“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.
Friday, October 15, 2010
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.
Friday, September 24, 2010
It's Not Just a Job!
“The hunger for love is much more difficult to remove than the hunger for bread.” ~Blessed Mother Teresa of Calcutta, Catholic Nun who founded the Missionaries of Charity (1910-1997)
The line of homeless people stretched the length of the serving table continuing out the door of the parish center. They went unnoticed by me. I was practicing pressing a #4 scoop against the side of a metal bowl so as to fill the delivery compartment completely. When the proper pressure was applied the 3 1/4 oz. scoop dispensed a perfect dome of mash potatoes. After its ejection onto the plate all that was needed was a ladle of gravy and the plate was good to go.
When I wasn’t scooping mashed potatoes my fellow servers were entertained with my clever anecdotes and stories which were always a bit too long. Only occasionally did I make eye contact with one of our “customers” (“our homeless friends” the ministry head called them). Even when I responded to their “hello” or “thank you” my focus was on the task of making the perfect mashed potato mound.
But heh, I was doing God’s work, right? Serving the poor, helping the homeless and I could tell everybody about it at lunch the next day. In the midst of my personal euphoria, Brian appeared. (Deacon Brian is an old friend). “Jim, how’s it going?” “Great!” I responded. “Here’s another person who will think I’m a good guy” I mused delivering another picture perfect pile of starch.
“I need you to do something for me” Brian continued. “What is it? I’m pretty busy right now,” I replied, not wanting to give up my well practiced position. “Give the scoop to the Cub Scout over there; he can handle your job.” Reluctantly relinquishing the scoop I followed Brian down the table toward the desserts, turning only once; just in time to see the scout plop a misshapen glob of potatoes on someone’s plate. I winced, then turned and followed Brian into the kitchen.
“What’s the job you have for me” I asked with a grin. “Get yourself a plate of food, then go out and sit down at a table and eat.” He could tell I was puzzled…eating a plate of food wasn’t ministry. “What’s the deal?” I asked. “The deal is you have to sit at a table with homeless people and eat dinner.” Again, he read my face. “One of the most important things we do here is treat our guests like…guests.” “If people avoid them by not sitting with them, they still sense the alienation they felt before they came in here.” “Your job is to make them feel welcome.” I stared at Brian for a moment, then reluctantly grabbed a foam plate from the counter, dished some food into it from the pots on the stove, and purposefully walked directly past Brian into the dining area.
Quickly scanning the room I located what appeared to be the “friendliest” table. Taking a deep breath I headed for it, glancing only briefly at the Cub Scout with the poor scooping technique. “Is anyone sitting here?” I asked, hoping they would say yes. A grizzled old face, framed with long white hair, and topped with a weather beaten, leather, broad brimmed hat, stared up at me through watery eyes. “We were sav’n it for you,” he said with a dingy smile and a throaty chuckle. For the next hour the man and his female companion shared their lives with me.
They were brother and sister, which clarified my first wrong assumption; one of many I would make that evening. A series of unfortunate events: lost jobs, illness coupled with no medical coverage had resulted in them losing their family home. They did odd jobs where and when they could. Thanks to the kindness and discretion of a local business owner, their current residence was a vacant storage compartment at a “U Store It” facility. They instructed me where to find the best price on food. Did you know the 99 Cent Store has a frozen food section? I also discovered two pairs of new socks and a well worn backpack were their most coveted possessions.
Finally it was time for them to go. They needed to get to their “sleeping place” before dark. “Thank you Mister,” the old fellow said. “For what?” I asked. “For break’n bread with us,” he responded simply. They hugged me and left.
I turned to see Deacon Brian leaning against the doorway to the kitchen; arms crossed and a smile on his face. The serving table was cleared and the Cub Scout (scoop, mashed potatoes and all) was gone; as were my misconceptions.
There is a big difference between performing job duties and doing ministry. In our ministerial world we have begun to adopt techniques from the secular business environment which make us more efficient in doing our “sacred business”. Computers, copy machines, cell phones have made us more efficient, but have they made us more effective?
There is an inherent danger when we try to run a ministry like a business. Jobs, for the most part, are task or process oriented. They are focused on activities. The three variables are simple: How fast? How well? And, for how much? Efficiency is not a bad thing; it helps us do more with less. But God calls us to be effective as well.
Running a dinner for the homeless it is easy to become focused on how many people are fed, how quickly they are fed and, as in my case, the appearance or quality of the food…but is this really ministry? The word “ministry” comes from the Latin word “ministerium” which means servant. There is a difference between simply feeding someone and serving them. There is a difference between fulfilling a person’s bodily requirements and being attentive to their “other” needs. In ministry we are called to something more…to function at a deeper level…to serve the whole person.
When I stopped shoveling food and started engaging our “homeless friends,” one-on-one, things changed for me. It was the seminal moment where ministry began. Serving food was important, but the meal became a vehicle for something much more important…developing community. It was not simply about doing right things (feeding a homeless person) it was also about doing things right (serving a fellow human being, one of God’s children, in need).
To serve means to be attentive and engaged: even the most mundane tasks can be a vehicle for great service; for giving of ourselves. And when we give much, in turn we receive more. Good stewards know we do not receive in order that we might give. Rather, we give so that we might receive. Blessed Mother Teresa of Calcutta often said, “Do small things with great love.” I know of no better definition of ministry.
Dear God: Teach me to serve the real needs of others.
“Being unwanted, unloved, uncared for, forgotten by everybody, I think that is a much greater hunger, a much greater poverty than the person who has nothing to eat.” ~Blessed Mother Teresa of Calcutta, Catholic Nun who founded the Missionaries of Charity (1910-1997)
© 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.
The line of homeless people stretched the length of the serving table continuing out the door of the parish center. They went unnoticed by me. I was practicing pressing a #4 scoop against the side of a metal bowl so as to fill the delivery compartment completely. When the proper pressure was applied the 3 1/4 oz. scoop dispensed a perfect dome of mash potatoes. After its ejection onto the plate all that was needed was a ladle of gravy and the plate was good to go.
When I wasn’t scooping mashed potatoes my fellow servers were entertained with my clever anecdotes and stories which were always a bit too long. Only occasionally did I make eye contact with one of our “customers” (“our homeless friends” the ministry head called them). Even when I responded to their “hello” or “thank you” my focus was on the task of making the perfect mashed potato mound.
But heh, I was doing God’s work, right? Serving the poor, helping the homeless and I could tell everybody about it at lunch the next day. In the midst of my personal euphoria, Brian appeared. (Deacon Brian is an old friend). “Jim, how’s it going?” “Great!” I responded. “Here’s another person who will think I’m a good guy” I mused delivering another picture perfect pile of starch.
“I need you to do something for me” Brian continued. “What is it? I’m pretty busy right now,” I replied, not wanting to give up my well practiced position. “Give the scoop to the Cub Scout over there; he can handle your job.” Reluctantly relinquishing the scoop I followed Brian down the table toward the desserts, turning only once; just in time to see the scout plop a misshapen glob of potatoes on someone’s plate. I winced, then turned and followed Brian into the kitchen.
“What’s the job you have for me” I asked with a grin. “Get yourself a plate of food, then go out and sit down at a table and eat.” He could tell I was puzzled…eating a plate of food wasn’t ministry. “What’s the deal?” I asked. “The deal is you have to sit at a table with homeless people and eat dinner.” Again, he read my face. “One of the most important things we do here is treat our guests like…guests.” “If people avoid them by not sitting with them, they still sense the alienation they felt before they came in here.” “Your job is to make them feel welcome.” I stared at Brian for a moment, then reluctantly grabbed a foam plate from the counter, dished some food into it from the pots on the stove, and purposefully walked directly past Brian into the dining area.
Quickly scanning the room I located what appeared to be the “friendliest” table. Taking a deep breath I headed for it, glancing only briefly at the Cub Scout with the poor scooping technique. “Is anyone sitting here?” I asked, hoping they would say yes. A grizzled old face, framed with long white hair, and topped with a weather beaten, leather, broad brimmed hat, stared up at me through watery eyes. “We were sav’n it for you,” he said with a dingy smile and a throaty chuckle. For the next hour the man and his female companion shared their lives with me.
They were brother and sister, which clarified my first wrong assumption; one of many I would make that evening. A series of unfortunate events: lost jobs, illness coupled with no medical coverage had resulted in them losing their family home. They did odd jobs where and when they could. Thanks to the kindness and discretion of a local business owner, their current residence was a vacant storage compartment at a “U Store It” facility. They instructed me where to find the best price on food. Did you know the 99 Cent Store has a frozen food section? I also discovered two pairs of new socks and a well worn backpack were their most coveted possessions.
Finally it was time for them to go. They needed to get to their “sleeping place” before dark. “Thank you Mister,” the old fellow said. “For what?” I asked. “For break’n bread with us,” he responded simply. They hugged me and left.
I turned to see Deacon Brian leaning against the doorway to the kitchen; arms crossed and a smile on his face. The serving table was cleared and the Cub Scout (scoop, mashed potatoes and all) was gone; as were my misconceptions.
There is a big difference between performing job duties and doing ministry. In our ministerial world we have begun to adopt techniques from the secular business environment which make us more efficient in doing our “sacred business”. Computers, copy machines, cell phones have made us more efficient, but have they made us more effective?
There is an inherent danger when we try to run a ministry like a business. Jobs, for the most part, are task or process oriented. They are focused on activities. The three variables are simple: How fast? How well? And, for how much? Efficiency is not a bad thing; it helps us do more with less. But God calls us to be effective as well.
Running a dinner for the homeless it is easy to become focused on how many people are fed, how quickly they are fed and, as in my case, the appearance or quality of the food…but is this really ministry? The word “ministry” comes from the Latin word “ministerium” which means servant. There is a difference between simply feeding someone and serving them. There is a difference between fulfilling a person’s bodily requirements and being attentive to their “other” needs. In ministry we are called to something more…to function at a deeper level…to serve the whole person.
When I stopped shoveling food and started engaging our “homeless friends,” one-on-one, things changed for me. It was the seminal moment where ministry began. Serving food was important, but the meal became a vehicle for something much more important…developing community. It was not simply about doing right things (feeding a homeless person) it was also about doing things right (serving a fellow human being, one of God’s children, in need).
To serve means to be attentive and engaged: even the most mundane tasks can be a vehicle for great service; for giving of ourselves. And when we give much, in turn we receive more. Good stewards know we do not receive in order that we might give. Rather, we give so that we might receive. Blessed Mother Teresa of Calcutta often said, “Do small things with great love.” I know of no better definition of ministry.
Dear God: Teach me to serve the real needs of others.
“Being unwanted, unloved, uncared for, forgotten by everybody, I think that is a much greater hunger, a much greater poverty than the person who has nothing to eat.” ~Blessed Mother Teresa of Calcutta, Catholic Nun who founded the Missionaries of Charity (1910-1997)
© 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.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Celebrate Me Home
“The only thing better than singing is more singing.” ~Ella Fitzgerald, American jazz singer (1917-1996)
“Compound” would be a gracious description. The encampment was circular in shape with an enclosure wall comprised of bare branches woven together for support. Frankly, it looked more like a brush pile than a wall. The compound had seven gates; one for each family who lived there. “Does each family use only their own entrance?” I asked as we entered through one of the gates. “No, we enter through any gate,” our Maasai guide replied with a toothy smile. The Maasai people occupy parts of Kenya and northern Tanzania and are arguably the best known tribe in Africa.
“Be careful not to step in the cow dung!” someone warned. “You mean be careful not to step in the wet cow dung don’t you?” I replied. The Maasai are cattle farmers. Wealth is measured by the size of one’s herd and the number of children. A man must have both to be considered wealthy. By day their cattle graze in pastures outside the compound, but at night; they are brought inside to protect them from predators (mostly lions and hyenas). As a result, inside the compound, it is impossible to step anywhere that you are not stepping on dung. Even the exteriors of the hovels of our hosts were plastered and their roofs waterproofed with the stuff.
The remaining male members of the tribe appeared, clad in their traditional bright red blankets, in bold plaid patterns. One tall tribesman wore a blanket around his waist which bore images of the cartoon character Scooby Doo, though he had no idea who Scooby Doo was. Those who had earned their status as warriors, were easily identified by their distinctive headdresses and a sizable earlobe created by inserting a knife into the lobe and then twisting.
The men danced a “welcome dance”. Then all the men, guests included, engaged in “the jumping dance” or “adumu”; a jumping competition of sorts which is a demonstration of male prowess. In the distance we heard the sound of trilling voices. The women of the tribe, even more brightly clad than the men, processed into the compound as if their sudden appearance had been carefully orchestrated. They too danced and sang a welcome song followed by a chanted lullaby, and a song praising their sons. Their last song seemed to have a particular significance.
“What is that song?” someone asked our warrior host. “It is the song the women sing when they take the cows out in the morning.” “They also sing the same song when they bring them in at night.” “You mean you sing your cows into the field and home again…every day?” someone else asked. “Of course”, he replied with the same toothy grin. “Don’t you?”
We Americans spend billions of dollars each year on music and music producing devices so we can plug our ears, insulate our cars with sound and generally separate ourselves from the world. But the world was never intended to be masked or blotted out by music. Rather, it was intended to be experienced through the use of music. It should be our “ticket to ride” rather than a means of stopping our ears with electronic cotton.
Nor is music simply an accompaniment to our activities, like a movie sound track. It is not background noise. The Maasai women sing their livestock into the fields and home again, yet we seem to struggle with a few hymns at church. “Alleluia” might as well be “what’s it to yah?”
Why is this?
For much of the third world singing and dancing are a means of constant celebration, part of a daily ritual, whether it is welcoming guests, singing a child to sleep, a dance of courtship, or a song which carries one through the work day. Our “first world” culture has lost this ability to celebrate. When we do celebrate, we celebrate sporting events, successes, milestones. It is as if we are challenged to find reasons to celebrate. Celebrations are becoming a means of putting our success and wealth on display. We celebrate “things” rather than celebrating our daily lives.
Whether we choose to involve ourselves or not, our lives are a celebration: a celebration of our being, of our existence, of our humanity, of our journey. There is cause to celebrate failure as well. Failures often lead to personal growth and growth deserves to be celebrated. Even death is something which evokes celebration: Irish wakes, sitting Shiva or Dios de los Muertos celebrations for instance. Native American writer, Manitonquat, once described life as a “sacred mystery singing to itself, dancing to its drum, telling tales, improvising, playing.”
If we are to be truly happy we must learn to be good stewards of celebration. This means seeing life as a celebration of God’s gifts; a celebration occurring at all times; a constant renewal. We are called to celebrate this moment in time…and the next…and the next…even when we are singing the cows home at twilight.
Dear God: “Be with me and save me. Take great delight in me, quiet me with your love, and rejoice over me with your singing.” Zephaniah 3:17
“…singing induces in you a desire for experiencing the truth, to glimpse the beauty that is God, to taste the bliss that is the Self.” ~Sri Sathya Sai Baba, Indian Spiritual Leader (b. 1926)
© 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.
“Compound” would be a gracious description. The encampment was circular in shape with an enclosure wall comprised of bare branches woven together for support. Frankly, it looked more like a brush pile than a wall. The compound had seven gates; one for each family who lived there. “Does each family use only their own entrance?” I asked as we entered through one of the gates. “No, we enter through any gate,” our Maasai guide replied with a toothy smile. The Maasai people occupy parts of Kenya and northern Tanzania and are arguably the best known tribe in Africa.
“Be careful not to step in the cow dung!” someone warned. “You mean be careful not to step in the wet cow dung don’t you?” I replied. The Maasai are cattle farmers. Wealth is measured by the size of one’s herd and the number of children. A man must have both to be considered wealthy. By day their cattle graze in pastures outside the compound, but at night; they are brought inside to protect them from predators (mostly lions and hyenas). As a result, inside the compound, it is impossible to step anywhere that you are not stepping on dung. Even the exteriors of the hovels of our hosts were plastered and their roofs waterproofed with the stuff.
The remaining male members of the tribe appeared, clad in their traditional bright red blankets, in bold plaid patterns. One tall tribesman wore a blanket around his waist which bore images of the cartoon character Scooby Doo, though he had no idea who Scooby Doo was. Those who had earned their status as warriors, were easily identified by their distinctive headdresses and a sizable earlobe created by inserting a knife into the lobe and then twisting.
The men danced a “welcome dance”. Then all the men, guests included, engaged in “the jumping dance” or “adumu”; a jumping competition of sorts which is a demonstration of male prowess. In the distance we heard the sound of trilling voices. The women of the tribe, even more brightly clad than the men, processed into the compound as if their sudden appearance had been carefully orchestrated. They too danced and sang a welcome song followed by a chanted lullaby, and a song praising their sons. Their last song seemed to have a particular significance.
“What is that song?” someone asked our warrior host. “It is the song the women sing when they take the cows out in the morning.” “They also sing the same song when they bring them in at night.” “You mean you sing your cows into the field and home again…every day?” someone else asked. “Of course”, he replied with the same toothy grin. “Don’t you?”
We Americans spend billions of dollars each year on music and music producing devices so we can plug our ears, insulate our cars with sound and generally separate ourselves from the world. But the world was never intended to be masked or blotted out by music. Rather, it was intended to be experienced through the use of music. It should be our “ticket to ride” rather than a means of stopping our ears with electronic cotton.
Nor is music simply an accompaniment to our activities, like a movie sound track. It is not background noise. The Maasai women sing their livestock into the fields and home again, yet we seem to struggle with a few hymns at church. “Alleluia” might as well be “what’s it to yah?”
Why is this?
For much of the third world singing and dancing are a means of constant celebration, part of a daily ritual, whether it is welcoming guests, singing a child to sleep, a dance of courtship, or a song which carries one through the work day. Our “first world” culture has lost this ability to celebrate. When we do celebrate, we celebrate sporting events, successes, milestones. It is as if we are challenged to find reasons to celebrate. Celebrations are becoming a means of putting our success and wealth on display. We celebrate “things” rather than celebrating our daily lives.
Whether we choose to involve ourselves or not, our lives are a celebration: a celebration of our being, of our existence, of our humanity, of our journey. There is cause to celebrate failure as well. Failures often lead to personal growth and growth deserves to be celebrated. Even death is something which evokes celebration: Irish wakes, sitting Shiva or Dios de los Muertos celebrations for instance. Native American writer, Manitonquat, once described life as a “sacred mystery singing to itself, dancing to its drum, telling tales, improvising, playing.”
If we are to be truly happy we must learn to be good stewards of celebration. This means seeing life as a celebration of God’s gifts; a celebration occurring at all times; a constant renewal. We are called to celebrate this moment in time…and the next…and the next…even when we are singing the cows home at twilight.
Dear God: “Be with me and save me. Take great delight in me, quiet me with your love, and rejoice over me with your singing.” Zephaniah 3:17
“…singing induces in you a desire for experiencing the truth, to glimpse the beauty that is God, to taste the bliss that is the Self.” ~Sri Sathya Sai Baba, Indian Spiritual Leader (b. 1926)
© 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.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Spiritual Nutrition
“Sharing food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly.” ~M.F.K. Fisher, American Writer (1908-1992)
Our hostess took my hand and led us through the streets of the city. Teresa, Zafar and Jeanne were close by. Though the streets were busy with people there were no cars and only a few bicycles. Strange smells embraced us…unidentifiable foods frying. We passed numerous sales stalls…household utensils, used clothes, hand made items, a makeshift barbershop and bars…strains of unfamiliar music reached our ears. Our protectress guided us carefully along; avoiding ruts and debris in our path, my hand clasped carefully in hers.
“What is the name of this street?” asked Zafar casually. “Name?” She looked at Zafar somewhat puzzled. “The street doesn’t have a name.” “Why name a street?” she continued. “How do people know where you live?” Zafar persisted. She stopped for a moment and looked up at him. “Everyone knows where we live.” We paused a moment then continued on, turning left down a side street.
“Mzungu, Mzungu,” the children called out behind us, trying to get our attention. Laughing and waving when we turned to look. Stepping up onto a large concrete pad which resembled a loading dock, we headed down a narrow passageway between two tiny residences. Turning left we came to a dead end…two doorways to our left and one to our right…we had arrived. Removing our shoes we stepped inside the first door on our left. It was the home of our hostess.
The room was the size of my office. It was one of two such rooms the family of six occupied. There were two small settees and a tiny easy chair surrounding a coffee table leaving just enough room for our legs. Two heavily used wooden chairs were placed near the door we had entered for two women from the same parish as our hostess. Holy Cross Parish is divided into nine small faith sharing communities or districts. The three women (our hostess and the two who sat by the door) were district leaders.
We were in the heart of Dandora, Kenya…
The next one and one half hours were spent pleasantly. After meeting our hostess’ children we stepped outside for a photo opportunity. Then we returned to the house. Food appeared on the coffee table: pineapple, melon, red skinned peanuts, catsup flavored potato chips and soda in glass bottles (Coke, orange and ginger flavored). As we snacked we chatted about our lives, our church, our faith, our worlds. I had forgotten what it was like to share food with others, flavored with rich conversation, and without the rush of having to be somewhere or feeling pressured to do something.
Before we knew it, it was time to go. Outside the door we pulled on our shoes. With our three newest friends we walked back the way we had come, along unnamed streets to the church building from which we had started. We said goodbye and stepped onto our bus. Our friends waved a farewell then turned and headed home.
There is something sacred about food. Breaking bread; sharing food with one another, is not simply about nourishing the body. It is also about nourishing ourselves spiritually and emotionally. The visit we made to a small home in Dandora was not just about making friends, being missionaries or learning how our Kenyan brothers and sisters live and survive. In many ways it was about renewing our connection to the spiritual universe thereby renewing ourselves. The sharing of food and taking time for others means sharing something of ourselves and receiving something in return. It means sharing our spirits and experiencing the spirits of others.
We need this spiritual nutrition. Sustenance is not simply food and drink it is about sharing our being, our life force with one another. This spiritual nutrition can only come through interaction: sharing, presence and participation…communion with others. We can’t get spiritual renewal at the drive up window of our local fast food restaurant or by eating in our car on the way to our next appointment. There is no "spiritual fast food". Spiritual nutrition comes from eating and drinking together and experiencing one another anew each time.
What I am suggesting isn’t easy. We live in a fast paced world. I often arrive home late from work. Even though Teresa has already eaten, she sits down at the dinner table with me while I eat so we can share our day’s experiences. Being good stewards of our time means taking the time to sit down to meals with one another…to be present to them…to interact with them…to share our lives with them.
Just as we should set aside time each week to pray and to worship; we must set aside time to renew ourselves spiritually by sharing food with our families and friends. I know life is busy and there is much to do. As a working couple we have struggled with this for a long time. Several years ago Teresa and I made a pact: Thursdays and Sundays are sacred. Those two evenings each week, we sit down to dinner together: sharing food and sharing our life experiences. Sharing is loving and being loved nourishes our spirits.
Dear God: Help me to take the time to nourish my body, mind and spirit.
“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.” ~J.R.R. Tolkien, English writer, poet, philologist and university professor; author of "The Lord of the Rings" Trilogy (1892-1973)
© 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.
Our hostess took my hand and led us through the streets of the city. Teresa, Zafar and Jeanne were close by. Though the streets were busy with people there were no cars and only a few bicycles. Strange smells embraced us…unidentifiable foods frying. We passed numerous sales stalls…household utensils, used clothes, hand made items, a makeshift barbershop and bars…strains of unfamiliar music reached our ears. Our protectress guided us carefully along; avoiding ruts and debris in our path, my hand clasped carefully in hers.
“What is the name of this street?” asked Zafar casually. “Name?” She looked at Zafar somewhat puzzled. “The street doesn’t have a name.” “Why name a street?” she continued. “How do people know where you live?” Zafar persisted. She stopped for a moment and looked up at him. “Everyone knows where we live.” We paused a moment then continued on, turning left down a side street.
“Mzungu, Mzungu,” the children called out behind us, trying to get our attention. Laughing and waving when we turned to look. Stepping up onto a large concrete pad which resembled a loading dock, we headed down a narrow passageway between two tiny residences. Turning left we came to a dead end…two doorways to our left and one to our right…we had arrived. Removing our shoes we stepped inside the first door on our left. It was the home of our hostess.
The room was the size of my office. It was one of two such rooms the family of six occupied. There were two small settees and a tiny easy chair surrounding a coffee table leaving just enough room for our legs. Two heavily used wooden chairs were placed near the door we had entered for two women from the same parish as our hostess. Holy Cross Parish is divided into nine small faith sharing communities or districts. The three women (our hostess and the two who sat by the door) were district leaders.
We were in the heart of Dandora, Kenya…
The next one and one half hours were spent pleasantly. After meeting our hostess’ children we stepped outside for a photo opportunity. Then we returned to the house. Food appeared on the coffee table: pineapple, melon, red skinned peanuts, catsup flavored potato chips and soda in glass bottles (Coke, orange and ginger flavored). As we snacked we chatted about our lives, our church, our faith, our worlds. I had forgotten what it was like to share food with others, flavored with rich conversation, and without the rush of having to be somewhere or feeling pressured to do something.
Before we knew it, it was time to go. Outside the door we pulled on our shoes. With our three newest friends we walked back the way we had come, along unnamed streets to the church building from which we had started. We said goodbye and stepped onto our bus. Our friends waved a farewell then turned and headed home.
There is something sacred about food. Breaking bread; sharing food with one another, is not simply about nourishing the body. It is also about nourishing ourselves spiritually and emotionally. The visit we made to a small home in Dandora was not just about making friends, being missionaries or learning how our Kenyan brothers and sisters live and survive. In many ways it was about renewing our connection to the spiritual universe thereby renewing ourselves. The sharing of food and taking time for others means sharing something of ourselves and receiving something in return. It means sharing our spirits and experiencing the spirits of others.
We need this spiritual nutrition. Sustenance is not simply food and drink it is about sharing our being, our life force with one another. This spiritual nutrition can only come through interaction: sharing, presence and participation…communion with others. We can’t get spiritual renewal at the drive up window of our local fast food restaurant or by eating in our car on the way to our next appointment. There is no "spiritual fast food". Spiritual nutrition comes from eating and drinking together and experiencing one another anew each time.
What I am suggesting isn’t easy. We live in a fast paced world. I often arrive home late from work. Even though Teresa has already eaten, she sits down at the dinner table with me while I eat so we can share our day’s experiences. Being good stewards of our time means taking the time to sit down to meals with one another…to be present to them…to interact with them…to share our lives with them.
Just as we should set aside time each week to pray and to worship; we must set aside time to renew ourselves spiritually by sharing food with our families and friends. I know life is busy and there is much to do. As a working couple we have struggled with this for a long time. Several years ago Teresa and I made a pact: Thursdays and Sundays are sacred. Those two evenings each week, we sit down to dinner together: sharing food and sharing our life experiences. Sharing is loving and being loved nourishes our spirits.
Dear God: Help me to take the time to nourish my body, mind and spirit.
“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.” ~J.R.R. Tolkien, English writer, poet, philologist and university professor; author of "The Lord of the Rings" Trilogy (1892-1973)
© 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.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Never Forget
“…good planets are hard to find.” ~ Time Magazine
Their friend had died. He had lived a long time, over seventy years, but the weight of those years and a hard life in the fields, had finally brought him to a quiet end. His friends surrounded his body, and honored him with heartfelt mourning. They carefully touched the body. A tear trickled from the eye of the smallest of the group. Finally, after remaining still and quiet for a long time, they carefully covered his body; slowly, respectfully, almost religiously.
When they had finished they paused one last time, reverenced his place of rest, then quietly departed. Every few months they would return to the place, and each time they paused and reverenced the spot where their friend lay.
Elephants are the only species, other than humans, who have a recognizable death ritual. They show a unique respect for their dead, carefully burying their bodies (covering them with leaves or branches) and mourning their loss. Like us, elephants revisit the graves of their dead. They exhibit this same respect for the bodies of humans. Following the 2004 earthquake and tsunami elephants were used to locate bodies. Rescue workers were surprised by the elephants’ response when a corpse was discovered. They reverenced the body by allowing their trunk to droop, standing very still, sometimes making a wailing sound; mourning the human dead just as they mourned their own.
Faith is about being "in relationship", whether that relationship is with God or with our fellow man (or woman). Often our relationships suffer from brokenness, due to sin, insecurity, or self-centeredness and must be restored. This cycle of broken relationships and their restoration, is what some of us call practicing our faith. Reconciliation, attending Mass, making amends are all directed toward this important task of healing our broken relationships.
It is fairly easy to see ourselves as being in a relationship with another person. Yet, very few of us see ourselves as being in a relationship with the rest of God’s creation. That is to say the world we live in and the other creatures which inhabit it. It is humbling to consider that elephants, arguably the second most intelligent creatures on earth, grasp this concept, when most of us don’t. They seem to intuitively understand that the death of another creature is a loss to them as well.
On the other hand, we tend to look at God’s world and its creatures more legalistically. Our viewpoint is one of ownership. We argue over “water rights,” “mineral rights,” “easements;” “we take possession” of property. We even go so far as to sell “air rights”, the empty space above buildings in large cities. In point of fact we really don’t own anything.
As stewards we acknowledge everything is a gift from God, gratefully received to be returned to Him with increase. We cannot view these gifts as something to be owned; rather we must see them as a means by which we build a relationship with our God through their care and proper use. This means working to constantly improve our relationship with God’s creation: To be “the caregivers of creation” God called us to be.
We, as Americans, love causes. We like to get behind things and do good works in support of them. Whether it is making others aware of global warming, recycling at home or spending a Saturday morning picking up trash at the local beach or park, putting things right gives us a sense of accomplishment, but our relationship to the world goes deeper than that. We are part of something larger and greater than ourselves: an ever-evolving creation in which we participate and to which we have a personal connection…a relationship. Even our elephant brothers and sisters recognize this fact, even though we often don’t.
Dear God: Help me to build a better relationship with your creation.
“We abuse land because we regard it as a commodity belonging to us. When we see land as a community to which we belong, we may begin to use it with love and respect.” ~ A Sand County Almanac by Aldo Leopold
© 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.
Their friend had died. He had lived a long time, over seventy years, but the weight of those years and a hard life in the fields, had finally brought him to a quiet end. His friends surrounded his body, and honored him with heartfelt mourning. They carefully touched the body. A tear trickled from the eye of the smallest of the group. Finally, after remaining still and quiet for a long time, they carefully covered his body; slowly, respectfully, almost religiously.
When they had finished they paused one last time, reverenced his place of rest, then quietly departed. Every few months they would return to the place, and each time they paused and reverenced the spot where their friend lay.
Elephants are the only species, other than humans, who have a recognizable death ritual. They show a unique respect for their dead, carefully burying their bodies (covering them with leaves or branches) and mourning their loss. Like us, elephants revisit the graves of their dead. They exhibit this same respect for the bodies of humans. Following the 2004 earthquake and tsunami elephants were used to locate bodies. Rescue workers were surprised by the elephants’ response when a corpse was discovered. They reverenced the body by allowing their trunk to droop, standing very still, sometimes making a wailing sound; mourning the human dead just as they mourned their own.
Faith is about being "in relationship", whether that relationship is with God or with our fellow man (or woman). Often our relationships suffer from brokenness, due to sin, insecurity, or self-centeredness and must be restored. This cycle of broken relationships and their restoration, is what some of us call practicing our faith. Reconciliation, attending Mass, making amends are all directed toward this important task of healing our broken relationships.
It is fairly easy to see ourselves as being in a relationship with another person. Yet, very few of us see ourselves as being in a relationship with the rest of God’s creation. That is to say the world we live in and the other creatures which inhabit it. It is humbling to consider that elephants, arguably the second most intelligent creatures on earth, grasp this concept, when most of us don’t. They seem to intuitively understand that the death of another creature is a loss to them as well.
On the other hand, we tend to look at God’s world and its creatures more legalistically. Our viewpoint is one of ownership. We argue over “water rights,” “mineral rights,” “easements;” “we take possession” of property. We even go so far as to sell “air rights”, the empty space above buildings in large cities. In point of fact we really don’t own anything.
As stewards we acknowledge everything is a gift from God, gratefully received to be returned to Him with increase. We cannot view these gifts as something to be owned; rather we must see them as a means by which we build a relationship with our God through their care and proper use. This means working to constantly improve our relationship with God’s creation: To be “the caregivers of creation” God called us to be.
We, as Americans, love causes. We like to get behind things and do good works in support of them. Whether it is making others aware of global warming, recycling at home or spending a Saturday morning picking up trash at the local beach or park, putting things right gives us a sense of accomplishment, but our relationship to the world goes deeper than that. We are part of something larger and greater than ourselves: an ever-evolving creation in which we participate and to which we have a personal connection…a relationship. Even our elephant brothers and sisters recognize this fact, even though we often don’t.
Dear God: Help me to build a better relationship with your creation.
“We abuse land because we regard it as a commodity belonging to us. When we see land as a community to which we belong, we may begin to use it with love and respect.” ~ A Sand County Almanac by Aldo Leopold
© 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.
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