Dolphins & Sharks

“Look, over there, there are dolphins in the water!”

Somebody shouted this to me as I began a several-mile run along a beach during a vacation. This stranger was absolutely right. Three dolphins playfully leapt up out of the water and, in tandem, we raced down the South Carolina shoreline for almost an hour. And most of that hour I reflected on that moment when the gracious abandon of a stranger, who might not otherwise have greeted me, alerted me to one of God’s wonders.

Running for me is a time to meditate. Like a Buddhist walking meditation, its rhythm gives me peace and a place for thought. And what I thought was that this stranger had played the preacher—that this is the purpose of any exhortation—to awaken us to such wonders.  Because I believe each one of us may serve as a minister, it occurred to me that this is our role, to shout,

“Look, over there, there are dolphins in the water!”

There’s something about the shore that gives us permission to talk to strangers. I think it’s the elation, even the ecstasy, that we experience in nature—whether manifest in shores or dolphins. It awakens the child in us that freely enters the commonwealth of God.

The stranger speaking to me about the dolphin was purely gratuitous, an occasion of grace. He had nothing to gain by it other than the thrill of sharing the experience. But I proclaimed his gospel to all I passed in my run along the beach,

 “Look, over there, there are dolphins in the water!”

The next day, our last full day along the shore, it rained. And instead of wading into the Atlantic, I waded into all those e-mails I had avoided all week. It was sobering, to get back to business. There’s nothing natural about sitting in front of a laptop, reading a screen and plucking keys on a keyboard.

And I had another thought. Earlier in the week on the beach we had met a couple who alerted us to a shark in the water. It occurred to me that our job as “ministers” (remember, all of us) is not only to point out the dolphins, but warn others about the sharks.

Many of us got too many sharks growing up in our churches and too few dolphins. Like the preacher in the novel and movie Pollyanna, egged on by Pollyanna’s stern and bitter aunt, we heard preachers who focused on the curses found in scriptures rather than its blessings. Pollyanna, the orphan of missionary parents, who herself had every right to be bitter, pointed out to this preacher that there are many more blessings than curses in the Bible, many more dolphins than sharks.

Progressive Christians recognize the sharks infesting the waters of our faith tradition: biblical literalism, fundamentalism, prejudice, exclusion, patriarchy, condemnation, and so on. It’s important that we warn others to stay out of these waters. But it’s equally vital—or all the more vital—that we point out the dolphins of our faith tradition: grace, mercy, justice, compassion, inclusion, blessing, wonder, storytelling, and spiritual truth.

“Look, there are dolphins in the baptismal water!”

 

This week marks the tenth anniversary of beginning my blog with this post from February 16, 2011.

There’s been nearly half-a-million visitors, not including an average of five-hundred free weekly subscribers.

Tax-deductible donations may be made safely in Chris Glaser’s name to the LGBTQ Religious Archives Network. Personal gifts may be made safely by clicking here.  Thank you!

Copyright © 2011 by Chris R. Glaser. Permission granted for non-profit use with attribution of author and blogsite. Other rights reserved. 

 

Dolphins & Sharks

Hobbes & Wade find a flower on the beach in 2008.

“Look, over there, there are dolphins in the water!”

Somebody shouted this to me as I began a several-mile run along a beach during a vacation. This stranger was absolutely right. Three dolphins playfully leapt up out of the water and, in tandem, we raced down the South Carolina shoreline for almost an hour. And most of that hour I reflected on that moment when the gracious abandon of a stranger, who might not otherwise have greeted me, alerted me to one of God’s wonders.

Running for me is a time to meditate. Like a Buddhist walking meditation, its rhythm gives me peace and a place for thought. And what I thought was that this stranger had played the preacher—that this is the purpose of any exhortation—to awaken us to such wonders.  Because I believe each one of us may serve as a minister, it occurred to me that this is our role, to shout,

“Look, over there, there are dolphins in the water!”

There’s something about the shore that gives us permission to talk to strangers. I think it’s the elation, even the ecstasy, that we experience in nature—whether manifest in shores or dolphins. It awakens the child in us that freely enters the commonwealth of God.

Hobbes and me wading in the water. 
We went in October so Hobbes could be off leash.

The stranger speaking to me about the dolphin was purely gratuitous, an occasion of grace. He had nothing to gain by it other than the thrill of sharing the experience. But I proclaimed his gospel to all I passed in my run along the beach,

“Look, over there, there are dolphins in the water!”

The next day, our last full day along the shore, it rained. And instead of wading into the Atlantic, I waded into all those e-mails I had avoided all week. It was sobering, to get back to business. There’s nothing natural about sitting in front of a laptop, reading a screen and plucking keys on a keyboard.

And I had another thought. Earlier in the week on the beach we had met a couple who alerted us to a shark in the water. It occurred to me that our job as “ministers” (remember, all of us) is not only to point out the dolphins, but warn others about the sharks.

Many of us got too many sharks growing up in our churches and too few dolphins. Like the preacher in the novel and movie Pollyanna, egged on by Pollyanna’s stern and bitter aunt, we heard preachers who focused on the curses found in scriptures rather than its blessings. Pollyanna, the orphan of missionary parents, who herself had every right to be bitter, pointed out to this preacher that there are many more blessings than curses in the Bible, many more dolphins than sharks.

Progressive Christians recognize the sharks infesting the waters of our faith tradition: biblical literalism, fundamentalism, prejudice, exclusion, patriarchy, condemnation, and so on. It’s important that we warn others to stay out of these waters. But it’s equally vital—or all the more vital—that we point out the dolphins of our faith tradition: grace, mercy, justice, compassion, inclusion, blessing, wonder, storytelling, and spiritual truth.

“Look, there are dolphins in the baptismal water!”

This was my first post on this blog, February 16, 2011. Its vacation theme seems appropriate for this summer season. It also laid the groundwork for all the posts that have followed. The photos from a week’s vacation on the shore in 2008 that was described in this post were not included.

Hobbes checks on me!

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Copyright © 2011 and 2018 by Chris R. Glaser. Permission granted for non-profit use with attribution of author and blogsite. Other rights reserved. 

Nimble Thimble Fingers

Join me on BlogTalkRadio 3:30-4:30 p.m. Eastern Time U.S., Thursday, July 3.

As a runner, I have experienced bad behavior at the hands of passing motorists, rare though it may be. I’ve heard similar stories from others on foot, on bicycles and motorcycles, wheelchairs and walkers.

I’ve had a bottle thrown at me, exploding glass on the curb next to my bare legs. I once had to jump on a car hood to prevent its bumper from smashing my legs as its owner rolled around a corner through a red light without stopping or looking. I’ve had crushed ice thrown at me from a passing school bus, which doesn’t sound like much until you experience the velocity of sharp speeding shards of ice on your bare skin.

The occasional shout for directions can cause a pratfalling distraction but is not scary like the taunts from passing drivers. Several times I’ve had a carload of adolescent boys threaten me verbally in passing or menacingly drive towards me in their car, once doubling back after shouting “Faggots get off the road!” (I was actually on the sidewalk, and wearing nothing to designate my sexual orientation.)

What brings all this to mind is that twice in recent weeks, I’ve had motorists scare the bejeebies out of me by unnecessarily blaring their horns rather than giving a precautionary tap. It’s not like I wear earphones. And in each case there was no reason for even a cautionary tap. Better yet, if they were so concerned, they might have slowed down to the posted speed limit.

Runners are not equipped with horns but most of us have a middle finger.

That was my only defense, my only available “hammer of justice,” but in the first case, the driver was long gone and in the second case, I painfully twisted my shoulder to give the desired indication of displeasure in the driver’s direction.

I immediately thought of the disclaimer, “This is going to hurt me more than it does you.” I experienced this in a very literal way, my shoulder sore for the rest of the day.

“Vengeance is mine,” says the Lord. There’s a practical reason for such advice.

During a talent show on a retreat I heard a masterful, humorous re-telling of an unfortunate children’s sermon. An older woman had decided to teach the children about thimble fingers, which for her was a middle finger. She urged the children to stick their middle fingers into the air, and though they hesitated, one boy absolutely refusing, she then said, “This is the way you can remind people to look up to God.”

I doubt very much that the driver saw my finger as a sign to look up to God!

But I did, remembering this story while finishing my run.

+++

Other posts on running:

Dolphins and Sharks

Beware of the God

Praying for Enemies

Spiritual Arboretums

Pride Goeth Before a Fall and Getting Back Up

Lauds and Lost

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You are encouraged to use a post or quotes in personal reflection, worship, newsletters, and classes, referencing the blog address when possible: http://chrisglaser.blogspot.com. Check out past posts in the right rail on the blogsite, catalogued by year and month. For specific topics, use the search feature in the upper left corner of the site.

Copyright © 2014 by Chris R. Glaser. Permission granted for non-profit use with attribution of author and blogsite. Other rights reserved. 

Lauds and Lost

A week ago today I walked toward the St. Bernard Abbey Church for 6 a.m. lauds, the morning service of the Benedictine monastery in Cullman, Alabama hosting a weeklong men’s monastic retreat led by Carl McColman under the auspices of the Spiritual Formation Program of Columbia Theological Seminary.

Then I saw the sun’s first rays midst the mists arising from the pond just to the left of the doors I approached, casting in profile an empty, inviting bench on its shore, as in the picture above, taken the next morning when the mists were not quite as billowy. Mists are a mystical draw for many, accounting for the covers of many books on the spiritual life, including my own Communion of Life, maybe because mist is iconic for divine mystery and metaphor for the unfathomable.

Surrounded by greenery of trees and shrubs and grasses, I sat on the bench awaiting the full penetration through these mists of the light of the red morning sun on the horizon beneath an otherwise clear blue sky.  I heard the day’s opening praise of diverse birds and insects: warbling, chirping, quacking, whooping, thrumming, buzzing, whirring, shrieking, as well as the occasional plip-plop from some unseen and unknown water creatures.

The incense of the day was a blend of recently cut grass, distant manure, brackish water, wisteria, and dewy freshness. I looked down at my feet to discover a mosaic of moss, roots, sandy soil, seed casings, stones, grass, and shimmering water. I took deep breaths not only with my lungs but with all of my senses.

O Lord, open thou my lips.

And my mouth shall show forth thy praise.

The next morning during our full day of silence I went for a run through the forests of the monastery’s extensive grounds. I began near the pond as a long, thick snake quickly slithered across my path from shore to shrubs, my first sign of danger on the grounds. For the remainder of my run, I carefully scanned the path in front of me and avoided planting my feet in piles of leaves or thick grasses that might conceal another unwanted surprise.

The paths were wide and shady, and seemed well-marked, giving me a false sense of confidence. Monastic modesty prevented stripping off my shirt till I was well into the woods. Passing two fellow retreatants further assured me that these trails were friendly. Following “The Big Loop,” I assumed it would provide an ample run as well as a safe return to civilization, emboldening me to take a narrower side path that diverged from the main trail.

But that was not my first mistake.

My first mistake was not looking at the map of the trails provided in the guest house. I’ve walked and run solo many a trail, from my days in a junior high nestled among foothills to high school and college walks, hikes, and runs on the cliffs, beaches, mountains, and deserts of California, and since, in multiple venues that travels and speaking trips have afforded. But as I passed again and again the same landmarks, uncertain where to turn or run, I grimly noted the irony that this is also what happens in the spiritual life. We fail to check the maps others have provided.

I was lost.

Adding to the challenge was one stretch of road I passed along several times where a buzzing bee or wasp, presumably protecting a nearby hive or nest, kept bumping into me, buzzing my face, shoulders, and chest. The last time I was stung, though by an African hornet, my entire body broke out in scary, reptilian scale-like hives, rushed to a hospital by an EMS unit. My EpiPen was home in Atlanta. I used my t-shirt to keep brushing it away, careful not to do so violently enough to prompt it to sting, ultimately sprinting for all I was worth each time I passed.

I knew I had to go downhill, but the rivulets where waters had run were misleading, as were the up-and-down trails. The main stream was my clue to the flatlands, but I was not always beside it. I had (unintentionally) been running more than two hours, so the sun was directly overhead, unable to give me direction. Earlier I had followed a trail labeled “Farm Road,” which I presumed led to the farm on the grounds of the monastery, but I had been dissuaded to pursue it by an official-looking locked gate with no pedestrian access through or around it.

Now I was trying to find that gate again, but I couldn’t quite remember where I had passed it. Intuition told me that road would lead me home.

I broke my silence and said loudly, “Can anybody hear me?” hoping that someone else was on one of the nearby trails. In a whisper I prayed, “Please God help me!”

O God, make speed to save us.

O Lord, make haste to help us.

Following a counter-intuitive urge, I went a different way on this road too often travelled and stumbled onto the gate again. This time I ignored its authority, climbed it and ran further down the road. Soon I was rewarded by the sound of a passing car. I came upon a highway, and across a field, saw three people consulting over farm equipment. One of them crossed the field to give me directions. I was four miles from the monastery.

I began running, but fearful of dehydration, also thumbed for a ride. Though my shirt was back on, how many people want to pick up a sweaty runner? Finally a local man looking for work offered me a ride. Though the evidence was clear he enjoyed smoking, my gasping lungs were grateful he chose not to. After driving me deep into the monastery grounds, out of his way, he offered me his hand and said his name was Lance Jones. I told him I would pray he finds a job. 

I will never forget his name.

Because we were still observing silence, I went directly to lunch unable immediately to tell my companions about my fearful adventure. No one knew I had been lost. One of my fears had been that, when I was finally missed, they would have to waste time to find me.

O God, come to my assistance.

And my mouth shall show forth thy praise.

+ + +

I will be guest preacher during this coming Sunday’s 11 a.m. worship of Ormewood Park Presbyterian Church in Atlanta.

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Copyright © 2014 by Chris R. Glaser. Permission granted for non-profit use with attribution of author and blogsite. Other rights reserved.

"Pride Goeth before a Fall"--and Getting Back Up!

Chris speaking at GWI 2014. Photo by Ryan Johnson.

The week of our snow and ice in Georgia, I gingerly stepped and carefully drove to avoid any ice-related accidents. When most ice and snow had melted and the weather warmed, I decided to go for a run, proudly wearing my sleeveless neon-blue running shirt and shorts in which I look quite good if much too blue. (Looking good enhances my workouts and my running, as with most athletes!)

But before I got out of the guest parking lot of our complex, I fell sprawling on the pavement, catching myself with my hands, scraping them and one elbow and both knees. I wish I could blame slipping on ice or tripping on shoelaces or debris, but the asphalt was dry as a bone and clean as a whistle.

I picked myself up, went back to our unit, scrubbed my wounds to avoid infection, treated them with antibiotic cream, and bandaged the bleeding scrapes and cuts.  “Pride goeth before a fall,” the judging Proverb came to me. I realized that wearing my usual winter garb for running—long sleeved shirt, gloves, and long running pants—would have minimized my injuries.

Yet pride is also what prompted me to proceed with my long run—puffy and bruised knees, multiple bandaids, and raw skin notwithstanding—this time wearing my long-sleeved running shirt. Though the fall was humbling, pride is what made me get back up and start again.

As I ran, I thought back on the four days I had spent that week at the Georgia Winter Institute 2014, meeting in a former Confederate weapons factory in Columbus, Georgia, south of Atlanta, where I live.  GWI’s mission is stated in one sentence: “The Georgia Winter Institute connects people with and without disabilities to work together to nurture and use our gifts to strengthen community bonds.”

In my closing keynote I told the assembly of a gathering of people living with HIV and AIDS, their families, friends, volunteer and professional caregivers near Detroit. “I have no memory of what I said to them,” I explained, “I absolutely remember what they ‘said’ to me. As we helped them carry all their medical paraphernalia from their cars to their rooms at the retreat center—their IV drip bottles and tubing, their medicines, oxygen tanks, and various pieces of special equipment—all I could think of was how determined they were to participate in this event, to be part of the community. And by contrast, I thought about how many people pass up on going on retreats or building community simply because it’s ‘inconvenient.’”

They had been knocked down, so to speak, but they had gotten back up again. And that’s what I witnessed among those gathered in Columbus. Perhaps their pride is challenged by how the culture, government, medical establishment, and houses of worship are inadequately mindful of their gifts and challenges, whether their own or those they love or serve, but pride is what gets us all back up again.

Other posts related to running mishaps:

Praying for “Enemies”

BEWARE OF THE GOD! (includes an Olympic running mishap)

Last week’s post also about GWI 2014:

A Dream within a Dream

Progressive Christian Reflections is an authorized Emerging Ministry of MCC supported solely by readers. Please click here for more information or to make a tax-deductible donation. Thank you!

Consider using a post or quotes in personal reflection, worship, newsletters, and classes, referencing the blog address when possible: http://chrisglaser.blogspot.com.

Check out past posts in the right rail on the blogsite.

Copyright © 2014 by Chris R. Glaser. Permission granted for non-profit use with attribution of author and blogsite. Other rights reserved.

BEWARE OF THE GOD!

According to the Westminster Shorter Catechism, the chief end of humanity is “to enjoy God and glorify God forever.” How many of us actually “enjoy” God?

A former missionary told me a childhood experience of being taught in church that if he prayed diligently enough, God would heal his ailing grandfather. So he prayed three times a day on his knees. When his grandfather died anyway, he felt terrified, believing that God must be some sort of monster to let such a beloved man as his grandfather die. He told me that’s why, a few weeks later at a revival, he “accepted Jesus.” He wanted to be on the good side of this Monster God.

That week, walking my dog, I noticed lettering on a fence that was intended to read, “Beware of the dog.” But two of the letters were missing—so that it read “Beware of the g.” My mischievous mind couldn’t help but think, “Beware of the god,” and I thought that would be an appropriate sign to have on too many churches: BEWARE OF THE GOD. Believe me, you can’t enjoy a God of which you have to beware, nor can you enjoy God in a church that bites you.

As a teenager, C. S. Lewis was the first intellectually rigorous Christian writer that I read. He gave me a framework of reason on which to hang my more intuitive faith of the heart. Not long ago, I picked up Walter Hooper’s C. S. Lewis: Readings for Meditation and Reflection, and began using it during my morning prayers. But in the weeks that followed I found I disagreed with some of Lewis's notions and switched to a different writer. Lewis was too reminiscent of the God I had grown up with, who, while not a monster, is not the God I enjoy today.  Not long after, I gave Lewis another try and decided that there was enough helpful stuff to put up with areas of disagreement.

As with the Bible, we may read all inspirational books critically, as well as listen to every sermon and reading and hymn with the questions: 

Does this speak to me?

Does this match my own experience?

Do I really believe this? 

What’s wrong with this picture?

What part is really helpful?

One entry from Lewis was entitled, “We delight to praise.” He pictures our ultimate enjoyment of God to be like lovers spiraling higher and higher in their love as they praise one another’s attributes: “You have such a great sense of humor.” “I like the shape of your nose.” “Your eyes are so expressive.” “I admire your integrity.” “I appreciate your honesty.” “I love being close to you.” “I love holding you…you holding me.”

He writes that such heavenly praise:

…Does not mean, as it can so dismally suggest, that it is like “being in church.” For our “services,” both in their conduct and in our power to participate, are merely attempts at worship; never fully successful, often 99.9 per cent failures, sometimes total failures. We are not riders but pupils in the riding school; for most of us, the falls and bruises, the aching muscles and the severity of the exercise, far outweigh those few moments in which we were, to our own astonishment, actually galloping without terror and without disaster.

As a runner, I love getting into a similar “zone,” that delightful focus “galloping” for miles in the sun and the breeze. One time, someone from a car distracted me with annoying questions, and I fell headlong onto the sidewalk, bloodying my hands and knees. 

For many of us, our disappointments in church or with God may distract us from enjoying God, and we can fall headlong into anger or resentment or self-pity. I was tempted in my running mishap to fall headlong into anger or resentment or self-pity. But I remembered the Brazilian marathon runner in the Athens Olympics who had his dreams of Olympic gold dashed by a priest knocking him out of the roadway in a crazy attempt to make some religious statement. The Brazilian, who came in third, receiving the bronze, was so gracious that he was also awarded the medal for the most sportsmanlike conduct of the games.

It’s too easy to be knocked out of the zone, enjoying God, by some misguided theology or religious zealot. Getting back on the horse or back in the race is too frequently our challenge.