“Let your religion be less of a theory and more of a love affair.” ~G.K. Chesterton, English writer (1874 – 1936)
John Q was a catholic in name only. Baptized in a Catholic church his parents had forced him to attend confirmation classes even though they never really went to Mass themselves. Occasionally they would attend a Christmas Midnight Mass or Easter service. John’s dad was fond of having a few to many “toddies” during Christmas Eve dinner. Then off they would go to Mass. His dad, still smelling of booze, would always nod off during the sermon. One year, he snored so loudly, the priest actually stopped mid sentence. That was the last time they ever went to Midnight Mass.
Now, at 37 years of age, John Q, for the first time in a long time, found himself outside a Catholic church…and on Christmas Eve no less. His divorce from his second wife had been final only a month earlier; his kids were spending Christmas with their Mom (his first wife) and her new husband. John’s girlfriend, a secular Jew, was back in New York visiting her family.
The office party had ended an hour or so earlier. Rather than drive home to an empty apartment John had chosen to walk for a while, to clear his head, and had ended up here. Even before tonight he had felt an emptiness in his life he couldn’t seem to fill. His efforts to find meaning and solace had failed. So here he stood, alone on Christmas Eve, in front of a Catholic Church.
He was invisible amidst the clamor of people coming to Christmas Eve services. Laughter was all around him as people greeted one another on there way up the broad stone stairs. With his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his black pea coat he wondered if there was an open bar close by. Maybe his dad always had one too many at Christmas just to fortify his courage to go to Mass.
“What am I doing here anyway?” he thought. The answer came back quietly but distinctly: “I’m here because I have no where else to go.” People were rushing in through the church doors now. Mass was about to begin. He could hear the organ playing and a familiar hymn being sung. His right foot rested on the bottommost step.
He looked back the way he had come. The streetlights seemed to dim for a moment. The siren song of the secular world tugged at him. “Surly there must be a bar or restaurant open close by” he thought. His focus returned to the church door and the music flowing from it, his weight shifted from one foot to the other…
Will John Q go in? More importantly how will he be received if he does? The “average Joe” no longer resides in a nuclear household (a married couple with their own children). In fact, we are not only diverse ethnically; we have become a nation of diverse living arrangements. Singles constitute 25.5% of households, the number of nuclear families has decreased 40% and the divorce rate is skyrocketing. The only truism is that most Americans will marry at least once in their lifetime, with the first marriage most likely ending in divorce.
So what message do we give (twice divorced, single) John when he enters a church service celebrating a nuclear family: Jesus, Mary and Joseph? Jesus’ birth family may have been well rounded in appearance, but consider this: Mary was pregnant out of wedlock and Joseph nearly divorced her. In turn we forget Mary was a single Mom most of her life.
Nor did Jesus hang out in the suburbs with nice “normal” church-going families. He was a blue color, single guy. He saved an adulteress from stoning. The Samaritan woman he engaged at the well lived with a man out of wedlock. Jesus ate with tax collectors and prostitutes. He even hung out at the docks and in the rough part of town. In short, Jesus broke boundaries, he didn’t create them. He welcomed and engaged everybody, regardless of who they were or how it reflected upon him.
We often joke about the “CEO Catholics” (those who attend at Christmas and Easter only) but why do they keep returning to our doors every year? What keeps them coming back? They are not finding the spiritual sustenance they need in the world. Like John Q nothing seems to satisfy the emptiness in their lives. But what do we have to offer them instead?
As Christian stewards what are we doing to welcome our CEO’s (and I don’t mean those who run companies)? How are we communicating to them they are welcome at our parish or in our homes? Are we the loving father of the prodigal son welcoming them with open arms…running to greet them? Or, are we the resentful older brother, who, because we never left (our church), feel entitled. Are we breaking boundaries or are we creating artificial ones?
This Christmas I ask you, I challenge you, to say hello to someone you don’t recognize at church. Greet people outside, as well as inside. Does John Q go up the stairs and enter the church on Christmas Eve? It might be your greeting or “Merry Christmas” or a thoughtful “How are you?” which makes the difference. We need to be like Jesus: welcoming everyone. We need to be the face of Christ to the world.
Dear God: When it comes to welcoming people let me be a boundary breaker.
“The church is the great lost and found department.” ~ Rev. Robert L. Short, Presbyterian minister and writer (1932-2009)
© 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, December 17, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
The Noise Next Door
“Brotherhood is the very price and condition of man’s survival.”~Carlos P. Romulo, Filipino diplomat, politician, soldier, journalist and author (1899-1985)
Teresa and I sat across the table from our old friends Richard and Penny. Richard is a Federal Court Judge from Pittsburgh and Penny, a linguistics professor from Thailand. The music and noise from the next room was distracting making it hard to follow a conversation. It wasn’t exactly unbearable, but it was, without a doubt, annoying. The tables in our room were jammed so tightly together every time someone stood up their chair banged into the chair of the person behind them.
We were attending a Christmas party for the Italian Catholic Federation. Normally they are fun, festive affairs held in our Parish Hall. This year, however, the hall had been inadvertently double booked; over lapping our event with the Filipino Catholic Community’s annual Christmas party. In an effort to accommodate everyone it had been decided we would divide the hall space by way of a folding partition used to separate Religious Education classes. A single hallway connected the two rooms to the Parish kitchen which both groups were sharing as well.
What had first seemed like an amicable solution was quickly turning into an irritating debacle, however. The claustrophobic space and the cacophony produced by two very different styles of Christmas music playing simultaneously were making everybody edgy. I watched as Jim Fillipelli and John Viani communicated silently to one another with a glance and a nod. Like a couple of “wise guys” on an assignment they rose from their chairs and quietly slipped out, disappearing up the hallway. I wasn’t the only one who noticed their departure as the room got noticeably quieter with expectation.
Suddenly there was a loud thud at one end of the wall as the trip panel was shoved open allowing the wall panels to slide freely in their track. The partitions separated at the center and the panels began to slide apart folding up flat at the exterior walls. Several times the process had to be halted so tables could be moved out of the path of the folding walls. It quickly became apparent that Jim and John had negotiated a truce. It had been decided it was better to have one big Christmas party than two cramped little ones.
Serving tables and eating tables quickly blended together and suddenly everyone had more space. The feast was amazing: kare-kare (Filipino stew), seafood linguini, pancit, lasagna, lumpia, raviolis and chicken pork adobo. Then came the desserts: pizzelles, suman luya (sweet rice with ginger) biscotti, suman moran (chocolate rice cake), anisette cookies; there was even a flan of unknown ethnic origin. Isaiah’s holy mountain could not have had better food.
Richard and I leaned against the wall sipping our espressos, chatting with Julie Labatique who explained the Filipino dances to us. We watched as Filipino children bounced on the lap of an Italian Santa Claus. The cooks swapped samples, recipes, sources for key ingredients and helpful hints. Italian grandmothers with blue hair pinned in tight buns clapped out rhythms as Filipino teenagers danced the Tinikling (the National dance of the Philippines).
As the evening began to wind down I noticed the two members of the Filipino band (a guitar player and keyboardist) whispering to one another. Suddenly they struck up their version of “That’s Amore!” We all joined in even if it only meant yelling out “That’s Amore!” at the appropriate time. I was choking with laughter between my efforts to sing.
An hour later my wife and I found ourselves escaping into the parking lot with our white plastic bag of foil wrapped food (seafood pancit, lasagna and an assortment of cookies). We exchange anecdotes of the evening as we headed for our car. “Thank God everyone had the good sense to put the Christmas parties together,” Teresa observed. “Yes,” I replied, looking up at the full moon. “Thank God!”
What happened at that Christmas party? Was there really more room and more food or did it just seem that way? Why was it, when the wall finally came apart, irritation changed to joy? Why was it two very different worlds did not collide but blended gracefully together?
It was a stewardship moment. A vision of what the world could be. It was no longer a case of my room, but our room. It was no longer my food but our food. In one defining instant everyone had a moment of clarity when the good of all overcame what was advantageous for a few. Everyone was vested in everything. Everything became a gift, gratefully received and returned to God with increase. “Me” became “We” and we shared who we were…our cultures, our heritage, ourselves.
When we stop protecting who we are, start being who we are, and begin sharing who we are, our lives change dramatically.
This is what it means to enter a loop of grace. Through giving, we receive more in return than we would have if we had not shared. This includes sharing ourselves. Imagine what it would have been like if the two groups had stuck it out in their two confined spaces…the irritation, the agitation, the grumbling. But when we gave of ourselves to one another everything seemed bigger, better, happier.
This is very much the story of the multiplication of the loaves which appears in all four gospels. The more we give the more we receive in return. The more grateful we are and the happier we become. Jesus loved banquets and I am sure he enjoyed ours that evening.
Buon Natale or should I say Maligayang Pasko!!!!
Either way…MERRY CHRISTMAS.
Dear God, teach me to give of myself.
"Love is when someone gives you a piece of your soul, that you never knew was missing." ~Torquato Tasso, Italian Poet (1544-1595)
© 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.
Teresa and I sat across the table from our old friends Richard and Penny. Richard is a Federal Court Judge from Pittsburgh and Penny, a linguistics professor from Thailand. The music and noise from the next room was distracting making it hard to follow a conversation. It wasn’t exactly unbearable, but it was, without a doubt, annoying. The tables in our room were jammed so tightly together every time someone stood up their chair banged into the chair of the person behind them.
We were attending a Christmas party for the Italian Catholic Federation. Normally they are fun, festive affairs held in our Parish Hall. This year, however, the hall had been inadvertently double booked; over lapping our event with the Filipino Catholic Community’s annual Christmas party. In an effort to accommodate everyone it had been decided we would divide the hall space by way of a folding partition used to separate Religious Education classes. A single hallway connected the two rooms to the Parish kitchen which both groups were sharing as well.
What had first seemed like an amicable solution was quickly turning into an irritating debacle, however. The claustrophobic space and the cacophony produced by two very different styles of Christmas music playing simultaneously were making everybody edgy. I watched as Jim Fillipelli and John Viani communicated silently to one another with a glance and a nod. Like a couple of “wise guys” on an assignment they rose from their chairs and quietly slipped out, disappearing up the hallway. I wasn’t the only one who noticed their departure as the room got noticeably quieter with expectation.
Suddenly there was a loud thud at one end of the wall as the trip panel was shoved open allowing the wall panels to slide freely in their track. The partitions separated at the center and the panels began to slide apart folding up flat at the exterior walls. Several times the process had to be halted so tables could be moved out of the path of the folding walls. It quickly became apparent that Jim and John had negotiated a truce. It had been decided it was better to have one big Christmas party than two cramped little ones.
Serving tables and eating tables quickly blended together and suddenly everyone had more space. The feast was amazing: kare-kare (Filipino stew), seafood linguini, pancit, lasagna, lumpia, raviolis and chicken pork adobo. Then came the desserts: pizzelles, suman luya (sweet rice with ginger) biscotti, suman moran (chocolate rice cake), anisette cookies; there was even a flan of unknown ethnic origin. Isaiah’s holy mountain could not have had better food.
Richard and I leaned against the wall sipping our espressos, chatting with Julie Labatique who explained the Filipino dances to us. We watched as Filipino children bounced on the lap of an Italian Santa Claus. The cooks swapped samples, recipes, sources for key ingredients and helpful hints. Italian grandmothers with blue hair pinned in tight buns clapped out rhythms as Filipino teenagers danced the Tinikling (the National dance of the Philippines).
As the evening began to wind down I noticed the two members of the Filipino band (a guitar player and keyboardist) whispering to one another. Suddenly they struck up their version of “That’s Amore!” We all joined in even if it only meant yelling out “That’s Amore!” at the appropriate time. I was choking with laughter between my efforts to sing.
An hour later my wife and I found ourselves escaping into the parking lot with our white plastic bag of foil wrapped food (seafood pancit, lasagna and an assortment of cookies). We exchange anecdotes of the evening as we headed for our car. “Thank God everyone had the good sense to put the Christmas parties together,” Teresa observed. “Yes,” I replied, looking up at the full moon. “Thank God!”
What happened at that Christmas party? Was there really more room and more food or did it just seem that way? Why was it, when the wall finally came apart, irritation changed to joy? Why was it two very different worlds did not collide but blended gracefully together?
It was a stewardship moment. A vision of what the world could be. It was no longer a case of my room, but our room. It was no longer my food but our food. In one defining instant everyone had a moment of clarity when the good of all overcame what was advantageous for a few. Everyone was vested in everything. Everything became a gift, gratefully received and returned to God with increase. “Me” became “We” and we shared who we were…our cultures, our heritage, ourselves.
When we stop protecting who we are, start being who we are, and begin sharing who we are, our lives change dramatically.
This is what it means to enter a loop of grace. Through giving, we receive more in return than we would have if we had not shared. This includes sharing ourselves. Imagine what it would have been like if the two groups had stuck it out in their two confined spaces…the irritation, the agitation, the grumbling. But when we gave of ourselves to one another everything seemed bigger, better, happier.
This is very much the story of the multiplication of the loaves which appears in all four gospels. The more we give the more we receive in return. The more grateful we are and the happier we become. Jesus loved banquets and I am sure he enjoyed ours that evening.
Buon Natale or should I say Maligayang Pasko!!!!
Either way…MERRY CHRISTMAS.
Dear God, teach me to give of myself.
"Love is when someone gives you a piece of your soul, that you never knew was missing." ~Torquato Tasso, Italian Poet (1544-1595)
© 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, December 3, 2010
Minister Ministry
“The human contribution is the essential ingredient. It is only in the giving of oneself to others that we truly live.” ~ Ethel Percy Andrus, American Educator and first woman principal in California (1884-1967)
Situated strategically between the steam table of white meat and the vat of cream gravy stood my wife Teresa, her large metal spoon poised over mounds of mashed potatoes and stacks of stuffing. It was the day before Thanksgiving and the St. Monica Thanksgiving dinner and clothes boutique for the less fortunate was in final preparation mode. A kind of ordered chaos had descended on the place. You know you’ve got a large scale ministry event when people volunteer to feed the volunteers.
Gerard to her left and Ana to her right Teresa and her partners were serving up lunch for the first wave of 600 volunteers. Gerard ran his non-stop patter of “white meat or dark” while Ana swirled gravy onto anything that wasn’t moving.
I was in line, approaching like a supplicant, my white paper plate extended in both hands. Having made sure Gerard served me only my prescribed portion of dark meat I gave my wife a wink to assure I got extra stuffing. And, before I could give her direction, Ana covered everything on my plate with gravy.
As I turned to leave a heavily accented voice stopped me, “You- haven’t-a-come-to-my-a-table-yet.” Turning toward the voice I came face to face with a spectacled, grandmotherly countenance. Her nickname was Meemee (short for Immaculata no doubt). She looked like something out of a greeting card: flowered house dress, a crocheted sweater, wire-rimmed glasses and sensible lace up black shoes. “Where are you from,” I asked? “Napoli,” she replied rhythmically. “You-needa-some-sweet-a-potatoes.” I wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement. “Sure,” I responded without thinking.
In the midst of the gravy, a generous portion of candied sweet potatoes landed on my plate. I turned to leave a second time. “You-don’t-a-have-a-no-pumpkin-pie.” After 30 plus years of Italian in-laws I knew better than to argue with Meemee over food or portions. Nothing makes an Italian happier than preparing food and serving it (unless it’s winning the world cup). “There’s no room on my plate,” I apologized. “That’s-a-no-problem,” Meemee said with a smile handing me a second plate. “You like serving food,” I observed. “I-a-do. But-it-would-be-a-better-if-a-I-had-a-little-glass-of-wine.” As I walked away I smiled to myself thinking they had put the perfect person in charge of that food table.
The contemporary church rests at a tipping point between the spiritual and the material worlds. God, in the unfolding of His creation, has blessed us with technology and management techniques to make us more efficient. When we apply these to the stewardship of time and talent (or what the secular world calls volunteerism) it gives us the ability to do more with less.
There is, however, an inherent danger here. Secular not-for-profit organizations often rationalize and frequently emotionalize their causes, but they rarely, if ever, spiritualize their efforts. We too, in our efforts to be more efficient and effective, run the risk of failing to nurture those who are of service to others…failing to spiritualize and even ritualize what we do. It is at this razor thin line of demarcation where simple volunteerism is delineated from ministry.
Like many things in our lives our efforts to do good works in the world more efficiently have resulted in our adopting business models of management. Volunteers are recruited, trained and managed just as we would recruit, train and manage employees. In this rush to be more efficient are we truly being more effective, or are we losing the human quality which distinguishes our efforts?
There is a difference between being an organization to which people donate their time and one which provides emotional and spiritual nourishment through active participation in ministry. Ministers are invited, formed and affirmed. Volunteers are recruited, trained and hopefully thanked.
We receive spiritual nourishment from being of service which nothing else can duplicate. It fills a hole in our soul no amount of possessions can. People need to be of service rather than simply providing service. We have an innate desire to do good works in the world. People need to do ministry more than we need people for ministry. Those of us who coordinate others (ministers or volunteers) should be constantly mindful of this need.
There is an indescribable mirth and excitement when people can sense they are making a difference in the lives of others. I saw it in the eyes of those who served me food that day. They had a sense of something “bigger than themselves”. It was not just about dishing out food, but about serving others.
Those of us who are the stewards of those who offer their time and talent for the betterment of the world have a responsibility to assure they are spiritually nourished and cared for. Often this means cherishing them and affirming them. Other times it means picking them up when things go horribly wrong. We are stewards of the stewards because sometimes ministering to the ministers is the ministry. Even if it means making sure they have an occasional “little glass of wine.”
Dear God: Help me to nourish the spirits of those who nourish the bodies and minds of others.
“If you want to build a ship, don't drum up people together to collect wood and don't assign them tasks and work, but rather teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea.” ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupery, French writer and aviator (1900-1944).
© 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.
Situated strategically between the steam table of white meat and the vat of cream gravy stood my wife Teresa, her large metal spoon poised over mounds of mashed potatoes and stacks of stuffing. It was the day before Thanksgiving and the St. Monica Thanksgiving dinner and clothes boutique for the less fortunate was in final preparation mode. A kind of ordered chaos had descended on the place. You know you’ve got a large scale ministry event when people volunteer to feed the volunteers.
Gerard to her left and Ana to her right Teresa and her partners were serving up lunch for the first wave of 600 volunteers. Gerard ran his non-stop patter of “white meat or dark” while Ana swirled gravy onto anything that wasn’t moving.
I was in line, approaching like a supplicant, my white paper plate extended in both hands. Having made sure Gerard served me only my prescribed portion of dark meat I gave my wife a wink to assure I got extra stuffing. And, before I could give her direction, Ana covered everything on my plate with gravy.
As I turned to leave a heavily accented voice stopped me, “You- haven’t-a-come-to-my-a-table-yet.” Turning toward the voice I came face to face with a spectacled, grandmotherly countenance. Her nickname was Meemee (short for Immaculata no doubt). She looked like something out of a greeting card: flowered house dress, a crocheted sweater, wire-rimmed glasses and sensible lace up black shoes. “Where are you from,” I asked? “Napoli,” she replied rhythmically. “You-needa-some-sweet-a-potatoes.” I wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement. “Sure,” I responded without thinking.
In the midst of the gravy, a generous portion of candied sweet potatoes landed on my plate. I turned to leave a second time. “You-don’t-a-have-a-no-pumpkin-pie.” After 30 plus years of Italian in-laws I knew better than to argue with Meemee over food or portions. Nothing makes an Italian happier than preparing food and serving it (unless it’s winning the world cup). “There’s no room on my plate,” I apologized. “That’s-a-no-problem,” Meemee said with a smile handing me a second plate. “You like serving food,” I observed. “I-a-do. But-it-would-be-a-better-if-a-I-had-a-little-glass-of-wine.” As I walked away I smiled to myself thinking they had put the perfect person in charge of that food table.
The contemporary church rests at a tipping point between the spiritual and the material worlds. God, in the unfolding of His creation, has blessed us with technology and management techniques to make us more efficient. When we apply these to the stewardship of time and talent (or what the secular world calls volunteerism) it gives us the ability to do more with less.
There is, however, an inherent danger here. Secular not-for-profit organizations often rationalize and frequently emotionalize their causes, but they rarely, if ever, spiritualize their efforts. We too, in our efforts to be more efficient and effective, run the risk of failing to nurture those who are of service to others…failing to spiritualize and even ritualize what we do. It is at this razor thin line of demarcation where simple volunteerism is delineated from ministry.
Like many things in our lives our efforts to do good works in the world more efficiently have resulted in our adopting business models of management. Volunteers are recruited, trained and managed just as we would recruit, train and manage employees. In this rush to be more efficient are we truly being more effective, or are we losing the human quality which distinguishes our efforts?
There is a difference between being an organization to which people donate their time and one which provides emotional and spiritual nourishment through active participation in ministry. Ministers are invited, formed and affirmed. Volunteers are recruited, trained and hopefully thanked.
We receive spiritual nourishment from being of service which nothing else can duplicate. It fills a hole in our soul no amount of possessions can. People need to be of service rather than simply providing service. We have an innate desire to do good works in the world. People need to do ministry more than we need people for ministry. Those of us who coordinate others (ministers or volunteers) should be constantly mindful of this need.
There is an indescribable mirth and excitement when people can sense they are making a difference in the lives of others. I saw it in the eyes of those who served me food that day. They had a sense of something “bigger than themselves”. It was not just about dishing out food, but about serving others.
Those of us who are the stewards of those who offer their time and talent for the betterment of the world have a responsibility to assure they are spiritually nourished and cared for. Often this means cherishing them and affirming them. Other times it means picking them up when things go horribly wrong. We are stewards of the stewards because sometimes ministering to the ministers is the ministry. Even if it means making sure they have an occasional “little glass of wine.”
Dear God: Help me to nourish the spirits of those who nourish the bodies and minds of others.
“If you want to build a ship, don't drum up people together to collect wood and don't assign them tasks and work, but rather teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea.” ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupery, French writer and aviator (1900-1944).
© 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.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
On a Mission
“I expect to pass through this life but once. If therefore, there be any kindness I can show, or any good thing I can do to any fellow being, let me do it now, and not defer or neglect it, as I shall not pass this way again.” ~William Penn, English real estate entrepreneur, philosopher, and founder of the “Province” of Pennsylvania (1644-1718)
“What do you think about us going to the mission and feeding the homeless for Thanksgiving?” I asked my dubious daughter. “I guess it’s OK,” she replied with a shrug. I could tell she had no idea what she was getting into. Frankly, neither did I.
It was the weekend before Thanksgiving and I was feeling particularly parental. My daughter was in fourth grade and I got the bright idea it was time to give her a “positive life experience.” My plan was to go to the local mission, feed the homeless Thanksgiving dinner for a couple hours, then go to a nice hotel brunch for our Thanksgiving dinner. There was a particularly lavish one I had wanted to try out.
(No good deed goes unpunished it seems. Particularly when it is our idea of a good deed and we have strings attached to it.) Leafing through the yellow pages I quickly found what I was looking for; the number of our local mission. Punching the numbers into the wall phone I waited expectantly; anticipating a cheerful “hello” followed by effusive gratitude. The phone rang for what seemed like a very long time. Finally, there was a click on the other end.
I half expected a dial tone or an answering machine. Instead, I was momentarily stunned by a gruff voice on the other end. “Mission!” was the only word they spoke. “Is this the city mission?” I asked pleasantly. “Yeah,” came the monosyllabic response. “My family and I would like to volunteer to help at your Thanksgiving Dinner.” Before I could even give my well rehearsed speech about how it would be a good experience for my daughter the curt voice on the other end of the phone cut me off, “We’re full…you’re the twentieth person whose called today.” My plans melted in front of me. “What about Christmas?” The “mas” wasn’t even out of my mouth when the response came. “We’re full then too…why don’t you call back in July when we really need help” (click).
I stood there staring at the lifeless receiver in my hand. My expectation of an ego boost from a grateful and gracious response had been doused with the ice water of reality. Everyone wants to volunteer at the holidays. Everyone wants to be a good person when “tis the season” to do good works. Though I promised myself I would, I never called back in July.
“If our entry into heaven required a letter of reference from the poor, would we be able to get one?” There are 1.02 billion hungry people in the world today. Every day over 16,000 children (1 every 5 seconds) will die from hunger. But how can there not be enough food to go around? The combined net worth of the three richest people in the world is greater than the combined net worth of the 48 poorest nations, representing one quarter of the world’s population. Hunger is a daily reality for most of the world.
Stewardship is not a seasonal occurrence. It is the lifelong response of a faithful disciple; a response which calls us to be grateful and giving year round. Am I suggesting the people who only volunteer during the holidays are misguided or unworthy?
No, all volunteers deserve our gratitude and affirmation. But, what if we, as a society, approached sheltering the homeless, feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting the prisoner and providing for needy children with the same gusto, through out the year, as we exhibit during the holidays. What if we brought all that intensity, excitement and commitment to bear 24/7/365? How much suffering could we alleviate?
My gruff friend was right…Call back in July!
Dear God: Remind me I am called to be a full time steward not just a part time volunteer.
“Sometime in your life, hope that you might see one starved man, the look on his face when the bread finally arrives. Hope that you might have baked it or bought or even kneaded it yourself. For that look on his face, for your meeting his eyes across a piece of bread, you might be willing to lose a lot, or suffer a lot, or die a little, even.” ~Daniel Berrigan, American poet, peace activist and Catholic Priest (b1921)
© 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.
“What do you think about us going to the mission and feeding the homeless for Thanksgiving?” I asked my dubious daughter. “I guess it’s OK,” she replied with a shrug. I could tell she had no idea what she was getting into. Frankly, neither did I.
It was the weekend before Thanksgiving and I was feeling particularly parental. My daughter was in fourth grade and I got the bright idea it was time to give her a “positive life experience.” My plan was to go to the local mission, feed the homeless Thanksgiving dinner for a couple hours, then go to a nice hotel brunch for our Thanksgiving dinner. There was a particularly lavish one I had wanted to try out.
(No good deed goes unpunished it seems. Particularly when it is our idea of a good deed and we have strings attached to it.) Leafing through the yellow pages I quickly found what I was looking for; the number of our local mission. Punching the numbers into the wall phone I waited expectantly; anticipating a cheerful “hello” followed by effusive gratitude. The phone rang for what seemed like a very long time. Finally, there was a click on the other end.
I half expected a dial tone or an answering machine. Instead, I was momentarily stunned by a gruff voice on the other end. “Mission!” was the only word they spoke. “Is this the city mission?” I asked pleasantly. “Yeah,” came the monosyllabic response. “My family and I would like to volunteer to help at your Thanksgiving Dinner.” Before I could even give my well rehearsed speech about how it would be a good experience for my daughter the curt voice on the other end of the phone cut me off, “We’re full…you’re the twentieth person whose called today.” My plans melted in front of me. “What about Christmas?” The “mas” wasn’t even out of my mouth when the response came. “We’re full then too…why don’t you call back in July when we really need help” (click).
I stood there staring at the lifeless receiver in my hand. My expectation of an ego boost from a grateful and gracious response had been doused with the ice water of reality. Everyone wants to volunteer at the holidays. Everyone wants to be a good person when “tis the season” to do good works. Though I promised myself I would, I never called back in July.
“If our entry into heaven required a letter of reference from the poor, would we be able to get one?” There are 1.02 billion hungry people in the world today. Every day over 16,000 children (1 every 5 seconds) will die from hunger. But how can there not be enough food to go around? The combined net worth of the three richest people in the world is greater than the combined net worth of the 48 poorest nations, representing one quarter of the world’s population. Hunger is a daily reality for most of the world.
Stewardship is not a seasonal occurrence. It is the lifelong response of a faithful disciple; a response which calls us to be grateful and giving year round. Am I suggesting the people who only volunteer during the holidays are misguided or unworthy?
No, all volunteers deserve our gratitude and affirmation. But, what if we, as a society, approached sheltering the homeless, feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting the prisoner and providing for needy children with the same gusto, through out the year, as we exhibit during the holidays. What if we brought all that intensity, excitement and commitment to bear 24/7/365? How much suffering could we alleviate?
My gruff friend was right…Call back in July!
Dear God: Remind me I am called to be a full time steward not just a part time volunteer.
“Sometime in your life, hope that you might see one starved man, the look on his face when the bread finally arrives. Hope that you might have baked it or bought or even kneaded it yourself. For that look on his face, for your meeting his eyes across a piece of bread, you might be willing to lose a lot, or suffer a lot, or die a little, even.” ~Daniel Berrigan, American poet, peace activist and Catholic Priest (b1921)
© 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, November 19, 2010
Spiritual Conviction
“In prison, those things withheld from and denied to the prisoner become precisely what he wants most of all.” ~Eldridge Cleaver, American radical intellectual and author (1935-1998)
“Could I speak with you a minute?” is never a comforting prelude to any conversation. I followed the president of our Catholic men’s organization out the door of the parish center to a secluded spot in the exterior courtyard. “The Executive Council met last week to discuss your ministry proposal,” he began hesitantly. “We had a really good discussion and there are a lot of us who support your idea.” (The unspoken “BUT” hung over the conversation like a mist.) “I’m personally in favor of what you’re trying to do.” “BUT, after all was said and done we voted not to support your KAIROS weekend.” My brain wasn’t processing what he had just said. I stood there, my head cocked to one side, blinking.
Over a month earlier I had brought our Deacon to a meeting to enlist the group’s help with a Detention Ministry weekend (*KAIROS). Our requests were modest: Prayers during the weekend, chocolate chip cookies (as many dozen as possible), semi-anonymous letters written to the detainees and a coloring book picture of Jesus to be duplicated and colored (semi-anonymously) by whatever children we could muster.
“But, Bob!” I finally blurted out. “The weekend is less than two weeks away.” “You’re leaving me in a tough spot here.” Bob’s conciliatory tone turned defensive, “I’m sorry Jim!” “But the Executive Council doesn’t think we should be helping convicts.” “Besides, what possible good can cookies and coloring books do anyway?” The words were out before Bob realized he had said them. I allowed the intervening silence to be my response. “I am sorry,” Bob said finally and he departed without further conversation.
The drive home was dismal. Earlier that week another “Christian” organization had bailed on my grand plan for much the same reason. “The mothers don’t want their children writing to felons,” the coordinator had shared. “I’m sorry.”
Now what was I going to do?
The next morning my mood had not improved much. I arrived at my job at the YMCA in a storm cloud of a mood. “What’s up with you?” Flo, the Membership Director finally asked. I relayed the long, excruciating version of my sad story. “We can have the “Child Watch” color pages for you and as for the letters why don’t you talk to teens in Youth and Government?” “They are always looking for projects.”
Three days later I was in front of the Youth and Government teens. They cranked out fifty plus letters that same evening. I added another ten and the coordinator, whose group had bowed out, produced a pile of letters her and her daughter had written.
On the Wednesday before the KAIROS weekend the Child Watch coordinator proudly presented me with a two hundred “crayon covered” pages, many with small hand prints traced on the back replete with hugs and kisses (x’s and o’s). Notes such as “Jesus loves you” were scrawled in various places. “We ran out of the copies you gave us,” the coordinator said apologetically. “So we used our own.” She handed me another pile of coloring book pages. Mickey and Minnie smiled up at me from the paper. “I hope these are OK?” she asked. “I’m sure they are OK,” I responded with a smile.
Teresa spent the previous weekend baking dozens of her favorite chocolate chip cookies. We bagged them in sleeves of a dozen each. Thursday afternoon I delivered my boxes of cookies, letters and crayoned masterpieces to the appointed drop off site. As I pulled out of the parking lot I realized the irritations of the previous week had all but faded. How precious little it had taken to make a difference.
Jesus never asked who was worthy of his attention. Whether it was a scoundrel of a tax collector out on a limb or ten lepers blocking the road shouting his name, Jesus treated everyone with the same grace, compassion and love. He lived and worked in the tough part of town, on the wrong side of the tracks rubbing elbows with society’s discardable people. His actions are a contemporary template for our approach to ministry.
Ministry is, or should be, based on who needs help as opposed to who deserves help. We tread on dangerous ground when we start passing judgments predicated on worthiness or deservedness. Thank God our God is loving and compassionate toward us and none of us get what we really deserve.
The parable of the Good Samaritan reminds us it matters not who is lying in the ditch. It matters even less what station in life we hold. What does matter is that we bring our gifts of time, talent and treasure to bear to help the people God puts in front of us. The Priest and the Levite head off to the safety of their church, but the Samaritan goes down into the ditch with his sworn enemy to minister to him. Not a comfortable situation.
Yet, it is not about what makes us look good, feel comfortable or what is socially acceptable that matters. Somehow it has become easy to ignore the over 7.3 million people in the US who are on probation, in jail or prison, or on parole; perhaps because they are not always in plain sight. As stewards we are called to go looking in the ditches to see who needs our help. After all, if we choose, not to go looking in the gutters and ditches of life; if we choose not to minister to the prisoner who would we be avoiding? Paul? Nelson Mandela? Daniel Berrigan? Sir Thomas More? Anne Frank? Max Kolbe? Dorothy Day?
If we “shouldn’t be helping convicts” who should we be helping? We are not simply called to “visit” Jesus in church; we are called to visit him in prison as well.
Dear God: Teach me to minister to all who are in need.
“In prison, you get the chance to see who really loves you.” ~Marion Knight, Jr. Co-founder of Death Row Records. (b 1965)
*Kairos Prison Ministry International is a Christian, ecumenical, volunteer, lay-led, continuing ministry to prisoners incarcerated in maximum or medium facilities.
© 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.
“Could I speak with you a minute?” is never a comforting prelude to any conversation. I followed the president of our Catholic men’s organization out the door of the parish center to a secluded spot in the exterior courtyard. “The Executive Council met last week to discuss your ministry proposal,” he began hesitantly. “We had a really good discussion and there are a lot of us who support your idea.” (The unspoken “BUT” hung over the conversation like a mist.) “I’m personally in favor of what you’re trying to do.” “BUT, after all was said and done we voted not to support your KAIROS weekend.” My brain wasn’t processing what he had just said. I stood there, my head cocked to one side, blinking.
Over a month earlier I had brought our Deacon to a meeting to enlist the group’s help with a Detention Ministry weekend (*KAIROS). Our requests were modest: Prayers during the weekend, chocolate chip cookies (as many dozen as possible), semi-anonymous letters written to the detainees and a coloring book picture of Jesus to be duplicated and colored (semi-anonymously) by whatever children we could muster.
“But, Bob!” I finally blurted out. “The weekend is less than two weeks away.” “You’re leaving me in a tough spot here.” Bob’s conciliatory tone turned defensive, “I’m sorry Jim!” “But the Executive Council doesn’t think we should be helping convicts.” “Besides, what possible good can cookies and coloring books do anyway?” The words were out before Bob realized he had said them. I allowed the intervening silence to be my response. “I am sorry,” Bob said finally and he departed without further conversation.
The drive home was dismal. Earlier that week another “Christian” organization had bailed on my grand plan for much the same reason. “The mothers don’t want their children writing to felons,” the coordinator had shared. “I’m sorry.”
Now what was I going to do?
The next morning my mood had not improved much. I arrived at my job at the YMCA in a storm cloud of a mood. “What’s up with you?” Flo, the Membership Director finally asked. I relayed the long, excruciating version of my sad story. “We can have the “Child Watch” color pages for you and as for the letters why don’t you talk to teens in Youth and Government?” “They are always looking for projects.”
Three days later I was in front of the Youth and Government teens. They cranked out fifty plus letters that same evening. I added another ten and the coordinator, whose group had bowed out, produced a pile of letters her and her daughter had written.
On the Wednesday before the KAIROS weekend the Child Watch coordinator proudly presented me with a two hundred “crayon covered” pages, many with small hand prints traced on the back replete with hugs and kisses (x’s and o’s). Notes such as “Jesus loves you” were scrawled in various places. “We ran out of the copies you gave us,” the coordinator said apologetically. “So we used our own.” She handed me another pile of coloring book pages. Mickey and Minnie smiled up at me from the paper. “I hope these are OK?” she asked. “I’m sure they are OK,” I responded with a smile.
Teresa spent the previous weekend baking dozens of her favorite chocolate chip cookies. We bagged them in sleeves of a dozen each. Thursday afternoon I delivered my boxes of cookies, letters and crayoned masterpieces to the appointed drop off site. As I pulled out of the parking lot I realized the irritations of the previous week had all but faded. How precious little it had taken to make a difference.
Jesus never asked who was worthy of his attention. Whether it was a scoundrel of a tax collector out on a limb or ten lepers blocking the road shouting his name, Jesus treated everyone with the same grace, compassion and love. He lived and worked in the tough part of town, on the wrong side of the tracks rubbing elbows with society’s discardable people. His actions are a contemporary template for our approach to ministry.
Ministry is, or should be, based on who needs help as opposed to who deserves help. We tread on dangerous ground when we start passing judgments predicated on worthiness or deservedness. Thank God our God is loving and compassionate toward us and none of us get what we really deserve.
The parable of the Good Samaritan reminds us it matters not who is lying in the ditch. It matters even less what station in life we hold. What does matter is that we bring our gifts of time, talent and treasure to bear to help the people God puts in front of us. The Priest and the Levite head off to the safety of their church, but the Samaritan goes down into the ditch with his sworn enemy to minister to him. Not a comfortable situation.
Yet, it is not about what makes us look good, feel comfortable or what is socially acceptable that matters. Somehow it has become easy to ignore the over 7.3 million people in the US who are on probation, in jail or prison, or on parole; perhaps because they are not always in plain sight. As stewards we are called to go looking in the ditches to see who needs our help. After all, if we choose, not to go looking in the gutters and ditches of life; if we choose not to minister to the prisoner who would we be avoiding? Paul? Nelson Mandela? Daniel Berrigan? Sir Thomas More? Anne Frank? Max Kolbe? Dorothy Day?
If we “shouldn’t be helping convicts” who should we be helping? We are not simply called to “visit” Jesus in church; we are called to visit him in prison as well.
Dear God: Teach me to minister to all who are in need.
“In prison, you get the chance to see who really loves you.” ~Marion Knight, Jr. Co-founder of Death Row Records. (b 1965)
*Kairos Prison Ministry International is a Christian, ecumenical, volunteer, lay-led, continuing ministry to prisoners incarcerated in maximum or medium facilities.
© 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, November 12, 2010
Misery to Ministry
“We are always more anxious to be distinguished for a talent which we do not possess, than to be praised for the fifteen which we do possess.” ~Mark Twain, American writer and humorist (1835-1910) from “Mark Twain’s Autobiography”
The bright morning sun glittered on the fresh dew. The sliding glass door closed behind me rattling slightly as it clicked home. I stood there pondering what had just happened…sensing a change in my life’s direction.
Two weeks earlier, in my capacity as Capital Campaign Chair I had met with Monsignor to discuss the parish capital campaign and the upcoming building project. Monsignor had agreed to consider my recommendation to hire a full time development coordinator.
Yesterday he had called and asked me to meet with him following the 7:30 AM Mass. We carried our steaming cups of coffee to his office. After a modicum of chit chat we got down to business. I quickly recapped my original proposal; then folding my hands I asked, “What do you think?”
“What about you?” he asked simply. “What about me?” I responded, not grasping what he was inferring. “What about you for the job,” he clarified his eyes twinkling.
“Yes…of course I’ll do it,” I replied, hearing the words, but not realizing I had said them. “Fabulous,” Father Gary said with a grin. We agreed to a start date, shook hands and I left.
Now outside in the cool, clear morning air, the brevity of what I had just done began to sink in. The career I had nurtured in the insurance industry for over twenty years would forever be in my rear-view mirror. Not to mention I had neglected to ask what I would be paid. What was I thinking? How was I going to explain this one to my wife? “Teresa will think I’ve lost it!” I headed for the car trying to devise the best possible explanation why I had done, what I had done.
Four and a half weeks later I found myself ensconced in my new desk, located where the dining area use to be. (The parish office is in a converted house. “Even our office was a Catholic convert,” someone once quipped.)
The insurance agency where I worked had negotiated a four week notice rather than two. In the interim I shared my concern about the probable drop in income with Chris the Fitness Director at the YMCA where I taught classes. Chris arrange for me to teach additional classes, and pick up some fitness coach and life guarding hours. The real miracle was that I was now doing two things I loved (teaching classes and working for the Church) which ultimately resulted in no change in annual income.
Why is it we can be so critical when we think someone “threw away a perfectly good career” to do something meaningful they felt compelled to do. There is tremendous joy, energy and fulfillment in doing what God created us to do. As stewards of our talents we are called to discover and develop that special blend of abilities which makes us who we are.
Yet we are often distracted from our life’s work by the siren’s song of power and prestige. We shoulder and elbow our way into so-called careers with the expectation that income alone is the answer to our happiness or we buy into a bad case of “job title fulfillment”. But with each promotion and/or pay raise we still find ourselves wanting. Wondering why we are not happy even though we “have a good job.”
Pay, power and prestige provide no lasting answers. Life long satisfaction comes from doing what we are called to do, not what makes us look good or succumbing to the latest fad profession (Crime Scene Investigators are currently trendy).
It comes as no surprise many of our saints share this story. People like Francis, Ignatius, and Augustine, finding no satisfaction in their chosen careers, yearned for something more meaningful and fulfilling. You know the rest of the story.
So, why do we persist in working for “the bread which fails to satisfy” when, as unique creations of a loving God, we were put here with a purpose in mind? When we gratefully accept our God-given talents, work to develop them and use them for this purpose, improving the world around us, happiness and satisfaction will ultimately be ours. Then and only then will our work become an outward expression of our faith and being, rather than the inward validation of our ego.
Who would have thought going from the corner office to the corner of a dining room could be fulfilling…but it was!
Dear God: Fulfill the work you have begun in us Lord.
“Your talent is God’s gift to you. What you do with it is your gift back to God” ~Leo Buscaglia, PhD, American professor, author and motivational speaker (1924-1998)
© 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 bright morning sun glittered on the fresh dew. The sliding glass door closed behind me rattling slightly as it clicked home. I stood there pondering what had just happened…sensing a change in my life’s direction.
Two weeks earlier, in my capacity as Capital Campaign Chair I had met with Monsignor to discuss the parish capital campaign and the upcoming building project. Monsignor had agreed to consider my recommendation to hire a full time development coordinator.
Yesterday he had called and asked me to meet with him following the 7:30 AM Mass. We carried our steaming cups of coffee to his office. After a modicum of chit chat we got down to business. I quickly recapped my original proposal; then folding my hands I asked, “What do you think?”
“What about you?” he asked simply. “What about me?” I responded, not grasping what he was inferring. “What about you for the job,” he clarified his eyes twinkling.
“Yes…of course I’ll do it,” I replied, hearing the words, but not realizing I had said them. “Fabulous,” Father Gary said with a grin. We agreed to a start date, shook hands and I left.
Now outside in the cool, clear morning air, the brevity of what I had just done began to sink in. The career I had nurtured in the insurance industry for over twenty years would forever be in my rear-view mirror. Not to mention I had neglected to ask what I would be paid. What was I thinking? How was I going to explain this one to my wife? “Teresa will think I’ve lost it!” I headed for the car trying to devise the best possible explanation why I had done, what I had done.
Four and a half weeks later I found myself ensconced in my new desk, located where the dining area use to be. (The parish office is in a converted house. “Even our office was a Catholic convert,” someone once quipped.)
The insurance agency where I worked had negotiated a four week notice rather than two. In the interim I shared my concern about the probable drop in income with Chris the Fitness Director at the YMCA where I taught classes. Chris arrange for me to teach additional classes, and pick up some fitness coach and life guarding hours. The real miracle was that I was now doing two things I loved (teaching classes and working for the Church) which ultimately resulted in no change in annual income.
Why is it we can be so critical when we think someone “threw away a perfectly good career” to do something meaningful they felt compelled to do. There is tremendous joy, energy and fulfillment in doing what God created us to do. As stewards of our talents we are called to discover and develop that special blend of abilities which makes us who we are.
Yet we are often distracted from our life’s work by the siren’s song of power and prestige. We shoulder and elbow our way into so-called careers with the expectation that income alone is the answer to our happiness or we buy into a bad case of “job title fulfillment”. But with each promotion and/or pay raise we still find ourselves wanting. Wondering why we are not happy even though we “have a good job.”
Pay, power and prestige provide no lasting answers. Life long satisfaction comes from doing what we are called to do, not what makes us look good or succumbing to the latest fad profession (Crime Scene Investigators are currently trendy).
It comes as no surprise many of our saints share this story. People like Francis, Ignatius, and Augustine, finding no satisfaction in their chosen careers, yearned for something more meaningful and fulfilling. You know the rest of the story.
So, why do we persist in working for “the bread which fails to satisfy” when, as unique creations of a loving God, we were put here with a purpose in mind? When we gratefully accept our God-given talents, work to develop them and use them for this purpose, improving the world around us, happiness and satisfaction will ultimately be ours. Then and only then will our work become an outward expression of our faith and being, rather than the inward validation of our ego.
Who would have thought going from the corner office to the corner of a dining room could be fulfilling…but it was!
Dear God: Fulfill the work you have begun in us Lord.
“Your talent is God’s gift to you. What you do with it is your gift back to God” ~Leo Buscaglia, PhD, American professor, author and motivational speaker (1924-1998)
© 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, November 5, 2010
Make it Work?
“I’m so busy I don’t know if I found a rope or lost my horse.” ~Tee Shirt slogan
Sister Catherine poked her head into the doorway of my office. “What are you still doing here?” She asked in her clipped Irish brogue. The question was not unfamiliar. It was well past 7:30 PM on a Wednesday evening. As was my custom I had been at my Parish Center office since 5:00 AM. My eyes were dry and gritty from staring at the computer screen. “I have just a few things to finish up,” I replied with a weary smile. “Then I’ll be going.” (It seemed I always had something to “finish up” I thought to myself.)
“Couldn’t it wait till the morning?” she inquired gently. I responded with my well rehearsed litany of excuses: “It needs to be done first thing in the morning when Monsignor comes in.” “I have another project I have to work on tomorrow, besides I’ll feel better if I finish this before I leave and the traffic will be lighter anyway.” Sister listened patiently, an understanding smile on her face. “Well don’t stay too long, you’ve got a long drive home,” and with that she disappeared down the hall.
I returned to the computer screen wondering what it was I had been thinking about before Sister’s well intentioned interruption. Pecking aimlessly at the keys, Sister Catherine’s question kept coming back to me: “What was I doing here?” This could wait till tomorrow couldn’t it. What was I worried about.
A “ding” sound aroused me from my thoughts alerting me of a new email in my electronic “inbox”. I left what I was doing and checked to see what it was. An email ad for a Christian Book site was bolded at the top of the list. I clicked the “delete” icon. Returning to my work I tried to concentrate for a few more minutes then decided to check the weather and the traffic. It was the same as it had been a half hour earlier. I glanced at the time on the lower right side of my screen: 7:59 PM glowed in white letters across a blue field.
Enough! I could finish this in the morning. I shut the computer down. Shrugging on my sports coat I put the remnants of the day’s meal in my gray soft-sided lunch box. Tossing a few items into my briefcase (a briefcase which would sit in the foyer at home unopened until I left again in the morning) I turned off the desk lamp and headed out my office door locking it behind me.
Halfway down the hall I remembered something else I needed to do. Reluctantly returning to the office I unlocked the door and went in. Rather than wait while my computer booted up again I jotted a note on a “post-it” and stuck it on my screen as a reminder to do it in the morning. Out the door I went again and down the hall having locked the door behind me a second time. As I went my unfinished work seemed to trail me down the hall.
Ever since we got ourselves tossed out of the Garden of Eden we have had to work for our daily bread: “By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food” (Genesis 3:19). It is easy to forget work was the penalty for our transgression of eating the forbidden fruit. Yet we often behave as if this punishment were our sole purpose in life.
Work, however, is not the panacea we envision it to be. Most of us work because we have to, not because we want to. While it’s different for everybody fear often plays a major role in our obsession with work. Work gives us a false sense of security. It makes us feel as if we have our destiny within our control. Trust me…we don’t! There are plenty of disasters, economic downturns, layoffs and the like to remind us we don’t.
Discipleship calls us to something more than work. It is not surprising therefore, when we hear Jesus’ call; we drop our nets, put down our water jars by the well and take leave of our counting chambers. This is not to say work is bad or evil, but obsessions are, particularly when our obsessions are attempts to insulate us from irrational fear. A fear easily eliminated by our belief in a supreme being who loves us unconditionally.
As stewards of the 24 hours God gave us today we are called to a state of balance, not a state of compulsion, obsession or suppressed fear. God’s most frequent biblical command is “Be not afraid”. It reminds us we have no reason to hide from our fears and insecurity by submersing ourselves in work. We work to make a living, but work does not our life make.
Dear God: Help me to pray as though everything depended on you, rather than work as though everything depended on me.
“One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one’s work is terribly important.” ~Bertrand Russell, English logician and philosopher (1872-1970)
© 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.
Sister Catherine poked her head into the doorway of my office. “What are you still doing here?” She asked in her clipped Irish brogue. The question was not unfamiliar. It was well past 7:30 PM on a Wednesday evening. As was my custom I had been at my Parish Center office since 5:00 AM. My eyes were dry and gritty from staring at the computer screen. “I have just a few things to finish up,” I replied with a weary smile. “Then I’ll be going.” (It seemed I always had something to “finish up” I thought to myself.)
“Couldn’t it wait till the morning?” she inquired gently. I responded with my well rehearsed litany of excuses: “It needs to be done first thing in the morning when Monsignor comes in.” “I have another project I have to work on tomorrow, besides I’ll feel better if I finish this before I leave and the traffic will be lighter anyway.” Sister listened patiently, an understanding smile on her face. “Well don’t stay too long, you’ve got a long drive home,” and with that she disappeared down the hall.
I returned to the computer screen wondering what it was I had been thinking about before Sister’s well intentioned interruption. Pecking aimlessly at the keys, Sister Catherine’s question kept coming back to me: “What was I doing here?” This could wait till tomorrow couldn’t it. What was I worried about.
A “ding” sound aroused me from my thoughts alerting me of a new email in my electronic “inbox”. I left what I was doing and checked to see what it was. An email ad for a Christian Book site was bolded at the top of the list. I clicked the “delete” icon. Returning to my work I tried to concentrate for a few more minutes then decided to check the weather and the traffic. It was the same as it had been a half hour earlier. I glanced at the time on the lower right side of my screen: 7:59 PM glowed in white letters across a blue field.
Enough! I could finish this in the morning. I shut the computer down. Shrugging on my sports coat I put the remnants of the day’s meal in my gray soft-sided lunch box. Tossing a few items into my briefcase (a briefcase which would sit in the foyer at home unopened until I left again in the morning) I turned off the desk lamp and headed out my office door locking it behind me.
Halfway down the hall I remembered something else I needed to do. Reluctantly returning to the office I unlocked the door and went in. Rather than wait while my computer booted up again I jotted a note on a “post-it” and stuck it on my screen as a reminder to do it in the morning. Out the door I went again and down the hall having locked the door behind me a second time. As I went my unfinished work seemed to trail me down the hall.
Ever since we got ourselves tossed out of the Garden of Eden we have had to work for our daily bread: “By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food” (Genesis 3:19). It is easy to forget work was the penalty for our transgression of eating the forbidden fruit. Yet we often behave as if this punishment were our sole purpose in life.
Work, however, is not the panacea we envision it to be. Most of us work because we have to, not because we want to. While it’s different for everybody fear often plays a major role in our obsession with work. Work gives us a false sense of security. It makes us feel as if we have our destiny within our control. Trust me…we don’t! There are plenty of disasters, economic downturns, layoffs and the like to remind us we don’t.
Discipleship calls us to something more than work. It is not surprising therefore, when we hear Jesus’ call; we drop our nets, put down our water jars by the well and take leave of our counting chambers. This is not to say work is bad or evil, but obsessions are, particularly when our obsessions are attempts to insulate us from irrational fear. A fear easily eliminated by our belief in a supreme being who loves us unconditionally.
As stewards of the 24 hours God gave us today we are called to a state of balance, not a state of compulsion, obsession or suppressed fear. God’s most frequent biblical command is “Be not afraid”. It reminds us we have no reason to hide from our fears and insecurity by submersing ourselves in work. We work to make a living, but work does not our life make.
Dear God: Help me to pray as though everything depended on you, rather than work as though everything depended on me.
“One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one’s work is terribly important.” ~Bertrand Russell, English logician and philosopher (1872-1970)
© 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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