Snow

Snow is my favorite form of H2O. Not that I have anything against water, ice, steam, or fog - each is valuable and appropriate to its place and season. But there is just something about snow, something about the soft playful descent of unique flakes, the semi-random patterns of gathering on the ground, the way it highlights trees and shrubs, the beautiful blankets it makes on rolling hills - it quiets my soul, and stirs a peaceful joy within. Perhaps most of all, I am in awe of the simple way that snow conveys lightness and warmth, in a season marked by cold and darkness.

It is just like God, part of his unique artistry, to bring random flakes of grace from unseen places on high, dancing down into a world braced for long nights and shivering days. God has a way of stirring our hopes and warming our hearts, with the simplest of gifts, given in unique form. Perhaps your grace, and your love, like God's, takes a variety of forms, in diverse times and seasons, bringing simple smiles and deep reminders of happiness to people all around you.

It also strikes me that snowflakes, like people, are known for their uniqueness, the distinctive patterns of shapes that make each flake interesting on it's own. But in the combined effect of many many flakes, gathered together, each flake seems to lose its distinctiveness, blended in to a surprisingly beautiful blanket of comfort and tranquility.

If you'll excuse the word choice, the church at its best is a gathering of distinctive flakes, each unique and interesting in its own right, but blended together into a beautiful fabric of shared grace, generous comfort, and deep remarkable joy.

May the peace of Christmas, and the love of Christ, shower tranquility and warm comfort into your season. And may you gather often with other flakes, caught up in blankets of transcendent joy.

Merry Christmas.

-- Brother Tom

Convictions

Just in case you haven't already heard, I announced on Oct 17 that I will be completing my service as pastor of Bloomfield Christian Church as of the end of this year. A very wide range of thoughts and feelings fill my heart and mind regarding this decision, and in no way was it an easy one. For nearly nine years, I have had the privilege of being your pastor, of sharing my thoughts with you on Sunday mornings, of being with you from time to time in hospital rooms and funeral homes, at weddings and through divorces, at births and through deaths, sharing joys and sorrows, walking together with you along trails of many kinds. To say that these nine years have changed me would be a severe understatement. Certainly I have been challenged in ways I could never have foreseen. The relationships formed here have reached and molded my heart in ways I could not have understood before.

As those of you who know me know well, this experience has been one to test my self-understanding in significant ways, forcing me to face my limitations at levels I had not known. You have been patient with me, understanding and accepting of my weaknesses. And God has been gracious, proving again and again His ability to use imperfect instruments to do work that only He can conceive and understand. The notion - graciously affirmed by many of you on many occasions - that my words and ministry have sometimes provided blessings to you - that notion fills me with humble satisfaction and overwhelming gratitude for the opportunity to be a part of your lives.

A significant part of this decision is my renewed desire to return to school, to study more, to earn a PhD, and ultimately teach. This has been a deep dream of mine for 34 years, and it seems that the time has come to take that step. Your encouragement and support in this pursuit have been priceless to me, and I will always be grateful for the many ways in which you have strengthened my spirit and my resolve.

Transitions always come with mixtures of pain and sorrow, and indeed I will miss my weekly connection with you. But transitions also crystalize convictions, and I will leave firmly persuaded that this is a good church, that you are good and loving and caring people, and that God will continue to love you and bless you, and to love and bless others through you.

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

-- Romans 8:38-39

Peace be with you.

-- Tom

Dreams

The first law of thermodynamics is that energy is neither created nor destroyed. It is always there; it simply changes form. Sometimes I wonder if the same can be said of dreams.

Waking or sleeping, dreams seem to appear out of nowhere. They fill our heads and hearts with awesome images, both beautiful and frightening. And almost as quickly as they appear, they fade away, rarely retained in much detail at all. But like the mist of a morning fog, perhaps they simply change form, and reappear in playful afternoon clouds, and again in the rose expanse of sunset.

The energy that inspires our work, fuels our passions, strengthens our resolve, and gives meaning to our most tedious efforts - the power that propels us forward each day - often manifests itself in dreams. Richly envisioned possibilities, beautifully adorned imaginings, deep sweet internal longings - these are the mists that motivate, when cold hard objectives lose their appeal. These are the enduring images that refuse to yield to frustration, that adapt and shift to withstand every earthquake, that persist in whispering timeless truths when everything else is just noise.

Each phase of life, each season of each year, bears witness to death and birth, growth and decay. Yet each is a part of the other, as morning is to night. As we age, we are often tempted to put away childhood dreams, box them up in the attic, not bothering to remember in which box they are stored. But dreams don't stay in boxes. They pass through walls of time and circumstance, reinvent themselves in creative ways, and introduce themselves to us again as a renewed old friend.

Some of my dreams from 34 years ago have reappeared in recent days. I recognize them, although they have changed a bit. They still have that old familiar charm, the special aura that stirs my soul. I know I can't grab them, like some leprechaun thus obligated to grant me my pot of gold. But I'm watching them, paying attention to them with renewed interest, more confident now than ever before that they are here to stay.

What were your dreams? How have they transformed? Where are they now? I know they're not gone. You may not see them now, while focused on the concrete urgencies of each day. But they are there. Close your eyes for a while, and open them again with renewed vision. Pay attention to your dreams. They are here to stay.

"I will pour out my Spirit on all people.

Your sons and daughters will prophesy,
your old men will dream dreams,
your young men will see visions.
Even on my servants, both men and women,

I will pour out my Spirit in those days."

-- Joel 2:28-29

More Time

June wanted me to finish this by yesterday. I had a pretty bad case of writer's block going, and couldn't get it done. So I fretted, and stressed, and tried to push myself a little harder, to no avail. Creative juices were not flowing, and I couldn't turn the valve. Finally, I surrendered to humility, texted June, and asked for more time. She granted my request, with her usual grace.

Then I had to laugh at myself. What an amazingly powerful woman June had become in my mind! She had the power to enforce a rigid deadline, requiring of me immediate results, regardless of my state of mind. She had the authority to revoke my privilege of publication, to declare that my procrastination was unacceptable, that anything I wrote today would be rejected, scored with a big fat red zero, because it was turned in too late. I had made June my grader, my evaluator, my judge, the one upon whose opinion my success and self-esteem would depend.

But June knew of a different kind of power. She knew the power of grace. She had at her fingertips the capacity to lift my burden, to ease my stress, to open up windows of enlarged opportunity, when I felt the walls closing in. She had at her disposal the words that would seem to create time, to put more sand in the hourglass. And she chose to use them. She chose grace.

I know it sounds silly, and I don't mean to make too much of a simple matter. But that's what stress does; that's how anxiety works. They make too much of simple matters. They amplify consequences of small failures. They exaggerate risk. They take schedules and deadlines and turn them into dungeons. They take disappointments and shortcomings and turn them into condemnation.

It is sad that so many of us so often see God through the distorted lens of anxiety and stress. We see him only as grader, evaluator, and judge. We expect him to use his infinite powers of perception to detect our every flaw and shortcoming, to bleed red ink all over our papers, with harsh words of criticism and condemnation. We fear his sentence, as he may judge all of our efforts to be inadequate, unacceptable, too little, and too late.

But the blood of Christ sends a different message. He did not bleed to condemn - we were already condemned. He bled to redeem. He bled to deliver. He bled to save. He bled to lift our burdens, to ease our stress, to rip down barriers to our happiness, to open up pathways to enduring joy. The power of the cross is the power of grace. And God has chosen - continues to chose - to give it to me and you.

We simply must do the same. We must cease using our red pens to critique and judge and condemn the errors and shortcomings of the people around us. We must use the blood that pumps through our hearts and veins to bring warmth and life to those we touch. We have more power than we realize. We have the power to lift burdens, ease stress, and open up windows of enlarged opportunity. We must chose grace.

... So next I turned and asked God if I could have a little more time. More time to deal with all the stuff I haven't dealt with yet, more time to learn and grow, more time to rest and think, more time to feel and breathe. He smiled, and laughed, and told me he would give me all the time I need, all the time there is. He offered me eternity.

... Now if I could just think of something to write about ...

The Way the Ball Bounces

I've been thinking a lot lately about the unpredictability of life. Perhaps this is because so much of my consulting career revolves around forecasting and anticipating probable risks and opportunities, and because that is so fundamentally difficult to do. Even more likely, it is because so much of what happens each day surprises me. Things bounce and curve in ways I simply didn't see coming, which is in itself neither good nor bad, just a bit unsettling.

This is the season of many sports - baseball, tennis, golf. And I've been talking to my old life coach, Scott, about spin, and how it plays in each. Spin seems to represent the dynamic of unpredictability. Picking up the rotation of the seams on a curve ball, in order to try to anticipate its movement. Adding topspin or sidespin to a serve, to keep the opponent a litle off-balance. Hitting a drive with just the right draw or fade, to suit the contour of the fairway, as well as the eye of the golfer. Artistry, creativity, and personal interpretation all play a free-form role in the application of and response to spin.

In every task, no matter how ritual or routine, there is an implicit need to see the spin, to recognize the unique foreshadowing of imminent movement. In every effort, there is opportunity - indeed, undeniable impulse - to add unique personality, to apply creative force, to influence the bounce, beyond initial impact. And it is precisely the unique individual creativity that each of us adds to our work - the spin we put on the ball - that makes things a bit less predictable (and a bit more challenging, and perhaps more fun) for the people around us. In a sense, each of us has this amazing opportunity to participate in the glorious unpredictability of creation, to pour new wine into new wineskins, to draw new pictures and write new songs, to spin the world around us in a slightly new and different way.

On the receiving end, we simply need to be ready, and watch closely. Rather than be thrown off-balance by things that don't go as planned, by events that unfold in unexpected ways, and by words and gestures that weren't in the script, we need to learn to expect the unexpected. We need to look for the rotation of the seams on the curveball, to prepare for the bad hop on the uneven ground, and most of all - if we can - to watch with childlike joy and fascination, as the crazy spinning balls bounce and dance.

Stay ready.

-- Brother Tom

His compassions never fail. They are new every morning. -- Lamentations 3:22-23

Places To Be

I've got things to do, people to see, and places to be - and that is how I like it. I know, I know - it can be overwhelming at times: too many irons in the fire, peanut butter spread a little too thin, burning the candle at both ends and in the middle too. Many of you, like me, experience the struggle of an overly-full life. The fatigue, exhaustion, and loss of joy that accompany that condition are both common and chronic, and we need to continue to encourage each other to simplify, release, and focus our precious attention on fewer, more enduring things. But that doesn't mean we should become idle, passive, and withdrawn - that's not a worthy vision. We all want to be fully alive, vibrant, actively engaged in the world around us. So how do we stay engaged, without yielding to exhaustion?

The key insight that has been helpful to me in this battle over the past few months is the radical notion that I can trust my heart. When the heart leads well, the list of "things to do" becomes not an array of "ought"s or a stream of "should"s, but a banquet table of possibilities, a bucket list of promising adventures. When the heart leads well, the group of "people to see" becomes not an angry mob of demanding patrons, but a fellowship of friendly faces, a rolodex of replenishing encounters. When the heart leads well, the map of "places to be" becomes not an overbooked itinerary, but a guided tour with scenic views, a long walk down an inviting avenue. When the heart leads well, the most deeply desired blessings of life take center stage, unhindered and uncrowded by trivial obligations and pestering demands.

I've got things to do - things that I love to do, things that I long to do. I've got people to see - people that I love dearly and enjoy being with, people that replenish my spirit. I've got places to be - places that are beautiful and interesting, places where I feel at home and at peace. Next Sunday, I will be at church, with you, worshipping God. Because that is one of my favorite places to be, some of my favorite people to be with, and my favorite thing to do. May your heart lead you well - to places, people, and things that nourish your soul.

-- Brother Tom

Gathered and Dispersed

I just spent the last few hours going through email for my brother. As most of you know, he's living in a part of the world where one has to be careful what one says, and unfiltered email traffic can be problematic - so I'm his filter. When I first agreed to do this, I had no idea how many friends my brother had, in how many different places. We have now "trimmed" the list down to 271 "subscribers", and I've already heard back from people in Japan, Honduras, the Dominican Republic, and all over the U.S. It's been pretty cool to read the wonderful things people say to (and about) my brother, and it kinda got me thinking. He's probably in one of the most isolating careers there is, having lived on four different continents, in quite diverse cultures and language settings. And yet, he strikes me as one of the most well-grounded people I know. He has raised his children in an environment of perpetual change and unpredictability, and yet, from all indications, they are remarkably stable and well-balanced. Hmmm.... perhaps "rootedness" is not strictly based on geography. Perhaps "connectedness" and "isolation" have little to do with "place", and much to do with "person".

There is no small irony present in the way Easter is celebrated, in churches around this country and around the world. More than any other day of the year, people will gather in houses of worship on Easter Sunday, because - at some level - that is the "place" they feel they should be on that day. Not to be overly cynical (but still transparently honest), for many simply "being in church" on that day makes them feel "connected" to the church, even if only in a superficial way. Even if they don't know the other people there, and don't particularly care to get to know them, "being there" is important to them.

This irony is that the gathering of a crowd to celebrate Jesus has a lot more in common with the story of Palm Sunday (and the so-called "Triumphal Entry") than with the story of Easter. The crowds that gathered to cheer his arrival in Jerusalem - waving palm branches, shouting "Hosanna", and all the rest - had completely dispersed within a week. Even by Friday, the only crowd gathering around Jesus was the one yelling "Crucify Him!" By Sunday morning, crowds had scattered, friends had betrayed, and the scene became one of isolation, desolation, and emptiness. (More along the lines of what the typical church looks like the Sunday AFTER Easter.)

I don't begrudge those who wish to gather for worship - on Easter, or any other day. But as I look through the email from my brother's friends - friends who have "stuck with him" across the years and across the continents - I can't help but wonder how many worshippers tomorrow will seek the right "place" to worship, and neglect to know the people they worship with, or - more to the point - the "person" whom they gathered to worship. Just wondering "out loud".

Happy Easter, my brother. Wherever you are, wherever you go, I am with you.

-- Brother Tom

It's Just a Hat

Today I had a really, really good day. Really.

For almost the whole day. Almost.

It started early this morning, when I awoke in my hotel room at 5 am (VERY out of character) with an idea. I suddenly knew how to solve a problem that had frustrated me for hours yesterday, and had been hanging over my head for six weeks. I got up, logged in to my computer, made the appropriate modifications, and watched it work - exactly as I knew it would.

Off to such a good start, I went ahead and got showered and dressed, and drove into work. The long list of unsolvable problems that had been handed me just yesterday now seemed like a simple grocery list. I ticked off the items as the solutions emerged, as if lined up on the shelf awaiting my grasp. Fielding phone calls, text messages, emails, and instant messages from coworkers and customers in four different states, I never lost my momentum. Even the nervous urgency of the phone call that interrupted my lunch - a high-level client with an unclear request and an unrealistic deadline - didn't distress me; I knew I could help him, and I knew I had enough time. And I did... with five minutes to spare.

But it wasn't just that the tasks were going well; it was the relationships. In fact, it was primarily the relationships. Every heavy conversation also included levity, every sad truth was accompanied by comic relief, every concerned frown was transformable into a relaxed smile. And I felt at every moment that I was surrounded by friends... and I was. Serendipitous interruptions of electronic encouragement, playful thoughts punctuating a continuous connectedness, a virtual cloud of camaraderie and fellowship followed me throughout the day.

And it got even better. A short 90-minute drive on a warm, moonlit evening brought me to a half-way point where I met our oldest son, Ryan, for a long and jovial steak dinner. He had had a really good day, too. In his own words, the best day he could remember. I can't remember every seeing him this relaxed, confident, and thoroughly happy. It was wonderful to be able to share this day with him.

It was a terrific day. Almost all of it.

On my way back to the hotel, I heard from a close but far-away friend who wasn't feeling well. Chest pains, with shoulder pain, too. Wasn't at all clear how serious - somewhere in the broad range from "take two asprin" to "call 911". I tried to offer encouragement and wise counsel, but I won't know until morning what course events have taken. It's a very helpless feeling, to be so far away, so powerless to solve the truly important problems, unable to provide the help that is really needed. Everything I had accomplished today suddenly felt small and insignificant. Thoughts and prayers gush out, with hopeful confidence that God will protect and sustain. But God knows that we still feel helpless and weak; God knows our hearts.

And then there's my hat. It's embarrassing even to mention it. Trivial, silly, inconsequential - especially in the context of what is happening with my friend. But... I think I may have lost my hat. You know the hat - the one Debbie got me for Christmas. It's a Tilley. I wasn't sure I would like it at first, but it grew on me quickly. I've never gotten more compliments for anything I've ever worn. The security guard at work tells me every single morning, without fail, "Nice hat!" And Debbie picked it out, because she thought it would look good on me. I actually feel handsome, when I'm wearing my hat.

And I think I may have lost it. Sadly, it wouldn't be the first time. A few weeks ago my secretary was kind enough to retrieve it from the restaurant where our staff has lunch every Monday. Debbie has picked it up a couple of times, at church or a restaurant, after I have walked off without it. I think it is my own absent-mindedness that is so embarrassing, so humbling. As many complex mental tasks as I tackle and resolve each day, you would think I could learn to keep up with my own hat.

I called the restaurant where Ryan and I ate tonight. Twice. A very kind and patient young lady explained that they had looked everywhere, even under all the benches, and the hat is not there. She took my number anyway, just in case. I called the gas station where I stopped for gas, thinking maybe I left it in the men's room, though there's no conceivable way I would have set that nice hat down in a gas station men's room. They checked; it wasn't there. I drove back into work, thinking maybe in my excitement to go meet Ryan, I could have left it there. I even prayed on my way that it would be there, as if asking God to put it there, even if that wasn't where I left it. It wasn't. Next I drove by the Mexican restaurant where I had lunch today. It was already closed. I tried to peer through the windows to see if someone had left it at the cashier's stand, but I couldn't tell. I'll stop by and check tomorrow. I really hope it's there. Really.

How fragile a thing a good day is. Three days ago I stood and preached about how all the "stuff" in the world was worthless rubbish compared to the joyous privilege of being a child of God. And today, here I sit, anxious about a hat, like Jonah fretting over his withered gourd. Perhaps the hat is a symbol, a metaphor of sorts. It represents all the good things in life that I would like to keep - knowing all along that all things perish. It represents the things that I would like to keep track of, to stay on top of, to remember always - painfully aware that I often forget. And, in a way, it represents the people I care most deeply about, and who care deeply about me. And if I can't even do what it takes to hang on to my hat, then how in the world... well, you understand.

Before I send this to June tomorrow, I'll check in on my friend, and let you know what I find out. And then I think I'll go by that Mexican restaurant.

I know. It's just a hat.

-- Brother Tom

Next morning: my friend is doing okay.

God is good.

(Still don't know about the hat.)

Start Over, Again

I've always been a big believer in second chances. In my more honest moments, you'll catch me admitting that I very rarely do anything right the first time. One trip to the hardware store is enough to start a home improvement project, but it will take at least one more to finish it. I sometimes attempt crossword puzzles in ink, but only in light ink, and small letters, leaving ample opportunity for revision and correction. My best work in software design usually emerges after the second or third complete rewrite. And since I typically preach the same sermon twice each Sunday, I get an opportunity to rethink and rework it on the short drive up the hill. (Charles accuses me of "practicing" on them, before the "real" sermon with you.)

But these are the little things. I'm a believer in second chances in big things, too. Some of the healthiest marriages I have seen have been second and even third marriages. Many of the most fulfilled people I know have been in their second or third career. Several of the most deeply joyful people I have known have survived near-fatal illness, and are now living what they call their second (or third) chance at life.

We may not always learn from our mistakes, and repeated effort does not guarantee improvement, but I know that the best and most enduring lessons come after failure, or at least after the weaknesses of the previous attempt have been exposed and acknowledged. In fact, I've come to appreciate a recurring cycle of opportunity, where each attempt offers insights and understanding that can inform and enhance the next one. In the software business, we call this "iterative rapid prototyping", where each new version represents the accumulation of prior successes and lessons learned. In philosophy, we speak of the Hegelian Dialectic, where thesis and antithesis give birth to synthesis, in perpetual conflict and resolution.

Jesus spoke to Nicodemus of being "born again", in terms that clearly stunned and confused the educated man. In recent generations, that phrase has been so widely used that it has become little more than a label, identifying a subgrouping of Christians who emphasize individual conversion and global evangelism. Through all the bumper stickers and Gallup polls, I think the image has lost its initial force. Perhaps some fresh phrases could help restore the impact: "return to infancy", "back to kindergarten", "recycled childhood"... you can probably come up with a better one.

Today marks the 51st time I have begun a new year. (I don't remember the first few, but I imagine they were nevertheless significant). There are a few (okay, a few dozen) things that I would like to do better this year than in previous years. There are some things that I will certainly be better at, simply due to natural growth and experience. And, without doubt, I will make some mistakes I haven't made before (as well as some that I have repeated much too often). I have no specific ambitions or "measurable objectives" in mind, and I have no intention of reducing the "value" of this year into some pass/fail evaluation against a short list of resolutions.

I'm just happy to have another shot, to start over one more time. And I'm very happy to have people like you to learn from, and to grow with.

Happy New Year.

-- Brother Tom

"Because of the LORD's great love

we are not consumed,

for his compassions never fail.

They are new every morning."

-- Lamentations 3:22-23