Planting the lawn was the last big project at the new house, though we have a thousand little projects yet to complete. The seed was sown, actually sprayed, last week.  Now we’re babysitting what we hope will be a lush carpet of green by next spring.  They say not too much and not too little water.  Gentle autumn rains have fallen two days since the seed was sown, and we join the just and the unjust in giving thanks.  Now the forecast is for dry and warmer weather. The seeds will like the warmth, but the drier weather means hauling hoses and sprinklers around the yard for the better part of the day.

But mostly we wait. Every time I go outside, I peer intently at the well-groomed and properly moist soil hoping to see the first blades of grass. We should see the early shoots any day now.  The hydroseed people have already warned us, though; some of those verdant sprouts will not be the grass we are waiting to welcome but the weeds we dread.  Okay, it’s the wrong time of year, but did you know that a single dandelion plant is capable of producing 15,000 dandelion seeds?  Not to worry, they tell us, we’ll take care of the weeds in due time.  In the meantime, the weeds will grow, and we’re not to pull them, in any other way molest them, or allow ourselves to become overly anxious.  Let them be. Continue reading →

October 1, 2000, was a Sunday.  Four of us from Park Presbyterian Church in Beaver, PA, had arrived in Belo Horizonte, Brazil, Saturday after a long flight from JFK and a delay in Sao Paulo. A bit tired, we had been up in Favela da Ventosa at the soup kitchen in old church building. Now it was Sunday. Sunday, October 1, 2000, was the Lord’s Day, and on our North American church calendar, World Communion Sunday.  Only later would I find out that few churches outside of North America know anything about World Communion Sunday.  But from my very North American perspective it seemed like the perfect day to worship with Igreja Presbiteriana no Jardim América, to dedicate their barely completed new sanctuary, and to gather around the Lord’s Table.  World Communion Sunday or not, it turned out to be a great day to worship.

Years earlier, my seminary classmate and first Brazilian friend, Robson Gomes, had issued a standing invitation for Becky and me and our kids to come visit them in Brazil after graduation. “Yeah, right,” had been my thought at the time, but now I was in Brazil with Robson and Juliane and their daughters. In Brazil ready to preach a sermon – in English – assist with a baptism, help at the Lord’s Supper.  Ready to worship with the people of IPJA. Ready for a mission partnership. Continue reading →

The death of Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg has by all accounts exacerbated the deep divides in our country and culture.  But the vitriol has not buried all that can be said and should be remembered about Justice Ginsberg.  Among the worthy memories of a remarkable life have been not a few stories of her friendship with Justice Anton Scalia whose death four yeas ago was also an occasion for political maneuvering and partisan animosity.

Ginsberg and Scalia were often on opposite sides of the opinions of the court, she writing scathing dissents of opinions written by Scalia and he returning the favor when she wrote for the majority.  Scalia famously said of Ginsberg, “She likes opera, and she’s a very nice person. What’s not to like? Except her views on the law.” And Ginsberg of Scalia, “I disagreed with most of what he said, but I loved the way he said it.”

Ginsberg was asked to write the forward to a collection of Scalia’s speeches published after his death. She wrote, “If our friendship encourages others to appreciate that some very good people have ideas with which we disagree, and that, despite differences, people of goodwill can pull together for the well-being of the institutions we serve and our country, I will be overjoyed, as I am confident Justice Scalia would be.” Continue reading →

The news story was about something else – a church that has refused to abide by local regulations banning indoor services during the pandemic.  We can talk about that some other time. Or maybe not.

It was a sentence at the end of the story that caught my eye and got me to thinking.  It was not much more than an afterthought.  It was as if the reporter remembered one more thing he wanted to say. The third from the last paragraph read:“According to (the pastor), the church regularly welcomes over 7,000 guests to Sunday Service.”

Much ado about nothing?  Maybe.  A reporter’s (or a pastor’s) poor choice of words? Perhaps.

Churches ought to be welcoming. 7,000 is a few too many for me, but some people like big churches. No need for much ado about that. It is the description of those who come on Sunday as “guests” that bugs me.  Poor choice of words or not, that’s one of the things that’s wrong with the American church.  We act as if we’re guests. The host (not what you liturgical types are thinking) owes me a good show.  I come to be served and entertained. I hope your chairs are comfortable and your music according to my tastes. Pastor, please confirm my biases and preferences in what you say.

Lord, save me from a church where those who gather are seen as guests. Continue reading →

This week’s edition comes a day early for reasons that will be apparent after you have read the post. – BT

The words of two young men.  They are near the same age, one 29 and the other 31. Both are loved by their families and friends. Both have walked deep into the cold shadow of death.  Both speak of what they have seen.  There are differences between the two young men, as well.  Elliot, 31, a Brit, has lived a privileged life, is articulate and successful. He has traveled the world. Jacob, 29, an American, has, by his own reckoning, struggled to succeed. His words do not flow smoothly.  His world is small, limited by the circumstance of birth and race and choices he has made.  Elliot is white. Jacob is black.

Elliot will die soon, perhaps within a few weeks. Jacob will live, perhaps, though, as a paraplegic.

Most of us know a little about Jacob Blake, the 29-year old American who was shot in the back during an altercation with the police in Kenosha, Wisconsin.  I first heard about Elliot Dallen when I read his eloquent essay in the Guardian a couple of days ago. At 31, I have just weeks to live. Here’s what I want to pass on.  I have been thinking about it ever since.

I encourage you to stop now and read Elliot Dallen’s piece.  1,800 words; it won’t take long. But you may pause to think for much longer than it takes to read what he writes. Continue reading →