Dismissals

It’s a great mystery to me: How ought my workaday life reflect my commitment to Christ? Whether I am a laborer or tradesman, a salesman or sailor, how am I to bring the Kingdom into the land? How does my daily work reflect my values as a Christian? I came upon the words of Dorothy Sayer from her 1942 essay, Why Work?: “The first demand on a carpenter’s religion is that [the carpenter] should make good tables. What use is anything else if in the very center of [this] life and occupation, [the carpenter] is insulting God with bad carpentry?”

At a church conference long ago, a priest encouraged us to write to prisoners. I sat in the back next to the wall. My mind wandered. I wished I had a newspaper. I was certainly not thinking that I should write to prisoners. Then the priest said, “There is one prisoner no one has been able to sustain a correspondence with.” Next thing I knew, I was standing, calling out, “I’ll write to him!” I was like a kid at a sandlot baseball game, “Pick me! Pick me!” That was 18 years ago and I’m still writing to that prisoner.

Eric Lichter told of being at a Shabbat (Sabbath) dinner at the home of a rabbi in Jerusalem. There, Eric spoke plainly of his, “… displeasure with and possible disbelief in God.” The rabbi replied that Eric’s questioning of the existence and benevolence of God was, “… proof of his being a true Jew, unafraid and even inspired to question that which we are taught to believe.” The rabbi went on to explain that a Lichter is one who lights the way for others. And Eric had thought Lichter was just German for one who, long ago, lit the gas street lamps.

Eighteen now, he was living at the homeless shelter. He left home to get away from an abusive stepfather. Once out the door, dumb choices and bad luck landed him at the shelter. I asked if going home might be better than the shelter. Very clearly not. He was on his own now, there was no way he would return. Life’s not easy at the shelter but he found hope there. He was off the street, working toward permanent housing and enrolled in the G.E.D. program. Sometimes, hope is all we have. Sometimes, hope is all we need.

I was 21 when I hired on. I worked in various locations and ended up at the company headquarters. It was good work and good pay but no one stayed long. Outside the president’s office, a big bulletin board with a sign: “Gone But Not Forgotten!” Thumbtacked to the cork, maybe a hundred photos of former employees, some pictures recent, some old. No one complained about my work and I thought I’d stay awhile but, one day, a young secretary came up to me and said, “Smile!” The flashbulb went off and I knew it was time to move on.

In 1963, my mother had a summer’s work in Paris. I, barely a teenager, went with her. Paul, the son of my mother’s co-worker, was a few years older. Still, we became good friends. Paul spoke French and knew Paris well. We traipsed about Paris … the Louvre … Notre Dame … Eiffel Tower … we drank espresso and smoked Gauloises cigarettes. Summer ended. Paul wrote once but that’s the last I heard from him. Recently, I set out to find him. Too late. Paul died in 1992. I will read Paul’s letter a few more times then I will mail it to his son.

I think about prayer … what prayer is, what prayer means and how I should pray. Author Anne Lamott says her two best prayers are, “Help me, help me, help me!” and “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She may be right and it would be hard to forget the words. My Dad believed that every prayer required some effort on the part of the person praying … that “thoughts and prayers” alone seldom come to much. He may be right, too. Page 856 of our BCP: “Prayer is responding to God, by thought and by deeds, with or without words.” Amen.

Ed sold his house. He said it was a nice little place on a cul-de-sac with a garden and a big tree for shade. But Ed was moving. He always complained about the trains. I like trains and couldn’t imagine why a train would bother anyone. They sure bothered Ed. I went to help him move. Nice house. Then came the low throb of diesel engines … the earth trembled … the train’s brakes squealed … the tracks cried out with every steel wheel that went by. Ed shrugged. We packed the truck in silence … until another train … twelve minutes later.

Behind a driver doing 20 in a 30 mph zone, the traffic light ahead was green. But, at the first sign of yellow, on went the brakes, then the left-turn signal and we were stopped. At last, the light turned green again. The car ahead didn’t move so I offered the tiniest little honk of encouragement. I regretted it. As the car turned left, I saw a young woman at the wheel. She waved cheerily so I waved back. On the car door, a bold sign said: “Driver Education.” I pulled away slowly. That day, I received the education.

Scripture’s plain: “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.” I did. Once. In a graveyard. I said, “OK, God! If you’re here, show yourself!” I waited. Minutes passed. Then it came, traversing the field of tombstones, a shadow from the distant tree-line, quick, silent and right at me. I ducked! The shadow went on to the east and was gone. I stood stock-still. I heard the faint drone of a small airplane’s engine, an airplane that cast its shadow across the graveyard, across me … and that’s the last time I put God to the test.

What will cure what ails us? What potion or pill will lift the pall and let the sun shine in? What might be the remedy for sickness or malaise? We all want the fix! For Dr. George Sheehan, a cardiologist in his 60’s, it was running that changed his life. For each of us, it will be something different but the search for that something will lead us into new ways of thinking. Dr. Sheehan was once asked if running was good for diabetes. Sheehan replied, “Running might good for diabetes but running is certainly excellent for the diabetic.”

At the museum, I stand before an ancient statue of the Buddha, his hands and nose long ago broken off. Vandals did the same to statues of the church’s saints, breaking off ears, fingers and toes of any unguarded statue of a saint … even a figure of Jesus! Perhaps it’s not vandals but faithful followers who needed a keepsake or remembrance. Who can say? The statues of the Buddha and Jesus and others are safe now in the museum. They look pretty good for having survived all those centuries … maybe a little worse for the wear, but so am I.