to be about the main thing that Jesus said we should be about. Love. We need to particularly love the poor, the oppressed, the downhearted. We need to seek out those ragtag sheep ... particularly the one who wandered away.

The more we pastors stay in the holy huddle, the greater the tears of Jesus.

I hear the cry of revolution and repentance in my heart.

Will I answer the call?

Dare I answer it?

Dare I not?

Grace and peace ...

Marriage, not gown, is worth most care

2006-06-02T11:07:00.000-04:00

One of the chores of working in the newsroom is picking up an infinite number of faxes. The printed and even blank pages multiply at a greater rate than rabbits and leave the most-hardened anti-environmentalists wondering if God’s trees can hold out much longer.

Granted, every business that still maintains a fax machine faces this problem, but newspapers likely get double the number. Believe it or not, we sometimes receive even triple copies of the same fax. We keep a number of recycling boxes scattered around the newsroom, shuffling the mundane and useless blathering bits of compressed bark into the boxes, trying to save the trees. Topics run the gamut from politicians pushing their latest policies, opinions and charges that that the other guy is lying, to governmental agencies pushing wristbands and refrigerator magnets, to Wall Street wonks hawking "undervalued stocks."

Still, every once in a while a headline catches your eye, such as this one: "Your Marriage May Not Last Forever but Your Wedding Gown Could!"

Now, there’s an optimistic outlook on the state of matrimony in America.

The fax had a New York dateline and reads, in part:

"Wedding Season has arrived and hopefully brought along all that is good, enjoyable, and most precious of all, a light colored wedding gown. A lovely and ever so delicate symbol of ever-lasting love, the wedding gown has become a treasured heirloom. As such one would hope that it will be expertly cleaned and preserved, and one day again worn by a family member."

The release notes, "the reality is that once the excitement of the Big Day has passed and upon returning from the honeymoon, that the gown will be tossed underneath the bed, hung in a closet or even worse wrapped in plastic."

There are "multi-faceted" steps that need to be taken to preserve the gown, the expert on dry cleaning explains. "So keep in mind, that no matter how long or short your marriage lasts, your gown may last forever!"

Admittedly, this pastor/journalist is a bit touchy when it comes to the subject of taking wedding vows seriously. There is, after all, a chapter in my own life where the vows were treated unwisely; in fact, failed marriages run rampant in my family. In my own case, it was an impetuous step taken into a first marriage with hopes that it would straighten out the messed up life of a 20-year-old — a crooked road that would eventually be straightened by the Holy Spirit, assisted by a woman’s true love.

I've spent more than half of my life with Donna, and yet I can not envision ever having truly lived without her. We met in the fall of 1978, and we just celebrated 25 years of marriage.

We each got new rings as part of celebrating the occasion. I joke with friends and colleagues, saying excitedly, "After 50 years with the company, I’ll get a watch!"

If God graces us with that bit of longevity in life, I’ll get that watch ... and she can have whatever "sparkly" she wants to mark that occasion.

She deserves it, and I’ll flip a million burgers to foot the bill. After all, Jesus saved my soul, but she saved my life.

When I share my story on spiritual retreats or in worship services, the part where my story becomes our story is tough to get through. As soon as I say, "It was then that I met Donna and I fell incredibly in love with her ...," the throat tightens, the tears emerge from the corners of my eyes, and I reach for the water glass.

I sometimes wonder if all men feel that way about their wives, or if it's just a special gift that God gave me. It is a gift for which there are no words, no adequate expression, nor even a rational explanation.

Perhaps it's because she came into my life when it was dark and formless, as when God's Spirit hovered over the earth in the Genesis story. When Donna's spirit came near mine, surely God said, "let there be light in Buzz's heart."

And there was.

And it was good.

And my love for her grows stronger every day.

I called and asked her where the wedding gown is stored.

"Why? You can’t fit in it," she said.

I love my wife.

Grace and peace ...

No, I haven't died ...

2006-05-31T23:30:00.000-04:00

... it's just that my computer has been in and out of the shop for about two weeks now.

I just now got most of the software loaded back on.

Now, it's to bed; working dayside this week and I still have much to do on Sunday's worship.

Grace and peace ...

25 Years Ago ...

2006-05-12T12:53:00.000-04:00

I've spent more than half of my life with her, and yet I can not envision ever having truly lived without her.

I guess that's why when I give the talk on prevenient grace for a Walk to Emmaus, I have a difficult time getting through the part of where I describe her coming into my life. As soon as I say, "It was then that I met Donna. I fell incredibly in love with her ..." the tears come naturally.

I sometimes wonder if all men feel that way about their wives, or if it's just a special gift that God gave me. It is a gift for which there are no words, no adequate expression, nor even a rational explanation.

Perhaps it's because she came into my life when it was dark and formless, as when God's Spirit hovered over the earth in the Genesis story. When Donna's spirit came near mine, surely God said, "let there be light in Buzz's heart."

And there was.

And it was good.

And my love for her grows stronger every day.

Grace and peace ... and love.

The cost of rejoicing ...

2006-04-26T00:44:00.000-04:00

... was another $75 or so at Home Depot for landscape lights, a new sprinkler, and another blue star juniper.

I still have four more yards of mulch to purchase and spread, as well as some stone ...

Happy-Happy, Joy-Joy!

:0)

How soon we forget ...

2006-04-26T00:34:00.000-04:00

Somewhere I remember reading that the Apostle Paul said it was good to work with your hands. He cited some benefit about it freeing up your mind to think about God.

The past few weeks I've been trying to rescue a lawn that went into disrepair last year while I was doing the Hep C treatment.

I despise yard work.

Tim the Tool Man, I'm not.

So, there I was gruntin' and moanin' while I dug up old mulch and landscape fabric that just gave up the ghost to the onslaught of bermuda grass (I swear it's got roots in hell). All I could think about was how I wanted to move into a condo with concrete for a yard.

And then it hit me.

It had to be the Holy Spirit.

"This time last year, you couldn't work in the yard 10 minutes without getting winded because of the Hep C treatment's side effects."

Talk about a stark reminder.

"I ought to rejoice over the fact that I can even do this," I said to myself.

How soon we forget God's blessings.

Grace and peace ...

Then and now ...

2006-04-11T08:28:00.000-04:00

As you can see, it's been nearly a month since I have posted on this blog, as well as The Pastor's Buzz. With two jobs and a home in disrepair, I've had little time to contemplate or put "pen to paper."

This has also left my spiritual life in disarray.

So it is that I have been trying to keep a pattern of intentional devotions during Lent, and have had at least some degree of success. I've been using a collection of Lenten meditations from the works of Henri Nouwen entitled, "Renewed for Life."

Today's devotion is titled "Accepting Our Powerlessness" and uses Psalm 71:1, "In you, O Lord, I take refuge; let me never be put to shame." The prayer guides us to a remember a time in our life when God's strength became clear because of our own weakness.

I immediately remembered how God brought me through the last year, and how powerless I was. It also brought me back to the day when I learned for certain that I had Hepatitis C. God was in control, and I was not.

Today, as I struggle with meeting pastoral, vocational and family commitments, I feel quite powerless. It seems I am in constant autopilot mode, with events moving me rather than the opposite.

And tonight I preach a Holy Week service.

In you, O Lord, I place my trust. In you, O God, I place my hope. My hope is you; show me the way.

Grace and peace ...

Ron Metcalfe and the Forum ...

2006-03-22T22:53:00.000-05:00

I got on the Hep C Forum last night and was amazed at how it has grown.

However, I really should not be amazed, given the number of people worldwide who have the disease ... many of whom do not even know they have Hep C. I guess what amazes me is the fact that his huge community has developed in the British Isles, and yet I know of no such online community in the U.S.

Oh, well.

I just thank God he led me to Ron and the sisters and brothers "over there."

Grace and peace ...

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow!

2006-03-21T12:34:00.000-05:00

I worked late Monday night, not getting to sleep until around 3 a.m.

At about 9 a.m. Tuesday, I heard the telephone ring. It was Dr. Scott's office with the results of my post-treatment blood work. The voice on the other end of the line told me my liver enzymes were normal and my viral load was "below 50, which is the reference point."

"So, the reference point is considered virus undetectable, is that right?" I asked, wanting to be sure I understood what she was saying. After all, I was still asleep.

"Yes, that's correct."

"Praise God for that," I said, before we hung up.

So, the journey was worth it.

Given that there is no known cure for the Hepatitis C virus, the best you can hope for in this world is to have an undetectable level of the virus. Given that I started this journey in 2000 with a level of about 250,000-plus copies, having fewer than 50 copies detected is a miracle.

I still have to go back for periodic blood work, but just knowing that the virus was knocked back to undetectable range leaves me with hope.

God goes before, Jesus walks with us, and the Holy Spirit enables us.

Thanks be to God for His immeasurable grace and healing touch.

And thank you for your prayers during this journey.

Grace and peace ...

First post-treatment viral load coming up ...

2006-03-15T20:35:00.000-05:00

It's been 12 weeks since my Hep C treatment ended.

On Thursday, March 16, I will have my first post-treatment viral load done. In the Hepatitis C world, it reads like this: Comp Panel/CBC differential/Quanitative Hepatitis C RNA by PCR. To decode: It gives me a full liver panel, etc., while measuring the Hepatitis C viral "load" in my blood.

My last couple of viral loads and comp panels have shown the virus was "undetectable" and my liver enzymes were in the normal range, which was as much as I could hope for.

It'll probably take a week to two weeks to the results back.

Everyone tells me how good I look; however, I've heard that said of corpses in a funeral home, so I can't put a lot of stock in that.:}

Nonetheless, I feel pretty good and am no longer easily winded. I've put on about three pounds of the 25-plus pounds I lost during treatment. To me, that's three pounds too many.

Grace and peace ...