Dismissals

I shared these words some years ago … words I still don’t entirely understand. In my own way, as a follower of Jesus, I have tried to live out these words. I’ve not always succeeded but, on balance, I expect I’ve done more good than harm. I have received more than I’ve given. These are the words: “One may become a Living Parable as one’s life becomes more and more conformed to the life of Jesus, so that one’s life both instructs and puzzles the wider society. Parabolic living and witnessing the gospel give us the power to transform to lives.”* 

*Paraphrased from The New Interpreter’s Handbook of Preaching, December, 2008.

We all have ministries, by whatever name we may call them … care of a sick or lonely person … volunteer at a charity … help change a flat tire. I was asked, “What are your ministries?” I’ve had many, though one in particular remains especially meaningful to me. So I said, “I visit men on death row.” No reply was forthcoming. My questioner departed. I stood alone in the room. For years, I visited men on death row. Now I visit only one. Harsh prison living and old age carried the other men away. Peace to them now, and God’s mercy always.

I never know quite what to make of it … I am walking along, my mind is adrift, someone is coming my way … a stranger on the path. We see each other and one of us nods … there is a nod in return … it is a sign of recognition that says, “I see you. I hope you are well. May peace be with you.” In that moment we are, in some way, connected … headed in different directions yet together on this earth … here for one another as need might arise, and acknowledging that we are, in some mysterious way, walking together.

I was born in Youngstown, Ohio. I was living there when, forty-nine years ago, the steel mills closed. I stayed on for some years, witnessed the city’s slide into stagnation, then moved away without regret. I’ve maintained my low expectations. My accountant is still there so I have occasion to return to Youngstown. This year, I was quite taken with what I saw. They’ve torn down dilapidated houses, planted trees, spruced up neighborhoods. There’s a new hospital. The mall and surrounding stores are filling their parking lots. I wouldn’t have believed it … but I saw it and was glad.

War spreads across a distant land. I despair, and can only wonder, what am I to do? Something in me turns away as war rages … then, unexpectedly, words are set before me: The reflection in Forward, Day by Day for March 9th … the Gospel of Mark, 5:21-43 … “[Jesus] took her by the hand and said to her, ‘Talitha cum,’ which means, ‘Little girl, get up!’ ” Jesus’ words are salve for my soul … I hear these words as a call … that I, too, “get up” … dust myself off and begin anew the work of peace-bringer … a follower of Jesus.

I was once a policeman for a small village in Northern New York. Only one traffic light, and an overhead neon sign that said, “Welcome to Clayton!” The neon sign had been there for generations. One night, the sign went dark. I followed a trail of colored glass that led to Hungerford’s Hardware. A man with a big truck was making a night delivery, bits of neon glass on the truck’s hood. The antenna on the truck’s cab was the culprit. The driver felt bad about it. Rosie’s Diner was nearby. We had coffee, did the paperwork, and justice prevailed. 

I was in Penetanguishene, a Canadian city an hour’s drive north of Toronto. It is a lovely town of ten thousand souls on the shores of the Georgian Bay. A city police car was parked at a downtown curb. Painted in bold letters on the front fender: “Deeds Speak.” Years later, the words remain with me, their evenness and equanimity favoring neither the police officer nor the citizen. We are all held to account. Our deeds speak to the world ~ and to God ~ of who we are and what we are about. “When deeds speak, words are nothing.” ~African Proverb

Starting out, I entertained the notion that the ills of the world could be readily made right. I may have made something of a fool of myself along the way. True enough, a few things were set to right, but I initially misread the situation and I’ve since learned better. Wishful thinking, in whatever form, won’t do it. I had to show up and lend a hand. Sometimes, I came up short … though I helped a few folks along the way and, on balance, I expect I’ve done way more good than harm. Truth be told, I’ve had a blast! 

The hardships of the world can overwhelm … there is much to be done … the need is great … the Church an ever-present lifeline for many … food, warm clothes, safe housing, daycare, a quiet moment’s respite. Committees are formed and funds are raised as parishioners find new ways to build the Kingdom … in the streets … wherever “the other” … wherever need is found … on a windswept sidewalk where we may see someone coming, hat pulled down, hand on collar holding the old coat close … we nod and speak a quiet greeting … and in that very moment the work of the Spirit begins.

The past few years have been a time of change for me. The word “Retired” appeared after my name in the 2024 clergy list at Convention … I’m not sure how or why that happened … there’s little I can do but go along to get along. It’s true … I don’t always welcome life’s vicissitudes. And this historical note: In November, 2023 I closed my business after 40 years of locating missing and unknown heirs for banks and attorneys. I was twice featured on the “Unsolved Mysteries” TV program! It’s been interesting … all of it … something will come up … it always does!

Ever-present God, as followers of your son Jesus Christ, we ask to see and understand the road that lies ahead of us … to know the way that you would have us go … to discern your will for us in this complicated world. Help us see how we might best serve you. And, as we go about your work in the world, we ask that we might clearly understand our own strengths and weaknesses, that we might remain always confident and cheerful in our service, use your gifts wisely, find joy in our labors, and rest at day’s end. Amen.

As a volunteer at the men’s homeless shelter, known in Cleveland as 2100, I’d spent some time with the men there. I was in the cafeteria when a resident, whom I only vaguely knew, settled in at the sorrowful old excuse for a piano that was crammed into a corner of the room. He tested every key … some keys sagged … others were responsive to the touch but they made no sound. At length, satisfied, he started in. It was a complex piece, unknown to me … but gorgeous. He somehow worked around those busted keys … the room silent as he played.