Presby-Musings

I'm watching the sunset tonight from a particularly good vantage point on the back patio.  The air feels soft and remarkably free from humidity.   Just opposite me are a group of trees where some birds have decided to roost for the night, and I can hear them chirping and calling to one another.  And there are some cicadas really tuning up for the evening just outside the patio screen door.   I'm trying to take this all in as best I can.  I want to close my eyes and listen to the sounds of the early evening, but the blast of orange-yellow-rose-colored sky streaked by purplish-grey clouds is just too alluring.   My prayer right this second...  "You didn't have to make it so beautiful... but you did.  You didn't have to make it so musical... but you did.  You didn't have to show so much grace and glory... but you did.  Thank you..."   It's been a hard couple of weeks... tacked on to a bunch of other hard weeks in a particularly hard year.   So, it's n

There is a lizard sitting opposite me on my back patio. It's a screened-in porch, to be precise, and the lizard appears to have made it her home.  I'm assuming the lizard is a "she" because she seems to lack the pompous bit of skin under her jaw that the male of her species tends to inflate to reveal a startling pink flash of color.   The fact that she seems devoid of the pretension of lizard machismo is also something I'm imagining is present in her demeanor.  At present, she is placidly watching me as she moves back and forth behind a potted plant.   It's not a bad world---the one she's occupied.  There aren't any lizard predators, and it must seem pretty vast to her as she moves from plant to plant, hunting bugs and the like.  It doesn't compare at all to the world outside the screens, but it's safe, secure, and comfortable.   And devoid of other lizards.   Honestly, I can't believe I'm actually thinking theologically about a lizard,

It's hard to believe that just a few days ago, I was staring out into the frozen world around me, snow piled high, with more coming down.  I'd just received the notice that we were going to have to boil our water, only to moments later have the water shut off.   We were trying to conserve energy and the house was dark except for the flickering of the fireplace, and I was bundled up because I turned our heat down to 67 degrees, which was cozy compared to the single-digit temperatures outside.  Right this second, I am sitting outside on a screened-in porch in Florida.  I'm wearing shorts.  The sky is blue and the sun is shining warmly on the flowers that are blooming on a tree just outside.  I've taken like four showers in the last two days to make up for the days I went without one last week.  The whole experience kind of shook me, though.   I wrote a bit about it last week--reflections on loss, grief, and even death to a certain extent.  Winter can do that to you--bend

The other night I heard someone describe a friend of theirs who had experienced a traumatic event as being "mad at God" over it.  I understand that feeling.  I think that most of us do.  But how many of us actually admit to feeling that way when things don't go well for us?   I've had arguments with God in the past about these kinds of things.  I will ask God if there is any way God might see the way clear to make things better for me considering all of the work I do on God's behalf.   I know that being a pastor doesn't afford me some sort of privileged status when it comes to hardship, trials, and tribulations.  Just because I talk about faith, God, and church-y stuff for a living, doesn't mean that I get a pass on the hard things in life.   But sometimes... I sure wish it did.   In my experience, this is a common response that I've heard from people who have come to me for counsel when they've experienced something hard, a challenge in life, fami

For those of us living in Texas, this past week has been absolutely exhausting.  Even as I sit here now, I feel as though I could sleep a week.  The winter storm that crippled the state, left many of us without power, and in my house, we were without water for five days.  One of the many things that I was struck by during the entire ordeal was how so many neighbors and communities came together to help one another.  My church had a long list of people who were willing to take in people who were without power.   Others checked on our most vulnerable members repeatedly to ensure they were okay.  We even had a roster of folks who were willing to drive their 4x4 vehicles on the icy roads to retrieve people, deliver groceries or respond to emergencies.   I heard from more than one member about how their neighbors checked on them and even took them into their homes.  Groups of neighbors pooled their resources when they were running out of water, and some of them organized neighborhood cookou

  The winter storm that has crippled Texas left most of my church members without power for days and now has rendered the water here in Austin non-potable and subject to boiling before drinking.  Those that have water, that is.   We're entering Day Three of no water in the part of the city where I live.  Yesterday I boiled snow to make spaghetti, and we're using the water from the pool to wash dishes and flush toilets.  Still, in the midst of what amounts to a minor hardship considering what so many people without resources are facing, I had an epiphany yesterday that was still with me this morning.  I was standing outside yesterday looking at a tree in my yard that was covered in ice, branches bending low under the weight of it.   I also looked around at the rose bushes in my flower beds, and the two large Sago palms that were covered in ice and snow.  I remembered a hard freeze we'd had several years ago that decimated all of them.   And then I remembered what the landsca

Lent is a time when many of us consider what we will give up during the forty days until Easter---a way that we can identify with Jesus' time in the wilderness, and as a means to focus on what matters most.   But yesterday someone on my Facebook Live broadcast (which happens at 9AM most weekdays if you want to join me) mentioned that maybe we've given up enough stuff already.   He had a point.  We've given up a lot during this past year since we last commemorated the beginning of Lent.  Back then we had no idea what was about to happen, and that in just a few short weeks our lives would change forever.  We didn't know that a global pandemic would grind the world to a halt.  We didn't know that not even a year later nearly half a million people would be dead from a virus we'd never heard of before.  We didn't know that we'd spend most of the year seeing friends and family through computer screens.  And for those of us in Texas right now---we didn't kn

I tried my hand at a poem on this wintry Ash Wednesday...   Everything is frozen.  Ice is everywhere.   It covers the trees that were just beginning to show signs of spring.   It covers the ground, refusing to yield, diminishing only enough to reveal the frozenness underneath, hard and brittle to the touch.   The places where I've walked around my house have become frozen footprints.  The cold is all around us now.  It makes me feel tired inside.   I think what I am feeling is grief.   When I was a young English major a lifetime ago, I learned that wintry scenes in poetry were often allusions to mortality.  The poets who do this speak of white nothingness quietly covering the ground, the trees, the grass, pathways, roads... freezing time, freezing everything.   Think of Robert Frost's famous poem about a moment of decision on a snow-covered path in the woods as the poet confronts the brevity of life and the difficulty of knowing what the future holds.   So naturally, on this As

It snowed here in central Texas a couple of days ago.  It wasn't wimpy Texas snow, either.  It was proper snow with snowdrifts that were high enough to cover my front steps.  And it's intensely cold outside, so the snow is powdery and not going anywhere for the time being.   If you are one of my many friends who lives "up north," this probably seems amusing to you.  "Awwww isn't that sweet," you're thinking.  "Those Texans got some snow."  There's some truth in that sarcasm, though. The snow looks amazing, but we have no way of getting rid of it.  I don't own a snow shovel so I can't really shovel my walk.  I can sweep it, but shoveling is kind of out of the question.  Also, there will be no snowplows coming to my street to clear a path.  I am not exactly sure if the city of Austin owns any.  Some of my church members have been without power for 24 hours with the temperature outside continuing to drop.   Honestly, with all of th

I've been thinking and writing a lot about uncertainty over the past year--go figure.  But in this process, I've been reminded of the fascinating ways that our minds work.   Let me explain... It's interesting how I always seem to find poems, lyrics, quotes, and passages that speak to the very things I'm pondering.  Funny how that works, right?  For example, I never really paid all that much attention to Jeep Wranglers until I bought one, and now that's all I can seem to see on the road.   [By the way, Wrangler owners do what's called the "Jeep Wave" to one another. It's a real thing.] Back to the whole uncertainty thing...  I read this poem the other day by poet Tyree Day, and it just wrecked my morning because it spoke right into the feelings of uncertainty that have been plaguing me.   I couldn't stop thinking about it, and so I wrote it down, thinking that maybe I'd figure out why it affected me so much.  Here's the poem:     Every r

Today we continue our journey through the season of Epiphany with the surprise of Good News.  Aren't you ready for some good news?  I know that I am.  It has felt like all we have had is bad news or worse news over the course of the past year.   Here's what I thought I thought would be a good idea... why don't we share some good news stories... some of the ones we might have missed because we've been worrying and fretting and feeling bombarded by all of the bad news.  As I was thinking about this sermon, I got to thinking about the Psychology of why good news matters.   First, let's talk about the effects of negative news over time.   Even in the best of times, negative news takes a psychological and physical toll on us.  But now, with so much bad news for so long---things are serious.   Negative news increases the production of cortisol, the body's stress hormone.  Constant exposure to negative news results in high cortisol over time, which has adverse effects

Let's face it... there's a bunch of things that us church-y say that don't make a lot of sense outside of the Christian bubble.  But there's one that is kind of standing out to me right this second: Doing the will of God.   As in: "I  just want to do the will of God," "I want God's will for my life," or "I'm seeking God's will in this." If you have ever wondered what that phrase actually meant... or if you have wondered if you were doing God's will... here's a bit of a primer on that phrase that might help a bit.  Most of us who have used that phrase before have done so with this basic premise undergirding whatever it is we are addressing when we say it:  We want to know that we are making the right decisions, doing the right things, moving in the right direction.   And because many of us also want to believe that whatever the right thing is,  it is  also  part of a divine plan for our life, we want our decisions to lin

I've been reading a collection of some of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr's sermons in an excellent collection called Strength to Love .  The more I read, the more I have come to realize just how prescient his words are for our particular moment in history.  Some people are given a vision of the way the world ought to be, but conversely also a vision of what might transpire if the "ought to be" is ignored, shouted down or blithely swept aside.  In the Old Testament, they called these people prophets.   But what should be noted above all, is that Dr. King believed that lasting, positive change cannot truly happen in our society without the transformation of the human heart.   He wrote: "Only through an inner spiritual transformation do we gain the strength to fight vigorously the evils of the world in a humble and loving spirit." It doesn't take a lot of effort to see that the world we are living in right now is filled with challenges.  In the words of William

I'm no stranger to failure.  I'm guessing you aren't either.  But our familiarity with failure doesn't mean that we enjoy it when it happens.  Nor should we, for that matter.  But I've also learned much more from failing than I ever did from any successes I've had.  There's a vulnerability that is brought on by failing that breaks down pride and teaches humility.   There are also lessons that we learn from our failures---valuable, lifelong lessons about who we are, how we conduct ourselves when things don't go our way, and how we should act and speak when we lose.   When I was a sophomore in high school I placed first in a speech contest for the state of Florida and was sent triumphantly on to compete in the national competition.   I remember the moment when the winners were being announced at nationals, and I realized that I didn't even place.  I was crushed. I just knew  that a mistake had been made.  But when I received the sheets from the judges,

I spent some time reflecting on the Super Bowl commercials that aired yesterday during the big game.   I love good marketing, and the Super Bowl has become the television event within which the very best advertising agencies compete for our attention, and (they hope) our hard-earned money as well.   There were some genuinely funny and creative efforts (Will Ferrell driving to Norway to advertise a new electric car was a good moment), and there were some pretty odd ones, too (The Oatley CEO singing off-key about the virtues of oat milk was pretty darned puzzling).   But the one that got my attention the most, and left me with a lump in my throat was "The Middle" a Jeep ad with Bruce Springsteen, both acting and narrating.   The ad, which was shot in a wintry Kansas landscape, was an appeal to folks on the left and the right in America to find a way toward the middle, and to common ground.  Here's a bit of the script:   We just have to remember the very soil we stand on is

I've preached or taught on the passages of Scripture where Jesus talks about having faith like a mustard seed at least ten times, or more over the last twenty years, and now I'm beginning to think I missed the point of Jesus' words just about every single time.    Here are the verses in question:  He replied, "If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mulberry tree, 'Be uprooted and planted in the sea,' and it will obey you. (Luke 17:4, NIV) He replied, "Because you have so little faith. Truly I tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there,' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you." (Matthew 17:20, NIV) In the first verse, the disciples had just asked Jesus to give them more faith.  In the second verse they were unable to heal a young boy who was having seizures.   In both cases, Jesus tells them that all they need is faith the size of a must