Itza Miracle!

“…every time a blessing comes, not with trumpet and fanfare, but silently as night, you have witnessed a miracle.” ~Faith Baldwin, American author (1893-1978) from Many Windows, Seasons of the Heart

Adam’s right leg had been seriously injured in a skiing accident. Simply walking had been difficult if not impossible. Now, after months of rehab, he was again able to walk normally, unassisted. The only thing was nobody else knew it. John had kept his recovery a secret.

Though he knew it wasn’t exactly the right thing to do, he had become accustomed to the special treatment he received. Because of his handicap placard he always had a reserved parking space close to the building. People let him cut in line. He could leave early for lunch and come back late without scrutiny from the boss. In fact, his boss seemed to be treating him better and giving him less work since the accident.

Most of all, he liked being able to depart work “a little early,” since it allegedly took him more time to get to his car. This, combined with his “special parking place,” assured that he was always the first one out of the parking lot. 

Adam was in his cubicle “doing something close to nothing, but different than the day before.” As was his habit, he was nervously fiddling with his wedding ring with his right hand while pecking away at his computer with his left. His marriage had ended two years earlier, but the image of a stable married person had been another pretense he had chosen to maintain. In fact, he had been skiing with his girlfriend when he was injured.

Suddenly, without warning, the ring flipped out of his hand and rolled out the entrance of his cubicle. It was heading for an open AC register in the floor along the wall. Instinctively Adam leapt to his feet and gave chase. Three quick steps and he snatched up the ring just before it rolled into the register.

“YES!” he barked out triumphantly, holding his ring-laden fist high in the air. At that moment he felt the weight of many eyes upon him. Adam realized he was standing completely exposed in the middle of the open walkway. He looked around. Most of his fellow workers, including his boss, were peering over or out of the openings of their cubicles; staring at him.

Adam stared back at them for a moment. Then he looked down at his legs and back at them again. An instant later, he shot both fists into the air yelling: “It’s a miracle; I’m cured!!”

One could justifiably call this a “lame joke,” but it illustrates our sometimes ill-conceived notions about miracles. Miracles, or what the Bible calls “mighty deeds,” are not God’s magic tricks intended to astonish, confound and astound us.  Magic tricks leave us with a brief thrill and a touch of skepticism as we try to figure out: “How did they do that?” Miracles, on the other hand, are not random acts of manipulation, but significant events with great depth and meaning – events which deepen our relationship with our Creator.

Most of Jesus’ miracles are healings, but these “healings” are not simply Jesus curing illnesses. We don’t see him removing an appendix, doing heart by-pass surgery or stitching up a wound. When Jesus heals someone, it is done to facilitate their relationship with God. Eyes are opened so God can be seen. Ears are opened so God’s Word can be heard. Mouths are opened so the Word of God can be spoken. The lame are cured so they can walk in the ways of the Lord. The dead are raised and lepers cured so they can return to the community of believers.

These healings do not happen by chance. Those who are healed by Jesus ardently pursue Him. The blind beggar Bartimaeus cries out even though he is told to be quiet. One of the synagogue officials, named Jairus, risks public humiliation and possible censure by coming to Jesus in a crowd in broad daylight in order to save his daughter. Four men tear part of a roof off to lower their paralytic friend to Jesus. In all these examples, Jesus does not choose them; they choose Jesus and will not be denied.

There is an unwavering faith displayed by those involved. Our modern era has left us with a plethora of options for just about everything. If we are sick, we may try a physician or an acupuncturist or a homeopathic healer or an herbalist. If one thing doesn’t seem to work we try something else. This isn’t so in the healing stories.

The woman with hemorrhages fights her way through the crowd believing that all she needs to do is touch the cloak of Jesus. Mary and Martha cry out “Lord, if you had only been here our brother would not have died.”

Miracles are not the random acts of a capricious deity, rather they restore our relationship with a loving God and our community. We are called to be committed to this relationship.

Miracles only happen to those who believe in miracles.

Dear God: help me heal someone today.

 “Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so God can heal you. When a believing person prays, great things happen.” (James 5:15, 16)

 ©2012 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”© 2012 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 “© 2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.

Coffeeholics

“Mothers are those wonderful people who can get up in the morning before the smell of coffee.”  ~Author Unknown

 I love coffee and so does my former office partner Deacon Jerry.  Before his retirement we would occasionally walk to the Coffee Bean for a quick “cup of Joe”.  People-watching is one of my favorite pastimes while I wait in line. It is fascinating to hear the many requests made for every possible combination of ingredients and preparation processes.   Even more interesting however, is the variety of expressions, postures and exclamations as my fellow coffeeholics take their first sip in the morning.

One particular morning I noticed a rather well dressed, carefully coifed, middle-aged woman in business attire seated near the window.  Slowly she took her first sip of the dark brown elixir.  Then she carefully placed her cup on the table, tilted her head back, faced heavenward, closed her eyes and, with what approximated religious rapture, muttered, “Oh, thank God”.  If she was truly praying to a God at the time, I’m sure his name was STARBUCK. 

In point of fact, just as we should thank God for everything in our lives, we should thank Him for that morning “jump start fluid” many of us crave.  Our coffee comes from countries such as Brazil, Vietnam, Indonesia, Ethiopia, Honduras and Uganda.  Harvesting requires a great deal of manual labor as the coffee berries have to be hand picked.  The berries are then roasted, stored, bagged, ground, repackaged, shipped and stocked.  Just imagine the number of people who labor long and hard, many in third world countries, to bring us our coffee.  Not to mention the counter chemist who creates that special customized concoction just for us. 

Yes, the lady had it right, though she probably didn’t realize it at the time.  We should take a moment to pray to God to thank Him for our cup of coffee every morning and for the health and well-being of all the people it took to get it to us.  What a great way to get started in the morning – even if it takes a double macchiato, with a shot of caramel, whipped cream, and chocolate sprinkles. Yuk!  I’ll take mine black, thank you.

Dear God, remind me that everything and everyone is a gift from you. 

Conscience keeps more people awake than coffee.  ~Author Unknown 

©2009 and 2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.

“90 Second Stewardship” is a reflection on being a Christian Steward in a secular and sometimes harsh world. This reflection is written by James E. Carper of Simi Valley, California. All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2012 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 “© 2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.

Agree to Disagree

“Truth does not become more true by virtue of the fact that the entire world agrees with it, nor less so even if the whole world disagrees with it.” ~From The Guide for the Perplexed by Moses Maimonides (משה בן מימון), medieval Jewish philosopher (1135-1204)

The shooting was over in less than 7 seconds. The weapon was a 22-caliber “Saturday Night Special” purchased clandestinely from Rocky’s Pawn Shop. It happened in the open street in broad daylight. The first slug took Bear in the head. The “Devastator” brand cartridge exploded on impact. The second shot struck Thomas in the neck. A third round went wide shattering a window, shards of glass exploding into the street. 

At that moment, Timothy threw his body in front of Ronnie and took a round in the stomach. A fifth shot shattered the window of a parked car. Ronnie was hit by the sixth and final round. It was a ricochet, hitting him under his arm, perforating a lung and lodging near his heart. 

Now Ronnie was lying in a hospital bed. The doctors had said it was “touch and go,” which is doctor-speak for “not good.” His eyes fluttered open. There, standing over him, was his old rival, TP.

For a moment he panicked, wondering what he was doing there. Then TP spoke. “I just wanted to stop by to see how you were doing,” he said quietly. “Can I pray with you?” he asked his old enemy.  Ronnie nodded. They prayed together briefly. Then TP quietly left the room. 

Ronnie slipped back into unconsciousness. 

THE REST OF THE STORY:

After the assassination attempt on his life, President Ronald Reagan was in far worse condition than reported to the public. Shortly after the shooting, Speaker of the House, Tip O’Neill appeared in Reagan’s hospital room. Reagan and O’Neill had been long time combatants, opposing each other on a number of issues. However, regardless of the volatility of the issue, they had always continued to keep the lines of communication open. 

Tip entered the room and walked to Reagan's bedside, took hold of both his hands and knelt. "Thanks for coming, Tip," President whispered.The two recited the 23rd Psalm together. Tip stood, kissed Reagan on the forehead and said. “I don’t want to keep you from your rest.” Then he quietly left the room.

It is said that “if we always agree, then one of us is unnecessary.” In other words, those who disagree with us are necessary, perhaps even vital. They help us form, refine, validate, and sometimes redirect our ideas and beliefs. However, to have a fruitful exchange with others requires mutual respect and the willingness to enter into conversation, discussion, and even debate.

Those who disagree with us are not always our enemies, nor are those who agree with us necessarily our friends. However, in a society where staunch individualism reigns supreme, we have tied our opinions tightly to our egos and have come to believe that to change one means to sacrifice the other. 

The result is that we discover ourselves defending our ideas to the bitter end, no matter what, even when we have long-before realized we were wrong.  Ultimately, polarization occurs and all parties involved choose to demonize the other. People with differing ideas become heretics. In the end, rather than working for the common good, we commit our energies to individual destruction and work at making sure the other person or group doesn’t succeed. 

But, if we resist thoughtfully engaging those ideas with which we disagree, how will we ever acquire deeper insight into what we believe? In reality, it is often those things which challenge our convictions outright which are most worth hearing.  

Some of the greatest moments in history have come when debate and discussion brought about a united front. A case in point is our own Declaration of Independence. The discussions were often emotional and heated, but the result is undeniable. The vote had to be unanimous to pass the document and the result was a new country was formed. 

The story of Tip O’Neill and Ronald Reagan vividly illustrates how deeply these political giants recognized and honored their shared humanity, despite their stark political and philosophical differences. All that we share as human beings and all the differences that define and seem to divide us are also gifts of God of which we must be good stewards. 

Hold your enemies close. That way, it’s easier to hear what they are saying. 

Dear God, remind me of the times I need to keep my mind open and my mouth shut.

“Christianity supplies a Hell for the people who disagree with you and a Heaven for your friends.” ~Elbert Hubbard, American editor, publisher and writer (1856-1915)

©2012 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”© 2012 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 “© 2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.

Prophet Ability

“Coming events cast their shadows before them.” ~ Doris Lessing, Zimbabwean-British novelist, poet, playwright, librettist, biographer and short story writer (b 1919)

The Twin Engine DC-3 had flown into position over the fire zone. Making a final cursory check of my gear, I was suited up and ready to go. We moved swiftly toward the open door of the plane. At the call from the Spotter out we leapt into oblivion. Then, it was my turn. “READY?” yelled the Spotter. I nodded my understanding. “JUMP!!!” he commanded. Out the door I went. “Smoke jumpers away!”

I sailed through the air for only a moment; then landed safely on the soft green grass of my grandparents’ side lawn. My “gear” was my football helmet and an old knapsack stuffed with cleaning rags served as my parachute. The plane from which I had jumped was not a DC-3 or a Twin Otter, but one of my grandparents’ apple trees.

The “Wonderful World of Disney” had run a special segment on “Smoke Jumpers” the previous Sunday night. The very next day I had started to train for my “new career” by jumping out of apple trees. From the start, my grandmother had issued stern warnings about the possible outcome of my latest obsession. “Jimmie, you are going to hurt yourself,” she cautioned.

But, having been blessed with more imagination than common sense, I had persisted over her repeated warnings. In point of fact, I had escalated, seeking out ever-higher perches from which to launch myself.

 Smoke jumpers trained by jumping off a high platform. The trainer, in the documentary, had stated, “Smokejumpers must learn to land with the correct degree of relaxation and perform a proper landing fall to insure a maximum distribution of shock over their entire body upon contact with the ground.” So I had been practicing “distributing the shock.”

Today I was trying out a new point of launch from a larger apple tree. This one had a wide ‘V’ notch, 6 to 8 feet off the ground. The ascending branches provided perfect handholds for me to launch myself into space. I was still trying to perfect the landing to lessen the impact of the fall. Perfecting the final roll would be the focus of today’s training.

I began a preparatory rocking motion. “One, two, three!” Using both hands, I launched myself into space. Immediately, I knew I had done something wrong. So, focused on the roll, I started the rotation in mid-air. An instant later I hit the ground, hard, landing flat on my back. The impact knocked all the air out of me and for a moment I panicked, unable to breath.

Slowly, air returned to my body and I started to breath normally. It was only then I realized someone was standing next to me. I turned my head to the right, focusing on the face. It was my grandmother. “Are you alright?” she asked. I nodded affirmation that I was.

“I told you you were going to hurt yourself,” she scolded. “Now stop this foolishness, come inside and clean up for lunch.” I dutifully followed her to the house, hoping she wouldn’t realize my pretend parachute was stuffed with her favorite cleaning rags.

In every sense of the word my grandmother was a prophet. She had no mystic ability to predict the future, no crystal ball with which to view future events; instead she approached life with a kind of common wisdom, seeming to know instinctively when others were doomed, undoubtedly repeating history, and knowing that insanity was doing the same things while expecting different results.

Though my boyish enthusiasm and misguided optimism blinded me to the truth, Grandma knew that jumping out of trees was not a good idea and would eventually lead to a bad result. Fortunately for me, I was more scared than hurt, and it had happened sooner rather than later.

The prophets of the Old Testament were not much different from my grandmother (though they were all men). They were not so much predictors as they were commentators. Their message was pretty much the same as my grandmother’s: “If you keep doing what you are doing, someone is going to get hurt.” Initially, those who “got hurt” were the poor, the weak and the marginalized; but the ultimate result was the loss of power, prestige and wealth – and subsequent exile - of an entire nation.

If Isaiah, Amos, Ezekiel or Micah were “prophesying” to the leaders of the world today, what might they be saying? Would they tell us that last night 30,000 children died of starvation or malnutrition-related diseases? Would they remind us that 80% of the world doesn’t have decent drinking water? Would they ask why 16% of the world’s population consumes 85% of the world’s resources? Or might they inform us that 65 billion bottles and cans have been used in the first six months of the year which have not been recycled.

Prophets are not fortune tellers, but people who have a gift for stating the obvious, when no one wants to hear the obvious. The prophets of the Old Testament didn’t predict the future; rather they bore witness to the presence of God in their history. A history the world is in danger of repeating.

Dear God: Give me the gift of prophesy so I might avoid repeating my mistakes of the past.

“Atheism is a non-prophet organization.” ~George Carlin, American stand-up comedian, actor and author (1937- 2008)

 

©2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.

“90 Second Stewardship” is a reflection on being a Christian Steward in a secular and sometimes harsh world. This reflection is written by Deacon James E. Carper of Simi Valley, California. All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2012 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 “© 2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.

Religiosity

“The tragedy of religion is partly due to its isolation from life, as if God could be segregated.” ~Abraham Joshua Heschel, Polish-born American Rabbi, theologian and philosopher (1907-1972) 

The four round tables made a cloverleaf of sorts. Chairs circled the outer perimeter. The table was a clutter of handouts and water bottles in various stages of use. Seated around the table were people at a variety of points in their faith journey. Some were catechists (Catholic-speak for a faith instructor) like me. Others were in the discernment process of entering the Catholic faith. The rest were friends and family members of those in discernment. 

Early on in discernment we ask people to “share their journey;” recounting the significant events in their lives which brought them to this point. The sharing’s had been as varied as snowflakes and as heartfelt as any personal journey might be.  

Some had experienced tragic losses or were suffering with personal issues; others had had miraculous reversals in their lives which seemed more than coincidental. Then there were those who simply realized they needed something more in their lives. For some time they had lived feeling unfulfilled with a holy longing which had gone unsatisfied.  

For them it was time to fill the hole in their soul that nothing else in the world could fill. Their nagging feeling of “something more” could not go unaddressed any longer. 

Michael was one of those who were looking for “something more.” At twenty-seven, he was still relatively young, but he was already experiencing the emptiness the materialistic world can create. Success, a good income and prestige at work was not making him “happy.” 

“It’s all well and good to drive a nice car, live in a nice apartment and be able to afford the things I want, like the latest cell phone,” he was saying. “My girlfriend is Catholic and she asked me to go to church with her.” “She always seems happy.” “So I decided I want what she has…you know…a life.” 

Michael stopped and looked around the room. Many of us were nodding back at him, signaling our agreement and our understanding. “I’m just not sure where to start,” he continued. “My family didn’t go to church all that often and I’ve never really been religious.” 

“What do you mean by ‘being religious?’” I asked.  

What do we mean when we say someone is “religious?” If you were asked to describe a “religious person” what would you say? Has someone ever said to you: “I’m very spiritual, I’m just not religious?”  

For many of us, particularly those of the Catholic faith, our image of a religious person is one of a kind of melancholy prayerfulness. We conjure up images of men and women in muted clothes, with steepled hands, eyes turned heavenward and golden plates affixed to the backs of their heads. If asked what religious people do, most of us would respond they go to church regularly, maybe even daily, pray a lot and follow the rules. 

This rather stereotypical version of people of faith is both disconcerting and dangerous. It perpetuates an image of inflexibility and entrenchment in religious practice that Jesus himself spoke out against.  

People of great faith are usually people of great insight who often speak out against the status quo. They are people like Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr., Dorothy Day, Blessed Mother Teresa, Oscar Romero and Gustavo Gutiérrez. People who are ground breakers and change makers. 

Like those listed above, people of faith, who make a difference in the world, do so with strong religious practices, particularly prayer. But their religious practices are only a daily springboard for the difference they make in the world. Religious practices are only part of the equation…food for the journey. 

We are called to be people of faith. People whose faith is lived out 24/7/365 whether we are on our knees, in church, serving the poor or behind the wheel of our car at a four-way stop sign. 

Dear God, remind me that being a Christian is not only what I do, but who I am. 

“Let your religion be less of a theory and more of a love affair.” ~G.K. Chesterton, English writer and Christian apologist (1874-1936)

©2012 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”© 2012 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 “© 2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.

Name it and Claim it

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet." Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2) by William Shakespeare

 Blam! The head of the plant exploded in a shower of petals. The POOF of pollen emitted by the concussion glistened golden in the morning sun. Another hydrangea bloom had sacrificed itself for the sake of my boyish imagination. To the natural world, a lush bloom had been obliterated. But to me, Roberto Clemente (the Great Roberto) had just hit another homerun.

It had all started a day or two earlier when my Dad had brought home a new wiffle ball bat from W.T. Grants. This one was special. Unlike the thin jaundice yellow ones I was use to; this one was bright red with a fat barrel. It looked more like one of Fred Flintstone’s clubs than a baseball bat.

 I quickly tired of hitting the wiffle ball that came with the bat. Its light plastic construction was perforated with holes, which minimized the distance the ball traveled even with my best swing. Abandoning the disappointing and unresponsive ball I went in search of more satisfying projectiles.

Rocks work well, but they left marks on the bat. Green apples leapt off the bat traveling a good distant. They had to be carefully selected however. Those that were too ripe exploded on contact leaving fruit pulp all over the bat (and me).

However, there was a certain satisfaction generated by the exploding apples. I realized that destruction could be as much fun as distance. So next I experimented with dirt clods. The exploding “POOF” they created was exciting, but I was constantly getting dirt in my eyes from the plume of dust created at contact.

That was when I spied my Grandmother’s hydrangea bushes.

The other targets with which I had experimented required that I release the bat with one hand, toss the projectile into the air, then re-grip the bat and swing away, all in one swift motion. On the other hand, the round, puffy blooms of the hydrangea bushes were stationary, held at the perfect height by the stems. Because I could stand facing the target, with both hands on the bat, swinging at my leisure, it enhanced by ability to play out my big league fantasies.

There I stood. Bat in hand. It’s the bottom of the ninth with two on and two out. The count is three balls and two strikes. The great Roberto is at the plate. Here’s the wind up and the pitch: “BLAM.” Another bloom was blown to smithereens.

“JAMES THE LESS!”  

Hearing my Grandmother shout brought me quickly out of my big league fantasy. Her voice was coming from the front porch, where she was undoubtedly standing in her blue flowered house dress and favorite apron; her hands fisted on her hips. I turned around scanning my path of destruction: four or five shattered plants lay behind me. The remains of purple and pink blossoms were scattered everywhere.  “James the Less!” came her voice again. I knew immediately I was in trouble.    

“What’s in a name?”  In Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet” Juliet rationalizes that a “rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” So if Romeo could only change his last name he would no longer be a member of the family which opposes Juliet’s family, paving the way for their marriage. So she asks the question: “Where for art thou Romeo?” (Why are you named what you are named?)

What we call things is, in point of fact, very important. I was named James after my Grandfather. Normally my family addressed me as Jimmie. But when my Grandmother really wanted to make a point, she differentiated me from my Grandfather by addressing me as “James the Less.” It was not intended to be derogatory, but rather, definitive.

To my mind, we “make a point” every time we address someone. Expressions such as friend, beloved, son, daughter, wife, husband, mother, father, et cetera should convey respect as well as a deep and deepening relationship.

On the other hand, if we resort to addressing others with terms such as stupid, clumsy, worthless, jerk, or a variety of other terms, which are not fit to print, we are not only being unkind; we can inflict permanent damage. If a child is told they are worthless they will ultimately see themselves as worthless. If however, we address them as beloved (or as a loved one) they will come to know they are loved.

We are stewards of one another and one of the ways we steward others is how we address them. In other words, what we call them.

How do you think of those around you? Is your child “my stupid kid” or “my wonderful son or daughter?” What you call them may make the difference.

(Epilogue: James the Less’ bat was confiscated. The Great Roberto hit no more home runs that summer…at least not hydrangeas.)

Dear God: Remind me that what I call people makes a difference in their lives.

“And so with all things: names were vital and important.”  ~Algernon H. Blackwood, English short story writer and novelist (1869-1951)

©2012 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”© 2012 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 “© 2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.

Without Exception

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.” ~Martin Luther King, Jr., American clergyman, activist and civil rights leader (1929-1968) 

It was the best clubhouse ever. Our Dad had helped us build it out of scrap wood and tar paper from his contracting business. At first we had hoped for a tree house, but none of the trees on our property was particularly suitable. Not to mention that our Grandmother was not keen on the idea of our driving nails into her Golden Delicious apple trees. Especially since we had already made a habit of using the crab apples she used to make jelly as projectiles in our make-believe war games! 

In later years I occasionally came across an old black and white photo of the structure. Inevitably it brought back warm memories. Even though it looked like a condemned shanty-town structure, to me and my two brothers it was magical. In our imaginations it could become anything we wanted it to be: a fortress, a cave, a secret hideaway or just our private clubhouse.

Since it was OUR clubhouse, “membership had its privileges.” My best friend, Herbie Matyas, was always welcome.  Well, usually welcome…. On the other hand, my younger brothers and I spent our summers excommunicating one another from the structure. Some days it was peace on earth, other days it was like the Gaza strip. 

However, amidst all our turf wars, real and imagined, there was one thing we all agreed upon…  No girls! Specifically this meant the next door neighbor girl, Peggy Lou Signorella. Peggy Lou was older than the rest of us and therefore smarter (in later life she became a medical doctor), but it didn’t matter. It was a hard and fast rule; no girls. It never dawned on us that she probably didn’t want to come into our clubhouse anyway. 

If I had only known then, at ten years of age, what I would know later at eighteen, I probably would have invited Peggy Lou in and tossed my brothers out. 

In last Sunday’s reading from Ezekiel (17:22-24), the prophet writes about restoring the nation of Israel and uses the metaphor of a Cedar tree. In the Gospel reading from Mark (4: 26-34), Jesus tells the parable of the mustard seed.  

Both stories reminded me of my childhood playhouse. Trees produce fruit and provide shelter. Certainly we are all called upon by God to produce “fruit” by the way we use our gifts of time, talent and treasure. Do we produce “good fruit” in the world or do we keep these gifts for our own personal use benefitting no one but ourselves? 

The other questions are “who do we shelter” and how. Simply put, we shelter people by loving them. This love can manifest itself in acts of kindness (what some would call works of mercy) or it may only be a matter of being present to or paying attention to others. 

Figuratively speaking, like my childhood clubhouse, who do we let into our lives and who do we exclude? Who we love is often a matter of what makes us comfortable. Just as we hold on to our “gifts” because it gives us a false sense of security or comfort, we often love first and best those familiar or close to us.  

Loving the familiar, like family and friends, gives us a sense of security. If we love them we assume they will love us back. But what happens when we invite the unfamiliar into our clubhouse? What if we invited someone of a different religion, political party, cultural group, sexual orientation or simply of a different social stratum?

(Jack Jezreel once said we “like to call it the bad part of town because we don’t want to call it what it really is… the poor part of town.”) It’s not going to be comfortable – at least at first. 

God planted the great trees we call “our lives” so that others could be invited into them – to be sheltered, to be cared for, to be loved without exception. 

And just like my clubhouse, everyone should be allowed to enter, even Peggy Lou Signorella.

Dear God: Remind me to always be inviting and to love without exception. 

“When you really know somebody you can’t hate them. Or maybe it’s just that you can’t really know them until you stop hating them.” ~Orson Scott Card (from “Speaker for the Dead”), American author, critic, public speaker, essayist, columnist, and political activist (b 1951)

©2012 Deacon James E. Carper. All rights reserved.

“90 Second Stewardship” is a reflection on being a Christian Steward in a secular and sometimes harsh world. This reflection is written by Deacon James E. Carper of Simi Valley, a Deacon in the Archdiocese of Los Angeles. California. All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2012 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 “© 2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.