Joy and Sorrow

I have had this book for decades but have felt led to go through it again during my morning prayer time. This devotion met me this morning and strikes a chord, during difficult times in our country and larger church. I find joy in the midst. I feel at peace, knowing my place in the universe.

Steve

On Joy and Sorrow
 Kahlil Gibran

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.

And how else can it be?

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.

Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?

And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?

When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. 

Some of you say, "Joy is greater thar sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater."

But I say unto you, they are inseparable.

Together they come, and when one sits, alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed. 

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.

When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.

Ghana Always Teaches Me Something New

This is my column which appeared on February 2, 2019, in The Arab Tribune.

It was my third trip to Ghana, and I guess that means it’s becoming a habit. If you do something once, it can be a fluke, and if you do it twice, it’s still just a pattern. But going to Ghana has now become a habit indeed, and it’s a holy habit I’m glad to have.

In one way or another, the church I serve has supported the Eugemot orphanage in the Volta Region of eastern Ghana since it was founded fifteen years ago. But four years ago, the Spirit led us to organize an annual mission trip to put some hands and feet to our prayers and support. I personally got to go on three of the four. Our last mission team came home just a couple of weeks ago.

I thought I had learned what there was to learn on my other two trips, and I was there to support the others like a good pastor should. But as usual, I was wrong.

The newly found wonder I brought back with me this time is capsulated in one simple prayer. One of the older orphans who had been away at school came home for the holidays and went with us to guide us on our tour of the waterfall for our Sunday afternoon Sabbath time. He met our team for lunch beforehand, and we asked him to pray. He paused and told us he would like to teach us the prayer Mama Eugenia had always taught them at the orphanage.

He prayed, “Father, we invite you to come and eat with us. Amen.” I loved that prayer. He told us that at night, they also say “Father, we invite you to come and sleep with us.” There it is.

I have never heard such profound simplicity in prayer, which reflects amazing trust in the very presence of God in our midst. Yes, we know God is the one from whom all things come.

In the churches in our country, we had just finished the busy Christmas holidays honoring Jesus our Emmanuel, which means “God with us.” And our prayers are usually (if we are honest) asking him to bless what we are doing ... from far, far away.

Not that day. Not Bless (that is the young man’s name). He prayed to the “God who comes”, as Christian spiritualist Carlo Carretto describes it. God is a God who eats with us, who sleeps with us, and who holds us close.

As I reflect on the trip as a whole, I suppose that simple, beautiful prayer has become a prism through which I observed the beautiful colors of gratitude in the hearts of these people. They are thankful for the One who eats and sleeps with us, present in the rhythms of every day.

There is something about stepping out of my own culture, and into another place, that helps me see faith come alive. As one of our participants said, “when I go to Ghana, I see God working in ways I never see at home.”

God is here as well as there, of course. But I wonder if we have our spiritual antennas up to detect God’s presence. All of the experiences of this year’s mission trip led me back to this basic truth that Ghanians know in their bones. God is real and God is present.

We were there during the holidays, and while Christmas is less of a fuss, their New Year has energy like an American Thanksgiving, except it’s even better. They thank God over and over for the blessings of the past year, and they ask God to be with them this coming year. Most churches offer Watch Night services that go on for hours up until midnight.

At the orphanage, we built a big bonfire and enjoyed a drum circle, with dancing and singing that takes me to yet another place of heavenly bliss. On New Year’s Day, everyone wears white and we have a great feast, with traditional rice dishes and barbecued meat. The orphanage puts on a show, with memory verses, dances, and encouraging testimonies by some of the older young women and men who have come home.

What I began to see this year is that this gratitude is not just about the holiday; it’s imbued in everyday life. One young woman showed us the river where her family in the village washes their clothes, washes themselves, and gets their water for cooking and drinking.

Once again, I noticed local shops and businesses out on the road, which have openly religious names like “Salvation Mini-Market” where I bought some Milo (a chocolate milk drink). Once again, we shared food relief with families who were so grateful to be alive.

This year, we met a young woman in a wheelchair and visited another woman who could walk again after many years. We celebrated the story of how prayer had healed her. One of our participants gave the woman her metal cane to replace the hand made wooden stick she was using to show us the glory of what God can do. It was inspiring.

We visited churches that were so incredibly hospitable toward us. One was simple and beautiful, made of wooden slats and a thatched roof. In another, they recognized me from when I preached there two years ago and ushered me up to the stage to sit behind the pastor while he was preaching. Then the pastor introduced me (this was a really strange experience, since I had never met him) and I offered a gift for the new mission house they are building.

They treated me as if I honored them with my presence, but I’m the one that is honored. I get to worship with a faith family that is alive with song and drums and dance.

I was really excited about seeing the new orphanage, finally. The dorms had been under construction by work crews from England for years, while the orphanage had been in a three bedroom rental home down the road. Children had spent years stacked like sardines, but now there was spacious room.

It was heartwarming to see a vision become reality, to see the barn we built for them in view just behind the new orphanage wall, and to watch the running water we helped pay for in use. We watched them installing the new whiteboards we were donating for the classrooms at the school in front of the orphanage, which had been built by schools and churches from good old Alabama.

The highlight, of course, was spending time with the orphans themselves. One little boy just couldn’t get enough of my sunglasses and didn’t mind posing for pictures when he looked so cool. We played card games, did crafts with beads, and tussled with the little ones.

This year, there was a piano in the new common room, so I was in my element and we sang some songs. I got to connect at the keyboard with one of the school officials, who was a church music director on the side and asked me to play hymns he had been learning. Mama Eugenia’s son and one of the older girls were wonderful at harmony. The kids just sang and sang.

All these experiences that unfolded during the week were wrapped up together in that simple prayer that kept mulling around in my mind. Father, we invite you to sing with us, to play with us, to work with us. You are here. We depend completely on you.

I brought home another Gye Nyame, a West African symbol which means “except God.” For them, it is a national symbol. It means we could never have what we have, or do what we do, or be who we are, except for God. “Except God.”

I’m looking at one on the wall in my home as I write. Gye Nyames remind me that in so much of American Christianity, we only consider ourselves somewhat dependent on God. It’s up to us to make a difference, rely on our smarts, and pull ourselves up by our own bootstraps. Then we pause to trust God for the rest.

But not in Ghana. God is a God who does it all with us.

Maybe we can get back to that spiritual place in America again. Maybe I can get back to that place in my heart again.

Steve West is a husband, father, minister, musician, and writer who pastors Arab First United Methodist Church. His blog, “Musings of a Musical Preacher,” is found at www.stevewestsmusings.blogspot.com.

Ghana Trip Made the Papers

I am blessed with the opportunity to write a column for The Arab Tribune. I was pleasantly surprised, however, that they were able to make room for the pictures. Celebrate with us a life-changing journey.

There's more than one way Christ comes to us

This is my column that appeared in “The Arab Tribune” on Wednesday, December 19, 2018.

Every year during the holidays, it seems that one story, one experience, or one conversation captures my imagination. It's not usually any of the gifts, or all the food (as much as there is of that to be impressed by), or the lights or the parties.

It's something unusual, something unexpected, and something a bit heart-warming. This year, it was a phone call.

Last Saturday, our church held our annual "Christmas and Beyond" party where we hosted most of the 150 children and their families that we help with Christmas. We had done all the shopping in advance, so we shared a Christmas program of songs and games, treated everyone to breakfast, and opened a Christmas thrift shop for their families to enjoy.

When it was all over, I got a phone call from one of my parishioners with a story I'll never forget. During the morning's activities, a grandmother who had brought her three grandchildren to Christmas and Beyond told a story to the volunteers who were fixing her coffee.

She said that the night before, her two nephews, who are ages 21 and 23, were at her house, and they asked her grandchildren what they were going to do on Saturday. The kids said they were going to a "Christmas party" at the Methodist church.

The nephews replied, "Oh, you will have a great time! We went there when we were your age, and they made us pancakes, and we heard the Christmas story, and everyone was so nice to us! You will love it!" One of the nephews said "It is my favorite Christmas memory!"

This brings a little mist to my eyes. As if that is not heart-warming enough, the grandmother continued, "You may not realize it but this party has a lasting impact and this is proof. Twenty years later, my nephews still remember your kindness." That's the best phone call I've gotten in a long time.

I love the Advent season. In my faith tradition, it's a four-Sunday season of expectation of the coming of Christ. The little Christmas surprises ... the serendipitous, heart-warming moments ... have grown to be something I expect.

I try to keep my spiritual antenna's up to see where God is going to show up. That's because there's more than one way Jesus comes.

I shared with my congregation that I have recently discovered the teachings of a 12th century French abbot named Bernard of Clairvaux, who said something to ponder during this holy season. He said there are really three "comings" of Christ.

The first was Christ's coming in the flesh. The second will be his coming again in glory. But there is one "coming" in between, his coming into our hearts.

Here are some words from his sermon: “We know that there are three comings of the Lord. The third lies between the other two. It is invisible, while the other two are visible. In the first coming he was seen on earth, dwelling among humans; he himself testifies that they saw him and hated him. In the final coming all flesh will see the salvation of our God, and they will look on him whom they pierced. The intermediate coming is a hidden one."

He continues, "In the first coming our Lord came in our flesh and in our weakness. In this middle coming he comes in spirit and in power, in the final coming he will be seen in glory and majesty. In case someone should think that what we say about this middle coming is sheer invention, listen to what our Lord himself says; ‘If anyone loves me, he will keep my word, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him’.”

It is this "middle coming" that seems to show up again and again for me during this season, sometimes when I least expect it but I try to always be looking for it. Because it lies between the other two, it is like a road we travel on from Christ's first coming to his last.

As Bernard put it, "In the first, Christ was our redemption; in the last, he will appear as our life. In this middle coming, he is our rest and consolation.”

Let him come into your heart today.

Steve West is a husband, father, minister, musician, and writer who pastors Arab First United Methodist Church. His blog, “Musings of a Musical Preacher,” is found at www.stevewestsmusings.blogspot.com.

Thanksgiving Presentation on the Struggle for Religious Freedom in Colonial America

I created this video after the Thanksgiving presentation I did for the local Rotary Club today. It's on the struggle for religious freedom in colonial America, using the case study of my own direct ancestor, Rev. Thomas Maxwell. May it bless you today.

I am so grateful for those who struggled heartily for our religious freedom. Thank you, fourth great grandfather Maxwell! It gives me hope to go through any of the struggles we continue to have in American religion. I'll take the "downside" because of the "upside" of freedom.

Why Fight About Prayer When We Can Pray About Fighting?

This is my column that was published in The Arab Tribune on Wednesday, October 17, 2018.

My mother had a habit that I thought was very odd as a child. She had a particular rocking chair, armless and covered in striped velvety fabric. She kept it in the kitchen of whatever house we lived in, near the coffee pot. That was where she had her morning quiet time.

We knew good and well that we were not supposed to disturb her. I learned it was a bad time to ask her for something, because the answer would probably be no.

The younger I was, the more that 45 minutes she spent in her chair, unavailable for me, was like an eternity. I vividly remember lying on the couch, listening to the repeated click of her coffee cup against the saucer, wondering when she’d be through.

Though Mom died years ago, she continues to teach me. She had a contemplative spirit that I inherited, but it didn’t unfold until I was well into adulthood. For her, this morning time spent with God was holy and precious, not forced. And the rhythm of her quiet time, near the opening of each day, was life-giving to her. It was the hook she hung her life on.

I am beginning to see that her faithful witness (and healthy boundaries with her kids) made an impact on my life. She taught me about prayer, not just by what she said but by what she did. It’s a bigger lesson than “now I lay me down to sleep, I pray, the Lord, my soul to keep.”

I watched her make time with God a priority.

In my adult life prayer has become my heart’s longing. Prayer is nothing more, and nothing less, than spending quiet time with God. It’s not complicated. It’s just time. It is healing for the soul.

Quiet reflection, offered to the Lord as a simple gift, is worth it for its own sake. We have to see past our functional assumptions about what prayer “does.” Early In the journey, we learn that it’s about intercession (praying for others) or petition (requesting things of God). We say prayer “works.” That is indeed powerful praying. But this is only a piece of the prayer pie.

Prayer is praise, gratitude, adoration, and contemplation. Prayer is confession, conviction, and honest sharing with God, who sees all and loves all the more. Prayer is silence as much as it is talking, and the purpose is most definitely not limited to giving information with God that God already knows.

I’m no expert and I don’t feel called to live in a monastery. But I do know that it’s easy to oversimplify prayer to asking God for things. Yet it’s also easy to over analyze prayer. Some even think you have to “cover all the bases,” as if prayer is about getting everything in (oh dear, I forgot about adoration today!).

It has been life-giving to get beyond seeing prayer in terms of what it does, and experience it as an outflowing of love for the one who created a deep desire in me. I love morning prayer, evening prayer, contemplative prayer, walking prayer, silent prayer, spoken prayer with friends ... all kinds of spending time with God. My heart burns for it and my soul yearns for it.

So I must admit, even though I’m a religious leader and a believer in prayer, it troubles me to see people fighting about prayer before ball games. For me, at least, that reduces prayer from what it is, an amazing gift and an invitation to share in the heart of God, to something God did not ever intend it to be ... a cultural symbol like flags and statues.

I am so glad to live in a country where we are free to pray. I pray at ballgames and grocery stores, parks and community events. I pray in the car or on the phone. There is no limit to how or where I can pray.

It does not threaten my faith to acknowledge those of other faiths, or no faith at all, and be content with a moment of silence to pray for safety and good sportsmanship. In fact, I think it’s bad sportsmanship to assume that the only prayer that counts is the kind that takes place over a loudspeaker.

Moments of silence don’t bother me because silence is the best prayer anyway. It is said that silence is God’s first language. So I take my hat off and I gladly pray. I suppose I don’t get upset about the lack of a microphone because I am incredibly grateful. In our country, we are free to pray all we want.

Here’s an idea for all of us. Why not pray for those we disagree with? Why fight about prayer when we can pray about fighting? And if you feel led to hold a prayer circle over in a corner at the game, I’d love to come.

I have seen the decision about prayer at football games compared with interrupting Jesus when he prayed on the hillside before feeding the 5,000.For me, that’s apples and oranges. Jesus didn’t insist on taking the microphone before athletic events at the Roman stadiums.

He drew people to the hillside. He taught them and fed them and prayed for them. He was not making a statement, he was abiding with his Father ... and welcoming those who wanted in on their conversation.

Maybe we need more prayer on the hillside and prayer at the gameside. Fighting about prayer is making prayer something other than the gift it was meant to be. Why reduce it to a cultural symbol, when it’s so much more?

As Richard Foster put it, prayer is the heart’s true home. Jesus said to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us. He didn’t say to fight against those who persecute us.

Whether you feel public prayer persecutes those of other faiths, or lack of public prayer persecutes those of Christian faith, it’s fair criticism either way. But the prescription is prayer itself.

Prayer is the gift God gave us to deal with the struggles of life. As I write this, I am planning to go to the hillside, or the lakeside at least, tomorrow. I plan to walk and pray, and to let go of my troubles and be filled with the quiet presence of God. I hope to be renewed and refreshed. I invite you to go with me, in your own way.

Steve West is a husband, father, minister, musician, and writer who pastors Arab First United Methodist Church. His blog, “Musings of a Musical Preacher,” is found atwww.stevewestsmusings.blogspot.com.

Couldn’t we all use a Mr. Rogers in our lives again?

This is my column published in the Arab Tribune on Wednesday, September 5, 2018.

“It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor. Would you be mine? Won’t you be mine?”

Yes, I’m from that generation. These whimsical words will ring eternally through my mind, because my mind was literally being formed as they were first being sung.

I was three years old when Fred Rogers came to the hood in 1968. I guess you could say I am a “first generation” neighbor to visit Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood.

Who can forget the tell tale jazz piano riff that starts the show, while the camera pans over a model of the quaint little town?

What color sweater will he put on today with his sneakers? Will he have any trouble with the zipper?

Who will visit us today? I only recently discovered Mr. McFeely was a name aptly given, not only because the guest postman helped us learn about our feelings, but because McFeely was Fred Rogers’ middle name. He was probably my favorite of the characters (the human ones, that is).

And what will happen today in the Land of Make Believe? The trolley will take us there. I hope we get to see X the Owl today. He’s funny when he gets grumpy. And poor, poor Henrietta Pussycat. I wonder what will upset her today, meow meow.

My apologies. It’s easy to get lost in the Land of Make Believe. Has it really been 50 years since Mr. Rogers welcomed me into his world?

This summer, I saw the movie celebrating the 50th anniversary of Mr. Rogers. It was heartwarming. My son said, “that’s the most wholesome thing I’ve ever seen.” The movie helped me relive a lot of memories.

But there were things I did not realize. One example is how thought provoking he was about social issues of the time. I had not seen the episode where he waded his feet in the pool of water with his African American neighborhood friend. Another example is the now-famous testimony he gave before the Senate to protect funding for public broadcasting.

Sadly, another is that the infamous Westboro Baptist Church picketing his funeral with inflammatory hate speech, because they could not “tolerate his level of tolerance.”

Believing his creed that that “play is really the work of childhood,” he taught me a lot.

He taught me that it’s important to treat other people like neighbors. Sharing a pool of water with the feet of another was only the beginning of what he did with his kind and neighborly demeanor. As a Presbyterian minister turned television educator, he brought the call to “love thy neighbor” to life.

He taught me that emotions are real and they’re not always easy to deal with. And that it’s okay. There were often tears in the eyes of adults in the Land of Make Believe when Henrietta Pussycat confessed her ill feelings, meow meow.

Mr. Rogers taught me that every person is special and treasured. I have held on to this belief all my life, even to the point of being persecuted for it by those who prefer to be more intolerant. We are all children of God, part of the body of Christ, with unique spiritual gifts for building up the body. We don’t have to think like each other to love each other.

He taught me a sense of holy play. Yes, he’s a Presbyterian minister, but I mean more than that. He had a holy regard for others and for working out feelings and thoughts with children.

He taught me to use the gifts I have been given. I knew he did his own puppet voices, and I guessed he helped build the sets. I was surprised to learn in my adulthood that he personally played the incredible jazz piano I’ve always loved. Mr. Rogers was a musician, puppeteer, writer, creator, producer, composer, stage manager, host, and minister.

We need another Mr. Rogers.

I’ve been thinking about our rampant, contemporary propensity for incivility. You can find it everywhere from international terrorism to national politics to social media. We need more models like him, champions of insightful, accepting, warm conversation that gets to the heart of life.

It has been hard to see things getting so divisive in our great country where we practice such freedom of religion, something we all treasure and value. But there is still a tendency to hurt others, sometimes even because of (not just in spite of) religious beliefs.

Yet the wisdom of God is “first pure, then peaceable, gentle, willing to yield, full of mercy and good fruits, without a trace of partiality or hypocrisy.” (James 3:17)

I’ve spent way too much time with Jesus to condemn the people he decided, though others were condemning them, to see promise and hope in. The last time I checked, the very definition of Christian love is to love as Christ loved, including those that are different than us, who disagree with us. Jesus even went as far to say “love your enemies.”

This is not optional. This is Gospel. So here’s to people like Mr. Rogers who continue to teach us.

Steve West is a husband, father, minister, musician, and writer who pastors Arab First United Methodist Church. His blog, “Musings of a Musical Preacher,” is found at www.stevewestsmusings.blogspot.com.