"Patience with others is love. Patience with self is hope. Patience with God is faith." ~ Adel Bestavros, Egyptian supreme court lawyer, preacher and scholar of the Coptic Christian faith (1924-2005)
Bert stepped away from his large, expensive oak desk and walked decisively past me to his office door. I didn’t turn around, but I heard the door shut and the thumb lock ram home. This didn’t bode well. “Now we can have some privacy,” he said in a business- like manner returning to his desk. He plopped into the plush leather office chair steepling his hands. Briefly making eye contact he casually glanced out the window. “You think you’re really something don’t you?” he began. “Excuse me?” came my knee-jerk response. “You heard me,” he continued. “You think you’re really something special, don’t you?”
The last two words rang like gunfire. Stomach acid started rising into my throat. “No, not particularly,” I responded carefully. “Yes, you do!” he said quickly rising to his feet. Suddenly the words started tumbling out of him faster than I could keep up. “You think you’re special because you’re a Christian don’t you?” “You think you’re better than everyone else.” “Well I’m here to tell you you’re not.” “You’re no better than anyone else here…especially me.” “You think you’re better than me?” “Let’s go out in the parking lot and see who the better man is.”
Bert’s neck was turning red and his hands were fisted at his sides. His tirade went on, only occasionally interrupted by my weak attempts to apologize for whatever mysterious offense I had committed. “I’m sorry you feel that way.” “No, I would never think that.” “I am grateful for my job.” “I appreciate all you do for me.” …and so on.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity the rant ended as suddenly as it had begun. “Now get out of my office and close the door behind you.” Relieved I gently unbolted the door, stepped into the foyer and quietly closed it. A moment later I heard the bolt thrown shut behind me.
I stood there shaking. Somewhere to my right lay the door to the outside… tempting me. To my left was the path back to my office. “God! Why in the world did you put me here?”After a moment, I turned left and headed back to my office and away from Bert’s lair.
It was Christmas Eve afternoon three years later. I was sitting in a different office, with a different organization when my cell phone rang, “CALLER UNIDENTIFIED.” Without a thought I clicked on. A cheery, but unknown voice greeted me. “Heh Jimbo, how ya doin’?” “Merry Christmas.”
Caught off guard I proceeded to engage in one of the stupidest phone conversations of my life. In a vain attempt to determine the identity of the mystery caller I gave vague responses and asked even vaguer questions, but to no avail. Finally, after a particularly obvious conversational misfire I outed myself. “I’m sorry.” “Your voice is very familiar, but I’m not sure who you are.” The response came like a bucket of ice water. “This is Bert!!!”
“ Bert? Oh, Hi Bert (gulp)” “How can I help you?” “Help me?” he responded “You’ve already helped me.” “Thanks to you I found Christ.” This has to be a joke I thought. Maybe this isn’t really Bert. “How did I do that?” I asked cautiously. “Lots of things, but mostly the way you acted.” “Even the times I had you in my office you never got upset or angry” (little did he know). I let him finish his explanation. After a few more conversational niceties he extracted a promise from me to have coffee sometime. Then he wished me the best of the season and clicked off. I sat there staring at the cell phone display, wondering what had just happened. “God has a strange sense of humor,” I mused.
All too often we see God in our rear view mirror rather than in the driver’s seat. We wonder why things happen in our lives even to the point of bemoaning our fate. “Why is this happening to me?” we ask (with heavy emphasis on the “TO ME?”) only to find out days, weeks, months or even years later that our “best laid plans” were subverted by a higher power with a larger and longer range goal in mind. God does have a sense of humor, but he also has foresight with a range which is infinite and planning abilities to match.
On the other hand our foresight is minimal. In the confusion and stress of daily life we become upset or disenchanted because God isn’t making it easy on us. This is the “If God would just let me win the lottery everything would be OK” kind of thinking. Life should be green lights and blue skies. There should be no stop signs in our lane and no Berts in our lives to trouble us. There are, however, “Berts” in our world and we are called to be there for them, even if we have to wait awhile to find out why. “The times we find ourselves having to wait on others may be the perfect opportunities to train ourselves to wait on the Lord.” (Joni Eareckson Tada)
Admittedly, many is the day I wish God would just send me a copy of his strategic plan or that I could at least win the lottery (just a small one). In the end, however, rather than having things my own way, it is much more gratifying to believe there is a supreme and benevolent being who has a master plan in place and, in which I play a supporting role.
Dear God: Remind me that life is worth the wait.
“Biblically, waiting is not just something we have to do until we get what we want. Waiting is part of the process of becoming what God wants us to be.” ~John Ortberg, Jr., American evangelical Christian author, speaker and senior pastor (b 1957)
© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.
“90 Second Stewardship” All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Prayer Connection
“Rich is the person who has a praying friend.” ~Dr. Janice Hughes, American speaker and writer
Travis was running…hard. “Hail Mary full of grace.” … heading for the thump, thump, thump sound of the rotors. “Hail Mary full of grace.” “Hang in there RJ!” “Hang in there!” “Hail Mary full of grace.” All he could do was run, head down, fast as he could. “Hail Mary full of grace.” RJ had taken two rounds in the chest and was bleeding out. “Hail Mary full of grace.” The Medevac was just up ahead. “Hail Mary full of grace.” Corpsmen were shouting at him, waving him on. “Hail Mary full of grace.” “Hang in there RJ!” “Hail Mary full of grace.” Without realizing it he was at the Medevac chopper. “Hail Mary full of grace.” The Corpsman hauled RJ in, waved Travis off and signaled the pilot. “Hail Mary full of grace.” Travis saw RJ’s gangly looking legs partially protruding from the chopper as it lifted off. “Hail Mary full of grace.” For an instant he wished he could hold onto those goofy legs and fly along with him. “Hail Mary full of grace.” Pulling his weapon from his shoulder he turned and headed back into Hell: the hills of Afghanistan. “Hail Mary full of grace.” RJ didn’t make it. He bled out in the Medevac. “Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.”
It was July 23, 2009, more than a year earlier. Teresa and I sat in the parish hall, attending a Bethany. Bethany’s are meals of remembrance which follow funeral services. The funeral had been for our good friend Joan, Travis’ grandmother. Several of the young men from the 3-7 (3rd Battalion, 7th Marines out of 29 Palms), Travis’ unit, were there. In addition to Lance Corporal Travis Ford, there was Lance Corporal Steven Wright and Lance Corporal Andy Kuether. Their very presence was impressive. Uniformed in “Dress Blues” with creases so sharp you could cut your fingers on them, hair cuts high and tight, they stood together in a quiet calm; their presence almost regal.
We poked at our meals. They were about to be deployed, we wondered what we could do for them. Finally, we timidly walked over and asked a simple question: “Can we pray with you?” For an uncomfortable moment they remained expressionless. But then slight smiles broke onto their faces. “Yes, sir, ma’am, Thank you sir.” We stood in a circle, laid our hands on their shoulders and prayed a simple prayer of intercession and ask God to send His archangel, Michael, to protect them. (RJ wasn’t there at the time.) They thanked us simply, but profoundly. We promised to continue to pray for them and returned to our meals.
Prayer is an extremely important part of stewardship. Yet it is often the last thing we think about and the first which we abandon. But it is prayer (along with regular worship) which carries us for the long term. Prayer provides us with spiritual nutrition. It is medicine for the soul and can provide great comfort in difficult times. In other words, it sustains us.
This spiritual sustenance is an important aspect of prayer. Most of us serve in ministry part time. We do what we can when we can. The poor we serve, the bereaved we comfort and the children to which we teach scripture are only encountered on an occasional and often irregular basis. These ministry experiences are important to our lives as stewards; not just to those we serve, but to us as well.
Experiencing the gratitude of the poor and the needy first hand helps to make us more grateful. But, if we are often separated from the people we serve, for which we care or for whom we care about, how do we sustain that experience? How do we stay connected to those we serve and those we love? The simple answer is we pray for them. By placing them spiritually in our midst, through the power of prayer, it helps to keep them in our hearts and minds. It is an opportunity to experience our relationship to them daily or whenever we want.
Prayer is itself a ministry. Praying for people and there needs regularly is not simple. It takes some work and planning. Early on I told lots of people I would pray for them, and then promptly forgot to do so. Now I carry a small notebook everywhere I go so I can jot down prayer requests: names and needs. Over the years I have created a few categories to make it easier: my family, those who are sick, those who have died, those in the military, etc. I even have a category for those for whom I promised to pray and forgot.
Prayer is not only personally therapeutic, but it is socially beneficial as well. It makes it easier to remember those who are in need, hurting or ill and therefore reminds us to ask family members how the person is doing. Knowing someone made the effort to remember and ask provides remarkable healing results and comfort.
Case in point, Teresa and I would never profess RJ would not have died if he had been under the protection of our prayer…far from it. But those young men, for whom we prayed, have been in our prayers every day since that day in July of 2009. We have asked their families often how they are doing and listen attentively to their responses. This is the most important gift we can give them…to stay connected.
The 3-7 will be coming home soon and while RJ didn’t survive, his family will be there to greet the others. Pray for RJ’s family and pray the 3-7 doesn’t have to go back.
Dear Lord: Keep me connected.
“There is nothing that makes us love a person so much as praying for them.” ~William Law, English Cleric (1686-1761)
© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.
“90 Second Stewardship” This reflection is written by James E. Carper, Stewardship Coordinator for Saint Monica Catholic Community in Santa Monica, California. All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
Travis was running…hard. “Hail Mary full of grace.” … heading for the thump, thump, thump sound of the rotors. “Hail Mary full of grace.” “Hang in there RJ!” “Hang in there!” “Hail Mary full of grace.” All he could do was run, head down, fast as he could. “Hail Mary full of grace.” RJ had taken two rounds in the chest and was bleeding out. “Hail Mary full of grace.” The Medevac was just up ahead. “Hail Mary full of grace.” Corpsmen were shouting at him, waving him on. “Hail Mary full of grace.” “Hang in there RJ!” “Hail Mary full of grace.” Without realizing it he was at the Medevac chopper. “Hail Mary full of grace.” The Corpsman hauled RJ in, waved Travis off and signaled the pilot. “Hail Mary full of grace.” Travis saw RJ’s gangly looking legs partially protruding from the chopper as it lifted off. “Hail Mary full of grace.” For an instant he wished he could hold onto those goofy legs and fly along with him. “Hail Mary full of grace.” Pulling his weapon from his shoulder he turned and headed back into Hell: the hills of Afghanistan. “Hail Mary full of grace.” RJ didn’t make it. He bled out in the Medevac. “Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.”
It was July 23, 2009, more than a year earlier. Teresa and I sat in the parish hall, attending a Bethany. Bethany’s are meals of remembrance which follow funeral services. The funeral had been for our good friend Joan, Travis’ grandmother. Several of the young men from the 3-7 (3rd Battalion, 7th Marines out of 29 Palms), Travis’ unit, were there. In addition to Lance Corporal Travis Ford, there was Lance Corporal Steven Wright and Lance Corporal Andy Kuether. Their very presence was impressive. Uniformed in “Dress Blues” with creases so sharp you could cut your fingers on them, hair cuts high and tight, they stood together in a quiet calm; their presence almost regal.
We poked at our meals. They were about to be deployed, we wondered what we could do for them. Finally, we timidly walked over and asked a simple question: “Can we pray with you?” For an uncomfortable moment they remained expressionless. But then slight smiles broke onto their faces. “Yes, sir, ma’am, Thank you sir.” We stood in a circle, laid our hands on their shoulders and prayed a simple prayer of intercession and ask God to send His archangel, Michael, to protect them. (RJ wasn’t there at the time.) They thanked us simply, but profoundly. We promised to continue to pray for them and returned to our meals.
Prayer is an extremely important part of stewardship. Yet it is often the last thing we think about and the first which we abandon. But it is prayer (along with regular worship) which carries us for the long term. Prayer provides us with spiritual nutrition. It is medicine for the soul and can provide great comfort in difficult times. In other words, it sustains us.
This spiritual sustenance is an important aspect of prayer. Most of us serve in ministry part time. We do what we can when we can. The poor we serve, the bereaved we comfort and the children to which we teach scripture are only encountered on an occasional and often irregular basis. These ministry experiences are important to our lives as stewards; not just to those we serve, but to us as well.
Experiencing the gratitude of the poor and the needy first hand helps to make us more grateful. But, if we are often separated from the people we serve, for which we care or for whom we care about, how do we sustain that experience? How do we stay connected to those we serve and those we love? The simple answer is we pray for them. By placing them spiritually in our midst, through the power of prayer, it helps to keep them in our hearts and minds. It is an opportunity to experience our relationship to them daily or whenever we want.
Prayer is itself a ministry. Praying for people and there needs regularly is not simple. It takes some work and planning. Early on I told lots of people I would pray for them, and then promptly forgot to do so. Now I carry a small notebook everywhere I go so I can jot down prayer requests: names and needs. Over the years I have created a few categories to make it easier: my family, those who are sick, those who have died, those in the military, etc. I even have a category for those for whom I promised to pray and forgot.
Prayer is not only personally therapeutic, but it is socially beneficial as well. It makes it easier to remember those who are in need, hurting or ill and therefore reminds us to ask family members how the person is doing. Knowing someone made the effort to remember and ask provides remarkable healing results and comfort.
Case in point, Teresa and I would never profess RJ would not have died if he had been under the protection of our prayer…far from it. But those young men, for whom we prayed, have been in our prayers every day since that day in July of 2009. We have asked their families often how they are doing and listen attentively to their responses. This is the most important gift we can give them…to stay connected.
The 3-7 will be coming home soon and while RJ didn’t survive, his family will be there to greet the others. Pray for RJ’s family and pray the 3-7 doesn’t have to go back.
Dear Lord: Keep me connected.
“There is nothing that makes us love a person so much as praying for them.” ~William Law, English Cleric (1686-1761)
© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.
“90 Second Stewardship” This reflection is written by James E. Carper, Stewardship Coordinator for Saint Monica Catholic Community in Santa Monica, California. All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Warm Hand, Pure Heart
“You matter because you are you. You matter to the last moment of your life and we will do all we can, not only to help you die peacefully, but also to live until you die.” ~ Dame Cicely Saunders, OM, DBE, Founder of the Hospice Movement (1918-2005)
Madeline had been with her mother for almost two full days. It was the last leg of a long life. The painful treatments, which only seemed to cause discomfort, had ended weeks ago. Now, it was just a waiting game. The staff at the skilled nursing facility was attentive, kind and efficient. But they too could only wait.
Helen’s eyes fluttered open. “Madeline?” she whispered. “I’m here Mum,” Madeline replied quietly. “How are you doing?” “I’m just a little tired,” Helen responded feebly. She took a sip of water with Madeline’s help, then her eyes fluttered closed again. This had been the sum total of the past two days: Helen’s eyes opening briefly then closing again.
There was a rustle behind her. Madeline turned to find Mary, the Hospice volunteer, shrugging off her coat. Mary had been a Godsend ever since here mother had entered hospice care several weeks before. The last two days she had been there almost as much as Madeline.”Need a break?” Mary said with her infectious smile. “Yeh,” Madeline replied rubbing her neck. “How’s she doing?” Mary continued. “Same old, same old.” “She occasionally opens her eyes then closes them again.” “The nurse said it could go on like this for hours…or days.”
“I need to run a couple errands” Madeline thought out loud. “Go ahead,” said Mary. “I can stay for a while.” “Would you?” Madeline said hopefully. “I won’t be long.” She grabbed her jacket and bag and headed out the door, a sense of urgency in her step.
Mary pulled a chair to the bed and settled in. Like Madeline she had made it a habit of placing here right hand underneath Helen’s with her left hand on top thus cradling Helen’s right hand in between. “A hand sandwich,” she mused. Time crept by.
Mary thought of the hours she had spent with her husband Bill doing just this. It had been weeks before the pancreatic cancer had finally taken him, but it seemed like years. Mary was brought suddenly out of her daydream. Without any warning, Helen took a deep breath of air in through her nose and then she relaxed. Mary felt a strange sensation, that something, or someone, had passed through her. There was a lingering sweetness as if a loved one had just hugged her. Slowly, the sensation quietly dissipated. What had just happened?
Helen punched the call button and in moments the nurse appeared at the door. “What’s up?” she asked. “I think something…happened” Mary replied slowly. The nurse came to the bed, placed the stethoscope in her ears and slipped the metal disc through the opening in Helen’s nightgown. “She’s gone,” she said quietly. “I’ll make the calls.” She started out the door, then stopped. “Where’s Maddy?” “She just stepped out to run a few errands,” replied Mary, still a little shaken. “She should be back soon.” And with a nod of acknowledgment the nurse left.
The nurse made the necessary calls, then went about her business. Time flew by in this job. She was always busy, checking vitals, answering questions, but she had sensed from the beginning, it was what she was meant to do in life. Working her way back up the wing toward Helen’s room she glanced at her watch. It had been nearly two hours since she had been there. Someone in the room cleared their throat. “Madeline must be back,” she thought.
Up the hall and into the room she went, prepping herself for the conversation she knew she would have with “Maddy”. As she turned into the doorway she was greeted by a strange sight. There sat Mary, right where she had left her, now two hours later, still cradling Helen’s hand between her own. She was gazing at Helen’s peaceful face. The nurse went quietly to Mary’s side and put her hand on her shoulder. “We can handle it from here.” “You don’t have to stay.” “No, I want to stay,” Mary replied with a sad smile. “I want to be here when Madeline comes back…just so I can pass on a warm hand to her.”
The great Broadway showman, George M. Cohan was fond of saying, “Make it big, do it right, give it class.” This phrase could be a mantra for modern life. We are expected to do things of great significance, flawlessly executed and with a sense of style. It is irritating when our lives aren't validated , our birthdays unacknowledged or our accomplishments unnoticed. In short, we want to make a big splash in the world…and a nice looking one too.
As Christian Stewards we are not called so much to do things of great significance as we are called to do the insignificant things with great love. Mary’s act of incredible love would go unnoticed by the world except for the nurse, Madeline (and from my point of view, Helen).
Mary hadn’t been trained to do what she did. In fact, she had been excused from any further involvement by an expert…the nurse. Yet, it would be Mary’s simple act, the passing of a warm touch, the last vestiges of Helen’s earthly life, which would dissipate any guilt Madeline might have had for not being there at the “exact moment” of her mother's death.
Love doesn’t come with an instruction book. Nobody trained Mary to remain behind until a family member arrived, “to pass on a warm hand”, even if it took hours. She did so intuitively. Intuitive acts are not something we can be trained to do. Rather, intuitive acts of love only come at those times when we can step outside ourselves and in so doing allow ourselves to become insignificant.
Dear God: May the only significant thing about me be the intensity with which I love others.
“Somewhere deep within us our souls are crying out
‘We're here to help our neighbors out in their hour of pain and doubt.’
God gave us something special to help us see you through
We do it 'cause we love you, and we care about you too.” ~excerpted from the “EMS Prayer” Author Unknown
Special acknowledgment to our sisters and brothers who are Hospice volunteers; for walking the last mile with so many and for being “Stewards of the Door.”
© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.
“90 Second Stewardship” This reflection is written by James E. Carper, Stewardship Coordinator for Saint Monica Catholic Community in Santa Monica, California. All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
Madeline had been with her mother for almost two full days. It was the last leg of a long life. The painful treatments, which only seemed to cause discomfort, had ended weeks ago. Now, it was just a waiting game. The staff at the skilled nursing facility was attentive, kind and efficient. But they too could only wait.
Helen’s eyes fluttered open. “Madeline?” she whispered. “I’m here Mum,” Madeline replied quietly. “How are you doing?” “I’m just a little tired,” Helen responded feebly. She took a sip of water with Madeline’s help, then her eyes fluttered closed again. This had been the sum total of the past two days: Helen’s eyes opening briefly then closing again.
There was a rustle behind her. Madeline turned to find Mary, the Hospice volunteer, shrugging off her coat. Mary had been a Godsend ever since here mother had entered hospice care several weeks before. The last two days she had been there almost as much as Madeline.”Need a break?” Mary said with her infectious smile. “Yeh,” Madeline replied rubbing her neck. “How’s she doing?” Mary continued. “Same old, same old.” “She occasionally opens her eyes then closes them again.” “The nurse said it could go on like this for hours…or days.”
“I need to run a couple errands” Madeline thought out loud. “Go ahead,” said Mary. “I can stay for a while.” “Would you?” Madeline said hopefully. “I won’t be long.” She grabbed her jacket and bag and headed out the door, a sense of urgency in her step.
Mary pulled a chair to the bed and settled in. Like Madeline she had made it a habit of placing here right hand underneath Helen’s with her left hand on top thus cradling Helen’s right hand in between. “A hand sandwich,” she mused. Time crept by.
Mary thought of the hours she had spent with her husband Bill doing just this. It had been weeks before the pancreatic cancer had finally taken him, but it seemed like years. Mary was brought suddenly out of her daydream. Without any warning, Helen took a deep breath of air in through her nose and then she relaxed. Mary felt a strange sensation, that something, or someone, had passed through her. There was a lingering sweetness as if a loved one had just hugged her. Slowly, the sensation quietly dissipated. What had just happened?
Helen punched the call button and in moments the nurse appeared at the door. “What’s up?” she asked. “I think something…happened” Mary replied slowly. The nurse came to the bed, placed the stethoscope in her ears and slipped the metal disc through the opening in Helen’s nightgown. “She’s gone,” she said quietly. “I’ll make the calls.” She started out the door, then stopped. “Where’s Maddy?” “She just stepped out to run a few errands,” replied Mary, still a little shaken. “She should be back soon.” And with a nod of acknowledgment the nurse left.
The nurse made the necessary calls, then went about her business. Time flew by in this job. She was always busy, checking vitals, answering questions, but she had sensed from the beginning, it was what she was meant to do in life. Working her way back up the wing toward Helen’s room she glanced at her watch. It had been nearly two hours since she had been there. Someone in the room cleared their throat. “Madeline must be back,” she thought.
Up the hall and into the room she went, prepping herself for the conversation she knew she would have with “Maddy”. As she turned into the doorway she was greeted by a strange sight. There sat Mary, right where she had left her, now two hours later, still cradling Helen’s hand between her own. She was gazing at Helen’s peaceful face. The nurse went quietly to Mary’s side and put her hand on her shoulder. “We can handle it from here.” “You don’t have to stay.” “No, I want to stay,” Mary replied with a sad smile. “I want to be here when Madeline comes back…just so I can pass on a warm hand to her.”
The great Broadway showman, George M. Cohan was fond of saying, “Make it big, do it right, give it class.” This phrase could be a mantra for modern life. We are expected to do things of great significance, flawlessly executed and with a sense of style. It is irritating when our lives aren't validated , our birthdays unacknowledged or our accomplishments unnoticed. In short, we want to make a big splash in the world…and a nice looking one too.
As Christian Stewards we are not called so much to do things of great significance as we are called to do the insignificant things with great love. Mary’s act of incredible love would go unnoticed by the world except for the nurse, Madeline (and from my point of view, Helen).
Mary hadn’t been trained to do what she did. In fact, she had been excused from any further involvement by an expert…the nurse. Yet, it would be Mary’s simple act, the passing of a warm touch, the last vestiges of Helen’s earthly life, which would dissipate any guilt Madeline might have had for not being there at the “exact moment” of her mother's death.
Love doesn’t come with an instruction book. Nobody trained Mary to remain behind until a family member arrived, “to pass on a warm hand”, even if it took hours. She did so intuitively. Intuitive acts are not something we can be trained to do. Rather, intuitive acts of love only come at those times when we can step outside ourselves and in so doing allow ourselves to become insignificant.
Dear God: May the only significant thing about me be the intensity with which I love others.
“Somewhere deep within us our souls are crying out
‘We're here to help our neighbors out in their hour of pain and doubt.’
God gave us something special to help us see you through
We do it 'cause we love you, and we care about you too.” ~excerpted from the “EMS Prayer” Author Unknown
Special acknowledgment to our sisters and brothers who are Hospice volunteers; for walking the last mile with so many and for being “Stewards of the Door.”
© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.
“90 Second Stewardship” This reflection is written by James E. Carper, Stewardship Coordinator for Saint Monica Catholic Community in Santa Monica, California. All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Livin' the Life
“Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul.” ~ Desiderata by Max Ehrmann, Spiritual writer and attorney (1872 -1945)
It was raining. Not cats and dogs, but raining. I gazed out my office window trying to concoct an excuse for not leaving the building. There was none to be had. In a matter of hours a large “bulk” mailing would be delivered to the post office in Santa Monica. Sufficient postage had to be credited to our account before the trays of letters arrived or the mailing might be refused. The check for the postage lay on my desk having been cut earlier that morning. I was out of options. It was time to get this over with.
Shrugging on my navy blue blazer I slipped the envelope, with the check inside, into my inside breast pocket. Out the door and down the hallway I went stopping only long enough to borrow an umbrella from the receptionist. I headed out the front door, down the stairs and onto the street. It was a six block walk to the post office. Almost immediately I felt damp and cold.
Twelve minutes later I arrived at my destination. The government building was dank and dark. My shoes and pant legs were wet, but fortunately there was only one person in line in front of me. My business quickly and efficiently transacted I stopped to buy stamps at the vending machine. It was out.
Standing in the open doorway, wind and rain in my face, the umbrella poised in my hands I stared out at the gloom. The wind had picked up and it seemed colder. After a moment’s indecision I remembered there was a bakery, two blocks up, on the northeast corner of Wilshire. They serve a particular brand of dark roast coffee that I cherish. I would treat myself. That would be my reward. A few cold, wet minutes later I pushed through the door of the bakery.
The warmth was welcoming. The aromas of freshly baked bread and steamy brewed coffee assaulted my senses. The warm lighting and the music of many convivial conversations stood in sharp contrast to the dreary weather and the dank, dingy building I had left only minutes before.
There was a line of course, but I didn’t care. In a way, I was relieved. It gave me time to ease into the environment…acclimating myself, experiencing and observing. I stood in front of a large glassed-in-display gazing at a plethora of pastries and a bounty of baked goods. The aromas wafted gently over the glass partition.
A Japanese woman and her small son waited in line in front of me. He was eating an organic dried snack of some sort. It was amusing to watch him carefully examine each morsel before popping it in his mouth. He gazed with fresh eyes at everything still in wonder at the world he was experiencing.
Almost too soon it was my turn in line. The young, black woman behind the counter wore teal green nail polish which perfectly matched her teal green sweatshirt. I commented on it and she responded with a smile because someone had noticed. She handed me my cup and my change. I turned and headed for the bank of coffee urns. The dark roast was second from the right.
Steam rose from my cup as I filled it, the complex aroma of the coffee greeting me anew. I secured the cup with a no-spill lid and a heat collar then reluctantly went to the door. Stopping to open my borrowed umbrella I paused one last time to take in the warmth, the smells and the harmonies of many conversations. Then, with a sigh of resolve, I pushed through the exit door into the cold and rain, reminding myself of the many “important” things I needed to do.
Is life rushing by us? Or, are we rushing through life? Most of us measure ourselves against how much we do and what we accomplish. We make to do lists and check items off. If we accomplish something, that isn’t on the list, some of us may go so far as to add it, just so we can check it off anyway. Our electronic organizers and computers provide us with reminders of everything we need to do and accomplish even providing us with alarms or warning sounds.
This is not to say there are not things in our life which need to be done, but are our laundry lists really the measures of the fullness of life. Life is also experiential. It is about growth, reflection and perception. I recall a former boss of mine commenting on the experience of a fellow employee: “He doesn’t have ten year’s experience. He has the same year’s experience ten times.” Perhaps this describes our lives. Are we simply doing the same things each day without experiencing them? Does our fulfillment come from crossing things off our lists?
There is a big difference between leading a full life and a life which is simply cluttered with activities. A “full life” is one which engages our spiritual, mental, physical, emotional and even our sensual being. As stewards we are first and foremost stewards of our time on earth. In this regard we have choices to make as to how we spend our time. We can spend it in the cold, darkness and damp of repetitive activities and what seem to be accomplishments. Or, we can step into the light, smell the coffee, the bread, the pastries; sense the beauty around us, hear the music produced by our family, our friends, even strangers and experience God in all of it.
PS: Don’t put “live a full life” on your to do list!
Dear God: Help me to experience you in everything around me.
“Lift up my eyes from the earth, and let me not forget the uses of the stars…Let me not follow the clamor of the world, but walk calmly in my path” ~ A Prayer by Max Ehrmann, Spiritual writer and attorney (1872 -1945)
© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.
“90 Second Stewardship” All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message. Questions or comments may be directed to Jim Carper by return e-mail or at the contact information found below.
It was raining. Not cats and dogs, but raining. I gazed out my office window trying to concoct an excuse for not leaving the building. There was none to be had. In a matter of hours a large “bulk” mailing would be delivered to the post office in Santa Monica. Sufficient postage had to be credited to our account before the trays of letters arrived or the mailing might be refused. The check for the postage lay on my desk having been cut earlier that morning. I was out of options. It was time to get this over with.
Shrugging on my navy blue blazer I slipped the envelope, with the check inside, into my inside breast pocket. Out the door and down the hallway I went stopping only long enough to borrow an umbrella from the receptionist. I headed out the front door, down the stairs and onto the street. It was a six block walk to the post office. Almost immediately I felt damp and cold.
Twelve minutes later I arrived at my destination. The government building was dank and dark. My shoes and pant legs were wet, but fortunately there was only one person in line in front of me. My business quickly and efficiently transacted I stopped to buy stamps at the vending machine. It was out.
Standing in the open doorway, wind and rain in my face, the umbrella poised in my hands I stared out at the gloom. The wind had picked up and it seemed colder. After a moment’s indecision I remembered there was a bakery, two blocks up, on the northeast corner of Wilshire. They serve a particular brand of dark roast coffee that I cherish. I would treat myself. That would be my reward. A few cold, wet minutes later I pushed through the door of the bakery.
The warmth was welcoming. The aromas of freshly baked bread and steamy brewed coffee assaulted my senses. The warm lighting and the music of many convivial conversations stood in sharp contrast to the dreary weather and the dank, dingy building I had left only minutes before.
There was a line of course, but I didn’t care. In a way, I was relieved. It gave me time to ease into the environment…acclimating myself, experiencing and observing. I stood in front of a large glassed-in-display gazing at a plethora of pastries and a bounty of baked goods. The aromas wafted gently over the glass partition.
A Japanese woman and her small son waited in line in front of me. He was eating an organic dried snack of some sort. It was amusing to watch him carefully examine each morsel before popping it in his mouth. He gazed with fresh eyes at everything still in wonder at the world he was experiencing.
Almost too soon it was my turn in line. The young, black woman behind the counter wore teal green nail polish which perfectly matched her teal green sweatshirt. I commented on it and she responded with a smile because someone had noticed. She handed me my cup and my change. I turned and headed for the bank of coffee urns. The dark roast was second from the right.
Steam rose from my cup as I filled it, the complex aroma of the coffee greeting me anew. I secured the cup with a no-spill lid and a heat collar then reluctantly went to the door. Stopping to open my borrowed umbrella I paused one last time to take in the warmth, the smells and the harmonies of many conversations. Then, with a sigh of resolve, I pushed through the exit door into the cold and rain, reminding myself of the many “important” things I needed to do.
Is life rushing by us? Or, are we rushing through life? Most of us measure ourselves against how much we do and what we accomplish. We make to do lists and check items off. If we accomplish something, that isn’t on the list, some of us may go so far as to add it, just so we can check it off anyway. Our electronic organizers and computers provide us with reminders of everything we need to do and accomplish even providing us with alarms or warning sounds.
This is not to say there are not things in our life which need to be done, but are our laundry lists really the measures of the fullness of life. Life is also experiential. It is about growth, reflection and perception. I recall a former boss of mine commenting on the experience of a fellow employee: “He doesn’t have ten year’s experience. He has the same year’s experience ten times.” Perhaps this describes our lives. Are we simply doing the same things each day without experiencing them? Does our fulfillment come from crossing things off our lists?
There is a big difference between leading a full life and a life which is simply cluttered with activities. A “full life” is one which engages our spiritual, mental, physical, emotional and even our sensual being. As stewards we are first and foremost stewards of our time on earth. In this regard we have choices to make as to how we spend our time. We can spend it in the cold, darkness and damp of repetitive activities and what seem to be accomplishments. Or, we can step into the light, smell the coffee, the bread, the pastries; sense the beauty around us, hear the music produced by our family, our friends, even strangers and experience God in all of it.
PS: Don’t put “live a full life” on your to do list!
Dear God: Help me to experience you in everything around me.
“Lift up my eyes from the earth, and let me not forget the uses of the stars…Let me not follow the clamor of the world, but walk calmly in my path” ~ A Prayer by Max Ehrmann, Spiritual writer and attorney (1872 -1945)
© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.
“90 Second Stewardship” All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message. Questions or comments may be directed to Jim Carper by return e-mail or at the contact information found below.
Friday, October 1, 2010
Guilt Isn't a Pleasure
“Guilt is the sorrow, ‘tis the fiend, the avenging fiend, that follows us behind, with whips and stings.” ~Nicholas Rowe, English dramatist, appointed Poet Laureate 1715 (1674-1718)
He sat on the cold marble floor hugging the body to his chest rocking rhythmically back and forth; like a mother quieting her new born child. Occasionally he would pull away from the blood smeared face intoning a pleading litany. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know; I’m sorry, forgive me.” Then he would hug the body tighter and rock even faster, repeating his litany. Sirens could be heard in the distance coming relentlessly closer. He continued to rock, begging the body for forgiveness: “I didn’t know, I’m sorry.”
The sirens stopped right outside the building, then fell silent. Four car doors slammed shut. Moments crept by. Suddenly the double doors at the back of the sanctuary burst open and in stepped four uniformed policemen. Glocks at the ready. They pointed their weapons in each direction they looked, methodically "clearing" the sanctuary, finding no one as they went.
Then, from behind the altar, came what sounded like a whimper. They paused. The squad leader nodded toward the sound motioning silently with two fingers. Quickly, down the center aisle they went, glancing furtively into the rows of pews. Stopping at the base of the stairs leading to the altar, the squad leader motioned for two of the officers to make a wide berth around the outside of the staircase. With the remaining officer, up the stairs they went, guns poised, safeties off. Stealthily the two moved around the altar toward the place where they had heard the sound. Then, in one swift practiced maneuver, they slipped quickly around the altar pointing their guns at the open spot behind.
There sat 11 year old Jason Masterson. His eyes were red, his cheeks stained with tears and his nose was running. A deep sob shook his body. Dressed in his school uniform, he was seated cross legged on the cold marble floor. Wrapped in his arms was, what appeared to be, a life sized wooden mannequin. One of the officers quickly noticed it was the corpus (the body of Christ), from the crucifix, which Jason was cradling in his arms. Jason had apparently pulled the spikes out of “Jesus’” hands and feet, torn the metal crown of thorns from his head and tossed it aside. Now he was holding the wooden sculpture and apparently apologizing to it. The police holstered their weapons.
A side door flew open, “That’s him officers, that’s him.” I want him arrested for vandalism.” A skinny man in an ill-fitted suit, Principal Atwater, strode up to policeman. “He needs to be arrested” he added for emphasis. “Is he a student here?” asked one of the officers. “Yes, he is…and not a very good one. Now arrest him.”
The officers glanced at one another and shrugged. Two helped Jason to his feet while a third gingerly removed the wooden body of Christ from his arms, laying it carefully on the altar. They handcuffed Jason and gently led him back up the center aisle.
The squad leader paused in front of Atwater. He removed a white business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to the blustering principal. “Call the boy’s mother and tell her where we’re taking her son.” “The address is on the card.” The policeman hesitated a moment, “I trust you’re going to drop the charges as long as the family makes restitution…aren’t you?” Surprised, Atwater stammered out a “Yes, of course.” The policeman gave a curt nod and without another word followed the others up the aisle and out of the church.
Jason was not a vandal, but a victim. Somewhere along the way Jason was told the reason Jesus was hung on a cross was because of his sins. The boy had taken this teaching literally making Jesus’ demise his personal responsibility.
For years we have made jokes about guilt: Catholic guilt comes from what you do and Jewish guilt from what you don’t do (like not calling your mother). Presbyterian guilt comes from not working hard enough, etc. “Guilt is the gift that keeps on giving” (Erma Bombeck), but it is no laughing matter. It is destructive and hurtful. It feeds addiction and incites neurosis. Practicing our faith should help us to alleviate the negative consequences of guilt. Yet sadly, there are those who, rather than eliminate guilt, employ it. Wielding it like a weapon.
There are those who cultivate guilt in the name of stewardship in an effort to increase offertory or to encourage others to support a particular campaign or cause. I have caught myself saying “we’ll guilt them into it,” only to feel “guilty” later for having said it.
This approach is misguided. Guilt should never be inflicted on another accidentally let alone purposefully. We already inflict enough of it upon ourselves. “Guilting” another into doing something is the equivalent of torturing them until you get what you want. And even the best results will be short lived. Healthy, sustainable, responsible actions can never be motivated by negative emotions like guilt.
Real stewardship grows out of gratitude, not guilt. It grows out of the healthy realization we are really not entitled to anything we have. That everything we have is temporary and we have it, not because we deserve it, but because a gracious and loving God wanted us to have it. We are called to be filled with gratitude because God sent His one and only child into the world to die for us; not to make us permanently neurotic, but because he loved us beyond our comprehension.
Christian Stewards are called to save the world. To do so we need to share the good news. And if that news is truly good, it will not make others feel guilty. Guilt needs to be left in the confessional where it belongs. The confessional is the place to say I’m sorry for what I have done and to be forgiven for it. Gratitude stands with us at the altar. Here, as we gaze upon the Cross, we can say, thank you for what you have done for me.
Dear God: Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! I knew it was you. Thank you!
“If it makes you feel guilty, it isn’t a pleasure.” ~Unknown
© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.
“90 Second Stewardship” This reflection is written by James E. Carper, Stewardship Coordinator for Saint Monica Catholic Community in Santa Monica, California. All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
He sat on the cold marble floor hugging the body to his chest rocking rhythmically back and forth; like a mother quieting her new born child. Occasionally he would pull away from the blood smeared face intoning a pleading litany. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know; I’m sorry, forgive me.” Then he would hug the body tighter and rock even faster, repeating his litany. Sirens could be heard in the distance coming relentlessly closer. He continued to rock, begging the body for forgiveness: “I didn’t know, I’m sorry.”
The sirens stopped right outside the building, then fell silent. Four car doors slammed shut. Moments crept by. Suddenly the double doors at the back of the sanctuary burst open and in stepped four uniformed policemen. Glocks at the ready. They pointed their weapons in each direction they looked, methodically "clearing" the sanctuary, finding no one as they went.
Then, from behind the altar, came what sounded like a whimper. They paused. The squad leader nodded toward the sound motioning silently with two fingers. Quickly, down the center aisle they went, glancing furtively into the rows of pews. Stopping at the base of the stairs leading to the altar, the squad leader motioned for two of the officers to make a wide berth around the outside of the staircase. With the remaining officer, up the stairs they went, guns poised, safeties off. Stealthily the two moved around the altar toward the place where they had heard the sound. Then, in one swift practiced maneuver, they slipped quickly around the altar pointing their guns at the open spot behind.
There sat 11 year old Jason Masterson. His eyes were red, his cheeks stained with tears and his nose was running. A deep sob shook his body. Dressed in his school uniform, he was seated cross legged on the cold marble floor. Wrapped in his arms was, what appeared to be, a life sized wooden mannequin. One of the officers quickly noticed it was the corpus (the body of Christ), from the crucifix, which Jason was cradling in his arms. Jason had apparently pulled the spikes out of “Jesus’” hands and feet, torn the metal crown of thorns from his head and tossed it aside. Now he was holding the wooden sculpture and apparently apologizing to it. The police holstered their weapons.
A side door flew open, “That’s him officers, that’s him.” I want him arrested for vandalism.” A skinny man in an ill-fitted suit, Principal Atwater, strode up to policeman. “He needs to be arrested” he added for emphasis. “Is he a student here?” asked one of the officers. “Yes, he is…and not a very good one. Now arrest him.”
The officers glanced at one another and shrugged. Two helped Jason to his feet while a third gingerly removed the wooden body of Christ from his arms, laying it carefully on the altar. They handcuffed Jason and gently led him back up the center aisle.
The squad leader paused in front of Atwater. He removed a white business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to the blustering principal. “Call the boy’s mother and tell her where we’re taking her son.” “The address is on the card.” The policeman hesitated a moment, “I trust you’re going to drop the charges as long as the family makes restitution…aren’t you?” Surprised, Atwater stammered out a “Yes, of course.” The policeman gave a curt nod and without another word followed the others up the aisle and out of the church.
Jason was not a vandal, but a victim. Somewhere along the way Jason was told the reason Jesus was hung on a cross was because of his sins. The boy had taken this teaching literally making Jesus’ demise his personal responsibility.
For years we have made jokes about guilt: Catholic guilt comes from what you do and Jewish guilt from what you don’t do (like not calling your mother). Presbyterian guilt comes from not working hard enough, etc. “Guilt is the gift that keeps on giving” (Erma Bombeck), but it is no laughing matter. It is destructive and hurtful. It feeds addiction and incites neurosis. Practicing our faith should help us to alleviate the negative consequences of guilt. Yet sadly, there are those who, rather than eliminate guilt, employ it. Wielding it like a weapon.
There are those who cultivate guilt in the name of stewardship in an effort to increase offertory or to encourage others to support a particular campaign or cause. I have caught myself saying “we’ll guilt them into it,” only to feel “guilty” later for having said it.
This approach is misguided. Guilt should never be inflicted on another accidentally let alone purposefully. We already inflict enough of it upon ourselves. “Guilting” another into doing something is the equivalent of torturing them until you get what you want. And even the best results will be short lived. Healthy, sustainable, responsible actions can never be motivated by negative emotions like guilt.
Real stewardship grows out of gratitude, not guilt. It grows out of the healthy realization we are really not entitled to anything we have. That everything we have is temporary and we have it, not because we deserve it, but because a gracious and loving God wanted us to have it. We are called to be filled with gratitude because God sent His one and only child into the world to die for us; not to make us permanently neurotic, but because he loved us beyond our comprehension.
Christian Stewards are called to save the world. To do so we need to share the good news. And if that news is truly good, it will not make others feel guilty. Guilt needs to be left in the confessional where it belongs. The confessional is the place to say I’m sorry for what I have done and to be forgiven for it. Gratitude stands with us at the altar. Here, as we gaze upon the Cross, we can say, thank you for what you have done for me.
Dear God: Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! I knew it was you. Thank you!
“If it makes you feel guilty, it isn’t a pleasure.” ~Unknown
© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.
“90 Second Stewardship” This reflection is written by James E. Carper, Stewardship Coordinator for Saint Monica Catholic Community in Santa Monica, California. All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
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