might be baloney

This last week has been a blur. Too many responsibilities on the radar, life is moving too fast. Departure day for heading out to help with the coming of grandchild number three had arrived.

On Tuesday, April 17, we were hoping to be on the road heading toward Chicago by six, latest seven. At 6:30 a.m. we were pulling out of the driveway. The goal was to make it to Lafayette, Indiana. That would leave us with two to three hours on Wednesday morning to make it into the Windy City.

We had been experiencing wacky weather this spring in Richmond. In the 80s on Saturday, and now in the 30s as we are leaving. But, this morning, the sun was out with some clouds. A familiar route awaited us— Patterson to 288, to I-64, to I-81, and back to I-64 again pushing west. Past Lexington, Virginia, the teasing of the sun on treetops was gone. A gray sky contrasted early pops of color dominated by the purple flower of the redbud trees.

The ferocious storm front that caused havoc on Sunday left behind swollen, muddy rivers and creeks. As we prepared to exit Virginia and enter West Virginia, it appeared that snow was falling against the back drop of the mountains.

Sure enough, a flurry of fine flakes awaited us. Digital signs in the median flashed a winter weather advisory. Here we are twenty-five days into spring, and winter is making up for what it failed to deliver.

We kept going, admiring the snow-covered landscape, and we guessed it had steadily fallen during the night or just before dawn. The good news was the road surface had not been impacted, so we kept moving.

My rapidly aging body needed a potty break. We stopped at the West Virginia Welcome Center. I commented to the friendly lady at the information desk, “nice spring weather.” She responded, “Yes, I don’t know what we did to deserve this.”

We survived the twists, turns, and steep climbs of the West Virginia Turnpike. Soon the gold dome of the capitol building in Charleston was in sight. Parallel to the interstate at times ran the bloated Kanawha River where a single tugboat pushed an empty barge upstream.

The snow-covered hills had disappeared, and north of Charleston, we opted to exit 64 and pick up U.S. 35. Eventually, U.S. 35 would carry us into Ohio. The further north we pushed, the more the sun played pick a boo. But, we were well past Indianapolis before the sun decided to really show up.

Traffic around Indianapolis hinted at the rush hour exodus, but we kept moving at a steady speed. We connected with I-65 and Lafayette starting appearing on the mileage signs.

Wasn’t long before we had taken a Lafayette exit, the Commander Supreme’s research landed us a room at a Fairfield Inn by Marriott.  We checked in and figured out a dinner plan.

Our oldest daughter, her husband, and two-year-old daughter live in Chicago. Their second child was due April 26, but the ultrasounds revealed a baby in the breeched position. So, we are coming in early to help out with a bumped-up arrival date.

After a good dinner at the 25-year-old Lafayette Brewing Company, we purchased a couple of sweet treats from Kathy’s Kandies. Our iPhone navigator, Nigel, complete with a British accent, led us back to the Fairfield Inn.

 

Sleep was needed. I’m hoping for a boy!

During the last week of September 2017, fourteen members from Trinity United Methodist Church  attended a conference for church leaders at the Church of the Resurrection (COR) in Leawood, Kansas. This is the largest United Methodist church in America— 20,000 members, four campuses.

Led for 27 years by Adam Hamilton, COR today has moved from its humble beginnings in a funeral home to become a mega church. Overtime, COR has developed an annual leadership conference that is a hotbed for the latest trends and ideas related to churches.

Our team consisting of laity and staff attended with no desire to mold Trinity into a mega church. We went in the search mode, open to new ideas and strategies.

From Wednesday thru Friday, the pace was nonstop.

General sessions presented a variety of speakers from seasoned veterans to fire hot millennial church leaders.

After each presentation, like an established talk show host, Adam Hamilton, conducted insightful interviews, peppering the experts with worthwhile questions.

On Thursday afternoon, the session with Tony Morgan, founder of the Unstuck Group, was an attention grabber. Mr. Morgan’s topic— Seven Stages of Church Life Cycle: Moving the Church from Being Stuck to Unstuck, was a real look at the life cycle of a church. Mr. Morgan’s presentation was sobering with a serious sense of urgency.

His work is grounded in four areas: assessment, planning, structure, and action. Additionally, a bell curve is used to capture the phases of life for a church.

Seven phases are the focus for church life. These range from the initial launch of the church to the final sad action— placing the church on life support. Throughout this session, I kept thinking about Trinity and where we might register on the bell curve.

Mr. Morgan’s presentation impacted every member of our team. He touched a nerve.

It is no secret that for several years, attendance and interest in churches is in decline in America. Our church, Trinity, hasn’t been immune from this downward trend. An analysis of our attendance data over the last 15 years confirms Trinity’s slippage.

For the last eight years, I’ve had the privilege of being a part of the staff at Trinity. I am no expert on churches as my prior life was in public education. However, I do have some observations.

Within my first year of work at Trinity, aside from an annual financial audit, staff evaluations, and a required charge conference at the conclusion of each church year, it appeared that we had no formal assessment or evaluative tools neither internally or externally to really take a close look at how the church is doing.

From my work in education, I can remember schools I served participating in an evaluative/accrediting process with the Southern Association of Colleges and Schools. Local fire and police departments, periodically are assessed by professional organizations. Such evaluative assessments for accreditation are utilized by other professionals in our communities as well. A timeline for these evaluative interruptions might be every 3 to 5 years.

For the most part, a simple template is used— evaluate everything that is currently in place, make recommendations for improvement, and develop a realistic strategic plan.

But, there is one key ingredient, the assessment is conducted in cooperation with the local organization, but with the expertise coming from individuals outside the local organization.

With churches this would be a significant shift in evaluative thinking. But, from my humble perspective a shift that churches can’t avoid if they expect to keep their doors open.

At Trinity, we are taking a risk.  We entered into an agreement with Mr. Morgan’s Unstuck Group. Our twelve months of work is in its initial phases.  I hope to live through this experience to tell you about it!!

Several years ago in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, I had the privilege of accompanying our senior high youth to coastal Mississippi. On our last day of work, a member of the church where we had been staying during the week stopped to talk with me.

He wanted to thank us for coming to help. But, he also wanted to share an observation.  With tears in his eyes, he said, “The church people are the only ones left. They are the only ones still sending teams down to help us. Everyone else has pulled out.”

Now, I know churches are far from perfect. We have our flaws.

However, if we churches expect to “pull out” of our current mire, then we must significantly adjust our current scope of evaluating and assessing.

This means we must commit to assess every piece of our church beyond our normal predictable routines.

Who knows, disrupting those predictable routines might salvage a few churches.

Last year after Easter, I thought I had a clever idea.

For the last seven years, one day prior to Ash Wednesday, I take a shovel and a post hole digger, and walk out to the front lawn of our church.

I scout out a spot with good visibility from Forest Avenue. Next, I start the process of digging out a hole for the placement of our wooden cross.

But on this spring morning after Easter, I thought— why should I dig a different hole every year for Lent and this cross?

What might happen if I measured the depth of the hole by marking it on the cross before I tug it out of the ground? Then I could take that measurement, match it to the length needed on another piece of 4×4, and cut a separate piece to put back into the hole. And to finish it off, I could screw on to the top of the 4×4 a zinc coated handle that would allow me to easily pull the timber out of the ground next year.

Sounded like a reasonable idea to me. I found a scrap piece of 4X4, measured twice, made the cut, installed the handle, and dropped it into the hole. It was a good fit. The metal handle sat below the grass mowing line out of the range of a lawn mower blade.

So here we are in 2018, Ash Wednesday is rapidly approaching. I start thinking to myself. I’ve got to get the cross out front. Then my aging brain starts to play games with me. Didn’t you place a special timber into the ground last year? Remember, you were hoping not to keep digging a hole for the cross every year.

That was a year ago. Did I really complete this project?

So on the afternoon of Monday, February 12, I walked out to the front lawn.

I knew the general area where the cross was placed each year. With my eyes glued to the winter colored turf, I paced back and forth multiple times.

I’m thinking to myself that zinc coated handle should be easy to see. I keep walking and scanning. I’m so intent on my search that I stumble over a pumpkin stem leftover from our annual fall pumpkin sale.

I expand the search, and I find an indention in the turf. It gives me hope. I poke around with my fingers expecting to feel that metal handle, but no luck.

Frustrated, I start to think did you really cut a timber and slide it into that hole last year?  Out of annoyance, I stop my search for the afternoon.

On Tuesday, I return. This time, I’m kind of scuffing my feet along the turf. I’m hoping that the soles of my shoes will hit against that metal handle. I search my memory trying to remember where I dug the hole last year.

I’m sure anyone watching from the building or a passerby must be thinking what in the world is that old man doing? He keeps trudging back and forth with his head down— is he ok? Is he doing some type of penance before Lent?

By this time, I too am beginning to wonder about myself as well. Did I really sink that 4×4? Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday. Looks like I’m going to be digging a new hole.

On the morning of Ash Wednesday, from 7-8 a.m. our church hosts ashes, blessings, and coffee. A person can drive into our  long driveway receive the sign of the cross and a blessing from one our ministers and get a free cup of coffee. For two years now this has been a successful event with church members, neighbors, and strangers pulling in for this experience. We’ve had over 80 people each year.

In between taking photos of the morning’s activities, I head back to my plot searching again for my hidden handle. Clearly, luck isn’t on my side, the handle isn’t spotted.

Again, I give up. I head inside spending the remainder of the morning working on my to-do list. After midday for some reason, I’m drawn back to that plot of turf.  The southern exposure from the winter sun is casting a brightness on the front lawn.

I start walking again. Head down. Scanning. Then just a couple of feet to my right my old eyes catch the slightest weathered sparkle. I move closer to the spot, and it is the elusive handle.

Quickly, I check below, and it is still connected to the timber. I can’t believe I finally found it. Yes, there is a God! Maybe He had grown weary watching me pace back and forth.

So, now, all I had to do was wiggle the timber, pull on the handle, and slide it out of the wet ground.

I jiggle the timber up a bit, give a few soft tugs, and the timber is cooperating. I pull harder on the handle, and just like that the handle pulls away from the timber.

A minute ago, I was thanking God profusely, and now on the front lawn of His church words only fit for a potty were swirling through my brain.

I wasn’t about to be defeated by a handle malfunction. I used a pry bar to wrestle the timber around a bit more, and then I called in my secret weapon, the afternoon caretaker of our building, Bobby McShaw. Younger and stronger than me, Bobby took a couple of tugs on the timber, and then he pulled it right out of the ground. I thanked Bobby for being my instant hero.

But, my work wasn’t done. I carried the cross out to the lawn from the Eaton Hall mechanical room. Once at our cross site, I gently eased its base into the hole. It fit snuggly. Then I tacked on the purple cloth and walked away.

Upon reflection, I wondered to myself why did it take me three days to find the timber’s handle? Why did I head back out for one more search? Cast with just the right angle of bright sunlight, why did my eyes pick up that handle?

Deep in my heart, I believe the good Lord nudged me back out there.

He was quietly saying to me—ok, Bill, go one more time. Open your old eyes. Use my sunlight. Don’t give up.  Persevere.   

I have not been an avid follower of the 2018 Winter Olympic Games from South Korea, but one headline caught my attention:

Kikkan Randall Wins Her First Medal In Cross-Country — A Gold — After 18 Tries

At age 35, Kikkan Randall is the only mother on Team USA. With her teammate, Jessica Diggins, they won the gold medal in the team sprint free final in cross-country skiing.

By 0.19 seconds Diggins and Randall edged out the Swedish team. They had been battling the Swedes the entire hilly course of 4.66 miles. Until this victory, no American woman athlete had ever won a medal in cross-country skiing.

So what do a zinc covered handle screwed to a 4×4 timber and an Olympic gold medal in cross-country skiing have in common?

Probably nothing.

But take another minute, and think about part of verse 25 from the first chapter of James:  “persevere, being not hearers who forget, but doers who act.”

That first time gold medal in cross-country skiing was all about perseverance.

During this season of Lent, I need to consider my own perseverance by answering these two questions:

Am I going to be a forgetful hearer or a doer who acts?

Much of my life, I have been a forgetful hearer.

If I take a careful look at my world, there is no way I can continue to be a forgetful hearer.

Just like the good Lord nudged me one more time to look for that handle, he is going to continue to nudge me closer to become a doer who acts.

It is clear He needs my help.  

The real question is— will I respond to His nudges and use my perseverance to assist?

 

Depending upon your age, you might remember singer/songwriter, Michael Martin Murphey. His biggest hit song was titled “Wildfire”.  Mr. Murphey had the unique ability to be successful with two audiences of listeners. His crossover capacity was effective in Adult Contemporary and also Country.

In 1990, Mr. Murphey re-invented himself as a singer of cowboy songs. This proved to be a wise gamble. His first album called Cowboy Songs earned gold certification for selling over 500,000 copies.

That album is one of my favorites. It is a mix of classic cowboy tunes, and newer compositions that depict the challenges of being a real cowboy—none of that Hollywood stuff.

One song “What Am I Doing Here?” — captures my feelings about a conference I’m attending.

The chorus states: “So, what am I doing here Lord?  What am I doing here? There’s got be something better out there, so what am I doing here?”

Starting on Friday, January 12 and running through noon on January 13, I’m a participant in the Candidacy Summit put together by the Virginia Conference of the United Methodist Church.

There are 33 of us, women and men, all age groups, with diverse backgrounds who are trying to sort out what a ministry path might look like.

For me, I’m focused on learning about the requirements for becoming a Local Licensed Pastor.

The Summit is being held at the Roslyn Retreat Center just off of River Road in western Henrico County, Virginia.

The Roslyn Center is managed by the Episcopal Diocese of Virginia. The beautiful, rolling grounds are framed by majestic trees, the Kanawha Canal and the James River, an active train track, and stunning vistas in every direction.

Check in starts at 10:30, followed by an opening worship service in the Chapel. The first session before lunch is an overview of the candidacy journey.

After lunch, a panel with expertise in each possible ministry path, conducts an informal, but informative discussion about the journey.

Once our questions are answered by the panel presenters, we move forward into three unique sessions.

All of the activities are designed to provide good information about the assorted ministry paths. But, the leadership team has also broken us down into three small groups for an assortment of activities. These are designed for us to get to know each other as candidates, but also for the leadership team to start learning a bit about us.

The first one is the River of Life: A Life Review Activity. This exercise is based upon a book by author, Joyce Ann Mercer. Sent to us before the summit, the exercise contains six reflective categories to ponder. The goal is for me to draw my own River of Life capturing a wide range of life’s experiences. Then in our small groups we share our rivers. Our small group leader, a local Methodist minister, was a patient and wise guide as we shared our stories.

Our next activity brought all of the participants back together for insights related to our StrengthFinders’ survey. Formulated by Don Clifton and now part of the Gallup Organization this survey gives a participant a snapshot of their Signature Themes.

This session was very insightful as the leader had a wealth of knowledge about the survey process. His skills were grounded in helping us understand the practical applications for what we had learned about ourselves. But more importantly, he was able to help us project how our strengths and themes might be woven into a pastoral leadership environment.

After dinner, our small group was back together. This time the focus was on The Call, and the reading and study of Luke 5:1-11.

In this exercise, the scripture reading was read aloud by assorted participants. Our leader directed us to listen carefully during each reading for a word that resonated in our minds. Then we shared our selected word and offered a rationale as to why that word was important to our discernment.

Our day of work was closed with a tranquil worship service in the Chapel. Our leaders gave us a few reminders for Saturday morning, and we dismissed for some sleep.

Before breakfast on Saturday, we were back in the Chapel for a Morning Eucharist. After breakfast, we learned about the Appointment System process followed by a session on Spiritual Growth and Self-Care.

Next, we were back with our small groups, and a very interesting exercise with a table full of photographs. Our instructions had us circling the table and studying the photographs. After several quiet minutes of study, our leader directed us to choose a photograph. Once we had selected a photograph, we were asked to share the significance of our choice in relation to our lives and the candidacy.

The packed morning had moved quickly. We were ready for the closing worship service. Once again, the thought and planning for each chapel service reflected the strength of the leaders for the Summit.

Lunch was optional. The big breakfast was still sticking to my ribs. Goodbyes and thanks were shared, and I headed home.

While I wasn’t overloaded with information, my old brain was swirling a bit. I kept coming back to the River of Life exercise. I was drawn to the stories from the people in my small group.

My attention was captured by their transparency. They held nothing back relating to the hardships of their journeys. Addiction, parents who were addicts, failed marriages, failed relationships, instability with careers, and health issues for children.

Yet, I heard from their hearts, their capacity to survive and endure, despite these extremely challenging circumstances. But without question in the scars and wounds of their living was the light and acceptance of the Lord. Each attributed their progress and fragile stability to the good Lord. Their hearts were grounded in His love.

The passion of these stories will stick with me for a long, long time, and their openness will make me more carefully examine my call and discernment.

So, like that cowboy out on the range, I continue to wonder “what am I doing here Lord?” What am I doing at this Candidacy Summit?

I’m reminded of Jacob wrestling with God in Genesis.

My mind keeps returning to the people in my small group.

As individuals they have wrestled with extreme life circumstances. And despite these obstacles, a restorative God has wrestled them away with his grace and love.

I think I will continue to wrestle with God about my interest in becoming a Local Licensed Pastor. That checklist of requirements is intense.

The wrangling required to make that decision will not be easy. I’m sure tangling with God isn’t supposed to be easy. But he is a willing supplier of resources—James 1:5:

 “If any of you is lacking in wisdom, ask God, who gives to all generously and ungrudgingly, and it will be given you.”

Clearly, I’m going to need that wisdom.

The sun wasn’t up.  I parked in the Village parking lot where Martins, Ukrop’s, and the A&P use to sell groceries.

Leaving from the corner of Three Chopt and Patterson, I was headed for a run. My course is simple— straight down Patterson to Westmoreland, turn around and come back. It is a five mile run.

I like this course because of the street lights. I can see where I’m going. I’m not carrying a flashlight for guidance.

In June, I’ll turn 65. As long as I have my health, and my current employer likes my work, I don’t plan to retire. I think if I sat still for a week, I’d probably croak.

But from time to time, I do think about wearing out. I’m sure at some point, a part of my body will wear out, or I’ll do something reckless that might cause me to wear out.

This morning as I was running, I caught a glimpse of a worn out fence board. I looked to my left and I saw in a yard one end of a white fence board hit the ground. I guess a nail or nails holding that piece gave up and collapsed. Maybe exposure to the elements over time had worn out the nails causing them to fail.

Human beings can wear out for many different reasons. Could be old age, an accident, a serious illness, or just the regular wear and tear of life.

Somewhere in that wear and tear is stress. Stress can create mental and physical fatigue. That stress left unchecked can really wear a person down.

My 31 years of work in public education eventually wore me down. Stress was part of that departure.

There are days in my current job when I ask myself how much more can I handle?

This is especially true when winter storms arrive. Despite efforts to keep pipes snug and warm, sometimes pipes decide to freeze up. When frozen pipes burst, I quickly learn that free flowing; uncontrolled water has a mind of its own!

All organizations have a person, a woman or a man, that is the “go to person.”

These individuals no matter how overwhelming the obstacles might be—they are able to get a job done. No matter how much the odds are stacked against them, they get the job done. Even when there is no hope, somehow, someway, these people come through.

And no matter how reliable, dependable, resourceful, creative, cool, calm, and collected these “go to people” appear— at some point—they are going to wear out.

When they wear out the organization has a critical hole to fill. Immediately, human resources is in a mad scramble to find a new “go to person.”

This is a challenging task.

Someone in human resources jokes, “we should have cloned our “go to person.”

Who knows the way technology is advancing; in the future a “go to person” might be a robot.

I hope that doesn’t happen.

In my daily reading of the Bible, sometimes I stumble upon a bit of wisdom that makes me stop and think. This verse from 1 Corinthians 10:13 caused me to pause. Maybe it was written for that “go to person” in your organization:

“No testing has overtaken you that is not common to everyone. God is faithful, and he will not let you be tested beyond your strength, but with the testing he will also provide the way out so that you may be able to endure it.”

Perhaps, your thinking is like my thinking. There have been plenty of times in my life when I thought God was testing me beyond my capacity.

Yet, in hindsight, no matter how much I was challenged by my testing, God was at work with me. I endured.

Like that old collapsed fence board, sooner or later I will wear out.

When that happens, I hope I’m still aligned with a “real go to person”— God.

For I am certain, God’s endurance has never deserted me.

 

On the morning of Sunday, December 24, 2017, I had the privilege of speaking at the 10:30 service at Trinity United Methodist Church. Here is my message:

It is an honor to be with you this morning.

Perhaps, in your minds, you are thinking, this is going to be a very predictable Bill chat.

The pattern is well established. He will cite Brian Wilson, Andy Griffith, Waddie Mitchell, Pat Conroy, and to insure a piece of pound cake, he’ll mention Trinity’s UMW.

Well, stay tuned.

Let us pray:

Heavenly Father, over these next few minutes like a preschooler with a glue stick paste these words to our hearts, “ and I have been with you wherever you went.” Amen.

As I studied our scripture reading from Second Samuel, I kept thinking— Bill your nuts. This scripture doesn’t have anything to do with Jesus’ birth and Christmas.

From the theologians who have researched and unpacked this scripture, there are two key points.

First, they figure out that God says “it will not be David who will build a house for the Lord.” God uses the prophet Nathan to deliver this news to David.

But, the more important piece of news from this scripture is this promise to David from God:  “Your house and your kingdom shall be made sure forever before me; your throne shall be established forever.”

This is God’s “unconditional promise of an eternal dynasty to David.”

David’s promised dynasty appears in the first chapter of Luke when the angel of the Lord is sharing God’s plan with Mary about the pending birth of Jesus.

The angel states: “and the Lord God will give to him the throne of his ancestor David.”

Good research theologians, but my nano scale brain is not drawn to that unpacking.

Nor is it drawn to the sharp housing contrast. David has a finely crafted house of cedar, while the ark of God roams from place to place in a tent.

No, it is verse 9 that grabs my attention: “and I have been with you wherever you went.”

Many years ago in Mississippi, my mother’s father walked out on his wife and their three children.

Somehow, God gave my grandmother and her children the strength to make it to the mountains of North Carolina near the town of Boone. Other members of her family resided there. For a period of time, my Grandmother and her children lived in a tent.

“And I have been with you wherever you went.”

Fast forward to Sunday, August 13, the Richmond Times-Dispatch devoted an entire section of the paper to the poverty and housing insecurity along the Jefferson Davis Highway.

One parent’s quote about her children and their living quarters caught my attention: “Do you want them in a moldy motel room or do you want them in a tent in the woods? It’s awful, but where (am I) going to put them?” She asked.

I wonder what that parent would think about this verse from Second Samuel: “And I will appoint a place for my people Israel and will plant them, so that they may live in their own place, and be disturbed no more; and evildoers shall afflict them no more.”

There’s not a homeless person in America who wouldn’t accept a permanent placement from a wandering God. No more disruptions, no more evildoers.

Trinity member A. D. Stuart loaned me his copy of Beth Macy’s book Factory Man. The book is the story of “how one Virginia furniture maker battled offshoring, stayed local, and helped save an American town.”

That furniture maker was John Bassett III.

I couldn’t put the book down. I even asked my wife to buy me a copy so I could highlight sections that resonated with me.

In the spring of 2007, Mr. Bassett had been asked to speak at a critical trade hearing in Washington.

An assistant trade representative from the United States had been speaking for 45 minutes documenting concerns from foreign countries who opposed the pivotal Byrd Amendment.

Mr. Bassett had a full-page of notes on a legal pad. He had rehearsed for days. By the time, the US trade representative finished his remarks, Mr. Bassett had ten minutes to speak.

Mr. Bassett stood up, turned over his legal pad full of notes, and slammed it on the table.

He asked the audience to turn around and look behind them. Displayed was the American seal.

Mr. Bassett asked the trade representative, “What country do you represent?”

The rep responded, “the United States.”

Mr. Bassett responded, “We’ve been here 45 minutes and you haven’t mentioned our country once. Listen, your not paid to look after these other countries, you’re paid to look after us.”

On the morning of Wednesday, December 6 at the intersection of Patterson and Three Chopt, the good Lord slammed down his legal pad on me.

He asked, “Listen, Bill Pike who do you represent?”

Here you are driving the church van, on that sidewalk to your right is a homeless person holding a cardboard sign asking for help.

You could have opened the door, opened your wallet, and offered assistance, but you didn’t.

Who do you represent? Is there any discipleship in your DNA? What kind of Christian are you?

God kept pushing.

The person displaying the sign even mentioned me, God, on the cardboard. Plus, the scribbling on the sign made the point that shelter was needed more than a handout.

God kept pressing—who do you represent?

God was unyielding, he pushed further.

Check your memory, Bill.

You were such a lousy student in high school, who do you think secured your admission into the only college in American that would accept you?

Who was with your mother and sister when they were broad sided by a car a few days before Christmas in 1972?

Who was with your first grandchild for her first 30 days of life in the NIC unit?

God continued.

You go back and ponder these words of scripture from Second Samuel: “and I have been with you wherever you went.”

Well, as usual God, you got me. Another black mark by my name.

So on Thursday morning, I drove back to Patterson and Three Chopt. Hoping the person might be there. But, he wasn’t.

On Friday afternoon, just as the cold rain was switching over to snow. I went back.

From a distance, I saw a person who appeared to be holding a cardboard sign.

As I drove closer, I saw the person was a woman holding a frail umbrella and a cardboard sign. The wording on the sign matched.

I rolled down my window. “Mam, can I ask you a question? Do you have a husband?

She said, “no.”

I continued, “Your sign is similar to a sign I saw two days ago that a young man was holding.”

She told me the man had copied her sign, and she worried that he might have some mental challenges.

For a few brief moments, this lady went on to tell me about her housing challenges and her kids.

I gave her my card, with the CARITAS number written on the back, handed her some money, and I drove off.

“And I have been with you wherever you went.”

You know sometimes those experts who unpack scripture might miss a footnote that never gains public attention.

Here’s one I stumbled upon. I think you will be surprised by this significant finding.

When the shepherds finally made it to the stable, Joseph said to them, “ You fellows come along way. What are you looking for?”

The shepherds responded, “glitter.”

Give me a break Bill, glitter hadn’t even been invented yet.

You know you’re right, but let me ask you a question?

Is our Christmas celebration today more focused on the glitter or that little fellow who was born in a stable 2000 years ago?

Ask yourself this question.

Who is really looking out for your life?

Is it your broker, your banker, a realtor, a new car salesperson, a favorite fashion designer, or a travel agent?

Who from this portfolio will really look out for you?

Will that glitter get you through— your four-year old grandson battling leukemia, the teenage son or daughter fighting addiction, being the caregiver for your aging parents, or the life threatening medical report?

You, me, we—we know the answer.

“and I have been with you wherever you went.”

I’ve been told confession is good for the soul.

Here’s mine.

Sergeant, I’m ready to confess.

I waive my rights. I don’t need an attorney. Here’s my statement.

On the morning of Tuesday, December 12 at 5:53, I used my security code to enter Trinity United Methodist Church located at 903 Forest Avenue in Henrico County, Virginia.

With a plain cardboard box, I walked to the Preschool wing, entered the stairwell closest to the playground, scampered to the basement level, and unlocked the door to the teacher’s workroom.

Once inside, I went to the shelf where jars of glitter are stored, and I took them.

I gently placed the jars of glitter in the box. Quietly, I told the glitter they would not be harmed.

Sergeant, this was not a lightly conceived plan.

I had been working on this glitter napping for six years. I had rehearsed it over and over.

I had even joked with Preschool personnel about my plan.

But, I finally snapped.

Back in the fall when one of our building caregivers was on vacation, I helped out with the daily afternoon vacuuming of the carpeted hallways and classrooms in the Preschool.

Every afternoon glitter showed up in the carpet fibers.

I vacuumed a stretch and returned to the same area a few minutes later, and another piece of embedded glitter emerged from the carpet. Like Edgar Allan Poe’s poem “The Bells” the glitter was driving me mad.

That stretch of afternoon vacuuming broke me. I was ready to act.

Now Sergeant, I assure you the jars of glitter are safe, but I’m not ready to divulge their location yet.

Here’s why.

We’ve lost our way. Myself included— we’ve lost out way.

This is the season of Advent. We are positioning ourselves to celebrate the birth of Jesus, but we’re too focused on the glitter. The glitter consumes the season.

We’ve been intruded upon by the retailers.

On Sunday, September 24 at the Lowes on Broad Street near the VCU campus Christmas merchandise was already on display. Halloween was 36 days away, and Christmas Eve three months away.

The relentless pursuit of glitter perfection touches just about everything we do during this season.

The perfect holiday party, the perfect cookies, the perfect gift, the perfect meal, the perfect decorations, and the perfect recognition of Jesus’ birth for one perfect hour in a church service on Christmas Eve.

Yes, Sergeant, you are correct. I am the perfect grumpy combination of Scrooge, the Grinch, and that old buzzard Ben Weaver.

Yeah, I know you are scratching your head on Ben Weaver. You’re too young, you probably never heard of the Andy Griffith Show.

So, I’m willing to return the glitter and accept my consequences.

But, here is what will get the glitter released.

Teach those Preschool students and all of us who care for them there is more to Christmas than glitter. Help them to value the natural glitter that is already around them.

Show them the sun sparkled glitter of frost on the playground equipment before it melts on a blue sky morning.

Show them the blue of cedar berries cast against the prickly green of the cedar tree.

Show them the stark beauty of peppered gray tree limbs stretching skyward.

Teach them to value the rich red color of the cardinal as it cheeps on a cold, gray December day.

You get the idea.

Anything else, Scroogy Bill?

Yes, teach them to value light. Not all of the tacky Christmas light displays, but natural light from the sun and a full moon.

Anything else, Grinchy Bill?

Yes, share the last stanza of the old Christmas carol, “In The Bleak Midwinter” with them. Here are the words:

What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb,
If I were a wise man
I would do my part,
Yet what I can I give Him,
Give my heart.

Ok, Mr. Pike, we’re ready to wrap this up.

Any final questions?

Yes, Sergeant, how is your heart?