Lord, teach me. . . .

What you talkin’ about, Willis? –Gary Coleman Words are funny things. We bandy them about with ease, stringing them together to explain, to tell stories—to learn. Sometimes words just aren’t enough, and silence—or a hug—serve much better. And often, we toss about sesquipedalians with great alacrity, only to discover when asked that “that word” doesn’t mean quite what we thought it meant. The church uses a veritable plethora of words seldom encountered anywhere else: chancel, lectionary, narthex, to name a few. We know what these words mean, right? But do we— really ? The Greek origins of the word narthex literally mean “giant fennel.” According to myth, fire was conveyed from Heaven to Earth through giant fennel stems. (What’s that got to do with our narthex, the “lobby” outside our sanctuary? Good question.) The ancient Temple had several “layers,” or rings, where some were allowed and some were not. The most sacred space, where it was believed the Almighty reside

To make pictures big is to make them more powerful. –Robert Mapplethorpe My church, Church in the Circle, is a magnificent structure. Our “Holy Oilcan” steeple is a landmark visible, literally, for miles around. It serves as a beacon of hope to a city in need.  And that’s just the outside. Wander up the front steps, and one cannot help but notice the intricate carvings in the stone, stalwart figures flanking the entryway. Their steadfast eyes have seen much over the years; think of the stories their stony lips could tell, if only they could speak. And this is only the beginning. As soon as you enter the sanctuary, especially on a sunny morning, the colorful stained glass immediately catches your eye, takes your breath away with the stunning beauty of the many, many windows. But even beyond their innate beauty, these windows serve an even greater purpose: they tell the stories of our faith, as Christians and as United Methodists. Before a child learns to read word

Little things console us because little things afflict us. –Blaise Pascal It happens to me all the time, and I bet it happens to you, too. I’m running late, and I really dislike running late. I race around like a madwoman, grab my things and blow out the door, rolling my eyes in disgust. There is no way I am going to be on time. Ack! But as I begin the drive, I notice: traffic seems lighter than expected. I’m hitting every single light—green. And as I pull into the parking lot, there’s a space waiting for me , right up front. I glance at my watch. Somehow, I’m not late. I’m not even on time. I am early ! And then—I just can’t help it—I give thanks: for the traffic, the green lights, the parking space. My eyes roll (again), and I go through my usual monologue with God, because I am acutely aware that every green light for me meant a red light for many of God’s other children. So my monologue usually goes something like this: God, I really am grateful that

Beware the barrenness of a busy life. –Socrates Busy, busy, busy. Busy as bees. We text on our phones while we binge-watch a TV series or ballgame we were too busy to watch the first time it aired. We return phone calls while we drive. Dinner in the microwave because we are too busy to shop, let alone cook. Power smoothies, power workouts—power naps. We have this incredible notion that everything is urgent, everything needs to be done now— and everything needs to be done by us . Somehow, it seems, if we take a day off just to breathe, the world just might fall off its axis. We are too busy to take a break. Truth is, we are too busy not to take a break. Our bodies and our spirits crave a little down time. Even God took a Sabbath, and here’s a news flash: We are not God . (No, really!) When was the last time . . . you stopped? Just quit what you were doing and literally walked away into silence? When was the last time you chose no-watching over binge-watching? T

My life is storytelling. I believe in stories, in their incredible power to keep people alive. –Tim O’Brien Grab a cuppa and a cookie, sit back and relax. I’d like to tell you a story of the compassionate faith of a child. Ross was a quiet, thoughtful four-year-old with deep blue eyes. While other children built castles out of blocks or cooked pretend banquets, Ross preferred to make things with little plastic blocks. One morning around Easter, I sat down with him as he was busy working and asked him what he was making. His answer took me aback. “Well . . . I’m makin’ the cross that Jesus died on.” He knew the whole story, beginning to end. I listened in wonder; after all, this was a public school classroom. Jesus doesn’t often show up there. But this little child was leading the way, and he had me spellbound. Sometime later, I told Ross’s mother about this encounter. Her face grew thoughtful as she told me she could hardly keep up with her gentle, curious child