Dave Zuchelli's Blog, page 31

The Bloody Headband

[image error]I was eating breakfast with one of my sons and his daughter (a five year-old). I was wearing a muscle shirt (shut up!) that was exposing my one-and-only-tattoo. My son pointed to the tattoo and asked my granddaughter, “What’s this?”

She immediately said, “Jesus’ cross.” I looked at her and asked, “How do you know it’s Jesus’?” She pointed to the crown of thorns and said, “Because this is his headband.” The dead giveaway might be the drop of crimson blood hanging from one of the thorns. A bloody crown of thorns hanging on an empty cross will point to Jesus every time—especially for a five year-old Sunday School attendee.

I got my tattoo a few years ago when I was still working in an office on a daily basis. My boss was not keen on tattoos, so I had the ink artist put it high enough on my shoulder that it wouldn’t be revealed when I wear a short-sleeved shirt. I’m such a coward.

The Visual Testimony

Usually, the only time I wear a muscle shirt (shut up!) is when I’m riding my Harley. So, my Jesus crown of thorns and cross is not open for public consumption most of the time. So much for my brave, visual testimony.

I suppose I’m in good company. The Apostle Peter was really a coward when it came to witnessing to his relationship with Jesus as well. You may remember Jesus telling him that he (Peter) would deny him three times before the rooster crowed in the morning. Peter vehemently told Jesus that would never happen. Of course, it did, and Peter became famous for turning his back on Jesus so fast it would make one’s head spin. Peter was obviously afraid he’d be fitted for his own bloody headband by the Romans.

The Fear of Man

And that’s where a lot of us end up. We’re afraid. The real tragedy is that our fear is not of the Romans (nor anything nearly as powerful). We’re usually afraid of looking less than cool. Our trepidation is over the possibility that someone will think we’re weird, we might lose a friend, or that our status might be diminished in some way. It’s almost never (as in the case of Peter) that we might lose our own lives in the process.

You would think our real fear would be of God. After all, Jesus was clear about denying him. He is quoted by Matthew as having said, “whoever disowns me before others, I will disown before my Father in heaven.” (Matthew 10:33) That’s not only eminently clear, it has its own punishment built into it. Who wants to be denied by the Christ? I know I don’t.

My only real consolation in all of this is that Jesus forgave Peter (John 21:15-19). If Peter is forgiven, my hope is strong that I can be forgiven as well. The real relief is that Jesus bore the bloody headband to demonstrate his love and forgiveness for puny deniers such as me.

[Dave Zuchelli is a graduate of Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and currently the pastor of Smith Chapel in Great Falls, VA.]

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On a Clear Day, You Can See November

[image error]A couple days ago, the Zuchelli Clan arrived in the Outer Banks for a week of R-and-R, bonding, and general all-around revelry. There are twenty of us (including a couple friends), and we range in age from a one year old to one hundred and seventeen years (actually I’m not that old, but I feel like it at the end of each day).

Last night, my boys and I were discussing a return engagement—maybe not to the sea but possibly to the mountains. Where we go wouldn’t be the important factor, of course. The matter of significance would be that we would all be together again for a while. We’re scattered across the eastern seaboard, and these events are few and far between.

As we briefly discussed the possibilities, it occurred to me that I might want to do this as often as feasible. I’m the old geezer of the band, and I suppose my days are numbered. I don’t say that with a sense of morbidity, it’s just a fact of life.

Establishing the Legacy

Not only do I want to see my family—and enjoy their interactions in one place—I want my grandchildren to remember who I am after I’m gone from their lives. I guess that’s what they call a legacy. One of the reasons I wrote my first book (The Last Wedding) was to leave some sort of heritage behind for them. Someday they can pull a copy of the book off their shelf, hand it to a friend, and say, “This is my grandfather. You would have liked him.”

[image error]I’m not exactly sure why, but my weird train of thought following this discussion led me to a Barbra Streisand movie released back in 1970 entitled “On a Clear Day You Can See Forever.” As I recall, it had something to do with clairvoyance and looking back into the past. The more memorable part of the cinema was the theme song sung by Barbara herself (On a Clear Day). Barbra’s politics drive me crazy, but I love her voice. My thoughts were taking me in the opposite direction—the future.

As is probably the case with most of us, I often wonder what my future holds. Scripture contains an interesting verse that says, “Our days may come to seventy years, or eighty, if our strength endures.” (Psalm 90:10) It’s not to be taken literally, but it’s definitely a reminder that we are mortal. It’s also a reminder that my first seventy years is almost up.

The Patriarch

One of the things I find a bit unsettling as I surrounded myself with my tribe is that I’m the patriarch. As such, I’m supposed to be the one with some wisdom to pass along to the next generations. I’m not sure I have all that much to dispense, but I do my best.

Whatever the future holds, I’m going to do my darndest to leave some love behind if nothing else. That seems to be the best legacy of all.

[Dave Zuchelli is a graduate of Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and currently the pastor of Smith Chapel in Great Falls, VA.]

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My Lovely Bride’s Falsetto

 

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There’s an interesting phenomenon I’ve noticed in my lovely Bride. When she’s in the presence of a dog or baby, she breaks into this sweet, falsetto voice. She only does this when she’s addressing the dog or baby, and it’s quite prominent when she employs this high-level frequency.

We now have a one-year-old granddaughter living nearby. In the same household, there’s a three-year-old “grand-puppy.” On occasion, we do some babysitting, as most grandparents are prone to do. Often, there’ssome coincidental puppy sitting involved as well. When this occurs, the falsetto kicks into full gear.

The big plus of all this is I always know when she’s not speaking to me. If she’s using her high tones, she’s speaking to the baby or the dog. If her normal voice returns, I have to zero in to be sure of what she’s saying. It could be directed my way. I wouldn’t want to miss her womanly directives.

“Maybe it’s a grandma thing.”

I’ve tried to analyze all this, but I’m not sure I’ve nailed it as yet. One thing I’m pretty sure is true. She doesn’t do it on purpose. I think something just kicks in when the baby (or the puppy) happens to be around. I don’t quite get why that is, but it’s definitely automatic. Maybe it’s a grandma thing.

Another thing I’m sure of is this. She never speaks to me in falsetto. I haven’t quite figured out if that’s a good thing or if I should be worried. I don’t want to overthink that one. I’ll probably get myself into all sorts of trouble if I do.

All this, of course, leads to the inevitable question. Did Jesus talk to animals and kids in his falsetto voice? Did he even use his falsetto voice? Inquiring minds want to know.

The Bible is (at least in my mind) the greatest book of writings ever collected. However, it deeply fails us at points like this. Don’t you want to know if Jesus ever spoke to babies in falsetto?

There are a lot of things I’d like to know about Jesus that probably fall into this category. For example: Did Jesus like to play games? Did Jesus tell jokes? Did Jesus horse around with his buddies? Did he even have buddies?

We’d proclaim laughter to be a sin.”

Because we don’t have answers to things like this, we tend to see Jesus as one-dimensional. We seldom assign him a personality. If we do, we haven’t a clue as to whether it’s the correct one or not.

[image error]Wooden Dreidels showing Hebrew letters

 

I suppose (in the long run) that’s a good thing. If more of this stuff was laid out and explained for us, we’d undoubtedly point to them and say, “This is how we ought to be.” If Jesus played with a dreidel, for example, we’d all have one. If he never laughed, we’d proclaim laughter to be a sin. That’s just how we are.

I guess the Lord knew what he was doing when he preserved Scripture the way it is. We couldn’t handle it otherwise.

[Dave Zuchelli is a graduate of Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and is currently the pastor of Smith Chapel, in Great Falls, VA.]

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The Junk Drawer

[image error] A couple days ago, I asked my lovely Bride where something was, and she immediately said, “It’s in the junk drawer.” When I went there, indeed, the item was right where she indicated it would be. So were a bunch of other things.

As a matter of fact, I noticed there were several new additions to the drawer since last I ventured to its cavernous abyss. We hosted a birthday party for our one-year-old granddaughter over the weekend, and some extra things (things that usually sit out) had ended up there. They needed to be hidden away from sight so our guests wouldn’t know we sometimes leave our junk lying around on the kitchen counters. We are, undoubtedly, the only humans on the planet who do such things. We certainly can’t be found out.

“I haven’t done the research”

It caused me to wonder about junk drawers in general. Everyone I’ve ever spoken to about the subject also has a junk drawer. They even call it by the same name as we do—the junk drawer. I haven’t done the research, but I’m thinking there must be an old, Federal statute that mandates their existence in each home.

In a recent conversation with one of my brothers-in-law, he noted another label for the same creature. He called it the drawer-for-things-you-want-to-know-where-you-can-find-them-when-you-need-them. Same thing… A rose by any other name, and all that…

Junk drawers are for things we need to grab quickly but have no other good place to put them. They’re for items that are odd-sized, one-of-a-kind, or missing an unimportant piece (just in case we find that piece). They’re for items we want to lay our hands on in a moment’s notice. Surprisingly enough, they seem to work pretty well.

It occurred to me that most of us not only have a junk drawer in our homes, we have one in our life as well. It’s not literally a drawer, but it’s the place in our brains (or hearts) we put things we don’t want other folks to readily see. They’re things we want to be able to drag out when we want them, but we’d prefer they were kept out of sight.

A lot of things fit into that category. Occasionally, those things are people. Far too often, I think one of those people happens to be Jesus.

Stored With the Junk

[image error]I realize, from our perspective, we don’t always think of Jesus as “people.” We think of him as Lord, God, Savior, or King. Still, he’s often the most important person we stick into the junk drawer of our lives, regardless of what we call him.

We want to be able to drag him out at a moment’s notice. We want to know right where he is at all times. Still, we’d rather he keep out of sight when we have company or are otherwise occupied.

I wonder how he feels about being stored in there with all the other junk. I wonder how we’d feel if we reached in one day and he wasn’t there.

[Dave Zuchelli is a graduate of Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and is currently the pastor of Smith Chapel, in Great Falls, VA.]

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Can I Be an Instagram Star?

[image error]I was doing research for one of my E-Letters when I ran across a term I had never seen before. Did you ever hear of a YouTube Star? I hadn’t, but then I’m as old and out-of-the-loop as they come.

I have always assumed media stars were limited to TV, radio, and print. Well… You know what they say occurs when one assumes. It’s occurred once again.

Apparently, there are at least a few people who’ve hit the limelight via YouTube. (By the way—In case you haven’t discovered YouTube as yet, my advice to you is not go there. It’s one of those places on the Internet that will consume hours of your time before you know it.) These “stars” have hit the big-time without the benefit of the usual hype and celebrity channels.

“I’m obviously missing the boat…”

The whole idea piqued my interest, so I checked it out. As it turns out, there are not only YouTube Stars; there are Instagram Stars as well. Who knew? Not only are these people gaining fans, they’re making money—in some cases, beau coup bucks. I read where one gal has racked up $12 million in earnings. I’m obviously missing the boat somewhere.

It’s like anything else, however. If you check these stars out, you’ll note a common theme. They have some sort of attraction—usually talent. If it’s not talent, it’s an adorable cuteness that just can’t be disregarded.

Still, some of the flair is not your normal, run-of-the-mill, American Idol stuff. One of these entrepreneurs takes a camera on shopping trips. Then she comes back home, unpacks, and talks about what she’s purchased. It’s not what I call entertainment (or even important info), but somebody likes it. She’s making a mint.

If there are YouTube Stars and Instagram Stars, I suppose there are Snapchat Stars and Twitter Stars as well. Where social media is concerned, the sky has to be the limit. In other words, there’s no limit at all.

“Socialism is creeping into everything…”

They (whoever “they” are) like to say that we each get fifteen minutes of fame (or is that ten?). However long it is, I think someone else is using mine up. I really hate the way all this socialism is creeping into everything. Now it’s horning in on my time of fame.

[image error]As I delved into this new phenomenon, it occurred to me that I had established a YouTube channel of my own a few years ago. I did it when my first book, The Last Wedding, was published. I posted the grand total of one video to briefly explain what the book was all about. Then I promptly forgot I had done it.

I just went back to watch it. A brief analysis reveals that I am neither adorably cute nor talented. I suppose this means I will never be a YouTube Star. That bums me out. I could really use that $12 million.

Excuse me while I go make another video. Maybe I can incorporate my baby granddaughter this time.

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The One Dollar Offering: Talk Ain’t Cheap

On Sunday morning, the ushers took up the offering. Among the bills and checks, the money counters discovered an unusual one-dollar bill. A note was written on it in magic marker with big, bold letters. It said, “BURN IN HELL!” They saved the bill and showed it to the pastor on Monday.

The next Sunday, the pastor announced the following:

We are happy to consider any advice you may inscribe on your offerings. From now on, however, we will only read messages written on $100 denominations and higher.

Talk ain’t cheap.

In my view, a one-dollar message is expensive. A one hundred dollar message might be overkill. It’s particularly dear considering the fact that the money counters might not even notice (or pay attention) to the message. I don’t think I’d take the chance.

On the other hand, I’m not sure how many $100 bills find their way into an offering plate. Very few, I suspect. Those memorandums would probably be more easily detected. Not being one of the counters, I can’t say for sure.[image error]

I would surmise that anyone putting that much into the coffers would rather write a check. Not only is it safer, it’s easier to track for tax deductions. The IRS can be rather finicky about such things as large charitable deductions (particularly cash ones). It’s not that a one-time hundred-dollar contribution is huge. But if you do that every Sunday, you’d be donating $5000 over the course of a year. A lot of congregations would appreciate those sorts of notes. For the right price, we can take a considerable amount of abuse—the fires of hell not withstanding.

Giving your money away is such a touchy subject that it might be a good idea if the US Treasury would put a few blank lines on each one hundred dollar bill. It might boost charitable giving if people were encouraged to add their two cents (as it were) by way of a nasty note. They could write a positive note as well, but those kinds are normally delivered orally.

“How cheerful is that?”

There’s an old saying that “the Lord loves a cheerful giver.” As a matter of fact, it’s Biblical. The Apostle Paul passed that along to us in 1 Corinthians 9:6-7. Maybe that’s why many congregations sing lively, upbeat songs during the Sunday offering. If we can cheer ourselves up while we toss our money into the plates, maybe we’ll feel better. I remember one congregation that used to applaud the offering. How cheerful is that?

The interesting thing, however, is that Paul was taking up an offering for a group of poor folks in another city. When we in the church give today, an extremely high percentage stays in the local congregation (gotta pay those utilities and such). It’s a little easier to be cheerful when you’re giving to yourself.

I don’t know about you, but my giving has become so habitual, I’m not sure I’m very cheerful about it anymore. I think I need to re-evaluate…

[Dave Zuchelli is a graduate of Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and is currently the pastor of Smith Chapel, in Great Falls, VA.]

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Primo, Segundo, and Terzo: A Lesson in Simplicity

[image error] I remember my Dad telling me years ago about a family he knew. If I recall correctly, they were distant relatives of ours. Regardless, the interesting thing about them is that they had three sons. That fact was not unusual itself, but their names stood out. They christened their boys Primo, Segundo, and Terzo.

For those of you lacking in the knowledge of all things Italian, let me fill you in. Those names translate into English as First, Second, and Third. In case you haven’t immediately noticed, the Italian versions of those monikers flow much more sweetly than the English. Still, being called Segundo can’t be all good.

Primo is not all that unusual for an Italian male. Now, that’s a good name. Being called First is usually a wonderful thing. The major exception would be a call from the draft board.

Naming Your Kids Out of Order

My Dad didn’t say so, but I assume this family named the boys in the chronological order in which they were birthed. Unless they had a crystal ball, it pretty much stands to reason. Otherwise, they may have had a son named Fifth (or whatever the Italian version of that might be—Quinto, I presume). Plus, I would think naming your kids out of order could really be confusing—especially for the neighbors.

If there were an upside to naming your kids in numerical order, it would be the simplicity of it all. Your offspring would be prenamed for you. Once the pattern was set, it would be downhill from there. Think of the hours you spent looking through lists of baby names. You could spend that time picking out nursery furniture instead.

In case a baby girl sneaked in there, all you’d have to do is change the ending vowel to an “a” to be gender specific. The Romance languages are convenient like that.

For some reason, of the three, I like Terzo the best. I’m not sure why. It just sounds good. Speaking from an Olympic standpoint, he would win the bronze. It’s certainly not as good as gold or silver, but at least he placed. There’s something earthy and humble about bronze as well. I just like it.

“I only have two sons…”

Since I only have two sons, I could nickname them Primo and Segundo. I could also nickname the girls Terza and Quarta, but I doubt the baby would go for that. Quarta just doesn’t seem as appealing as the others. I guess I could ask them.

[image error]I sometimes wonder if Segundo’s nickname was Avis (think about it). Sorry. I realize, as humor goes, that really Hertz. What can I say? That had to be the German in me. Sometimes it pops right out there. I’m half Italian, but you know how intrusive the Germanic can be.

This may all sound like so much drivel to you, but think how important it is to baby Decimo (Tenth). I suspect he doesn’t appreciate being snubbed by the likes of a John or Mary. Have some compassion for goodness sake.

[Dave Zuchelli is a graduate of Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and is currently the pastor of Smith Chapel, in Great Falls, VA.]

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A Time to Breathe

[image error] In the wake of the shooting of Representative Steve Scalise , the politicians (as always) had a lot to say. The media, of course, said even more. After receiving the facts (which isn’t always the easiest thing to do these days) I pretty much tuned out the news. It didn’t take me long to get sickened by the loving platitudes that (in my opinion) would last about a week, then fade away into oblivion.

All the lovey-dovey, let’s-tone-down-the-rhetoric speech will soon be a thing of the past. They will return to spewing their vile bombast in short order, and everything will go back to abnormal. I apologize for my skepticism, but I just can’t help myself.

“Breathe…!”

Before I tuned out, I heard one commentator blasting the political leaders. She vehemently called upon them to, “Get a life!” Then she said, “Breathe…!” As I turned off my TV set, I began to allow that comment to settle into my psyche.

I have to say, those four words laid out some of the best advice I think could be given to our august group of governmental leaders—not just at a time such as this, but anytime. A lot of people love to hear the sound of their own voices. As a preacher, I may even be one of them. But at least people aren’t rushing to stick a microphone in my face. If only that were equally true of our friends in high places.

Ecclesiastes 3 contains one of the most known and quoted portions of Scripture. That’s the one that tells us, “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens.” Then it goes on to list some of those activities. Among them are such things as “a time to be born and a time to die,” and “a time for war and a time for peace.”

Eating Away at the Fabric

If I were writing Ecclesiastes right now, I would include a line that said something like, “a time to breathe.” We don’t seem to take time to breathe anymore. We keep running at the mouth, posting on social media, getting out in front of the cameras, and going on the offense. That kind of a situation gets caustic very quickly. Without breathing deeply in between actions, the caustic turns intensely acidic and eats away at the very fabric of our society.

[image error]I have no illusions that my little blog is going to change anything dramatically. I’m hoping (if nothing else) it will change me. If I can be a small voice of reason in the sea of vehemence, that will be enough for now. If I can convince one other person to do the same, it will have been worth it.

I don’t know if that TV commentator knew how clearly she hit the nail on the head. Nor do I know if she’ll heed her own words. What I do know is this. She’s dead on.

Now if you will excuse me, I need to go breathe.

[Dave Zuchelli is a graduate of Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and is currently the pastor of Smith Chapel, in Great Falls, VA.]

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Disabling the Demons

[image error]There’s a great story in Luke 13:10-17 about a woman being incapacitated by a demon for a period of eighteen years. Versions like the New International and the New Revised Standard use the term, “crippled.” The old King James Version of the Bible uses the phrase, “spirit of infirmity.” The Living Bible says, “handicapped” (no spirit mentioned at all). The Message Bible says she had arthritis.

What brought all this to mind was the word, “crippled.” As you may (or may not) know, it’s no longer cool to use that term when referring to someone’s physical condition. It’s not politically correct. I remember (way back in seminary school) being informed that we should use the word “disability” or “disabled” when referring to such infirmities.

A Crippling Discovery

After exploring the options, I finally ran across a version of the Scripture that uses that term. The “Tree of Life” version employs the phrase, “disabling spirit” in the above-mentioned passage. Had this version been available when I was a seminary student, I’m sure it would have been strongly suggested we use this particular translation (at least by the Disabilities Caucus if by no one else).

Nevertheless, the passage still remains politically incorrect if it makes reference to a demon (which it does). I checked the original language just to make sure. Indeed, the Greek word, pneuma, is used. This is clearly the word for spirit. There is no modifier, such as evil, used. I am assuming, however, that a good spirit would not disable a woman for eighteen years. Hence, the spirit we are dealing with in this instance is a demon (or evil spirit). Further evidence of this is the fact that Jesus casts it out of the woman (another assumption on my part).

It’s also not P.C. because it’s no longer cool to believe in demons either. So, this wonderful story gets stripped of two of its integral parts before we even begin to tell it. God bless the P.C. Police.

Fortunately, the crux of the story is that Jesus is accused of working on the Sabbath. The work, as you may already know, is the healing of the woman. Such things were not to be done on the Lord’s Day—the day of rest. Because of his compassion, the religious leaders nail Jesus as a sinner—a scofflaw.

A Jedi Mind Trick

Come to think of it, it’s no longer cool to believe in miracles such as physical healings. Jesus obviously must have done this with some sort of Jedi mind trick. Apparently, the Force was with him. The woman straightened up, Jesus got into hot water, and the religious leaders were ultimately embarrassed for their lack of compassion.

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Having thought it through, it’s evident we should come up with a new version of the Scripture—the PCV (Politically Correct Version). In this version, Jesus would send encouraging thoughts to the woman with arthritis and her spine would respond to his positive energy by straightening up. I wonder if the religious leaders would object to that.

[Dave Zuchelli is a graduate of Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and is currently pastor of Smith Chapel in Great Falls, VA.]

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We Used to Die at Home

I attended a seminar where I heard someone say, “We used to die at home.” The statement struck me as strange and beautiful at the same time. It sounded strange because it seemed out of place. Who says such a thing?

It sounded beautiful because it harkened back to a day when home was the place we died. Actually, now that I think about it, it sounded strangely beautiful.

In those days, we were also born at home. Hospital visits were rare and long (unlike today when they are frequent and as short as possible). Most illnesses were ridden out at home just like most other crises in life. In those days, physicians made the rounds. The rounds were not so much in hospitals as they were to the homes of their patients. House calls—remember them?

There was something noble about doing all this at home. I’m not sure what it was, but I suppose it had something to do with the fact that we were surrounded by family (and our neighbors). That was also back in the day when neighbors actually neighbored.

“You can give me a good hospital anytime.”

I don’t mean to romanticize all of that. Nor do I want to demean hospitals and the current practice of physicians. I guess I’m just a little nostalgic about a simpler time (or at least they seemed simpler).

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I realize many people probably died younger and sometimes unnecessarily because they were home. Frankly, you can give me a good hospital anytime. I’ve been there and appreciate the care.

Still, there was something about dying at home. It was more personal—not only for the one slipping away from this world, but for the family and friends as well. Visiting hours were never over, for example. Your kin didn’t leave your room and tell you they’d be back in two days.

Many people desire to die at home. For some, it’s their dying wish. Still, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be—especially for the families. Our current lifestyles just don’t accommodate such things well. In fact, The Caregiver Space.org had this to say:

Dying at home may be awesome for the dying. It’s hard to say, since none have bothered to fill out a customer satisfaction survey from the other side. For family caregivers, the home hospice experience is not always as rosy as it is portrayed. It can be a gut-wrenching, soul-draining nightmare that no amount of therapy will ever be able to rectify.

If you go online, you can find horror stories on both sides of the issue. There are a lot of factors that go into making it a good thing or a tragedy. Both my maternal grandparents died at home. My Mom spoke glowingly about sharing their final days. On the other hand, both my parents died in medical facilities. Their circumstances would have made it unthinkable to bring them home.

I suppose this is why hospitals attempt to accommodate families more and more. After all, there’s no place like home.

[Dave Zuchelli is a graduate of Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and is currently the pastor of Smith Chapel, in Great Falls, VA.]

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