Michelle Ule's Blog, page 100

Reality or Just a Worship Style?

Several years ago I wrote a spiritual memoir I call Loving God Without a Label. It’s the story of how I found God and worshipped Him in many different settings across the United States and even into Europe. It’s not published (yet!), but it’s been instructive in my Christian walk–enabling me to recognize that how a person worships God is not as important as the fact a person worships God.

I base the idea on the concept of learning styles. Just as some people learn better by seeing things written down, some people worship God better by, say, dancing or singing contemporary music.

It’s not a rule, it’s a preference. And the way you prefer to worship mostly likely isn’t the same as my preference. Especially since mine has changed a lot over the years.

This means that while one friend insists the only songs that can “correctly” be sung in a “true” worshp service are organ-based hymns, another friend may feel just as adamant about contemporary Christian music with a guitar.

It amuses me to hear those arguments, particularly when thinking about my own Christian walk. In one short period of time we shifted from a charismatic Episcopal Church in New England to a laid-back Calvary Chapel in California.

Yes, the music and services were very different (how I longed for The Book of Common Prayer), but the important thing was the sermon, and that’s where we found unity.Both pastors used the Bible as their text and taught sound doctrine (or at least, Calvary Chapel-sanctioned teaching on the west coast). Both pastors loved Jesus and wanted us to know, love and understand him, too.

One wore colorful vestments; the other a Hawaiian shirt.

The style of worship was different, not the heart and soul.

I’m glad I learned that lesson long ago, because it served me in good stead last weekend when I attended church with my college-student daughter. We were on her stomping grounds, Santa Barbara, California, and she gave me a choice of which church to visit: a family-friend community church or the more youth-intensive Reality.

Since I’d heard about Reality and a truly hip couple I know attend the Hollywood branch, I opted for the “different,” service. I get family-friendly every week (along with contemporary music, an organ and hymns) at my own Missouri Synod Lutheran Church.

What a massive undertaking the congregation must go through each week! Held in Santa Barbara Community College’s gym, whomever is in charge has to cover the wooden gym floor with a thick vinyl floor mat. Simple black and silver plastic chairs are set out and then the stage has to be organized.

A drum set behind plexiglass, a keyboard replete with three laptop computers, a violinist on a mike and three guitarists filled the black-curtained stage. Lights were attached around the sides and top and the speakers–which I did not spy–must have been large. When they turned off the lights for worship, I wondered if all the sound equipment in America is sold to musicians and/or large churches. It sure felt like a rock concert to me.

That’s all I’m going to say about the music–why start an argument?–because the heart of a worship service needs to be the preaching.

They’ve got it at Reality.

Interim pastor Chris Lazo did an excellent job with Ephesians 4:20-24. I broke out my I-touch and took notes as he walked us through an interesting passage of Scripture.

I particularly enjoyed the fact he discussed Martin Luther’s concept of a garland prayer to use while examining a Bible passage by praying and asking:

1. What does this verse teach me?

2. How can this verse teach me to praise God?

3. What do I need to confess after reading this passage?

4. What can I aspire to from this verse?

Lazo told us to mull over verses until they “begin to preach to your soul.” This is how the Holy Spirit speaks to you, by acting as a mirror. He reminded us “to renew your mind is to rehearse and replay who Jesus is continually.”

How fun to find Martin Luther in such an up-to-date setting and learn something new!

Lazo also spoke to those feeling defeated and reminded them about God’s power to renew your mind and thus your soul. “Your circumstances may explain you,” he said, “But they don’t have to define you.”

I appreciated that.

So, while the music, for me, did not edify my soul–which is fine because I’m not an auditory learner–the words preached true did a fine job.

The reality, for me, is I’ll be happy to worship at home next Sunday.

Oh, and learning styles? Here’s a list. Can you see how they can be adapted into church worship styles? Which suits you the best?

Visual (spatial):You prefer using pictures, images, and spatial understanding.

Aural (auditory-musical): You prefer using sound and music.

Verbal (linguistic): You prefer using words, both in speech and writing.

Physical (kinesthetic): You prefer using your body, hands and sense of touch.

Logical (mathematical): You prefer using logic, reasoning and systems.

Social (interpersonal): You prefer to learn in groups or with other people.

Solitary (intrapersonal): You prefer to work alone and use self-study.

Choosing to Be Thankful–Even in the Hard Things

“In everything give thanks, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.”

That verse from 1 Thessalonians 5:18 often trips people up and makes them want to argue instead of give thanks.

“God can’t possibly mean for me to be thankful for _________________ (feel free to fill in your own blank.)

But that’s not what the verse says, it refers to everything, without a disclaimer or an asterisk.

I’ve pondered that verse a lot over the years and have come to appreciate it because of what obedience to that verse does to me. And maybe to you.

I’ve often been trapped in a situation, grumbling, complaining, arguing about fairness and feeling downright surly, only to have that little tiny verse slip in one ear, dash across my forehead and flit out the other side.

“In everything give thanks.”

Can you turn the prism and look at this slightly differently? Can you see this as not a “shame on you for not being thankful,” but as an opportunity to stretch your imagination? Can you take a step back from the circumstance and maybe catch a broader view?

That may sound easy for me to say because I’m not grappling with the same issues you are–and I respect the challenges you are facing.

But challenges, difficulties, death, illness, misery, anguish and shame are part of every day life. The gradients may be different but we all get to places where it just feels like “Enough. I hate this.”

But in every thing give thanks.

How?

By looking beyond the circumstances to what you can be genuinely thankful for.

It starts with a begruding, “Okay, Lord, what on earth can I be thankful for in this situation?”

If you cultivate an attitude of, “There must be something in here somewhere I can thank God for,” it becomes a little easier.

And here’s the trick: once you start; once you find that first thing, you often can find a second. Your imagination may be rebelling, but if you push it you might find a third. By then your list of things to be thankful for may be as wizened and measly as a dead potato, but you’ve got three and oddly enough, your spirt lifts.

It may only lift .5mm, but a little bit helps and makes the challenge just a fraction lighter.

That, I believe, is the value of giving thanks in everything.

I have arthritis in the base of my thumbs. Three years ago I could not use scissors, the pain was so great. I couldn’t ride a bike because of the pressure on the base of the thumb. Turnings doorknobs was misery. The pots in my kitchen are too heavy for me to lift with one hand. I couldn’t work the manual can opener.

I found this particularly ironic since I’ve never taken my hands for granted. I’ve thanked God countless times for nimble fingers that can sew, quilt, cook, garden, type, help, fold, make and manipulate. Mine have been work hands and I’ve savored the activities.

Did I mention I’m a musician?

Painful. All of them. I didn’t even realize how I had withdrawn from activities because my subconscious knew my hands would hurt.

Be thankful in everything.

My sense of who I am was bound up in what I could do. Martha was my favorite; Mary never made any sense. Suddenly, I couldn’t do many of things I pulled off effortlessly in the past.

After I finished sulking, I decided I needed to choose to be thankful in my present (and now forever) situation. I had to find things to be thankful for, and remain focused on them. The verse says IN everything, not FOR everything. So, in the midst of this debilitating situation, I’m choosing to be thankful, no matter what.

Here is a list of just some of the things I’ve cultivated to be thankful for about my handicap.

I am thankful

*I live in a time of adaptive tools and we have the resources to purchase them.

*I’ve had young men willing to work in the yard with me; who’ve taken my instruction in good stead and done what I need–and only pulled me out of the tree with a saw a couple times.

* I can still type and most of the time play my clarinet without much pain.

*I can do exercises which strengthen my core, send blood to my hands and relax them–when I remember.

*The body of Christ is described as a body with many parts. No part is better than another. I don’t have to be the hands anymore, I can be a different part and my contribution is still valuable.

*I’m more sympathetic to people whose physical skills are diminishing.

*God can use what I have to bring, no matter what it is.

The list continues, but can you see how it started–what small practical things can I be thankful for, despite how I feel?

I’m going to buy copies of Pollyanna this Christmas and share them–that little girl, given so much lip for her sacchrine attitude, was on to something.

Stretch your imagination. Find things to be thankful for in your cirumstances.

You’ll feel better for it.

Am I missing something? How else do you find ways to be thankful in difficulties?

Hardheadedness and the Lincoln Connection

We’re just in from seeing Steven Spielberg’s magnificent Lincoln. It may be the only movie we’ve seen in 2012, but we highly recommend it all the same. Historically important, interesting and full of intrigue, it made for a perfect rainy Saturday.

In addition to seeing a great film, I appreciated the domestic end of the Lincoln family life. Mary Todd Lincoln always gets a bad rap–whether deserved or not, I cannot say. But the pathos evoked by seeing the martyr president loving his boy Tad, and mourning the three-years-past death of Willie,  underscores the tragedy of the Civil War.

Everyone on both sides was affected in some way during those four wretched years of slaughter.

The movie also reminded me of a family story that I used–just as old Abe used stories in his life and in this film–to explain to my niece the definition of ”hardheadedness,” at least in relation to our family.

Abraham Lincoln was president of the United States at the same time his second cousin, Col. James Steele Hanks, served in the army of the Confederate States of America.

Col. James Hanks, CSA

Some of you will remember I’m Hanks’ great-great-granddaughter and thus Abraham Lincoln’s cousin four times removed. (If you’ve seen my photos, you’ll recognize the eyebrows).

During my research (investigated in part to figure out the LIncoln connection), I came across a Hanks family story that perfectly explains my family’s tendency to . . . obstinacy.

It seems the president was visiting a military hospital outside of Washington one day that housed both Union and Confederate soldiers. President Lincoln stopped at one bed when he saw the Hanks name and asked the teenager about his kinfolk.

The boy provided the names and Lincoln nodded. “I know that family. Tell me, how are they doing?”

“Well, Pa died early on and Ma is home on the farm with my six younger brothers and sisters.”

“Is she farming?”

“As best she can, but it’s hard and they’re struggling.”

Lincoln looked the kid in the eye and said, “If you will promise never to pick up arms against the Union again, I’ll grant you a parole and send you home to care for your family. But you can never fight again. Think you can do that?”

“No sir, I can’t do that.”

“Then you’re in for the duration.” The president moved on to the next injured soldier.

My niece listened then asked the obvious question: “What does that have to do with me?”

“It’s helpful to understand that when you behave like a hardhead, to stick to your opinion no matter how it affects other people, you may hurt yourself and others in the long run.”

“But he held to his convictions,” she pointed out.

“True. He preferred his hardheaded convictions about a losing cause to helping his family. How do you think his family back home managed?”

I love family history stories like this because it puts a human spin on great events. Abraham Lincoln was also hardheaded; he had to be (as the movie explains) to hold the union together despite potentially illegal decisions.

Challenging times require strong people to remain true to the principles which guide them; people whom God chose to live in such times. The movie touches on this theme as well.

Hardheaded? Tender at the core? Principled?

All were hallmarks of Abraham Lincoln–and of my family, too.

The trailer.

Blind Dog and Cats–Where?

Photo courtesy Springset Kennel

Our dog and cat have had a hate relationship the nearly twelve years they’ve shared our house. The dog, Suzie, is relegated to the living areas–the family room, kitchen and living room.  The cat has all the rest, and you better believe she guards her turf.

Suzie is a Gordon Setter and is supposed to be a bird dog. But somewhere along the way, her genetic lines got a little crossed and she’s far more interested in four-legged creatures than birds. That accounts for the whirl of interest whenever a squirrel chitters by, but it also explains why she’s so set on the feline.

The noisy calico liked to sit at the end of the hall–the hall the dog was barred from traversing–and yowl. Back in the days when Suzie could see, she would stare at the cat as if willing her to silence.

The cat didn’t care. Yowl away. The dog pointed.

You know, nose forward, paw up, tail plumed.

We would laugh, but not shoot.

My husband believes Suzie gave up on the full hunting point when she realized he never was going to shoot the cat. But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t interested and wanted to warn us of Kali’s obnoxious presence.

Kali, for her part, has never had any patience with dogs. They’re bigger than she is and, as in Suzie’s case, like to hunt her. Once Suzie arrived, Kali gave up on the backyard and became a house cat, usually sulking on the bed and glaring out the window at the dog peering in.

She never came into the family room/kitchen and if she did appear in the living room, she watched us from the safety of the stairs.

Because, well, you never knew what that dog would do next. Like point.

Suzie went blind almost two years ago. She no longer sits at the end of the hall staring at the cat. Indeed, we often find Suzie standing in a corner staring at the wall, so Kali really has nothing to fear.

About six months ago Kali stunned us by casually entering the family room. She jumped up on the end table, sniffed at the dog practically lying at her feet, and walked along the back of the couch.

She did not emit a sound, though her ears twitched continually as she kept track of the somnolent dog.

Suzie never moved.

That puzzled us because the vets assure us the dog’s sense of smell is heightened.

Kali’s been back visiting frequently since and recently settled down on my husband’s lap to snooze. Have we reached canine-feline detent in our own home?

Maybe.

Or perhaps my husband’s theory is more likely.

He believes the cat thinks she’s invisible.

That really would explain a lot.

.

Life with a Blind Dog–Cruelty or Bliss?

I first wrote about my dog Suzie going blind eighteen months ago when we were first struggling with what it meant. It’s been nearly two years now and I thought I’d write more about what we have learned.

Not much.

We’re far more careful about potential hazards when walking her. She hasn’t run into anything on our watch in a long time.

She, however, continues to launch herself, nose first, into all sorts of things–though it’s usually a wall or the screen door.

Speaking of the screen door, the Gordon Setter who patiently waited for the butler/me to open the screen for nine years now opens it herself. She doesn’t even ask anymore, just approaches the slider and pushes the screen out of the way.

(If only she’d learn to close it again!).

She’s also decided that with her handicap, she is entitled to lounge on the new living room rug at will. She goes up there by herself–before she only went if invited–and spends many afternoons sleeping on the floor rather than in her big soft plushy dog bed downstairs.

As long as she doesn’t bang into anything important (breakables no longer adorn the end tables), we’ve decided to let her enjoy that pleasure. My husband works nearby most days, and, really, she’s just keeping him company.

Gordon Setters are very clever dogs–”people in human suits,” my friend Cathleen Jones explains. (Two of Suzie’s cousins live at the Jones house). They believe in keeping their options open and working any available angle. This is why we remain vigilant–cat food high, trash can closed, garden gate shut. Suzie spends most days lying in the sun or vegging on her bed, but she does perk up when something interesting arises.

In her heyday, Suzie was known as a “barker.” The neighbors and postal employees all refered to her as “the black dog who barks on the deck.” Once blindness set in, however, she went mute. We rarely heard anything more than a moan. We thought she was shutting down, no longer engaged in life.

We were wrong.

It took a squirrel to prove it.

The barking shocked, it was so unusual, and we hurried to the window.  Suzie spun around and around as a squirrel jumped from the Japanese maple to the roof and back again–chittering as it went.

She’s never been fond of squirrels.

Recently I heard similar barking and watched my dog run the length of the wood fence.

My blind dog.

Running.

A squirrel sped along the fence top–possibly cheering her on.

Suzie skidded to a stop before the ceonothus bush and looked triumphant even though the racuous squirrel got away.

We might have chided that squirrel for cruelty, if we hadn’t seen the sheer bliss on our dog’s now white muzzle.

Obviously, she loved feeling the freedom to run.

So we continue, walking her around the lake where she feels free to hurry on the end of a leash.We click our fingers and help her find her way. We’re careful with the treats and warn the adorable grandchildren to let her know they’re there.

She’s now got steps up into the car and she scrambles just fine. Given the chance, she’ll stick her head out the window and feel the breeze blowing her ears back.

Maybe life isn’t as exciting as it used to be, but it’s good.

And we’re all thankful.

Even with a handicap, our dog shows us daily the satisfaction of being with the people you love–no matter what.

Some days I think she sees far better than many people whose eyes work.

Which makes me wonder–can a handicap really be considered cruel if it brings bliss as well?

How DO You Hear God’s Small Voice?

I looked out the kitchen window one day and watched my four -year-old swinging on a bright sunny day.

His father had been out to sea a long time and we had no neighbors. No friends had been driven up the hill to play. He was alone and my heart contracted.

I dismissed the kitchen chores and chided myself. You should go outside and play with him.

Two steps took me to the door where I felt a “check” on my soul. It seemed like God had another idea for me.

“He has his entire life to fill with busyness and other people. There’s something to be said for idling in a swing and watching the clouds go by.”

My son leaned his head back and stared at the sky. I left him be.

You don’t need me to remind you how busy life is and how easy it is to avoid idleness. Some will argue idle hands are the devil’s playground and in some setting that may be true.

But I’m going to argue that it’s hard to hear God’s still, quiet, and often small voice if it gets drowned out by hurly burly activity.

God gave us six days to labor and one day off to rest. The idea is we need that Sabbath in all its guises–physically, emotionally, intellectually and spiritually. We need “down time” to pray, read, think, enjoy ourselves and rest. Too many of us don’t make the most of that opportunities and we’re teaching our children the same.

A child needs to spend time dreaming, musing, getting bored. It’s in those moments that creativity flows–for children as well as for adults.

As a musician, I learned long ago the value of the rest notation. Think of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony and how the rest is so crucial for impact.

That’s different, of course, from dawdling, staring at the sky, watching clouds go by, wondering if you should maybe put together or puzzle, or figure out how a stick can be a fishing pole if you could only find a piece of string.

Deliberately choosing a rest, a silence in the midst of cacaphony, gives your mind space to travel farther distances than your book, electronic screen or favorite selection on the Ipod.

Quiet.

Silence.

Emptiness.

They all have a place in letting us hear things we might have missed. They let us imagine things we might not have considered. Dreams can form. Problems can be solved. A goal can be set.

A child can grow into who he or she is.

My child grew up and his days are full and busy.

I’ve never once regretted letting him spend a four-year-old day swinging alone–except for his imagination.

The Three Answers to Prayer

Three. That’s it. You can expect one of three answers to a prayer asked of God.

Everyone loves the first answer, yes.

Certainly. That means God agrees with you and the response is probably staring into your delighted face.

No, is the second answer and while that can be disappointing, at least it’s an answer. You can adapt yourself to no. You may not understand the why, but a no is an answer.

So you adapt and hope for a yes next time.

But the third answer is the one most people moan about, because it feels so, well, indecisive.

Wait.

I used to squirm when the answer came back “wait,” but I’ve since changed my mind.

I think wait is a scintillating answer.

Wait is full of promise.

It suggests there’s more to come and you get the front row seat.

How’s that?

Years ago, I marched in the clarinet and saxophone sections of the UCLA Marching Band. The Bruins went to the Rose Bowl one of those years, and we marched in the Rose Parade through Pasadena. It was exciting and lots of fun.

The parade route also was five miles long.

Periodically along the way, we had to “mark time.” That meant stay in one spot and lift your legs up and down–marching without moving–holding your instrument to your lips but not playing.

Several times that day the whistle blew for us to halt–”parade rest.” We stopped marching, stood with our legs comfortably apart and held our struments down. The clarinets and alto saxes were tucked under our right arms and we could relax.

Parade rest is a lot like waiting.

It’s an opportunity to catch your breath. You’re not supposed to talk, but you can think all you like. You can recall where you’ve been. You can regroup and think about where you’re going. You can turn your head and notice where you are. It’s a pause; a time to relax while remaining on alert.

You know the whistle is coming and you’ll be stepping off soon, falling the drum major’s lead through the streets. And the end, at least for us in Pasadena on that January 1, was a stadium full of screaming excited fans.

I’ve come to see that God’s answer “wait” to a prayer request is a lot like that experience in the band.

Usually when God asks us to wait, it has more to do with His getting things in order–and whatever He needs to do hasn’t happened yet.

Some of it may have to do with us–we’re not mature enough to handle a yes, or perhaps we have lessons to learn before God can do whatever it is we’re asking about in prayer.

Something just isn’t ready yet.

So, while we wait for the answer to become clear–because sometimes a no is a terrific answer–we should savor the rest. Take time to think back to what brought us to this moment of needing to wait. Take deep breaths. Relax. Think about what is to come and rejoice with what currently is.

Because the whistle will come soon enough and it will be time to move on to that yes or to that definitive no.

And you want to be ready to step off just at the right time.

What’s the hardest thing about waiting on God for you?

Traveler’s Tales: Communist Czechoslavakia

My father loved history and when he spent a month in Europe with his children in 1970, he determined we should see some of the ugly parts of history, not just the art museums. He took us to Dachau to understand the Holocaust and one day we drove out into the Austria countryside.

He wanted us to catch a glimpse of Communism.

Catching a glimpse was all we could get–we had no visas and so we drove to the border and looked at the fence and stared at the young guards holding machines guns and keeping the west at bay.

The countryside on both sides of the razor-wired fence looked the same to me; I couldn’t quite grasp the concept of a nation that entrapped their people and refused to let them go–even on a vacation.

I still don’t really understand.

Several years later during the bicentennial of the United States, I traveled with Swiss relatives to Prague for a long weekend. The iron curtain still shielded those of eastern Europe from the influences of the United States, but cracks were opening and I slipped through. I was the only American on a tour bus where the stories were told in Italian and German. As a college journalist, I wanted to glimpse a society different from my own.

The first thing I noticed was my inability to read. The Czech language was written in cyrillic letters and I had no clue other than the obvious “Coke.”  It was the first time since my toddlerhood, sixteen years before, that I had not been able to read. Being functionally illiterate threw me more than anything. I walked through the gray city filled with turgid-faced people and somber clothing without any understanding other than what I could take in with my eyes, ears, nose and mouth.

(Ah, the bread was delicious. I didn’t try a tomato.)

I visited in August and the sun must have shown because I’m wearing short sleeves in the photos, but in my mind all these years later the sky is dark, the buildings dirty, the people downcast. Other than the bread, the food tasted miserable.

We stood in the old town square one afternoon, the tour guide chattering away to her attentive European tourists while this guileless American stared at the walls, noting the bullet holes remaining from the 1968 uprising. To my surprise, I could read the words on a brass plaque.

It spoke of the date in 1945 when Russian forces “liberated” the city of Prague from the Nazi agressors. I called my cousin over and pointed it out to her. “What a curious choice of words, to use liberated to describe what the Soviets did in taking the city.”

My twenty-year-old Swiss cousin sputtered (in English). “Don’t you know what happened here? The Americans were coming from the west, the Soviets from the east. Whoever got here first got Czechoslovakia.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

“You should know,” she spat. “You should have gotten here first.”

I stood up straighter. “Wait a minute. We’re criticized because we go in to help the Vietnamese and then we’re criticized because we don’t help the Czechs. That’s not fair.”

“I don’t care. The Americans should have gotten here first.”

That was sticky.

We walked across the Charles Bridge, visited the Jewish cemetery, had dinner in a gypsy restaurant (improving food, lots of spices) and toured the splendid St. Vitus Cathedral sited on a hill above the spired city.

The last day, we climbed aboard a street car and my cousins sat together, leaving me seated alone. A middle aged woman wearing a gray headscarf climbed aboard, paused and–somehow–knew I spoke English. “May I sit here?”

“Sure.”

She asked me where I was from and as I watched a hammer and sickle flash by the window, I laughed. “Los Angeles, California, which is a very long way away.”

We smiled at each other as she tried to find words to share. When the street car came to a halt, she glanced around, then stood. “I get off here.”

“Goodbye.”

The woman leaned forward and whispered. “We all wish we could be in America.”

And then she got off.

“Did that woman say something to you?” my cousin asked.

I relayed the conversation.

“No. She would not have said such words to you.”

Ah, but she did.

The irony of that trip for me always has been that when I got home, I learned my boyfriend had sworn to defend the constitution of the United States by enlisting in the US Navy while I traveled in a Communist country.

During the twenty-one years he served, many people in the former Czechoslavakia gained the freedom to cross their borders without having to climb a concertina fence.

And many got to come to America.

What do you remember about the Communist countries? Were you ever afraid of them?

Married to the Most Powerful Man in the World–Really?

“I understand you are married to the most powerful man in the world,” Alex said.

My husband’s face flashed to mind; he teaches third and fourth grade Sunday School.

I laughed. “My husband? I don’t think so.”

English is Alex’s second or third language and we were chatting during a wedding reception in Transylvania. He cocked his head. “He is a commander on a submarine, no? He could blow up the world.”

“Oh, no. It takes two keys. He was never a key wearer. He only operated the reactor.” My eyes darted across the party scene. The groom’s father actually wore one of the keys necessary to launch a ballastic missile many years ago, but I saw no reason to point that out. Romania still is not a member of NATO.

He shook his head. “My country was targeted.”

“Possibly, but only on a second strike.” I then tried to explain mutual deterance to a thirty-year-old who had grown up in a communist and then formerly-communist country.

“So you are a Christian,” he asked. “That means you believe the earth was made in six days.”

I laughed again. “Of course not. My son is an astronomer. I know the universe is 13 billion years old.”

Alex stepped back and spoke slowly. “Then I think you are an intelligent Christian.”

Which launched us into a discussion of our very different views about life.

For example, while educated at a Lutheran school, Alex swore he would never trust a priest. “They lied to us and were in the employ of the government. Priests cannot be trusted.”

My heart sank and I grew angry as well. How dare men who claimed to follow God distort truth for political ends? Jesus spoke about millstones being tied around necks and people jumping into the sea.

But you know that. Alex liked the idea, too, and accepted my apology for the poor way he was treated at the hands of people who should have known better if they ever read the Bible.

I’d only just met this young man, and mine was a delicate question. I wrapped it in hedges and opportunities for him to let it go, but I asked: “Then how do you judge the difference between right and wrong?”

He bolted upright and stared with wondering eyes. “This is a question I have long pondered in my own mind. I never knew who I could discuss it with.”

What would it be like to grow up in a society where truth was relative and you did not know who to trust? What does your worldview tell you about life if there are never any absolutes beyond gravity and breath?

Alex’s mother is my age and when she joined us, I asked how her life changed when communism fell and “capitalism came.”

Not as fluent as her son, she still made herself understood. “Before capitalism, we did not know who we could trust and so we were family focused. You spoke truth to your family and they were the center of your life. You worked your job and then you came home to your family. You grew much of your own food.”

“Now,” she explained, “under capitalism, we work all the time and we have little time for our family. We are not so close anymore.”

I nodded.

“The tomatoes do not have any flavor, either.”

I think about her comment often. The tomatoes I buy in the store are flavorless, too.

Even the most important man in my world never wanted to blow up Alex or his family. He’s more interested in the power that comes from speaking truth–even to third and fourth graders and certainly to young men raised in an uncertain land.

How about you? How do the tomatoes taste in your world?

Photo courtesy US Navy.

Planning for My Funeral’s Music

I’ve been thinking about death lately because several people we know have died and I’ve been attending memorial services. I came home from church recently and resolved to write out a list of the types of music, or even specific songs, I want played or sung should I ever die.

(Of course I haven’t decided if I want to be cremated or buried, but I know I can figure out the music . . . )

I’ve been a musician my whole life and love classical music. I also love movie musicals and appreciate the wisdom of hymns. I like some contemporary Christian music and am a total sucker for anything sung by Nat King Cole.

There’s always When The Saints Go March In, too.

That makes for an interesting mix.

I’ve been thinking about some of the memorable funerals I’ve attended or heard about and wonder if any of them give a key to what I should incoporate onto my list?

When one of my fellow UCLA band members drowned shortly after we graduated, his musician father asked members of the band to come with their instruments and “blow the roof off,” with Sons of Westwood. Many of the musicians thought it very cathartic.

“Sons of Westwood,” however, was the wedding processional after my son got married so it probably isn’t a good choice for my funeral.

I put together a power point presentation of my father’s life that we showed at his memorial lunch. I used music he loved set against family photos to reflect his life. The list included the first record he purchased: Dvorak’s New World Symphony, segued to Nat King Cole’s “L-O-V-E,” included Spike Jones‘ “Der Fuhrer’s Face,” a snippet from South Pacific, Louis Armstrong’s “It’s a Wonderful World,” and concluded with Frank Sinatra’s theme song–which served well for Dad– “I Did It My Way.”

My second son danced with me at his wedding to “It’s a Wonderful World,” so that won’t work for my funeral, either. Or maybe it should?

I want to convey my beliefs and my confidence in Jesus’ resurrection; I’m not worried about where I’m going after my life ends on planet earth. But I want to encourage those left behind. I like some of the music of Twila Paris and Michael W. Smith, particularly “The Lamb of God” and “Agnus Dei.”

In the classical canon, I’d need something by Bach–perhaps Sheep May Safely Graze–and certainly Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. I’d love to include the Mozart clarinet concerto and some Mendelsohn, but I don’t think a congregation would be willing to sit through all that even for me.

Quite a bit of sheep-type music there, maybe that’s a statement about my need to follow a good shepherd?

It’s the hymns, though, that convey truth within music and my favorite always has been Great is Thy Faithfulness. I also like the old stand-by, This is My Father’s World. In our family we also lean to the Navy hymn: Eternal Father Strong to Save.

When our friend Barry died two years ago, the church was packed and we cried and sang together. It was a glorious memory to a wonderful man, made even more poignant when his wife, Jan, got up to thank us for coming.

Jan has a beautiful, powerful voice, and she began to quote the lyrics from “Shout to the Lord”: “My Jesus, My Savior,” and then she finished by singing the song. The church rang with the words as the rest of us joined in, tears pouring down our faces and our songs rejoicing that Barry suffered no more.

I’ll be thinking about this more–though I certainly hope we won’t need the information anytime soon. But you can guess the question: what music would you like sung at your funeral or memorial service?