Memorial Day has come and gone, and so the summer season has begun: out come the white shoes and purses, the shorts and sandals; off come the robes. The choir ditched theirs last week, and bowing to peer pressure, I did as well. As a matter of fact, for most of my career, I have unrobed (disrobed?!) for the summer. It's the heat, mostly. When you serve small country churches, air conditioning is a rarity, and even when it's there, it rarely cools the sanctuary enough to keep me comfortable in my Tropical Wool Bentley and Simon Clergy Robe - hold the velvet panels, please.

In my first church, the heat of the summer and age of the congregation prompted the Session to ask me to remove my jacket at the beginning of worship, and invite all the gentlemen to do so as well. They never did, which left me the only guy in shirtsleeves. They also stood up when I entered the sanctuary, but that's a story for another day...

So why do preachers wear robes in the first place? We have established they can be uncomfortable; they can also be dangerous (several times I have walked into my hem going up stairs), and they're expensive, so much so that I wore a...a...well, a deceased predecessor's robe for more than fifteen years. And it's not like there's a Presbyterian law that says I have to wear, well, anything, really. What's the deal with clergy robes?

The truth is, we religion specialists have worn distinctive clothing since prehistoric times: animal skins, amulets, feathers all served to set the shaman or priestess apart from the crowd. In the book of Exodus, one can read detailed descriptions of the garments to be worn whenever the priests were serving in the temple.

Of course, there were no priests in the early church; leaders simply wore their Sunday best, which in the Middle East were robes. But time marched on, and styles changed - it wasn't long until the barbarians brought pants to the civilized world! Of course, church leaders have never much liked change, so they continued wearing robes. Over the years, the robes became vestments, acquiring symbolic meanings and becoming more colorful and elaborate.

With the coming of the Reformation, pastoral attire really did change. Reformers, such as Calvin, were strong advocates of an educated clergy, and the black robe of the scholar came to demonstrate a pastor's academic qualifications; likewise, the tabbed collar showed a pastor had the approval of their church court to preach. 

Over time, the robe began to serve a more practical function. By covering the minister's street clothes, the robe was thought to direct the focus of the congregation away from the preacher and toward the preaching; the robe also helps emphasize the office and de-emphasize the individual. That's why I've worn a simple black robe since I started preaching.

Except, of course, when it's hot.

The other day, I worked to rehabilitate the old wheelbarrow. It's every bit of twenty years old now; it's tube and tire have been replaced more than once; a few bolt holes have been repaired the quick and dirty way - with the bottom of a tin can; it has been touched up and repainted and touched up again. Back in the fall, one of the handles succumbed to dry rot, leading to a tipped load and some choice words. I did actually use it to move firewood this winter, but it was pretty awkward. Ann and I decided it was probably time to replace it; it's had a good long life, certainly got our money's worth, blah blah blah.

But then, all of the sudden, it was spring; Ann was out of town, I needed to move some gravel, and I didn't want to spend that kind of money without her around because that's usually a bad idea. I figured I could get a 2x2 board at the local home center, whittle it down to size and voila! a new handle. But as I looked around the Home Depot, I discovered there are such things as replacement handles for wheelbarrows. Replacement handles - who knew? I bought two.

Recently, I began a sermon by talking about the distinction between those who tend to replace things and those who prefer to repair them. As I told the congregation, I am a fixer; I love putting things back together, making them work again. When I was a kid, I watched my dad perform his humble magic on a series of Mr. Coffees, cleaning the calcium deposits out of those teeny plastic lines, bringing them back to life, time after time. For my friend Rick's dad, repair and rehabilitation were a way of life; he saved everything, confident that it would come in handy to fix something, someday. He would send us to the shed for one thing, and in our search we would turn up cylinder heads from an ancient Desoto, steam valves stamped with ominous Swastikas in a box marked DuPont Explosives, or jackets from long gone water heaters. We would laugh or sigh and shake our heads; that is, until the gas tank in my car threatened to drop out on the road, and Mr. Rothhaar fixed it with that very same water heater jacket. Rick inherited some of that philosophic devotion to frugality, but it never really rubbed off on me. For a long time, though, I couldn't afford to replace things, so repair and rehab were necessary; only later did they become a way of life for me as well. Which brings us back to the wheelbarrow.

I drilled the proper holes in the handles and replaced the old bolts with new, shiny ones. I turned the wheelbarrow this way and that, admiring my work, and wishing Ann was home to admire it with me. I propped it against the wall.

The next morning, I loaded it up with gravel, grabbed the nifty new handles and and lifted. Only then did I notice the tire was flat.

Of course, I didn't want to waste all the effort it took to load the gravel, so I dragged it to the front yard. I dumped it and headed to the hardware store. Three stores later, I had snagged a new wheel, which at the time of this writing, is still holding air - I just checked.

Now, the handles weren't cheap. The new wheel was on sale (and cheaper than a new inner tube), but it still wasn't cheap. In the end, I may have saved some money by not just breaking down and buying a new wheelbarrow, but not much. And the fact is, it is still an old wheelbarrow - functional, but dented, beat up, worn. Every time I use it, I wonder, what's next?

When does a frugal investment become a money pit? At what point does good stewardship go off the rails and become just a humbler way to waste resources? I really want to know, because it seems like it happens to me a lot.

For the past several weeks, I (and a few of you) have been undertaking another rehab job, this one on the shed on the hill behind our house. Since our son has returned home for a spell, we need an overflow space; a place where he can find a little privacy, while we get a little distance. One day, I read an article about the 'Tiny House Movement,' and realized we had a perfect candidate, on the hill in the back yard. Rumor has it that once sheltered hogs, and the small door in the side speaks of chicken coop - facts which certainly add color to the endeavor. It is indeed tiny, and the concrete floor definitely points downhill, but it is sturdy, and the rough sawn oak walls are remarkably plumb.

Of course, there have been several points in the last few weeks when I have wondered if this is such a good idea - after all, building supplies cost money, even if you scrounge, and the next-door neighbor has a travel trailer for sale in his yard, right now. What keeps coming back to me, though, is how much fun it is, working together on a project. Whether with one or two, or five or ten, when we work together, something very exciting happens: teaching and learning, laughing and sharing, messing up and fixing up, breaking bread and sharing of our lives: we call it fellowship, perhaps the most underrated of all Christian endeavors. I think that's the difference between a wheelbarrow and a chicken coop - feel free to stop by and see what you think.

So let me tell you about my Lent.

After going on and in my last post about how we might use the Lenten season to enrich our faith and our lives, I am embarrassed to say, I haven't.  

As I write this, I am huddled on love seat facing the wood stove. I feel lousy. Periodically, I get up and try and get the fire to perk up enough to take the chill off the air. I cough, which makes me feel worse. The weather has turned cold again - it snowed yesterday, for like the four thousandth time this season.  Except that it's next season - Spring has already happened! It's almost April, so what the heck?

From Rabbit Fire (Warner Brothers, 1951),

Chuck Jones, director

Friends, this how I get when I'm sick. I like to think of it as unvarnished honesty, but those closest to me just call me a whiny baby. The fact is, I have pneumonia. According to those who know such things, pneumonia is serious; it's something one can actually die from. I've had it before. 

How did I get pneumonia, you might ask, and I would probably shrug my shoulders and mumble something inarticulate, or perhaps blame all those people with whom I have contact at the church, or at the hospital. But deep down, I know how this happened - how this always happens; it happens because I don't care.

An interesting phrase, I don't care; it conjures up images of selfish brats, thoughtless narcissists, sociopaths. And yet, on some level, it describes all of us: there are certain things that interest us not in the least - the results of the ICC Under 19 Cricket World Final, perhaps (South Africa beat Pakistan), or how to prepare Egg in Aspic (what is aspic, anyway?) And that's OK.

Who thought this was a good idea?

photo by Michael Newman

        

There are many times, though, when I don't care really means I don't care...enough. Often, the word should creeps into the conversation: I should be more interested in what's happening in my community; I should be better informed about world events; I should be more proactive when it comes to my health. It's not that we don't care about these things; we just care more about something else, and that makes us uncomfortable. Take my health.

Handsome devil, eh?

Once upon a time, I was a reasonably healthy young collegiate. I walked up hill and down, went to class, mostly, played basketball a lot; I had hair. Of course, I ate and drank like a college student; that is, whatever I wanted and could afford. I slept like a college student; that is, not enough and at odd hours. And I lived on the college student's calendar: burn the candle at both ends AND in the middle, then recover over break.  It's not as if I didn't care; this way of life seemed to serve me well, allowing me to follow my bliss, while still managing to squeak through with a B.A. 

But then, I looked up and just like that! college was over. I found myself in the real world, with an adult's metabolism and a teenager's sense of responsibility. Working, attending Seminary, starting a family; for almost thirty years, it seems I have been playing catch up: picking up habits more easily learned in one's youth; travelling time after time down the same unproductive paths; learning from experiences that have too often been painful, expensive and embarrassing. My weight has been up and down, and up again; my physical condition has gone from adequate, to pretty good, to wretched. I find myself arising earlier as I age, but no happier to see the morning; I pray more, but find my prayers more distracted than ever.

The fact is, I have just entered my fifty first year, and I am in deplorable condition. Even before the whole pneumonia thing, I felt lousy; overweight and out of shape. It's not as if I don't care whether I live or die; I do. But there always seems to be something else to take care of first, something to distract me from what I know is important, some exception that needs to be made. I'm too busy to eat right; too tired to exercise; too distracted to just be still and pray. After a lifetime of caring for others, I have come to realize I don't really care about myself. And that is wrong.

Sitting here on this loveseat, coughing, I am ashamed - not because I have ill treated this temple of God that is by body (although I have), but because in caring so little about my own health, I have put at risk all the things I though I cared about more: my family, my ministry, my relationship with God. This is sin, and it is here, fat and coughing and overburdened, that I think I have finally begun my observance of Lent.

Therefore whoever wishes to be a friend of the world becomes an enemy of God. Or do you suppose that it is for nothing that the scripture says, “God yearns jealously for the spirit that he has made to dwell in us”? But he gives all the more grace; therefore it says, “God opposes the proud,
but gives grace to the humble.”

Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. Draw near to God, and he will draw near to you. Cleanse your hands, you sinners, and purify your hearts, you double-minded. Lament and mourn and weep. Let your laughter be turned into mourning and your joy into dejection. Humble yourselves before the Lord, and he will exalt you.     James 4: 4-10

On Fish, Chocolate and Swearing: coming to grips with Lent.

I grew up eating fish on Fridays in Lent. As a Presbyterian in Pittsburgh, this was less a demonstration of piety and penitence, and more a reflection on the fact that all my friends were Catholic; I also had ashes on my forehead long before it was fashionable in Presbyterian circles, and endured the painful up and down of the Stations of the Cross service each Holy Week.

Peer pressure is a powerful thing.

In those days, Lent was a bad time to be a cod in the Steel City. Friday lunch in Market Square meant lines out the door of the Original Oyster House, while out in the South Hills, places like Doridos and Lackeys Inn served fried fish sandwiches as big as your head. These gigantic sandwiches were so delicious it was hard to imagine you were giving up anything. Which was odd, because giving up seemed to be what Lent was all about.

Young and old, Protestant and Catholic, family and friends would make a solemn vow on that fateful Wednesday, to give up something for Lent. The list rarely changed; almost invariably, women swore off chocolate, or candy in general, or perhaps the liquid equivalent - pop; while the men would swear off, well,  swearing  - or at least one particularly offensive swear word that starts with ‘F’ and rhymes with your mother will beat you with a slotted spoon if she hears you say it.

Occasionally, guys would swear off alcohol, especially if the Mardi Gras celebration had been particularly rough.

This meant for forty days, as winter gave way to spring, we endured meatless Fridays, cranky girls dealing with sugar/cocoa withdrawal, and frustrated guys trying to express themselves with colorless substitutes for George Carlin’s seven words, or counting down the days till their next beer.

[Actually, now that I think about it, caffeine would occasionally make the list as well, which added jittery people with massive headaches to the mix.]

The phrase, I gave it up for Lent seemed to be on everyone’s lips. Sometimes, it was in response to an offer:

Bonbon? Ho, ho, ho, no – I gave up candy for Lent!

Bucket of tequila? Wish I could, but I can’t: gave it up for Lent.

Often though, it would be in the form of a question:

I gave up saying F@*%!  - what did YOU give up for Lent?

I have to tell you, all this giving up bothered me – and not because I had little willpower or discipline in those days. Although I didn’t.

What was the point? I would ask myself. What did God care whether I ate Mars Bars or Haddock this month? What value would God find in forty days of a socially accepted vocabulary, especially since I viewed it as a sort of punishment I was bound to accept in order to somehow earn the chocolate bunnies, jelly beans and ham slices of Easter?

I had a rich and contentious interior life.

Over time, I went off to seminary, where I came to learn about Lent, and I discovered it is more than a season of giving up – much more.

It turns out, the forty days before Easter have long been a special time in the church. Forty is the traditional number for discipline, and preparation, harkening back to the Flood. It was the length of the sojourn of Moses on the mountain (Exodus 24); the length of the spies' mission in the Promised Land (Numbers 13:25); it was how long it took Elijah to reach the cave where he received God’s vision (1 Kings 19); the time allotted for Ninevah’s repentance (Jonah 3); and most significantly, the number of days Jesus prayed and fasted in the wilderness before beginning his earthly ministry.

In the early church, these forty days were used to instruct those who wished to be baptized and join the church. Over time, it evolved into a season when all Christians are called to use the spiritual disciplines of the faith to remind ourselves of the terrible cost of our redemption. During Lent, we focus on the nature of sin and salvation, as we prepare to celebrate the resurrection. 

Take the most common discipline associated with Lent:  fasting. Contrary to our common assumptions, fasting is more than not eating something, or not doing something; it is a conscious decision to use the time and resources usually reserved for one thing for another, higher purpose – a holy use.

We may choose to fast by giving our lunch money to the food pantry and spending our lunch hour in prayer.  Instead of throwing away our chocolate for Lent, or staring at it with frustrated longing throughout the season, we might box it up with a card and share it to with a lonely nursing home resident.  We might choose to turn off the television or computer, and instead dedicate our evenings to learning more about how we might be the family of God.

Far from giving up, Lent is a time for us to enrich our lives by considering the question, what does it mean to have a savior who would willingly die for us? Lent can be a time of enrichment and renewal – if we take advantage of the season.

Have a Holy Lent  - try the fish.