I hadn’t lived in St. Louis very long when I was called to St. John’s Mercy Hospital to minister to a family who had just lost a loved one to death. The person who had died was not a member of our church so I wasn’t exactly sure of his name. I went to the information desk to see if I could figure out where the family might be gathered. I told the elderly nun at the desk the man’s last name and that I thought his first name was Clyde. As she did a search on her computer I noticed she had a nasty-looking bruise on her forehead. We had had some ice earlier that week so I wondered if she had slipped and fallen. In no time she found the information and directed me to where the family was.

As I left the information desk, a Priest walked up. I noticed he had a hospital badge identifying him as a hospital chaplain. But what really caught my attention was the nasty-looking bruise he had on his forehead too.

Now remember, I hadn’t lived in St. Louis for very long and was totally unfamiliar with the Catholic Church culture of our city. So when I saw his matching bruise, my very first thought was, “That poor nun and priest must have butted heads with one another! How embarrassing!” It wasn’t until I got halfway down the corridor when it hit me, “It’s Ash Wednesday, idiot!” I felt like such a goober, but at least I hadn’t made a comment to either of them. No one except God and myself saw my stupidity.

I eventually found the grieving family who had gathered in one of the waiting rooms. I recognized my secretary who was a member of the family and went to her and asked if I could gather the family for prayer. She gathered everyone and we held hands in a circle as I prayed for Clyde, their brother, husband, and father who had just passed. I heard the sniffs of some of the family members who were crying during the prayer. When I said “Amen” I opened my eyes and shared my condolences and goodbyes. I noticed the collective countenance of their faces had brightened. I was pleased that my prayer had ministered to them in their grief. I told my secretary that I would talk to her later in the day and said goodbye. Later that day, she came by the church office to pick up some things and she thanked me for coming to the hospital. But as she turned to leave the office, she said, “Just one thing, my brother’s name was Carl, not Clyde,” she smiled and left me in my office convulsing in humiliation.

I’ve reflected on that story every Ash Wednesday since then. I guess it’s God’s way of keeping me humble. And isn’t that the whole reason for Ash Wednesday? We are but dust and ash. We are totally dependent on God. Yet we do our best to keep an image of being independent, self-made adults who have our lives together. But in reality we’re all just butting our heads with God and we have nasty-looking bruises on our foreheads to prove it.

Last Sunday, I had the opportunity to preach for the first time at my church.  I was a bit overwhelmed by it all, but excited as well. Needless to say, most of my energy last week went into sermon prep. Therefore, my blog writing has gotten a tad behind. (Okay, I just realized I am writing with a British accent, as I have just watched three back-to-back episodes of “Downton Abbey” on Netflix. I beg your pardon ever-so-much. Crud! Did it again!)

Anyway, back to my sermon. I preached on Ephesians 4:1-16, “How Can You Promote Unity in the Church?” I opened my sermon with a story about two young cohorts in crime hiding rotting bananas in my office. These bananas went unnoticed by me for several weeks, and consequently forgotten by said cohorts, until one day when one of them noticed me swatting fruit flies in my office. We all had a good chuckle about the rotting fruit and resulting fruit fly infestation. Yes, good times.

It may have been a stretch, but I was able to tie that story into my sermon topic on unity. People were impressed and lives were changed for eternity…all because of some rotten bananas. That’s right, God can even use rotten bananas for his glory. No one likes rotten bananas. One can only make so much banana bread. But no one likes green bananas either. It’s only when a banana has had time to mature and ripen, can they be useful to nourish others. In the meantime it’s important that they stay connected with a bunch of other bananas so they can mature to perfection.

Christians are like bananas. Apart from the bunch too soon, they’re still green. Stay apart for too long, they rot and only attract flies. But Christians that stay connected long enough to mature will be nourishment to those who come in contact with them.

May they be brought to complete unity to let the world know that you sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me.     John 17:23

I loved watching my father shave. No, I loved watching my father (period). As a young boy, I idolized him. Whatever he was doing, I was watching, soaking up his emanating masculinity. And nothing was more masculine than watching him shave.

It was the early 60’s and my dad shaved like most men of his generation: he used an old shaving mug and brush. He would pour hot water in the mug and vigorously stir the soap with his shaving brush until the lather foamed up to the rim. Using the brush, he would lather his face, then take his stainless steel double edged safety razor and shave off his black stubble.

I would climb up on the toilet, taking my seat on the porcelain tank and revel in this manly morning ritual. Dad would sometimes pick me up before shaving and rub his whiskered cheek against mine. I would scream with delight. His unshaved face felt rough yet comforting. It was as if he was injecting his blessing through hundreds of little bristles.

On the mornings when he wasn’t in a hurry, dad would take the shaving brush and lather up my boy face. He’d then hand me the bladeless razor and let me shave.
The smell of shaving cream and Old Spice would transform the small bathroom into our own father-son man cave.

I can’t imagine growing up absent of this father-son ritual. Actually, I don’t think I could have grown up without it. I think I would have been stuck in a Peter Panish state of never-never land with a bunch of other lost boys still awaiting their masculine blessings.

I’m a man now. Not because I have whiskers, or any other physical traits of the adult male. I’m a man because my father blessed it to me.

Thanks Dad!

Check out my other blog at Ballwin-Ellisville Patch

I’ve been invited to blog on a great new site, the Ballwin-Ellisville Patch. Catch my latest post there. They say confession’s good for the soul, right?

Morning Confession: Darkness Welcomes the Light

I was really hoping to wrap up my sidekick self-awareness ramblings this week, but you know what I’ve come to realize? I will never get to the end of my inward identity struggle this side of heaven.

Hello, my name is Jacob, the God-wrestler.

Every spiritual sidekick (and superhero) needs exercise, don’t you think? So, I’ve decided wrestling with God is great spiritual exercise.

I’m just now recovering from my latest bout of sidekick training and I do believe I’ve had an “aha” moment. Perhaps I would even go as far as to say I have had what the Greeks call a peripeteia. Peripeteia is defined as a sudden reversal, often in fortune of the protagonist, therefore, the turning point in Greek tragedy. I believe I’m at a turning point in my identity crisis. (I’m praying it’s not a tragedy, just a crisis)

So here is my peripeteia, my “aha” moment. My sidekick identity, Worshipboy, is an alias for my alter ego Fearfulboy. That’s right boys and girls, I just exposed my secret identity! Fearfulboy, too afraid to leap tall buildings for fear of falling flat on his face. I am afraid, folks.

All my life I have had a deep fear of rejection. And this fear has driven me to play it safe. “Don’t put yourself out there, Fearfulboy, people will reject you. Don’t make waves. Don’t stir the pot. Don’t speak your mind. You can’t handle the rejection. You can’t handle the challenge. Play it safe. Join forces with someone stronger and let him take all the hits.”

So that’s what I’ve done. I’ve self-protected Fearfulboy by dressing him up in superhero pajamas and cape. I’ve allowed him to run around the house jumping off of furniture, playing make-believe, but making sure to lock the storm door so he doesn’t run out in traffic and get hurt. 

So I ask you, what boy grows up wanting to be another boy? I didn’t want to grow up to be Superboy, I wanted to be Superman! A boy wants to grow up to be a man!

Worshipboy aka Fearfulboy must die!

I concluded last week’s blog with a number of self-directed questions regarding my spiritual sidekick dilemma. For those of you who refuse to read my blog, here they are again:

Have I used my identity as a sidekick as a crutch? Have I hidden behind this position as a way to avoid the loneliness of leadership? Have I used my sidekick status as a way to allow me to remain in my dorkiness instead of growing up and acting my age?

Before I answer these questions, I want to take this opportunity to give a “shout out” to all the “Preacher Men” superheroes in my life. My dad was my pastor for the first twenty three years of my life. Yes, I’m a “Son of a Preacher Man!” I know what it’s like to be a pastor, as I witnessed it firsthand.  I remember hearing the pecking of the typewriter in the wee hours of the night as he prepared his sermons and seminary assignments. I recall the phone calls in the middle of the night when he would be summoned to the deathbed of a parishioner or ringside to the latest marriage boxing match. I stood in the foyer tugging at his coat tail while he patiently listened to the precious saint expressing her objection to the color of paint in the women’s restroom. I followed him around the church building as he turned out the lights and locked the doors. I accompanied him to the church basement when the sewer backed up. I guess my sidekick status formed at a very young age. I’ve seen superheroism up close and personal.

Since being in full time ministry the past 31 years, I’ve worked with a number of superheroes. Some of them were larger than life with a variety of super powers. Others were more of the mutant variety, but I digress. Seriously, I have been blessed to work with several Preacher Men who modeled leadership and wisdom. These men graciously accepted me as their sidekick and mentored me, encouraging and challenging me to step up and serve God and His church. So thank you Jim, Phil, Billy, Ray, Jack and Charles for investing in me through the years.

As you can see, being a spiritual superhero is no picnic. Being his sidekick isn’t a day-in-the-park either, but it can be very fulfilling when teamed up with someone who’s got your back. That’s what I’ve appreciated about my heroes. I’m honored to be their sidekick.

So, to answer last week’s questions; yes, I’ve probably used my sidekick status as a crutch. I’ve never felt I could measure up to these strong leaders. Yes, I’ve probably hidden behind my sidekick status in order to avoid the loneliness of leadership, but as I see it, if I’m the sidekick that God has called me to be, I will be right there at Preacher Man’s side, so hopefully he won’t feel so lonely. And last, but not least, yes, I’m using my sidekick status to allow me to remain a dork.

I loved Superman back when I was a kid. My brother and I used to watch the black and white reruns every afternoon after school. Then when we got a color TV in the early 70’s I started watching Batman. I enjoyed watching the Dark Knight and his sidekick, Robin, fight off the evil villains with every “Pow!”, “Sock!” and “Zow!” In my more innocent days, I never detected the creepiness of two men in tights living together in a cave. I just thought it was great that they made such a great dynamic duo, saving Gotham City from the diabolical Penguin and Joker.

I guess I’ve always identified myself more as a sidekick. In school, I tended to set the bar a little too high when it came to making friends. I wanted to be in the cool crowd, but alas, I was endowed with a double dose of dorkiness. The most I could achieve was to become a sidekick to a cooler guy, trying to be funny in a most obnoxious way. If you ever saw “Diary of a Wimpy Kid,” I was Rowley. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-bySsLRMqpQ

Then as an adult, I went into Music Ministry. In evangelical circles, the music guy was always the sidekick to the preacher. Dwight L. Moody had his sidekick, Ira Sankey and Billy Graham had Cliff Barrows. So I have always seen myself as the sidekick to my pastor. That’s how I got my name, “Worshipboy.” I was sidekick to “Preacherman.”  I was a superhero wannabe.

Recently, I mentioned this whole “sidekick” identity to a friend of mine and he challenged me. He said “Are you supposed to be the sidekick or is it a crutch?” So, I’m going to take that challenge and sort through some of my thoughts on that in the coming days. Have I used my identity as a sidekick as a crutch? Have I hidden behind this position as a way to avoid the loneliness of leadership? Have I used my sidekick status as a way to allow me to remain in my dorkiness instead of growing up and acting my age?

Stay tuned, young crime fighters, for the next episode of…Worshipboy! Spiritual Sidekick!

The dark figure, crouched in the entryway of the Duane Reade, was becoming a deterrent for last minute Christmas shoppers, until Rick, the store manager, roused him and told him to move along.

“Hey you! You’re scaring away all my customers. There’s a shelter two blocks over on Bleeker. They should be able to take you in for the night and give you a hot meal.”

Dennis got up and steadied himself for a minute. The day’s ration of second-hand burgers and booze from the garbage had left him with nothing more than a faint buzz and unsteady gait. He stumbled his way down Lexington past the shoppers and the carolers to see if the shelter would take pity on him one more time; it was Christmas Eve, after all. At least that’s what he’d heard one of the shoppers say as they complained about how all the stores were out of everything on his kid’s Christmas list.

“Sorry Dennis, we’re all full up,” explained the night manager of the shelter. “I told you before, you have to make sure you’re here by noon or you forfeit your bed.”

Dennis didn’t respond. He pulled his dirty blanket up over his slumped shoulders trying to block the sleet from pelting the back of his neck and continued walking towards downtown. The city appeared colder somehow in the glare of the Christmas lights and displays. As daylight gave way to darkness, the streets became quickly deserted, as if everyone was fleeing a showdown.

Dennis sat down on the steps of the Canal Street Subway station to rest. He watched as the near vacant 4 train departed with no additional passengers. Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes as he watched the end of the train disappear into the dark tunnel.

“God, are you really there? I really don’t think you are, but if you are, I need your help. If I just had enough money to buy one subway token, I would use it to jump in front of the next train and put everyone out of their misery.”

Dennis looked up from his prayer as he heard the next train approaching. He got up to get out of the way of the commuters, but then noticed only one person getting off the train and walking in his direction. It was Rick from the drug store.

“Can you spare change for a token?” Dennis begged. Rick looked over and recognized the beggar. He kept walking but then hesitated.

“Hey, weren’t you the guy asleep in front of my store earlier today? Didn’t you go to the shelter?” Rick asked loudly, as the train left the station.

“Yes sir, I went to the shelter but there was no room,” Dennis explained.

Rick tried to find a good reason to move on, but couldn’t. The two of them stood there in the silence of the subway station that Christmas Eve. It was a holy moment.

What would you do in this holy moment? Have you had a holy moment like this during the Christmas season?

I’ve heard all the ranting and raving on talk radio. I’ve witnessed numerous talking-heads bloviate against the extremities of political correctness. I’ve even done some of the sermonizing myself.

“By golly, if the majority of Americans have been celebrating Christmas for the past few hundred years, why should we have to kowtow to the overly sensitive minorities of outsiders who don’t and start saying ‘Happy Holidays’?!”

“Why should I have to say ‘Happy Holidays’ if what I really mean is ‘Merry Christmas’? Am I too ashamed to admit I’m a Christian?”

It can be challenging to live in any kind of healthy balance these days. It seems we run the risk of offending someone, no matter what we do.

But I’ve become convicted of something recently which has helped me settle this issue in my mind once and for all. In 1 Corinthians 13 Paul admonishes us to live lives of true godly love; love that is patient and kind.  In verse 5 he tells us that love “is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.” (NIV)

If I am to live in that kind of love, then I must put other’s first. When I am tempted to take offense in someone not recognizing one of the most hallowed of holy days in all of Christianity, I need to remember that to love as Christ loved means to not seek my own preferences. Christ never led his disciples to revolt against the culture in order to get their own way. Instead, he taught about humility and grace and justice for those who were struggling under heavy burdens.

As a Christ-follower, I am given the opportunity to practice grace every time someone wishes me a “Happy Holiday.” When I respond with the same, I’m offering grace to those who worship under the heavy burdens of other religions, including the religion of political correctness. I realize forcing a “Merry Christmas” on them as a form of proving my point, or of taking offense, is not an act of love or grace. I know that the happiest of holidays can only occur when I offer Christ-like love to those with different beliefs, living in grace and mercy and sharing the love of Christ through word and action.

“Happy Holiday” is just a greeting, a salutation. In my mind, when I say “happy holiday,” I recognize the recipient of my greeting as someone dearly loved by God. If I want to love them as Christ does, then I need to move past my offense of this two-word greeting and start putting my efforts in building bridges with them. I pray that God will use me to turn their “happy holiday” to the happiest of Holy Days, the Birth of our Savior.

The door bell rang, but when I answered there was no one there; just a mysterious package. To my delight, the package was a Christmas gift. Even more delightful was the fact that it was just the beginning of a series of twelve drive-by giftings; all committed by a secret Santa.

2002 was promising to be one of those Christmases that every romantic fantasizes about. A living Currier and Ives mashup of Rockwellian proportions. I was the romantic who dreamed it was possible to have the perfect Christmas; complete with scenes of caroling children bunching and crunching in the snow-laden streets of my hometown. Having a secret Santa was a wonderful lead-in to my perfect Christmas fantasy. But we would soon get a phone call that would rock the very foundation of my perfectly assembled Christmas village.

“Mrs. Wideman, we see something on your mammogram and need you to come in for more tests.”

This did not fit into our plan for a perfect Christmas. The fact that the doctor wanted the tests performed before the holidays only increased the probability that my Christmas fantasy would remain just that; a fantasy. How I wished Sally hadn’t answered the phone, then I could have lived in my fantasy and continued to deny the reality of any problem.

But cancer doesn’t take a holiday, so arrangements were made for a lumpectomy the day before Christmas Eve. It was also the day we had originally planned to travel fourteen hours to be with Sally’s family. But that would have to wait, there were more pressing issues than having the perfect Christmas family gathering. By this time I had accepted the reality of our Christmas dream-turned-nightmare.

“It’s definitely cancer,” was the only thing I heard the surgeon say. The floor shifted causing me to fall back against the waiting room wall. I was told I could go see my wife in recovery and tell her the news; the bad news. Wasn’t Christmas supposed to be about the Good News? Christ came to earth to bring us hope, peace, love and joy; not cancer.

I gazed into her eyes when I told her. I thought about how I hadn’t done enough eye-gazing and vowed to do it more. Time froze on that cold winter morning in the recovery room. As our eyes locked, few words were spoken, but many were received. Tears flowed as dreams melted. Hearts were fused in renewed love and desperation.

When we got home, we gathered the kids and told them the news. I remembered thinking how young they were to have to experience the dashed dreams of their own Christmas fantasies. They wouldn’t have as many years to get to live in the denial of the existence of pain and suffering during the holidays.

It wasn’t long before the call rang out at our church that Sally indeed had breast cancer. Over the next few hours, the church ladies did what they did best; they showed up. Some of them brought prayer quilts and lotions and comfort food casseroles. They hugged, they cried, they sat, they prayed. There was also a circle of breast cancer survivors who immediately adopted Sally into a sisterhood she had hoped never to join. They were a big source of encouragement and comfort to both of us.

We decided we needed to be with family, so we loaded up our ’98 Explorer for our cross country trip. A major snow storm was bearing down on our area, so we planned on driving with as few stops as possible in an effort to avoid getting snowed in, snowed out, or snowed under. Sally took her pain meds, lowered her car seat straight back and fell asleep with her head in our daughter’s lap who was sitting directly behind her. We only stopped for gas; Sally sleeping the entire fourteen hour drive.

There is healing power being with family, at least there should be. It certainly was for us; maybe not physically, but emotionally for sure. We told stories, sang songs, watched movies, ate meals, baked cookies, gave gifts, hugged necks and prayed prayers during our week together. It was as close to Norman Rockwell as one could get while still facing a deadly disease.

As we said our final goodbyes and headed back home to face more surgery and chemo, I thought about how different this Christmas had turned out compared to my perfect Christmas fantasy. The sound of jingle bells and sleigh bells had been replaced with the music of a different kind; a Christmas carillon.

I looked up “carillon” in the Merriam-Webster dictionary. It read, “A set of fixed chromatically tuned bells sounded by hammers controlled from a keyboard.” When I read that, I realized that’s exactly what we experienced that Christmas. In my fantasy to have the perfect Christmas, I thought I had to have a set of events align in perfect tune and sequence. The only problem, life doesn’t work that way. The carillon cannot be played without being pounded by some hard knocks. But thank God, when we allow him to control the keyboard, he has always had a way of making beautiful music with the pounding of a hammer.