Winn Collier's Blog, page 49

Gratitude

Show me a grateful person, and I'll show you one whose lived well, loved well, one whose laughed with children and marveled at full moons.





A grateful person has learned how to give gifts and (perhaps more importantly) how to receive gifts. You can learn to bluff your way through gift-giving, you can offer the gift and still stay in charge. However, receiving a gift - that's another thing altogether. When someone looks straight into you, beaming. Or hugs extra long and extra tight. Or offers you something you know cost them dearly. All these require a humble grace to receive, with only a thank you to offer in return.





This past birthday weekend, Miska said to me, I hope you can receive the love that people who care about you are going to give you. I hope you can just receive it with open arms. She said this because she knows it's not easy for me, to be humble and receive. I still have fondness for the illusions that I'm the one who takes care of others, I'm the one who doesn't need anything. What a bunch of rubbish.




This week, we're given a stretch of days designed for exactly this purpose: to be grateful, to receive, to give thanks. Let's give ourselves to gratitude not only around the table (though there as well, by all means). Let's also do it when we're playing with our kids and reading good words and breathing crisp air and receiving the smile of a stranger. And let us all turn to God with the deepest prayer I know: Thank you.

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And I do want to say - I'm grateful for you joining me here, chewing on these words over the past year. I do love to give away the words. Thank you for receiving them.

Halfway

I'm something like halfway. Today, the calendar flips to 40. There's that moment in every good novel when you're mid-through, the pages to the left as thick as the pages to the right. And you pause. You sigh deep for the story that won't let you loose, resting to breathe in the words and characters and memories before you eagerly dive into the long second stretch. This is that moment in the story of my life.



I'm grateful for the place I find myself. I'm in love with the woman who owns my heart. I have two boys who are going to be good men in this world. I've learned what true friendship looks like. I even think I'm on my way to learning what I'm about - what I love (and what makes me roll my eyes), where I'm eager to give energy (and what I simply don't have time for). I've learned more of the questions worth asking - and yes, a few answers to the questions I've long been asking. Added years brings fewer words but more tears, less BS but more fire. With age, you learn it's ok to shrug and walk away. I've got plenty of time to putter, but no time to dink around with another's man's fight or another man's dream. If you're pushing ego, you've lost my interest. But if you're dealing with life, I'm on your team.



And I'm hopeful for where I'm heading. I plan to walk slower and watch closer and get misty-eyed more often. I want to call friends for no reason and kiss Miska for every reason and make space for stories - because stories are the language able to carry the weight of our life. I want to be generous. I want to stop and chat with the trees more often. I want to drink more tea - on the balcony, at sunset, with Miska. I've found brotherhood with a few good men -- I'll be sticking with them. I want to craft words that are true to the way I see things, even if what I see is foggy or foolish. I want to keep telling Wyatt and Seth who they are. I want to be a lover.

Dad with a G

I have a dad. Most likely, you do too. I have a good dad. I hope you can say the same.



When we have a good dad, we easily utter this familiar line to our prayer: Our Father who is in heaven... When your dad has been everything but good, however, that line can stop you cold.



I have two boys, and I hope to be a dad who helps, not hinders, their prayers. Most days, I don't have a foggy clue what that means. When it comes to parenting, it's mostly holding hands with your mate and praying for mercy. But one thing that comes with the "good dad" kit is this: generosity.



Generosity doesn't mean giving your kids whatever they want. That's a sure-fire way to raise a hellion who comes running into the room screaming bloody murder and demanding that all present dote on them like they were a little emperor (sorry, flashback). Rather, generosity means that we are open-hearted, that we are quick with mercy, that we see the best in our kids even when it's oh-so hard to see (and it's often oh-so hard to see).



Generosity also means we're easy on ourselves. We're going to screw-up. We're going to loose our cool. We're going to say that ridiculous thing all parents say - but is undeniably lame. But we also know that we're surrounded in generous love, so we're going to be okay. And the kids are going to be okay too. And we tell them so, we love them so.

Blessing on You {a hillside sermon}

A pastor was born to bless - this is what I believe. It is only right that we conclude our meditations on Jesus' blessing by receiving Jesus' blessing. I offer this blessing to you - just passing along Jesus' mercy, not my own.



To you who are empty,

may Jesus' love fill you, overflowing

To you who are in misery,

may Jesus' kindness be your balm

To you who are alone,

may Jesus provide you rich friendship

To  you who are sick,

may Jesus be your healing

To you who are running,

may Jesus catch you

To you who are cynical,

may Jesus surprise you 

To you who are sorrowful,

may Jesus grieve with you

To you who are blue,

may Jesus laugh with you

To you who are joyful,

may you know the One who gives you joy

And to all of us, whatever and wherever we are,

May the One who is life fill us with life

In the name of 

The Father

The Son

and the Spirit.

Amen.

A Disrespectful God {a hillside sermon}

To pronounce a blessing on something is to see it from the divine perspective. To pronounce a blessing is to participate in God's own initiative. To pronounce a blessing is to share God's own audacity. {Barbara Brown Taylor}



Audacious. What a good word, particularly for God.



To be audacious is to take risks, to be bold. Oxford Dictionary tell us audacious means to "show an impudent lack of respect." Ah, that's it - a God of disrespect. Disrespect for leaving broken things broken. Disrespect for allowing tears the final word. Disrespect for leaving the lonely alone. Disrespect for the assumed order of things, particularly when that means the powerful gain more power while the weak take another kick. God has a brazen disregard for fitting into the system as it is.



No place reveals this brazenness more boldly than the Beatitudes through which we've just traversed, this odd reality where the ones whom everyone knows are not blessed are precisely the ones God does bless. Blessings on those who have nothing, blessings on those buried in sorrow, blessings on the ones under another's heel and so on... The Beatitudes are not a prescription for how we pull ourselves together (or tear ourselves apart) so we can present to God our noble character and thus receive blessing. Rather, the beatitudes evidence God's insistence that a new world has begun, a new Kingdom. In God's world, you're blessed simply because God says so - and often, at the moment when blessing seems most impossible - most audacious.



God has moved toward us. God's kindness is bolder than we've thought. Blessing.





p.s. I have one concluding hillside sermon installment on Wednesday, the one I'm most eager of all to share. Do drop back by.

Staring Down Lions {a hillside sermon}

Blessings on the persecuted ones. {Jesus}



This is a place in the beatitudes where I sit here, staring at the text. I stare and scratch my head, stare a little more, lean back in the chair for a good look at the ceiling, get up for a stretch and to grab a cup or three of coffee. Back to the desk. It's still here, and I don't know what to do with it.



Blessings on you who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness. It's a hopeful word for first century Christians, facing down lions when they refused to name Caesar Lord. It's a good word for the far too many places where those who have followed the Jesus Way have had to make the dire choice between God and an ideal, God and a friend, God and the fast track. We've talked about how righteousness means "what's right." And we know that doing the right thing isn't the same as doing the easy thing. That's why we respect the boy who stands up to the bully even though he takes a bloody beating.



But truthfully, I don't see much persecution around me. Perhaps I'm too plagued by childhood stories of the persecuted church behind the Iron Curtain to put myself and those I know in that category. I'm suspicious of my attempts to work this truth so it fits into my world. I'm equally as suspicious of any attempt (and I've heard a few) to use Jesus' words to guilt someone into somehow angling to suffer more for the gospel. It's easy to forget: in the Beatitudes, Jesus isn't laying down ethical commands but passing out blessings.



Perhaps this is just the place for us to be. It's not for us to define persecution (and, surely, if we have to ask, we have our answer). And it's certainly not for us to rush out in religious zeal and manufacture a little oppression. It's not for us to do anything at all. Our work is to join in solidarity with our sisters and brothers who do face dark hours. Our work is to pray for their strength, knowing that in the most surprising of ways, God is with them, blessing them in the place they are most desperate for blessing.



And the word for us is this: Fear not. Whenever we follow God, blessing will meet us there. Even if we're staring down lions.

Travel Trailer Horror Show

piratejohnny

I had a unique childhood.



Everybody says that, I know. But really...



My dad was a traveling evangelist, and until the 6th grade, our home was a Kountry-Aire 5th wheel travel trailer. We spent 45 or so weeks on the road, crisscrossing the U.S. By the time I was 12, I'd seen most of North America, touched my toes in the water on both coasts and eaten breakfast at a Shoney's (or Elias Brothers or Frisch's, depending on the region of the country) in almost every state of this fair union of ours. Top that.



While there were many advantages to this lifestyle (see earlier comment about Shoney's), my parents knew there was also a cost. We saw our friends rarely, and we didn't have a house with a yard and a tree house. So, mom and dad went to great lengths to make sure we didn't miss out any more than we had to. Add that to the fact that in our house, holidays (all holidays) were big. B.I.G. These were the formative years where I was taught to grab every reason to celebrate. I'm still a believer.



With this backdrop, we come to the Halloween of 1981. We were on a long stretch of interstate, and for hours my dad had been searching for a haunted house. I don't recall whether or not I had asked for a haunted house - but it was halloween, blast it, and we were going to get the bejeezers scared out of us. The afternoon drug into the evening, and the hours and the miles ticked away with no haunted house or spooky mineshaft or crazy Zombie corn maze to be found.



It was past ten, and my dad pulled into a dark Kmart parking lot (I know, Kmarts are scary - but it gets worse). My folks told my sister Vonda and me to stay in the truck while they went to work. My dad must have gone to the dumpster to pull out cardboard boxes. Fifteen minutes later, a screechy, spooky voice (my mom) insisted we enter the trailer. We had to crawl on hands and knees through the Mine Shaft of Horrors pieced together by cardboard scraps. Lights flashed as my parents howled and screamed and boomed. They hit the boxes and made clanging noises. It was terrifying. And I loved every minute of it.



There are things a parent does for the sheer fact of love. Some of those thing are crazy little moments like pulling cardboard boxes out of a dumpster and screaming your head off so your boy and your girl can pee in their pants and have a good halloween.



Well, mom and dad, it matters. Thank you.

Moral Quandary of Legos

After the boys left for school Monday morning, I came downstairs to this gruesome scene. Wyatt and Seth had a little Lego cum Star Wars battle on the kitchen counter. Apparently this crew means business. I mean, the Stormtrooper I understand. But the dolphin?











Right now, I'm taking a course at University of Virginia on the Just War Tradition. This scene now raises a whole new host of questions for me.

Shalom-maker {a hillside sermon}

aaronblickr

Blessings on the shalom-makers. {Jesus}



Over and again, Jesus passed this blessing: Peace to you. In our church, like most round the world, we pass these same words one to another each Sunday. It's good to spy out a lonely soul or someone who's heavy with care - grab their hand, look them in the eye and remind them that peace is theirs, right then, right there.



Of course, peace is a word with heritage. Shalom was the older Jewish greeting; but the two words mean the same thing: Wholeness. Well-being. Renewal. To speak shalom is to announce grace everywhere, on everyone. A shalom-maker is one who insists on goodness. They insist. Shalom-makers aren't pining for a utopian dream. They see the world as it is, all shot to hell. No delusion. They see the ruin, but they insist on goodness all the same.



And Jesus says a blessing on the shalom-maker. God knows they need it. Shalom-makers need this word of joy, spending so much time as they do soaking in grim places. Left alone, that darkness will crush a soul. Sadly, shalom-makers are no strangers to aloneness. Shalom-makers eventually tick everybody off because they don't stick to one side. They aren't beholden to a party line. They're committed to shalom, not ideology. They refuse the temptation to create scapegoats and release the vitriol that feels so righteous in the moment but always de-humanizes the one in its crosshairs. They're about goodness, and if you want goodness only for yourself ... well, then a shalom-maker is going to be a royal pain in your tush.



There's another reason (among hundreds) these weary but hopeful souls need a blessing. Notice they're shalom-makers, not shalom-guilters. A true person of shalom rolls up their sleeves and digs into the hard work of love. They invite others to their work, but they don't bludgeon others to their cause. That's not shalom; that's manipulation. And it's a difficult thing to be gentle among wolves. Blessings on them.

Saying Grace

You say grace before meals.

All right.

But I say grace before the play and the opera,

And grace before I open a book,

And grace before sketching, painting,

Swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing;

And grace before I dip the pen in the ink.

{G.K. Chesterton}










image: mattox

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