Faith Works 3-17

Faith Works 3-17-12

Jeff Gill

 

When God speaks to me

___

 

There are probably few statements that unnerve non-believers more than when someone says "God speaks to me."

 

We've let an idea gain credence in everyday discourse that the belief God "speaks" to someone almost inevitably leads to violence, oppression, and cruelty.

 

Well, I call BS on that one. Blessed Suspicion, that is, that those saying so have actually spent even five minutes talking to religious people.

 

My own personal Blessed Suspicion meter says that the problem begins with the idea that there's anyone Out There to hear from, hence the strong negative reaction.

 

Also, I'll freely admit: I don't hear God talk. The whole "auditory phenomenon" isn't in my experience base. There was once a time when I strongly felt, in the dark, wondering about a very important question, that I internally heard a voice clearly speak to me . . . but the pronouns made it clear it was me, speaking to myself (hopefully my better self, telling my everyday self how things should be).

 

For those who are not in support of the idea of a Divine Being, or at least one that actually pays any attention to us puny humans (as opposed to say, Cthulhu), this is what they think any of means when we say "God told me [blank]." They argue: we're hearing what we want to hear, or maybe our subconscious is masquerading as a separate entity to make a point, but God isn't on the telephone line.

 

Could be. You check out your assumptions about the universe, and I'll live out mine. Here's what I experience myself, though, and it's in line with most believers I end up talking to about this. I'd say: God isn't in the speaking business very often. That's how WE miscommunicate, for the most part, when we aren't sending tweets or texts. We talk, but like my mom, who doesn't do e-mail, God doesn't talk. Much. (Could happen, I guess. Wouldn't want to rule it out!)

 

God communicates with me in a variety of ways, and my real challenge as a person of faith is learning how to rightly hear what's coming across. You can mock that as projection or a highly developed imagination all you want, but it took me almost 24 years to understand what my wife was and wasn't saying about how the dishes should be managed in the sink, too. And she's pretty darn real, and no one would argue with me on that one – of course, you haven't all met her, so maybe I . . . nahhh.

 

There's a process of what we call "discernment," and it starts with a faith stance that God does want to communicate with us, and guide us, and cares for our best outcomes. If you can't get to "Go" on that score, whether because you're adamant that there is no God, or if there is a god, it's a flying spaghetti monster of benign indifference to human concerns, then you're not going to go on to the next step.

 

The next step is learning to "listen," to the urgings and hints and leadings – us evangelical Christians are big on leadings, but we're still pretty bad at explaining them to others – and over time and with practice, you intend to sort out the "devices and desires" of the heart (I want a burger) from the stirrings of the Spirit (go to the Burger Place and talk to whom you meet there). And they can intersect, sometimes pretty interestingly.

 

And you can be wrong. At least, I'm pretty sure I've been wrong; there've been times when I really was sure God was nudging me to do something in particular, with a fair amount of urgency, and in the end, nothing really happened to make me think "this was a God-led, Kingdom-driven moment." Except, maybe my getting that kind of confirmation wasn't the point, at least that day.

 

These are ways that (again) the unbeliever finds unbearably subtle and highly qualifiable about all this. "Wishful thinking and wish fulfillment, Jeff; it's God's still small voice when it works out right, and you just blame your own sinfulness when it turns out you 'heard' God wrong." Fair enough.

 

Except there are these moments, when the cosmos lines up: and it's not always, or often, to my own comfort or personal satisfaction. But you follow the leading of the Holy Spirit, you act in obedience to what you perceive as God's will, and you can find that you are standing on holy ground. Not always a happy place, but a certainty that you are in the Right Place.

 

And that's what keeps me listening.

 

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around central Ohio; he talks to God. Yes, sometimes God answers. Tell him what you believe you're hearing at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow Knapsack @Twitter.

Knapsack 3-15

Notes From My Knapsack 3-15-12 -- Granville Sentinel

Jeff Gill

 

Be prepared for . . . many things

___

 

You could say we're heading into tornado season if it hadn't already begun, with a vengeance, to our west – and not far west, either.

 

Indiana, my home state, is one of the great dramatic stages for tornado disaster, but I've had the dubious privilege of seeing funnel clouds there, in Michigan, in Illinois, Iowa, Kentucky, and Oklahoma (plus a dust devil in New Mexico that sure looked like it wanted to be a tornado when it grew up, but not a cloud in the sky).

 

Not in Ohio, but that's a personal quirk of history, and not a measure of a blessed thing. Even in the Hoosier State we watched the videotape of the aftermath in Xenia, where the downtown area was, not to stretch a point, obliterated. For many of us, that may be in another century, but it wasn't that long ago.

 

Buckeye tornadoes are common, large, and can be devastating. You all know the drill each Wednesday at 12:15 pm, and we've gotten used to the drill: "oh, it must be 12:15" gets said in offices and on street corners every week across the state, with a shrug and a going on about one's business.

 

Schools and newspapers try to help us keep an edge on our awareness, and the disasters in Henryville IN and earlier in Joplin MO & Tuscaloosa AL make many of us check the batteries in the . . . hey, who moved the flashlight? We make some arrangements, consider a few preparations, and then move on.

 

After all, it probably won't happen here. Right?

 

Right. So. Someday, it probably will. Or if not a tornado, perhaps an earthquake. My seat for the 2011 East Coast shaker was next to a floor-to-ceiling glass wall, and wedged at the end of a long table in a narrow room filled with people, and all I could do was look up and out and realize "this building is distinctly moving back and forth, repeatedly, and that's not good."

 

The shaking ended, then we got outside, then we laughed. 30 more seconds of shaking? Uh-huh.

 

So we talk about preparedness, and there's plenty of folk on TV and in the paper to tell you what to do (or ask your household or neighborhood Girl or Boy Scout, they know how to do a family emergency plan). And there's our response, which many churches and civic groups have dealt with nobly, sending monetary aid and traveling work crews from the Gulf Coast to Greensburg KS. Kudos to all that.

 

There's one last piece of preparedness, though, that might be overlooked in all this. It fits nicely, if you'll allow me a brief religious note, into the season of Lent, just over half done, heading for Holy Week and Easter.

 

Are you prepared to accept help? I'm not joking; have you thought about how it will feel, and how you will respond, when you are the one waiting in line for pure drinking water, or getting a fresh change of clothing from a bag? Sitting eating under a vast tent, unsure if your kitchen is even still there (and even in this hypothetical, let's say that it is, but you can't get to it just now).

 

A common challenge emergency workers face is that the proud, strong, individualistic American spirit all too often means that people just can't ask for, or even receive help. "I've never asked for a thing my whole life," they brusquely snap, and walk away, even when there's nowhere to walk to. Their statement is probably true as far as they understand it, but that's the thing: you've never done this, and it's hard. You'd rather be asked to shovel mud for someone else for a day in the hot sun than ask for assistance.

 

Someday, God willing, we all will need help. That's part of life, part of the plan, baked into the cake, if you will. Are you mentally, personally prepared, in an emergency, to ask for, and to get some help when it's needed? Think about it. That skill might just save your life. Like most skills, it takes some practice, or at least consideration before the fur starts to fly.

 

And buy some new batteries, just in case.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around central Ohio; he got Emergency Preparedness merit badge as a Scout, but they didn't cover this. Tell him how you feel about help at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow Knapsack @Twitter.

Faith Works 3-10

Faith Works 3-10-12

Jeff Gill

 

Deserving and deliberating and discerning

___

 

 

Here's a tough one.

 

Can you be too poor to get assistance?

 

It's a problem a number of our local faith-based, as well as public service assistance organizations deal with on a regular basis.

 

Just to pull an example out of the air: someone comes in, and needs rent assistance because some unexpected expenses (say, a transmission on the car and a biopsy on lung) have put you behind enough to be in danger of eviction.

 

But you talk to the family, all of whose adults are working and you can tell they're trying to hold it together with a good will . . . but they make a total of [Blank] dollars a month, with no real prospect of an increase on the horizon, while their rent is [80% of Blank]. Do you help them pay last month's and this month's rent when there's really no reason to think they'll be able to afford next month's rent?

 

And then, God bless them, they add that the pressures have led them to put some other living expenses on credit, so right now their monthly minimum is [10% of Blank].

 

The hardest thing to do in social service, sacred or secular, is to tell that family "No." You have a responsibility to use the funds you're entrusted with as wisely and well as you can, and the real issue here is that we need to find you somewhere else to live that's within your budget.

 

Sometimes folks stomp out on you at that point. Blessedly, sometimes those folks come back. And you try to help in a way that lasts.

 

Our local Habitat for Humanity chapter is in that sort of situation. They've built now over two-dozen homes, with church and community sponsorship, local labor, and the sweat equity of "partners," the family that will move into that home. They pay back a no-interest loan to Habitat, and there's a revolving fund that means, in essence, each partner, having put down their down payment in work, and paying small, reasonable payments for decent housing they will own outright, is paying into the NEXT house, and so on.

 

Which means that you can be a working poor family that actually makes too little to take on a Habitat house. If you don't make your modest payments, the next family may not get help, and the chain is broken, and can take a while to re-link and move forward.

 

So the "family recruitment" work of Habitat, as much as the trowel and hammer side of their work, can be tough. Folks come in, or call, attracted by the model, willing (SO willing) to do the work, and wanting out of substandard, inadequate housing. But they find that, sometimes, they don't make enough to qualify. That's tough.

 

I'm impressed, therefore, by the creative model to approach this situation that our local Habitat team has come up with, and I present their offer to you all, as is:

 

"Can you help us find two deserving families?  Habitat for Humanity - Licking County is looking for working families who fall in the low to moderate income level, have a stable source of income, would be willing to complete approximately 200 hours of "sweat equity" and currently live in substandard housing.  Habitat will have two homes available for ownership in Newark in the near future with low, interest-free payments.  If you or someone you know may be interested, please contact Steve Cramer at 740-587-0022 or stevec@centenaryumc.com.  

 

Families interested need to attend a "Homeownership Orientation" on Saturday, March 17, 10:00 a.m. at the Lookup Center, 50 O'Bannon Avenue in Newark.  ALSO that day, a Free Community Pancake Breakfast will be served from 9:00-11:00.  All are welcome! If possible, sign up for the Orientation and/or Breakfast by

calling Sherry at 740-587-0022.  Thank you!"

 

Hey, thank you, Habitat for Humanity! At the worst, you still get a pancake breakfast. At the best, you might be able to get a home of your own. And if you have decent housing, but want to know more about the work and how you can join in, come have a pancake or two. There's plenty of that, at least, for all.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around central Ohio; he's pleased to have worked on a few dozen Habitat homes himself and commends the work to anyone. Ask him more about it at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow Knapsack @Twitter.

Faith Works 3-3-12

Faith Works 3-3-12

Jeff Gill

 

Theology and other truth propositions

___

 

 

You may have heard there's an election coming up on Tuesday.

 

One of the GOP presidential candidates recently made a comment about the current White House occupant's stance on energy policy, saying that he had a "theology, not a Biblical theology, but a theology" about the world and stewardship and natural resources. He said he had a different theology.

 

The White House press secretary, who came to a briefing a few days later to decry this unwarranted "attack" on the president, had a few weeks earlier made some cracks about "GOP theology" on tax cuts, so neither side had un-muddied hands on this front.

 

But why all the references to the academic understandings, philosophically conditioned, as to discourse about God? Oh, wait, you don't mean that, you mean "theology."

 

(Warning: this gets even more wordy than usual, but I don't think the answer to what's wrong with how "theology" is getting misused is going to be found in using more short, simple, inaccurate words. Sorry!)

 

One reason I find myself not happy with either side in this so-called debate is that they are both, equally (to my mind, anyhow) using theology in the casual, everyday manner that's come to be common, which is to say that "theology" is a set of beliefs founded on unprovable assertions.

 

So if I say that I think the world is hollow and people who live there not only cause earthquakes with their little hammers, but also use them to capture or kill anyone who investigates them, that would be a theology of sorts. Likewise if I argue that the world will come to an end through mystical if electromagnetic means understood only by the ancient Maya, wrapping up Dec. 21, 2012, that's theology if only until Dec. 22, at which point it becomes an "odd news" story again.

 

Our political betters (or so they seem to think) who lecture us about the theology of their opposition, left or right, are saying that (on the one hand) GOP tax cut ideology is unproven, and unprovable, even as they assert that we don't dare try what the Republicans suggest because it's absolutely, certainly untrue and will be so disastrous we would likely never recover from the attempt to prove it . . . and the theology is on which side?

 

Contrariwise, the candidates who say the Democratic Party views on non-renewable resources are necessarily a function of a pagan ethos, worshipping Gaia and earth spirits, and insist we trust their certainty that technology can cope with declining fossil fuel availability in the future . . . again, who is making unprovable statements that must be taken largely on faith?

 

Yes, I have an interest here: I've got a 90 credit hour master's degree in theology. It was once known as "the Queen of Sciences," and all the great ancient universities were built around theology as the pinnacle of the curriculum.

 

Just a century ago, amateurs did science, and only ordained, educated professionals "did" theology; today, only professionals are trusted to do scientific projects on a large scale, but anyone at all is considered to have all they need at hand to offer statements about the Divine and eternal matters, and be taken seriously in the pages of the Washington Post (I'm talking about you, Sally Quinn).

 

Frankly, I have no desire whatsoever to go back to that era. Theologize away, anyone who wants to – seriously! But I'm troubled by the idea that theology is now easily taken to be the twin sister of comparative fantasy.

 

One of my seminary professors (a seminary is a graduate school for theologians, by the way, following a bachelor's degree in the field of your choice, which could be science or technology) explained it this way: theos, Greek for God (or a god, if you prefer), and logos, Greek also, for "word" in particular, but more generally for "statements with meaning." A "Logos," a dialogue, a series of meaningful statements that takes into account the possibility of God, of a theos – something, even a Someone who has eternal standing in the review of what passes by.

 

That's what theology is for me. A dialogue about, and even with, God. The Logos. I see that Logos at work in Jesus of Nazareth, and to say that, with meaning, I have to explain myself in ways that make a certain internally consistent sense, and when I do so, I'm doing theology.

 

As for the candidates, I'd like to suggest that they do a better job of being internally consistent about their policy statements before they start taking on theology, their own let alone anyone else's.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around central Ohio; nope, he's not gonna provide you with a slate to vote for – you're on your own! Tell him your electoral preferences at knapsack77@gmail.com or follow Knapsack @Twitter.

Faith Works 2-25

Faith Works 2-25-12

Jeff Gill

Finding Christian practice in a chili pot

___

Everyone hated the chili pot.

It sat on a back corner of the flat top all evening, with a half load
of chili weeknights, full-up on weekends. It was battered, and really
more of a large metal measure for scooping flour or sugar in
quantities, once upon a time, with a riveted metal handle you had to
grab with a counter rag, another reminder that this was really the
wrong tool for the wrong purpose.

But it was there when I started working at the student union grill,
and three years later it was still there as I left. It might be there
yet. The advantage to this odd non-pot pot was that it was taller
than it was wide, so it held enough chili for the chili burgers and
chili dogs without being so wide as to block our other uses of the
flat top grill.

The bent and battered bottom meant it didn't perfectly contact the
surface, which actually helped keep the contents the right
temperature, not quite to boiling. Overall, though, what it meant was
that every night, about 1 am as we shut down, someone had to clean an
inch of carbonized gunk out of the bottom of that pot, scrubbing back
down to grey metal at the bottom of this (as you'll recall) taller
than it was wide container. It was a real pain, even with steel wool.

Technically, the grill cook that night cleaned the chili pot. The
problem with that plan was that the regular grill cook, a townie who
had contempt for both the college students he served, and even more
for many of the ones he worked with behind the counter, would walk
back, at close, and toss the chili pot into the dish room sink where
the counter man was cleaning all the parts of the ice cream machine
and the drink fountains. You could try to hand it back to [Name
Redacted], but few did. Or did twice. I saw him once throw the chili
pot the length of the behind-the-counter space from the grill to the
dish room and skip it off of the shoulder of the hapless new guy at
the sink.

[Name redacted] had a thing going on with the night manager; not with
each other, but they liked to sit and smoke (this was in a different
century, children) and tell each other about their most recent heavy-
breathing encounters, so throwing heavy metal objects was not
something he was going to get disciplined for, not in this life. So
you scrubbed it.

I worked all around the horn, sometimes as cashier, sometimes out on
tables, sometimes in the back room doing prep, sometimes grill cook
when [NR] was off or just when he was recovering from the night
before and wanted to sit out in the dining room smoking with the
manager. Usually, I could avoid the chili pot by taking the trash
out; my long arms meant the full bags didn't drool on my shoes as I
walked them out to the dumpster.

One night, not long after I'd admitted to the crew that, yes, I had
applied to seminary next year (to which, I should note, the manager
applauded and gave me a hug), I saw on the clock that it was almost
close, and the place was empty. I thought about what [NR] had sneered
about last break to me as to the meaninglessness of religion & faith.
Wiping down the front counter and picking up some trash in the public
area, and seeing the weary look of the shoulders of the new swabbie
on dish room, I leaned over the grill from the customer side and said
"[NR], give me the chili pot. I'll clean it."

He looked up, startled. "Nah, let the newbie do it. It's cooked down
good." I shrugged, nodded, reached over the service counter, and
scooped up the pot and walked back to the dish room. It took five
minutes, and I didn't get too much black goo under my fingernails.

It became a tradition. Every night, just before close if we weren't
dealing with a last rush, I'd come over and grab it. After almost two
years of avoiding the chili pot, leaving it to some other poor
schmuck to scrub, I'd just get it and do it first (and clean the sink
out when I was done before the dish guy had to do the fountain parts).

It would be nice to end this with telling you that [NR] later
accepted a saving relationship with Jesus Christ. I can't tell you
that. I will say we probably talked more those last six months than
we had the years before. He knew the chili pot, and he valued someone
choosing to take care of it, because the fact of the matter is: none
of us could go home until the chili pot was done. Someone had to do it.

And he stopped making snide comments about how stupid going to church
was. I pray for him still, from time to time.

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around
central Ohio; he knows his steel wool. Tell him where you ran into
Jesus recently at knapsack77@gmail.com.

Knapsack 2-23

Notes From My Knapsack 2-23-12

Jeff Gill

 

The Ancient Ohio Trail goes through Granville

___

 

Ohio's landscape is inscribed with some of the most remarkable earthworks and remnants of ancient sites in the world. Visitors and scholars have been coming for decades to see and experience this amazing Native American architecture, and new technology allows any visitor at any time to have a world-class experience on and around these sites.

 

From the 2,000-plus year old mounds and geometric enclosures, to comfortable guest accommodations & amenities today, you can find yourself lost in the many roads and paths through Ohio's antiquity.

 

My unique opportunity these last few years has been to work with the Center for the Electronic Reconstruction of Historic and Archaeological Sites (CERHAS) at the University of Cincinnati, as they are partners with the Newark Earthworks Center of OSU's Newark Campus, and director Richard Shiels and associate director Marti Chaatsmith (who is Comanche). They are partners in a National Endowment for the Humanities' grant which funds something called the "Ancient Ohio Trail" and this coming Ancient Ohio Summer of 2012.

 

Our goal is to help you use the Ancient Ohio Trail (AOT) website and downloads to find your own personal trail that connects up as much of our history and culture as you have time to enjoy.

 

This coming "Ancient Ohio Summer" takes the already existing website, www.ancientohiotrail.org, and completes the toolbox with apps, podcasts, and short videos, all available on your own smart phone, tablet, or personal computer. We have four "keystone" sites and over 50 additional locations, along with the tourism resources of nearby communities, which gives you a broad network to move within.

 

For the Ancient Ohio Summer, our programming will include a series of events particularly targeted at rolling out these new downloads and apps for site interpretation & education. While many other ongoing events at our partner sites can also be places for you to visit and use the website's tools, these events will all have Ancient Ohio Trail team members present to help guide and enhance your use of these tools to understand the sites.

 

May 5^th is our "launch event," part of an ongoing series of Newark Earthworks Days. Based at the Newark Campus of The Ohio State University (OSU), the Reese Center will host a series of presenters, including a keynote from Gerard Baker, a Mandan-Hidatsa and former assistant director of the National Park Service, and who served as superintendent at Little Bighorn National Battlefield and Mount Rushmore.

 

May 5^th will also include presentations from other Native American voices, and archaeologists like Brad Lepper & Jarrod Burks showing us some of the most current field work going on in Ohio in 2012; the day will wrap up with a chance for the entire audience to work with the technology on their own or AOT's devices. John Hancock, director of CERHAS will offer a presentation as well.

 

I am incredibly excited, not only at what I am telling you now, but at a number of other events that are going to happen here in Licking County that are still not quite ready to take out of the oven. But I want all of you to mark some of these events on your calendar today! You'll hear more, I promise . . . and soon!

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around central Ohio; he's also working for the Newark Earthworks Center this year! Ask him about the AOT at knapsack77@gmail.com or follow Knapsack @Twitter.

Faith Works 2-18

Faith Works 2-18-12

Jeff Gill

 

Dreaming of dinner, one entrée at a time

___

 

For Christianity, "the table" is an important place. That goes from the elaborated, ceremonial "altar" to saying grace while holding hands around the family table. As Dom Crossan points out so effectively in his writing on the early church, the question "who is invited to the table" has significance which can shake empires, let alone households.

 

And combined with who is gathered 'round is the question of what's set upon the table. In our day, food choices have a more apparent ethical context than they once did; you can make that a cause for anxiety, or simply use it as a teaching tool.

 

Teaching the Lad a few new recipes in our home, I'm reminded as we chop and stir that most "authentic" cuisine of various cultures is based on a single, central principle: stretching.

 

Just to clarify, Chinese food in China isn't large quantities of deep-fried meat with a few scraps of largely ornamental and uneaten cabbage and carrots; Mexican food in Mexico does not center on large dollops of sour cream and a thick coating of cheese. Et cetera.

 

There are for various places on the globe what are called "staples," rice in Asia, pasta in Italy, rotting fish sauce in ancient Rome (and now you know what happened to their empire). Somewhere south of the Rio Grande I'm sure refried beans are relatively common, even if not to Taco Bell levels.

 

But the rest of what is the traditional set of recipes is usually based around taking an often scant amount of protein, whether meat or eggs (or legumes for the vegans out there), and making a filling meal with a bit, enough of the protein getting to each of the many people around the family table.

 

So fajitas were a way to take a cut of meat, and along with tortillas and peppers and onions, make sure everyone got some. Egg rolls took a single serving of pork, minced it fine, rolled it up with a bunch of cabbage and a wonton wrapper, and along with some oil (sure, deep frying isn't all bad) got a sense of heft into everyone's belly. And so on.

 

Northern Europe liked more meat when they could get it (and who doesn't? Sorry, vegans), and when they came over and carved out their homesteads in the New World, they didn't recognize the plant foods other than nuts, and it took a while to open up garden plots, let alone learn what vegetables they could grow. Meanwhile, deer and bear and turkey meat was plentiful, so much so that in pioneer accounts, a mere piece of fresh bread was a dessert-level delicacy, and a sandwich was often a piece of deer meat between two slices of bear meat. As Dave Barry would say, I am not making this up.

 

So we got used to a very meat-centric diet; as immigrants came to this land of milk and meat, they adapted into the plenty formerly only known in palaces with obvious glee. In fact, I can recall as a kid that pasta wasn't considered a decent meal, which you would hear older folks say was because you went back to a plate of pasta for dinner when money was tight: a successful man had meat on the table for his family every night.

 

Times, indeed, have changed. It's helpful to know they changed to get us here, too. I'm not a vegetarian, but a meal without meat in our house isn't a sign of either poverty or that someone forgot to go to the store.

 

Most dieticians, and Michael Pollan with other sustainability advocates, all ask us to think about meat as more of a garnish than as the weighty center of a meal. Big chunks of meat, whole or processed, go through our physical selves and internal systems differently when we spend our day as a steelworker or farmer, as opposed to when we sit all week at work.

 

Two generations back and more, meat meant a big part of the American dream was fulfilled right there on the dinner table. We can celebrate successes and live a happy life, maybe happier, if we look back at some of the elegant original recipes in our history that bring a bit more of the field and farm to the table than the stockyard.

 

How does your faith community talk about food as a moral and ethical opportunity? You could talk about it at your next potluck . . .

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around central Ohio; he likes to grill steaks in the summer, right next to the sweet corn in the husk. Tell him your dinnertime dreams at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow Knapsack @Twitter.

Faith Works 2-11

Faith Works 2-11-12

Jeff Gill

 

As a hypocrite myself, I represent that remark

___

 

 

Even as the big news stories in the past week have been about same-sex marriage, as to whether or not gay and lesbian couples should be allowed to have the same legal options as men and women entering into marriage, the percentage of people choosing to marry in the first place continues to decline.

 

That seems odd.

 

The First Lady pushes healthy eating on late night talk shows and in kids' programming, along with many public health efforts adamant in insisting that we need to restrict through law or taxation (or both) unhealthy food options. Meanwhile, obesity rates go up and more and more people eat out of sacks in their cars.

 

How's that New Year's resolution going?

 

Exercise is touted as the sovereign remedy for heart disease, diabetes, cancer, depression, and low test scores. High scores, on the other hand, go to TV ratings and screen time in general, on computers and smart phones and tablets. We're spending unprecedented time sitting, in chairs, hunched over displays of ever tinier sizes.

 

Our thumbs, however, are stronger and more adept than at any point in human history.

 

We are very good at saying one thing and doing another. That may not be a new skill set; Romans worried about overeating even as they invented the vomitorium (no, I didn't make that word up, but you'll have to look it up on your own). Cowboys expressed concern over limitations on their freedom if farmers fenced in the land, even as they shot Indians who didn't stay on their reservations.

 

The word we usually deploy here is "hypocrisy."

 

To be hypocritical, I fear, is part of the human condition. You can call it sin, our fallen nature showing forth as moral inconsistency, but the churchly side of the problem is that many (most) of the unchurched say that we inside our Sunday morning worship spaces proclaim and affirm choices and actions that we don't do much about on Monday through Saturday: to wit, we're hypocrites.

 

First response is: yep. Sure we are. Too much time spent trying to counter that argument is just wasted. Trust me, there's always another example to draw on for the anti-church, pro-y'all-are-hypocrites camp, and if we try to change the subject by saying "but I'M not a hypocrite," you're just begging for trouble.

 

So my answer is to say: absolutely. I'm a hypocrite at heart, and I need someone, even a Someone outside of my own little tiny cramped diseased heart to help me see it . . . because the core of hypocrisy is blindness, willful or well earned. THAT guy needs to lose some weight, while I just need to get a little bit more fit. YOU should behave more morally, and my choices are understandable because, well, you know, I've done my best. THOSE people's debts are appalling, but mine are earned…I mean I worked hard for…look, I'll pay it back out of my tax refund advance… Et cetera.

 

Is the church writ large hypocritical? You see, this is where the book of Revelation is most useful, and where it really should most often be utilized – not for skeezy predictions of that event of which the Boss plainly said "Ye shall not know the day nor the hour."

 

In Revelation, St. John the Divine from his Patmos Island exile reminds the churches in his care "y'all ain't all that." He sharply outlines their failings and foibles, their fallenness as faith communities, their having earned nothing much more appetizing than being spewed out of someone's mouth. He wasn't kind, and he made no excuses for them.

 

And then he closed his writing with an attempt to put down in words something of what he saw, when he looked at what the church might be in God's own vision. From the Divine perspective, he saw a redeemed and fulfilled Church, transformed and flawless – check out Rev. 21 & 22, it's at the back of The Book.

 

John was pretty clear: you're not there yet. But that's where you want to be heading.

 

Let that be the sincere prayer of all us recovering hypocrites!

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around central Ohio; tell him about your favorite hypocrites at knapsack77@gmail.com or follow Knapsack @Twitter.

Faith Works 2-4

Faith Works 2-4-12

Jeff Gill

 

My lecture notes from last night

___

 

 

Last night, I started a new semester with students at Methodist Theological Seminary of Ohio over in Delaware. Our class is "Disciples of Christ History & Polity." History is simple, in a way; polity less so.

 

Polity is basically how an organization is structured and run. Names of denominational groups are often indicative: Presbyterians have a presbyterian polity, run by presbyters or "elders" and the session (board) of a congregation. Episcopalians have an episcopal polity, with bishops as the core element of the structure.

 

And of course Presbyerians of whichever national body (there's more than one) or Episcopalians will laugh at the idea that it's that simple, so polity is both the formal structures in constitutions and bylaws and canons, and the folkways, aka how it actually works.

 

Like most mainline Protestant denominations, the polity that grew and was formalized in the go-go days of the Baby Boom, and spread in depth and weight through the 1970's, is creaking and cracking in 2012. Processes and procedures I was taught in the 70's & 80's as if they were "as it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be" have vanished like snow in a warming trend. There are still patches surviving in shady spots, but the broad connective sweep of denominational polity is now, in Amos' words, a bag full of holes.

 

So what am I teaching this year? Well, most of the history is still what it is, from 1801 & 1804 around Cane Ridge, Kentucky and in 1809 through 1811 between Washington, Pennsylvania and Bethany, West Virginia. There are stories of minority groups and their experience of this new vessel for carrying the gospel across the frontier than have not been well told, if at all, in the past, and we highlight those narratives more than in the past, but it holds up pretty well.

 

Polity, though, is calling for a wholesale rewriting of the syllabus, and my methods. We're going to take an inductive, not a deductive approach, because . . . well, here's where I plan to start.

 

In the 1970s, I learned how to edit reel to reel tape, quickly and well. If you were doing production for radio news or station promos, this skill made you invaluable. It is physical work, but takes a fine touch; you use both hands to manually turn the reels after adjusting the play heads, find your spot, mark it, then pull out some slack, notch the tape into a special grooved device, then slice it with a razor blade. Keeping track of which part you're splicing to what, there's a tape you also slice into strips and lay across the side of the tape ends on the side opposite the playback heads: then take up the slack on the reels, return the heads to standard settings, and you're ready to play. If that sounded simple, it is . . . and isn't. But it was a marketable skill in radio and production studios for many years.

 

Likewise, around the same time I learned how to use not razor blades so much as eXacto knives and clear adhesive paste instead of tape, and lay out a page on a light table for a newspaper. The oldtimers would razz us about setting type, but we had the latest technology which printed out much of our formatted text, "camera ready." The page layout, however, needed physical arrangement, with borders and headers and boilerplate and ads, then you trimmed and laid in the text to the "news hole" waiting on the page for your content.

 

It was said that a good layout person could always find a job, and from what I heard from recent graduates, it was true. You literally laid out the page, and the results were an art which took both an eye, and an ability to see the pages in your mind's eye not yet laid out where "cont. pg. 7" would go.

 

I still know, in my head and through my hands, how to do those things. I haven't done them for years (decades) and probably never will again. If I taught you how to do them, and said it would help you find work in radio or newspapers, I would be lying.

 

That's why we need to look at our polity as we have it, and figure out from there where you should go. (And that's how I began last night with my class. I'll let you know what we learn together.)

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around central Ohio; tell him what you think a polity is at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow Knapsack @Twitter.

Knapsack 2-9

Notes From My Knapsack 2-9-12

Jeff Gill

 

Dreaming of dinner, one entrée at a time

___

 

Teaching the Lad a few new recipes, I'm reminded as we chop and stir that most "authentic" cuisine of various cultures is based on a single, central principle: stretching.

 

Just to clarify, Chinese food in China isn't large quantities of deep-fried meat with a few scraps of largely ornamental and uneaten cabbage and carrots; Mexican food in Mexico does not center on large dollops of sour cream and a thick coating of cheese. Et cetera.

 

There are for various places on the globe what are called "staples," rice in Asia, pasta in Italy, rotting fish sauce in ancient Rome (and now you know what happened to their empire). Somewhere south of the Rio Grande I'm sure refried beans are relatively common, even if not to Taco Bell levels.

 

But the rest of what is the traditional set of recipes is usually based around taking an often scant amount of protein, whether meat or eggs (or legumes for the vegans out there), and making a filling meal with a bit, enough of the protein getting to each of the many people around the family table.

 

So fajitas were a way to take a cut of meat, and along with tortillas and peppers and onions, make sure everyone got some. Egg rolls took a single serving of pork, minced it fine, rolled it up with a bunch of cabbage and a wonton wrapper, and along with some oil (sure, deep frying isn't all bad) got a sense of heft into everyone's belly. And so on.

 

Northern Europe liked more meat when they could get it (and who doesn't? Sorry, vegans), and when they came over and carved out their homesteads in the New World, they didn't recognize the plant foods other than nuts, and it took a while to open up garden plots, let alone learn what vegetables they could grow. Meanwhile, deer and bear and turkey meat was plentiful, so much so that in pioneer accounts, a mere piece of fresh bread was a dessert-level delicacy, and a sandwich was often a piece of deer meat between two slices of bear meat. As Dave Barry would say, I am not making this up.

 

So we got used to a very meat-centric diet; as immigrants came to this land of milk and meat, they adapted into the plenty formerly only known in palaces with obvious glee. In fact, I can recall as a kid that pasta wasn't considered a decent meal, which you would hear older folks say was because you went back to a plate of pasta for dinner when money was tight: a successful man had meat on the table for his family every night.

 

Times, indeed, have changed. It's helpful to know they changed to get us here, too. I'm not a vegetarian, but a meal without meat in our house isn't a sign of either poverty or that someone forgot to go to the store.

 

Most dieticians, and Michael Pollan with other sustainability advocates, all ask us to think about meat as more of a garnish than as the weighty center of a meal. Big chunks of meat, whole or processed, go through our physical selves and internal systems differently when we spend our day as a steelworker or farmer, as opposed to when we sit all week at work.

 

Two generations back and more, meat meant a big part of the American dream was fulfilled right there on the dinner table. We can celebrate successes and live a happy life, maybe happier, if we look back at some of the elegant original recipes in our history that bring a bit more of the field and farm to the table than the stockyard.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around central Ohio; he likes to grill steaks in the summer, right next to the sweet corn in the husk. Tell him your dinnertime dreams at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow Knapsack @Twitter.

Faith Works 1-28

Faith Works 1-28-12

Jeff Gill

 

The prodigal wakes up from his nightmare

___

 

 

It was as if he was reviewing his life to date.

 

He saw his angry encounter with his older brother, who had tried to point out what wasn't working in how he operated the oil press, then suggested they trade places between the olive trees supervising the pickers, and tending the bottles under the spout of the press.

 

Kicking over one of the precious amphorae, he stormed into his father's counting room, demanding his share of the inevitable inheritance immediately. He saw his face as if from without, watching himself carefully not look startled when father consented – the thought was just to press the old man into enough money for a long weekend in town, away from big brother.

 

As if from above, he saw his journey out of the home province, and past the crossroads to the market town the other, unfamiliar direction to the larger city farther away. There he met the denizens of the nightlife, the old familiar crowd of fast dealers, slow waiters, and languorous women. His moneypouch steadily emptied, the nights rolled by in anonymous procession, the days passed without his waking to see them until sunset served as his wakeup call.

 

Then he found himself in a chance conversation at a taverna, where the flute and tambour were not so loud as to make talk an effort. It seemed one of his drinking companions had recently inherited an olive grove, and he had no idea what to do with it.

 

After a few off-handed suggestions, his new friend asked if they could ride out together tomorrow (at dawn!) and review this new plan. The evening ended uncharacteristically early, and the landlord looked oddly at him as he saluted heading in to bed not long after dark.

 

The next day, the situation was as clear to him as it was a total confusion to the heir, and after a few adjustments to the mill, some words with the field overseer, the heir made an appealing offer for him to manage the property. They shook on it, and a new life began.

 

Success breeds success, and soon there were other well-to-do property owners who asked for his counsel, and paid in imperial coinage for the privilege. By the time another growing season had passed, the rented upper room was left and the young man moved into a small, unused villa of one of his clients a short canter from the city gates. Downstairs, a pair of scribes kept track of the contracts he negotiated, and copied out the letters of instruction to ever more far-flung estates where overseers wrote at their master's command to get direction from him on making the most of their land.

 

The nights were shorter, he saw more of the day, but there was plenty of time to party, and each week a different woman was escorted out to the villa with few expectations. One particular girl, whose smile and conversation amused him, stayed for three weeks, but that was as long as he let those relationships (if that would be the word) linger.

 

Gold in a storeroom piled up before his eyes, days flickered past as if by magic, faces of the women and the scribes and clients changed – and then he turned, and looked in a mirror, and saw himself aged, grey-haired, wrinkled. And he saw his father's face, but hard and bitter.

 

Then he awoke.

 

Scrambling out of bed, he walked quickly into the wide front room of the homestead. The housekeeper smiled up at him from the fireside, and asked "would you draw me one more pail of water?" As if this part was the dream, he slipped on his sandals, and went into the courtyard, leaned over the coping of the well, and heaved at the thick rope.

 

When the bucket came into his hands, he grasped it firmly with both, and looked at the surface of the water. His youthful visage stared bemusedly back at him.

 

Carrying it back into the house, he almost ran into his older brother at the door. "Hey, you saved me a trip, thank you." Then, more softly, "Are you alright? You look a little queasy." Answering quietly, "No, I'm fine," he continues inside to set the water near the fire, and then on into the counting room.

 

There, his father was already at work on the accounts, getting a head start before breakfast. "Good morning son, does the dawn find you well?"

 

And he answers "Yes; but Father, I had the most horrible dream."

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around central Ohio; tell him your story at knapsack77@gmail.com or follow Knapsack @Twitter.

Winter OSU-N 2012

Winter 2012 in class tours http://www.econ.ohio-state.edu/jhm/arch/nrkwrks.gif http://knapsack.blogspot.com/2010/01/links-for-newark-earthworks-tours.html http://newark.osu.edu/Earthworks

Faith Works 1-21

Faith Works 1-21-12

Jeff Gill

 

Mobility and immobility each have their downsides

___

 

First, a correction: I never knew this until a very kind call after my column last week about Father Tom and our visits to Maybold Shoes; that was Floyd McKenna I was introduced to, and so enjoyed speaking with. He was so much the spirit of the place as I knew it that I just internalized him as "Floyd Maybold," which of course was incorrect.

 

When you live in a place long enough, you start to do that sort of thing; you know much, and you don't always know how little you know.

 

It was interesting to me remembering, as I wrote that last week, that I really only "lived" in my hometown, as I still consider it, of Valparaiso, Indiana for seventeen years. I left for college, my parents still live (most of the year, anyhow) in the home where I grew up, but after starting college I was never there for more than three weeks at a time until the Lovely Wife and I married, and since then never more than three nights. So I lived in my hometown for seventeen years.

 

But we've now lived in Licking County, Ohio for a total of seventeen years. Five homes in three communities, but seventeen years, and this was the first Christmas season we've set up the tree in the same house for seven years (our old record was six). God willing, he prayed sincerely, we will run that number well up into double digits as well.

 

So we are no longer "mobile," by intention. Our lives and commitments, short and long term, circle around this place, and all things being equal (Deus volent) we can stay put. For us, that's not just good, but it is very good.

 

In today's economy, stability and rootedness are not an abstract economic good. The mobility of capital and the ability of workers to relocate are considered almost vital necessities, and for the particular family or individual who has their reasons for not being able to move, well, "devil take the hindmost."

 

So we see a bias in employment opportunity for the young, the rootless, those who are more able or willing to pick up stakes and travel to where the jobs are, or are perceived to be. That's how you get ahead, that's improvement, often (in many fields) the only way to advance. Many large corporations make it clear from management training on up that if you want to advance, by which they usually mean not only more responsibility but the only way to increase your pay, you have to be willing to go where the company asks you to go.

 

Which means you leave a place you know, where the young woman at the drive-up window knows your name, where you've found a good auto mechanic and family physician, a place that you know where to go for a walk, or take your family for a picnic . . . you leave there, and go someplace where you start over again.

 

Some folks thrive on this kind of clean slate, but many respond by pulling in their horns, drawing the blinds, and withdrawing from a community they're just too weary to learn from scratch.

 

And the ultimate irony of this mobility-fetish in our economy as we have it is that often it's those mobile folk who end up staying home when work is over, finding comfort in food and mindless leisure, and start to pay a price for their pay bumps and title upgrades in their health.

 

Without meaning to be too terribly revolutionary here, it seems as if we know darn good and well that encouraging and supporting family and geographic stability is good for people and communities, and that for those individuals and our common health (not to mention commonwealth) it's good for more of us to just move a little bit more. Not that we all become fitness freaks, just that if we all moved around a little more, we'd all be better off.

 

Mobility in the social sense has its ills, and immobility in the physical sense does as well, and there may be a bit of a connection between the two.

 

Is it just me, or do any of you in faith communities see an opportunity here? To reach out to new residents and help them find their footing, and for congregations to pledge not just their paychecks, but their shoe leather, to get up and get moving together?

 

We can talk about Paula Deen and church potlucks later, but I think you can tell where I'm headed.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around central Ohio; he's trying to up his exercise activity, too. Tell him how your church got moving at knapsack77@gmail.com or follow Knapsack @Twitter.

Knapsack 1-19

Notes from My Knapsack 1-19-12

Jeff Gill

 

An American dream. deconstructed

___

 

What is the American dream?

 

For some, it's just getting seats behind the dugout at a major league game, and having a hot dog. For others, it's a little more complicated. What do you call it?

 

If there's a consensus on this contentious subject, it's the hope your children will do better than you have. You were a tenant farmer, they owned their acreage. You lived in half a duplex, they will own their duplex and rent out half. You retired in a house whose mortgage got paid off about the time you stopped going to work, and they own a home with a nice lot and maybe a cottage up on the lake.

 

There's a little practical and philosophical problem here, which you don't have to be a scholar of Immanuel Kant to notice. Kant suggested something called the "categorical imperative," which gives us a moral yardstick roughly defined as "if you'd want everyone to do what you are considering, then it's probably moral."

 

What sustainability scholars have noted for decades now is that the world literally can't support everyone living the way most of us in America do, or even all future Americans. Some calculate we'd need about three Earths to support our current population (which they tell me is growing, actually) in the manner to which average Americans are accustomed. If everyone in the world lived as if they were resident in our little patch o' heaven, AKA the 43023 zip code,  it might just be four (or five) Earths. Which is a neat trick, you know?

 

So the problem, magnified like a fun house mirror's reflection in the current political environment, is that if the American dream is that each generation does better than the one before in housing and comfort and wealth, there may just be an upper limit to that, and not just because one party or another is stupid (or venal, or traitorous, or even just wrong). That streak really has to stop somewhere, else we meansure failure as anything short of all our kids living like Trump – and who wants that?

 

The last big tech fest in Las Vegas was focused on "thin." Insanely thin TVs and other devices. My parents had a piece of carpentry in the living room corner, with wood inlays and charming fake brass knob fittings that just happened to have a cathode ray tube embedded in the middle of it; now I could have a vast swath of my living room wall a vivid, lifelike, even 3D screen whose controls are all in a small box next to my elbow across the room. Take that, American dream!

 

Yet you may have heard, or can search out on the internet last week's episode of NPR's "This American Life," titled "Mr. Daisey and the Apple Factory." You will not feel so delighted by "thin" and your tech devices after hearing this report from Chinese factories. What would a world look like where all the workers making our smart phones had smart phones, the quaint dream of Henry Ford when it came to making Model Ts?

 

To answer that question, you have to enter a dreamlike landscape, but it might be the start of an American dream worth advancing beyond the limits of our own fortunate zipcode.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around central Ohio; tell him about your American dreams at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow Knapsack @Twitter.

Winter OSU-N 2012

Winter 2012 in class tours http://www.econ.ohio-state.edu/jhm/arch/nrkwrks.gif http://knapsack.blogspot.com/2010/01/links-for-newark-earthworks-tours.html http://newark.osu.edu/Earthworks

Faith Works 1-14

Faith Works 1-14-12

Jeff Gill

 

Contemplating our mortality

___

 

Tuesday morning was a good time to contemplate our mortality.

 

I stood over the casket of my friend Tom Shonebarger; Father Tom, as he was known by all. Looking down, I saw his kindly face, diminished both by death and the illnesses that had worn away at him these last few years. He was fully vested as a priest in the Roman Catholic Church, a rosary in his hand, a chalice laid by his side.

 

Back in the pews, I sat down next to Rev. Bill Rauch, two Protestant pastors from Newark just trying not to stand up or sit down at the wrong time during the funeral mass at St. Mary's in Lancaster.

 

Bill and I both had known Father Tom when he served as pastor at Blessed Sacrament; Bill had talked him into becoming CROP Walk treasurer, and when I came to Newark as a new associate pastor pretty fresh out of seminary, I'd met both of them and they'd gotten me right away on the CROP Walk committee, since I'd done that back in Indianapolis.

 

In those years, the CROP Walk committee met every month over lunch in the back of the Old Landmark downtown. Father Tom recommended the French onion soup, and it became my regular order (and I still miss that place, now a vacant lot next to the McDonald's drive-up off the square).

 

That wasn't the only advice I got from him. I'd had a very good mentor in my student placement during seminary, but Father Tom was probably the next most influential person I had in developing my sense of pastoral care, a ministry both public and private with a congregation and a community.

 

We talked during those lunches, when he would come in and sit and say without prelude or preface "we all should spend more time contemplating our mortality!" Which he said, as he said all things, with a smile.

 

And of course he was serious; his point, from devotional reading and prayer time he'd spent earlier that day (a point he never belabored, but you were always aware of this source of his strength), was that it could actually make us happier and more focused on the things of God's interest when we reflected on the fact that someday we will die, and the world will go on. "Those reflections don't have to be sad, unless we wallow in them; it should point us to what endures, what is truly eternal."

 

Our group would debate these declarations, along with planning the work of the CROP Walk, and often Father Tom and I would continue the conversation after lunch, carrying it across the street while buying socks from Floyd Maybold, and get his opinion (which was usually to agree with what Father Tom said, with elaborations all his own).

 

These ten kilometer walks were planned to move through the city in a visible but safe manner, passing through quiet residential streets, rundown neighborhoods, business strips, public parks. The idea was to get the hundreds of walkers to experience more of their own community (where a quarter of the funds raised stay to fight hunger), not through car windows, but at a walking pace.

 

Father Tom and I as route designers would lag back and stay at the end of the pack, checking for folks who were struggling and needed a ride flagged down, or whatever. We'd discuss everything from hymn tunes to Thomas Merton, for whom Father Tom had been a secretary during his days as a Trappist monk at Gethsemani Abbey, and whose funeral he had returned for as a pallbearer. He didn't make a Catholic of me, nor I a Protestant of him. We simply shared our respective understandings of Christian faith as best we could. He talked about how the importance of the Papacy as something more than any one Pope, and I explained my love of the Anglican poets, George Herbert & John Donne, and how they helped open a door for me into ministry.

 

But most importantly, we talked about the nuts and bolts of pastoral care. "What do you do when" and "how do you respond if" in reference to emergency rooms at 2 am, or when sitting in a family's living room after the world has come to an (apparent) end. How to show the face of Christ in a world full of fright masks.

 

I thought about that smile, and the injunction to "contemplate our mortality" looking into his casket. And I smiled, too; something I learned from the face of my Christian brother, Father Tom.

 

Rest in peace, my friend.

 

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around central Ohio; tell him what you contemplate at knapsack77@gmail.com or follow Knapsack @Twitter.

Knapsack 1-12

Notes From My Knapsack 1-12-12

Jeff Gill

 

2012, the year of the cloud

___

 

If you are one of the benighted view worrying about the Mayan prediction of the end of the world this coming Dec. 21^st, I really can't help you, other than to suggest that it's the end of something the same way 2000 was an end…and a beginning.

 

2012 is looking to be a significant phase in the movement to what's generally referred to as "the cloud."

 

"The cloud" is the location, in virtual terms, where our data and info and personal materials all are starting to reside on the internet. Where is the cloud? If you must be so tiresomely concrete and particular, I guess it would be in a server farm (a building full of server/hard-drives/technology) that could be in Redmond, Washington, might be in Shanghai, China, and could even be in unexotic places like Dusseldorf, Germany or Poughkeepsie, New York.

 

One of the characteristics of the cloud, and a value of it, is that it is "backed up," so isn't just in Shanghai, but is simultaneously in Washington State and Dusseldorf, so if it suddenly melts down in one place, it can be recovered from another physical location, as the cloud drifts calmly on.

 

After decades of carrying around a bricklike daily/monthly/yearly planner, my calendar through 2012 is in the cloud, accessible in a smaller device I carry with me, but updateable on any computer I happen to land at through the day, with a user name and a password, and another password, and I can tweak or update my calendar for next May. It being in "the cloud," when I check it at home on my own computer, the update from the morning shows up right there, bouncing by way of Dusseldorf through my home router into the wifi and there as the Lovely Wife and I compare calendars. She pays more and more, now most of our household bills online, and checks our debit card and account balance online, where paychecks (her one, my four or five) are more and more going directly into that same encompassing cloud.

 

This all seems odd, until I recall that, over the last decade, I've gone from the last ribbon on my Smith-Corona to where my columns for the Sentinel & Advocate rarely ever "exist" anywhere until they come out of the business end of a printing press. The initial ideas go onto Evernote, the columns are typed in Word and sent by e-mail, edited in Quark, and I save my own copies on a hard drive and my own little corner of the cloud. There is literally no physical writing or typing until the printing…and more and more, people are wanting to skip that step and go to digital subscriptions, seeing the content online.

 

Will 2012 be the year that becomes the majority desire?

 

Many of my holiday books, magazines, and music, are in "the cloud." I can have them on my device, but I can delete them for space and go back to the cloud later to access them again. Are they mine? Well, yes, but…and the Lovely Wife notes serenely that, for all the potential downsides, they aren't taking up space in our house, or using up resources to make physical forms which then are warehoused until use.

 

Is "the cloud" a good thing? There's room for debate, especially if you're selling those physical forms, but the one solid reality of 2012 looks to be that we're moving towards the cloud.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around central Ohio; tell him about your experience of "the cloud" at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow Knapsack @Twitter.

Faith Works 1-7-12

Faith Works 1-7-12

Jeff Gill

 

Ghosts and good health in a new year

___

 

Not as a new year's resolution, but for the last four months, I've been running.

 

I turned 50, and quite frankly, it was starting to become noticeable that I could either continue eating the way I had the last many years, and buy lots of new pants, or keep my pants, and start eating less.

 

Eating less. Hmmm. Not necessarily a bad idea, but I wasn't really eating that much (in my opinion, and the dieticians in the audience can just pipe down), and making meaningful cuts in my caloric intake seemed unpleasant, or at least enough to make me consider the alternative.

 

The alternative was more, and more regular exercise, which I'd been fiddling with for a while, but not with enough seriousness. Having to eat less seemed serious enough.

 

But running. Once upon a time, I ran quite a bit; not marathons, but plenty of miles. The complication there was that this running was mostly in high-top black leather boots, and some of the United States Marine Corps' best trained, highly fit sergeants ran alongside of me at what seemed like for them a slow trot, screaming various imprecations at me for not running fast enough, even as I felt my lungs and legs burning on the last hill back to the squad bay.

 

Poor me, yeah, right. I volunteered for it. And after Uncle Sugar sent me a lovely honorable discharge from the USMCR, it felt like an official document permitting me to not run anymore.

 

So I had run, but not for thirty years. Or at least, not longer than, say, the distance from the center of the Great Circle earthworks to the Grand Gateway, or from the bridge from the picnic area to the center of the circle atop Eagle Mound. Often I get to lead 4^th grade tours out at the earthworks, and sometimes just to wear out the poor little dears, I'd offer to race them, and can still beat all but the most energetic two or three (after all, I am twice their height).

 

Anytime I did that I remembered that I did enjoy running, and could cover a few hundred yards at a steady lope and still speak loudly to a hundred kids at the other end, and thought "I could try running again." But I never did.

 

I didn't, in part, because if I were to run more than a couple of football fields' worth, and started to gasp, I'd slow down, and if I slowed down, that sergeant would start yelling at me about my general & particular worthlessness. So why start?

 

In religious terms, with all due respect to Staff Sgt. Camire as a person back in 1980, what I needed was an exorcism. The demon of doubt, the spectre of failure, masquerading as Sgt. Camire, kept whispering in my ear "you can't do this, and if you do, you can't do it right." So I didn't even try.

 

What exorcised my demon, aside from my own personal desire to not have to eat less, was a vision. I was reading a blog from a friend of a friend, a guy whose faith and practice had long been meaningful to me, and he talked one day about running in these weird "barefoot" running shoes. He posted a picture of the shoes, and then of his feet wearing the shoes: and as I looked at them, I saw my feet wearing those shoes. That's all, no trumpets, but I saw my feet wearing those shoes. It felt real, and it felt right.

 

So I went to get a pair of them, and the whole way, I kept hearing a voice saying "I can't do this. I can't do this." I got home, changed clothes, and put them on, and heard what more and more seemed to be a voice NOT my own saying "I can't, I can't, YOU can't do this, YOU can't do this."

 

And then I ran.

 

Here's the thing. I didn't run that far. I still haven't run, all of a piece, more than a mile. People ask me about my plans for a 5K or a marathon, and I smile and say "No, I'm just running." What I did was I ran as far as I could without gasping, and then I walked. Once my heart and my breathing calmed down, I started running again. And so on. I "run" one, one and a half, two miles now that way. If I get up to three, great; three miles without walking, maybe, but I don't care.

 

Because the ghost, the demon is gone. It was prayer, and discernment, and intention, and the realization that a voice from the past is just that. Today, I need to run a bit, and walk a bit, and run some more, and that's good enough.

 

And thank you, Sgt. Camire, wherever you are; I know you didn't mean it.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around central Ohio; he spent some time in the military in his youth, ooh-rah. Tell him about the ghosts you've laid to rest at knapsack77@gmail.com or follow Knapsack @Twitter.

Faith Works 12-24-11 & 12-31-11

Faith Works 12-24-11 & Faith Works 12-31-11

Jeff Gill

 

The Tree on the Porch

___

 

Grandma's hospital bed had been in the front room for two years now.

 

When she got to the point that she couldn't make the steep stairway to the second floor, Mom made up the front room for her, and got a better pair of drapes to keep out the cold and the light. Grandma slept mostly, even during the day. You could hear the psst of the oxygen even upstairs at night, every half-minute or so.

 

They'd put the TV in the kitchen, and tried the first year to wedge the Christmas tree in next to the dinette, sticking out into the opening to the front room. After the umpteenth person had brushed against it, knocking ornaments to the floor, Mom had said that was it, and the tree went out on the side porch.

 

Actually, it was kind of cool, and his friends liked the look of it, lights glowing, as you drove by in the busy alley alongside the narrow house. You could see it clearly through the big window behind the dinette, which was where they ate when it wasn't a meal over the sink, and Grandma could see a bit of it out the narrow window opposite her bed. The side door opened into the kitchen, and they rarely used it, mostly coming in the long hallway from the back into the other end of the kitchen. That was now the tree door, getting the most use when for twenty-five days they dashed out to plug in the tree each evening and the last person to bed dashed out to unplug it.

 

The three of them made it through the year fairly well, with Grandma's social security and Mom's job, but it was never easy. At Christmastime, Mom always went down to the Salvation Army and signed up for an Angel Tree gift package for him, but he was getting kind of old for that.

 

He'd gotten some good clothes and a few fun little toys, even one year a bike that he rode way past where the frame really suited him. Other times you could tell that either the people who'd picked his card hadn't read it, or (he figured) were older people who didn't know what a nine or ten or eleven year old boy would like, putting a stuffed bunny or craft set in with the sensible clothes.

 

Most of his friends at school had experience with Angel Tree gifts, and the ones with older brothers and sisters had ruefully pointed out that as you got to twelve and thirteen or fourteen, you generally got a gift card if you were lucky (because it didn't get picked, they guessed) or a bottle of cologne you'd never heard of. The game cartridges were usually not for a game he or his friends had, but you could trade them in downtown.

 

Mom was pretty smart about watching at Dollar General or Big Lots for the fall months, and she could usually pull out something kind of cool to add to the Christmas pile: a gadget to take apart and put back together, a radio control car in an odd color, or a dvd they'd watch together, joking about the bad acting. To tell the truth, those gifts he liked best because they came from her, not that they were better than what came from the nameless people who got his name off the Angel Tree.

 

Grandma, when she talked more, would tell him that when she was a girl there was no gift under the tree, but an orange in the stocking and a new toothbrush hanging from a branch with red ribbon. Mom would whisper to him "that wasn't her, that was her mother, your great-grandmother; she got toys and such just like you did, just no batteries." He'd saved up some money, and got her a tube of body lotion and silk flower in a vase from Big Lots; Mom thought that was wonderful he wanted to do that with his money, but warned him "don't feel bad if she doesn't react much when you give it to her. She knows, it's just hard for her to show much. Feelings are hard work for her with all the medications and all."

 

It looked to be a good Christmas, with a pie in the freezer they'd been given at the food pantry, and a little turkey that came with the Angel Tree gifts. He wondered what they were, but not too much. Expecting too much just led to disappointment, he'd figured that much out. They were together, the tree on the porch, the bird in the oven.

 

And he had a package for Mom. It wasn't much, but it was something, and he knew she'd love it. It might even be a pleasant surprise. She could use some joy this Christmas, and he wanted to give that to her.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around central Ohio. Tell him a Christmas story at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow Knapsack @Twitter.

 

 

 

*  *  *

Faith Works 12-31-11

Jeff Gill

December 31, 1945

George hung up the phone and looked up at the picture of his father.

Just beneath it was the cross-stitch his mother had made for him of his dad's favorite quote – 'All you can take with you is that which you give away.'

He looked past them to the window, where the snow was still falling outside. The building whose owner had just been speaking to him was sifting into invisibility behind the mist and growing dark.

Potter wanted him to know they had "found something of interest to both of them." It was the much-searched for $8,000, in an envelope left in a deposit slip rack. A good-hearted customer had discovered the crumpled packet and turned it in to a teller; they had given $50 of it to the finder, which he was sure George would approve of.

Sure, said George. He was surprised how little excitement he felt at the return of the prodigal deposit, although he was amused at Potter's generosity with George's money. For a moment, he thought about asking "If I had found $10,000 of yours, and had given $20 as a reward, would you have been fine with that?" But he just added "Thank you for thinking of that, Mr. Potter."

There was a peculiar tone to the rest of the call, though. Potter sounded positively wistful, asking him about his children's Christmas day, and how the aftermath of that already fading Christmas eve had gone, with half of Bedford Falls crowded into his house on Sycamore Street.

It was true that the hall carpet was essentially ruined, but he didn't tell Potter that.

Harry had left yesterday for Pensacola, where he would be training new pilots. "Watch out for that Potter," he said at the train station, adding "he's got something he wants to prove, and you're in the way of it."

So it was with an extra sense of unease George had heard the words "Why don't you and that charming family come over to my house for dinner tonight, and toast a new year, and the prosperity of peace?"

There was silence on both sides of the line, long enough to punctuate with a couple of Potter's carefully controlled wheezes, just enough sound to indicate listening silence.

"I'll have to check with Mary first, Mr. Potter; to tell you the truth, things have been so busy I'm not sure what our plans at home might be."

"Of course, of course my boy, you do that; wouldn't want to upset the missus. Just give me all call when you get home out here to Beech Grove."

Potter's father had begun a large rambling Georgian home on a knoll well out of town, and built barns and a pond and trails for horseback riding around the wooded acreage. It was along those, everyone knew, that a young Potter Junior had been thrown by a spooked horse, and been paralyzed ever since. There were stories about a young woman and a broken engagement, but all that was before George was even born.

The current Mr. Potter had added wings and grey stone and a high iron fence, but the few who had been on the grounds reported back food that was excellent, cooked in Continental style by a chef who it was rumored spoke no English. George said "I will certainly call as soon as I get home."

"Excellent, excellent. George, we have much to talk about. My best to your Mary," followed by a decisive clunk.

Should he go out there, he wondered? Should he even mention the invitation to Mary? She would wince and shake her head, but then say sternly, "We ought to say yes, if only to find out what he's up to."

And just how would it be, with his children, no doubt in danger of breaking a priceless object at every turn, sitting there about to say things they'd heard at home? There was no way it would be a pleasant evening.

Yet there was something in the old man's voice, or in that silence as he chose not to wheedle or plead ingratiatingly, as was his usual style. Something *was* up, that's for sure.

George reached for his hat, and thought "at the very least, I'll have a story for Harry the next time he calls." And then stopped and read for the millionth time those words of his father, neatly stitched by his mother - 'All you can take with you is that which you give away.'

Well, I'll always have this evening then, thought George.

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around central Ohio; tell him a story of a new year at knapsack77@gmail.com or follow Knapsack @Twitter. 

Faith Works 12-17

Faith Works 12-17-11

Jeff Gill

 

Walking down the sidewalk, hand in hand

___

 

Christmas eve, and in a light snow, they pulled up to the church.

 

It was such a joy to see the lights shining through stained glass, the full parking lot, the children's heads bobbing in the basement windows. He had helped dig that basement out fifty years ago, one coffee can at a time to start, crawling beneath the sanctuary. Now it just seemed to everyone there had always been a fellowship hall below the church, including them.

 

He picked his way across the asphalt carefully, recalling when it had been gravel. Safer, when his step was surer, but it certainly helped keep the carpets! Opening the car door, she swiveled to get out, as he opened up the walker.

 

They made their way to the elevator, another thing that wasn't part of the building when he'd been a trustee; she'd been president of the women's fellowship when they raised the money to put it in, one pie at a time.

 

In a way, there were no secrets between them. He knew about the early marriage she'd had that no one else who knew her even suspected; she knew how he wept each year watching "It's a Wonderful Life," not at the end of the movie when the basket full of money comes in, but when Clarence tells George that Harry Bailey didn't save the troopship from an enemy fighter crashing into it, because George wasn't there to save Harry.

 

He was a quartermaster's mate during the war (no further label needed for them as to what war), and piloted an LST across the Pacific. It had no name, just a number, even though she displaced 5,000 tons, more than many cocky ships that cruised past her with a name on the stern. They had names for their ship, but few worth repeating, or remembering. She'd heard them all, though.

 

She'd also heard him tell of when a Japanese Betty drilled into the starboard bow, not quite sinking the nameless Landing Ship Tank, but killing hundreds of soldiers who were helplessly waiting, and never landed on their island. She'd gotten letters from him out of Evansville where the ship was built, from Fort Knox, Kentucky, where he joked about how joining the Navy meant seeing the world, but the Midwest first (they were drilling on a mockup LST constructed in a vast building deep within the encampment, for security).

 

Then the long silence, the fears, and then a letter cryptical in wording, and even so half blacked out by a Navy censor. But she could tell something had happened, something changed. He told her all about it when he came home, once. And wept at that scene in the movie.

 

They had no secrets. He hadn't told her how bad the doctor had said the congestive heart failure was getting, but she knew; she hadn't told him that she suspected the breast cancer might be back, but he knew she'd asked if he could take her to the doctor, "after the holidays."

 

When the elevator got to the sanctuary floor, it stopped with a thump, and the door slowly slid open, revealing the Christmas decorations and the line of children now waiting to enter, holding small battery-powered candles. They both smiled, having spend hours (years?) on their knees with irons, paper towels, and wax paper cleaning candle wax out of the carpet after Christmas.

 

Their pew was marked, in a way, with a cushion that always sat there. New custodians would bring it to the office on Monday (once), and it would go back to her spot. Both hips had been replaced "back when they used hickory and pot metal" she joked, and the doctor had gently said it probably wouldn't be a good idea to go under anesthetic again.

 

No children had ever been raised in their home, "God had other plans for us" they both quickly answered whenever someone would ask. But here at church, they had helped raised hundreds (thousands?) over the years, and it was a family reunion more than anyone knew when everyone came together for Christmas Eve.

 

They had no secrets, but few knew all their sorrows; everyone knew, though, about  the joy they shared, with each other, and in being at worship. They smiled, and a light shone round about them, and no one was afraid to sit next to them.

 

It was Christmas Eve, and they were at home.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and supply preacher around central Ohio; if you think you know who this story is about, I'm sure you're right, all of you! Tell him your story of Christmas joy at knapsack77@gmail.com or follow Knapsack @Twitter.