The Bell

One of the things I enjoy doing every Wednesday night before our Wednesday Worship is ringing the chapel bell. Maybe it brings out the kid in me! Actually, I seldom ring it without remembering the bell in the Susan B Harris Chapel at Young Harris College. I spent two years there being educated and nurtured by this Methodist institution. More fortunate than I realized at the time was I in attending this small college in the North Georgia Mountains.

When I tell folks that my scholarship job was ringing the bell, they usually look at me a little strange. But, it is true. Young Harris did not have an electronic bell system to change classes. Instead, someone rang the chapel bell which could be heard all over campus and beyond. My work day started at 7:50 AM when I rang the bell serving notice that it was time to get out of the sheets. I rang it again at 7:55 AM to let everyone know they had five minutes to get to class on time. And then, at 8:00 AM, I rang the bell for the last time as a signal that classes could start. Every hour until 4:00 PM, I repeated this task. Ten minutes before the hour, I rang the bell to end classes, five minutes later to hurry folks on to the next place, and then, on the hour to start the next class period. One of the perks of the job was having an excuse for arriving late to class and leaving early!

It was also my first taste of power. I can still remember the face of a friend looking my way as he ran across campus to class and my decision to ring the bell a minute early to insure his late arrival! And, of course, there were times when I felt merciful and would delay the bell long enough for someone to make it without the disapproving eye of some professor. It was a great job! I am not sure when YHC quit using the chapel bell to change classes, but I am happy to have it on my resume!

Mysterious Morning

If I were not trained to think theologically, I would say about this morning that it is magical. Instead, this morning set aside for remembering and celebrating the resurrection of Jesus seems mysterious. Knowing that it is such a day causes everything about the new day to be viewed differently. The sun seems brighter. The air feels crisper. The blooms of flowers look fuller. On those Ester Sundays when it rains, the rain feels more cleansing. It is like walking into a picture that is still being painted. Suddenly, all our senses perceive how vibrant and full of life are all those things around us. Yes, indeed, it is Easter.

Even though sunrise services are a part of the Easter tradition, there is also such a sense of anticipation about returning to the Sanctuary of the Lord on this day. Having been there on other days such as this one, we find ourselves being filled with a holy anticipation. The crowds will be in the overflow mode. Trumpets will sound. Bells will ring. The singing will be unparalleled and full of transcendence. The preachers will strain to proclaim the profound truth that "He is Risen!"

It is day filled with the crispness of something new, a day filled with the anticipation of the holy, and a day filled with a divine mystery that is glorious. The Savior who was born as flesh among us, the Godhead who came from glory to earth, and the divine Son of God who chose to live in our midst died on the cross as a sin sacrifice for each one us and has been raised from the dead by the power of the Holy Spirit destroying both the power of sin and the the power of death in one full sweep! It is, indeed, a day for celebrating a great mystery.

Jimmy

Good Friday is now yesterday, but still, it was only hours ago that I walked from the Good Friday worship service remembering Jimmy. He was the one who brought me to a point of offering a tradtional three hour worship experience on Good Friday which focused on the Seven Words of Jesus from the cross. At the time he was at the Glenwood Church and I was at Vidalia. He was young, barely out of seminary and I was in my fifth appointment. When he told me about offering this worship service, I was a bit surprised. "Who," I thought, "would go to a three hour worship service?" I asked him what he would do if no one came. His answer I have never forgotten. "If no one came, I would still read the lessons. It is important that they be read."

Somewhere in those Vidalia years, I started offering that three hour Good Friday worship experience. I discovered that people would come. While it is the kind of worship setting which provides for people to come and go, staying whatever amount of time they want, there are always some folks who come at the beginning and leave three hours later when the benediction is pronounced. I also discovered that something powerful begins to happen in my life as I am involved in such a lengthy service that takes me to the foot of the cross and keeps me there. And, I have also learned that I am not alone as those who share in those moments of worship bear the same testimony.

While too many churches think it is something only Roman Catholic Churches do, it is a thing of great value to the church. More and more the cross is being pushed out of the picture of what God has done for us through Jesus. We do Palm Sunday one week and jump to Easter the next. No one is invited or encouraged to stop at the cross and meditate on its place in our spiritual lives. That omission can lead to a watered down theology. I left Good Friday worship thankful that Jimmy spoke that word to me long years ago. Had he not, I would have missed such powerful blessings over these years.

Journey's End

We started the journey with ashes. Here we are now with only a few of those holy days left. Coming to the end of the Lenten journey means going deeper into the darkness that has been looming on the horizon for some time now. It can be no other way. What awaits us in this Lenten season is the gathering where feet were washed, the meal was served, and the betrayer went out into the darkness. What awaits us is the nighttime struggle in the Garden with Satan and the arrest of Jesus. What awaits us is Friday, a day filled with such horror that not even the sun could penetrate the darkness being put upon the earth.

The Lenten journey started so long ago ends with a battered, bloody, dead body being lowered from the cross and a trip to a hole filled with the darkness of the nearing sunset and death. It is at this point that the journey ends. The Lenten journey does not end this Sunday when the trumpets sounds resurrection; instead, it ends as we behold the Savior buried in the ground of the earth. As we stand there at the end of the journey, we start coming to terms with how hopeless and dark life really is when it is emptied of the presence of Jesus.

Sometimes as I hear on Good Friday, "It's Good Friday, but, Easter is coming!" I fear we are doing what we tend to do too easily with the stuff of life that makes us uncomfortable. What we tend to do is race on by without really allowing ourselves to experience a present moment filled with the pain of life. Not thinking about it is a way of not dealing with it. Only as we stay in the darkness of the journey's end do we have any hope of truly experiencing all that the Lenten journey offers to us. The beginning is about ashes. The ending is about the death of a Savior and the darkness where there is no hope.

The Rolling Cross

Not really sure what I saw I took a second look. What caught my attention was what seemed to be a person in a long white dress. As I turned momentarily from the highway in front of me to see what I saw out of the corner of my eye, I realized the white dress billowing in the wind was really a white robe. Alongside the white robed man were two other folks who were helping him get under the rather large wooden cross. In the space of those quick seconds, I thought, "Ah, someone is carrying a cross along the road." It is not a particularly unheard of thing. After all, it is Holy Week and Good Friday is coming. Just as I was turning my attention back to my driving, I saw it. At the bottom of the cross where it might be dropped into the ground there was a wheel. The guy was not really going to be carrying the cross, or dragging it. He was going to be rolling it. It was not the old rugged cross, but the rolling cross.

Now I am sure it was still a bit of an ordeal to manhandle that large wooden cross along the side of the road. The wheel might have made it easier, but it was still a task which would surely make the Jesus impersonator weary and worn. It was a warm windy afternoon and rolling that thing along for any amount of time would be a hot sweaty task. It might have been mimicking the suffering of Jesus, but still it was a long way from experiencing the suffering of Jesus.

The truth is we much prefer a rolling cross. It looks like the real thing, but is not even close. Jesus once spoke to His disciples about "taking up a cross." A cross was an instrument of death. To take up a cross means denying self to the point that we count our life something of no value unless it is useful for the purposes of God. Taking up a cross as Jesus talked about it is messy, painful, and results in a death. While it may not be the death that takes away our breath, it is the death that takes away the right to self. It is no wonder some folks sing, "I will cling to the rolling cross..."

The Parsonage

Though times are changing some, it can still be said that the parsonage is a permanent fixture in Methodism in the South Georgia area. For those out of the Methodist loop, the parsonage is the house provided by the local church for its appointed pastor. Having lived in one since the 8th grade, I have seen more than just a few. While a few have been near new and more have been well used, one stands out as the most unusual. The most unusual was not the one from which the snake had to be evicted before we could move in. Actually, we didn't move in that one. The snake seemed to be a signal that the church needed new housing. The most unusual was the one that was shared with an unseen friend.

The parsonage at Talbotton was a unique place. It was built in 1890, was on the Registry of Historical Places, and had been updated as much as possible without negating its place as a historical site. It had a great front porch, high ceilings, and a wide interior hallway down the middle which separated one side of the living area from the other. It still makes a striking presence on the corner upon which it was built over a century ago. When we went there in the mid '70's, we were told by a pastor and his wife had who lived there decades earlier that the house was haunted. At the time the pastor was my District Superintendent! Stories abounded about the reason. Some said there had at one time been a graveyard on the site of the house and a grave or two had been missed when they were moved to the new cemetery. Others declared an American Indian had been laid to rest where the house stood.

I wonder if stories still come from the Talbotton parsonage. Maybe preachers of our day have become too sophisticated to take the stories seriously, or maybe the unseen presence finally decided that no matter what, another Methodist preacher was still going to come. Maybe what happened to the unseen presence was what happens to a lot of church folks. Sometimes church folks get tired of waiting on the preacher to leave, so they go.

More About Journaling

For me the journaling experience has always been a part of my early morning devotional time. As I come to that hour I turn on the computer, bring up the last entry of the journal, and type in the date. In addition to the scripture, there are several daily devotional guides which I read during this time. One is written for clergy; one is written by Dennis Kinlaw, the President of Asbury College back in my days; and, the other is a pre-1900 devotional guide from my old book collection. As I come across a verse or a sentence which seems to stand out as a significant word for that moment, I copy it in my journal, noting the source, and my response to it. This gives me a record of what was going on in my walk with God on this particular day. It has also proven to be helpful to read back over previous day's entries and read these highlighted passages.

The journal discipline also provides a place to note some of the things about which I am praying. Sometimes there is simply a notation about a prayer and sometimes I actually turn to the keyboard and type in the prayer as if I am writing and sending it to God. So, what I end up with is a record of praying. It has been more than interesting to look at what I was praying about months ago, or maybe even a year ago, and see how it is that those prayers were handled by the Father God who received them. At times it seems like God is standing behind me, looking over my shoulder as I pray these prayers on the screen before me. It has become another way for me to be interactive with God about the things of my heart.

The bottom line for me is the journal has become another spiritual discipline. It is a constant reminder of the degree to which I am intentional about my personal life with God. While I do not require of myself an entry every day, a long space between the present and the last dated entry says a word about my commitment to being spiritually disciplined. In those moments my journal becomes like a call to once again do some re-arranging of the space in my life.