The Lion

Valerie and I returned last week from a delightful trip. Twice previously we had planned a trip to celebrate the hoped-for end of what would become a two year transitional pastor journey; both of those trips, while thoroughly enjoyable, turned out to be premature. So having finally completed the interim in July, we decided it would be a good time to enjoy a repositioning cruise from Vancouver, BC, to San Diego, California. It turned out to be great timing for a west coast cruise, beautiful and very smooth, complete with near perfect weather and migrating whales.

Some cruises are all about the destination; others are all about the journey. While both the journey and destination were great, this cruise seemed to be all about the people we encountered along the way. Some of those were planned encounters - cousins in Vancouver, my brother and his wife who met us in Santa Barbara, missionary friends who met up with us in San Diego. Others were unplanned serendipitous blessings, like Lisa, QuickShuttle's only female driver, or Leocer, who just might be Holland America's most congenial server and who brightened and blessed our day every time we saw him.

Trish Hanson was one of those serendipitous encounters. Trish is an artisan and outspoken Christian that we met on the dock in Astoria. Several artisans had booths set up, ready to entice folks leaving and returning to the ship with a wide variety of things, some beautiful and others of questionable value. (Like vegan shortbread, two words that my Scottish heart firmly believes should never appear on the same label.) But it was Trish’s booth that most captivated us with her collection of laser-crafted wood images with a message. And this lion was our personal favorite.

She calls it “The Lion of Judah,” and if you get close enough, you'll discover it consists of a two word phrase repeated 365 times: Fear not. Her art, she says, is part of her healing, and clearly there was a story - or perhaps multiple stories - behind the intricate design and careful creation of this lion. The personal pain of her past had found expression not in chaos or anger but in beauty and faith.

We really hadn’t planned to buy stuff in Astoria, but the Lion of Judah now hangs on our living room wall. I sit in my chair, and like Aslan in Narnia, the Lion looks at me inviting me to trust, and reminding me every day to fear not. 

50 Years

Fifty years ago - September 12, 1969. I was in my 20s and anything was possible; after all, we’d landed a man on the moon a couple of months earlier. It was my wedding day, and Joan and I were embarking on a marvelous journey called marriage together. It was a great day, though not without its unexpected surprises (like a flat tire late at night on the way to the airport).

Over the years I’ve wondered from time to time what it would be like to celebrate my golden wedding anniversary. I’ve attended a number of celebrations of other people’s golden anniversaries; some of them have been wonderfully joyful, some deeply meaningful, and a few others were, quite frankly, utterly terrible. So I’ve occasionally pondered what my own might look like. Those wonderings, of course, didn’t include the unexpected and painful reality that one of us might not live that long.

We made it three-fourths of the way to our golden wedding anniversary before the Lord called Joan home. It was a very good marriage, and she has helped to shape the person I am today. She didn’t expect to be a pastor’s wife, but she filled that role well. She was my best friend and a superb mom to our two kids; love was deep. When she died with a rare blood cancer in our 39th year of marriage, I resigned myself to learning to be single again; I figured my marriage days were over and there would be no 50th celebration.

I was wrong. (It’s not the first time that’s happened.) God brought Valerie into my life, and once again I find myself joyfully married to my best friend. Who could have guessed that a gracious God would let me live this adventure twice?  I’m pretty sure we won’t live long enough to celebrate 50 years (Valerie says we’d better not!) so we count the months instead. This month we celebrated our 88th anniversary.

Valerie suggested - insisted? - that I celebrate this golden anniversary. I confess it seemed a bit weird to me that wife #2 would suggest celebrating marriage #1, but those of you who know are aware that God has gifted me again with a gracious wife. So we’ll be north of the border celebrating this golden wedding anniversary in ways I might not have imagined. It won’t be the kind of celebration where we share each other’s embarrassing moments from the last fifty years. And if you’re waiting for the invitation, there will be no party. But there will be a quiet and grateful awareness of the immeasurably deep grace of a loving God who has designed and given this great gift called marriage, and who for the last fifty years has blessed me beyond measure as He has been teaching me what it means.

New Joy

The newest joy in our clan arrived on Saturday morning.  Weighing in at six pounds eleven ounces and twenty inches long, Nova Joy Melchor Brewer made her appearance September 7 just before four a.m.  She is a blessing, and Mommy, Daddy, and big brother (that’s Suzanne, Andrés, and Mateo) are doing just fine.  (So, by the way, is grandpa.)

In one way or another, I can bear witness to the miracle of birth from the perspective of three generations.  I have been (and am) a grandpa, a dad, and a brother.  And I think I can say with some authority that birth is easiest on us grandparents.

The roots of the word Nova are Latin; it means new.  Nova Joy - New Joy.  Little Nova Joy, may the good Lord enable you to live up to your name as you bring new fresh joy to all who know you.

Beware of the Pews

A couple of years ago in the midst of a recarpeting project, the church I was serving at the time considered whether or not to replace their pews as well, since they would have to be moved anyway. Pews or chairs? Personally I like the flexibility of chairs, preferably big comfortable padded ones, but they decided to keep the pews.

I was reminded of that decision last Sunday when we walked into a church we’ve visited to be greeted by pews that had been roped off with caution tape.  And I don’t mean just a few pews.  With the exception of the first two rows, the two largest sections of pews - roughly 2/3 of the seating capacity - were blocked, leaving a thankfully thin Labor Day Weekend congregation to gather in the two remaining narrower sections on the far left and right sides of the sanctuary.

This is interesting, the pastor in me thought.  Perhaps it’s a sermon illustration and we’re going to be separating the sheep from the goats. I secretly hoped I was sitting on the sheep side. I’ve been around long enough to know that pastors are not above doing strange things to get the attention of a congregation.  I remembered the experience of my son enhancing worship by rigging a vacuum-cleaner-powered cannon in the balcony to shoot confetti over a congregation while they were singing “Lord Reign in Me,” undoubtedly infusing that worship song with new meaning for the surprised congregation.

Could it be a visual illustration of a church split? No; it turned out to be nothing that creative or dramatic. The physical set up had nothing to do with serrmon content or enhanced worship but was simply evidence of an in-progress pew renewal project. It was a necessary distraction. I felt for the pastor whose congregation had been forced to the fringes with a vast emptiness in between. In typical and I suppose predictable evangelical fashion, those available front pews had been almost universally ignored — including by me.  It was as though the pastor were in a boat in the middle of a river trying to preach to the folks gathered on both banks. And it was a pretty wide river.

In retrospect, I’d have been wiser to accept the invitation of the guy who tried to seat us up front. There the caution tape wouldn’t have distracted me every time I moved my eyes. I know: It shouldn’t have been a distraction. But it was, and confessing that is a confession of my own weakness.

The joy of worship is found in the presence of Christ, and that can happen in an ornate sanctuary or by the side of a river, either real or metaphorical. When He is at the center, worship will happen. I almost missed the important message for me inscribed over and over on those yards of yellow tape: Caution. Beware of the pews. Don’t let them - or anything else - get in the way of worship.

The Transitional Journey

After a very lengthy absence, the blog has reappeared, and it is a fair question to ask where it has been.  It is not that I quit discovering joy two and a half years ago; on the contrary, these months have been filled with joy.  What happened is that life intervened.

 

Two and a half years ago I was invited to consider becoming the transitional pastor of a local church.  After serving the church for almost four decades, my friend Pastor Nick was retiring.  I couldn't fault him for the decision; I'd been retired for ten years, and I liked retirement.  I liked it so much that there was a part of me that considered running as far and fast as I could in the other direction.  God, however, had other plans, and I'm glad he did.  It’s still true that God saves the best for those who leave the choice to him.

 

So for two years I have had the joy of shepherding a congregation through the adventure of a pastoral transition. It turns out that that takes time.  It also turns out that no matter how fervently I may pray, God is not going to make the sun stand still in order to accommodate what I might want to do.  For years I've carried around business cards inscribed with this sentence: I have all the time I need to do all God wants me to do.  For the last couple of years, writing blog posts hasn't fit in that category.  But the writer in me is not yet dead, and now that I have been blessed with a second retirement, perhaps it will fit once again.  After all, I still have all the time I need to do all God wants me to do.

Last month I had the joy of passing the shepherding baton to FTPC's new pastor, a gifted young man who is God's choice for the future.  And I get to re-retire.  It has been a two year adventure, filled with both joys and lessons that have been many, varied, and deep.  Among them is the clear reminder that God seldom leads in straight lines, and it’s wise to turn when He does.  It’s been a fun couple of years, and I’ve had a blast!  But I’m glad Pastor Aaron is on board.  It turns out that I still like retirement, and I’m looking forward to rediscovering those joys as well.  

 

She Said Yes

Some old sayings are true:  It's amazing how time flies when you're having fun.  Five years ago on the eve of Valentine's Day I asked this lovely lady to be my bride, and for reasons that defy all logic, she agreed.  It was a great day, and the fun continues.

I suppose one could make a case that waiting for Valentine's Day would have been a bit more romantic.  The problem was I would be heading home on Valentine's Day and flying to California the day after that.  This was not, after all, a carefully planned proposal, though perhaps it should have been.

We'd spent a good hunk of that day enjoying the beauty of Harrison Hot Springs, walking beside the lake, enjoying lunch, and talking with each other and with the Lord about what the future might hold.  Harrison is a beautiful spot.  It would have been a great place to pop the question.  So why, you might ask, would anyone in his right mind wait until he was speeding down the freeway heading back towards Abbotsford to ask that all important question.  And I would look at you, shake my head, and be thankful once again for grace.  The truth of the matter was that our conversation that day assumed that we had a future together; it wasn't until the trip back that I realized that I hadn't actually asked.  So I did.  And she said "yes."  (Later that day I waxed sufficiently poetic to make up for the day's odd timing with a poem that won't appear on the blog.) 

It was a great day, but the best thing about it was not the weather, nor the date.  The best thing was that she said yes.

The Older Generation

Somewhere along the way I became part of the older generation.  I'm not sure just when (or for that matter how) it happened, but it did.  And it's not a bad thing.  In subtle ways it adjusts the way one looks at the world.  Now, for example, when I pass a senior citizen driving too slowly down the road, my criticism is interrupted by the realization that the old dude might be younger than me.  Any doubt that I belong to that venerable "older generation" disappeared four months ago when I began discovering the joys of being Grandpa.  For all of my life "grandpa" has been a guaranteed identifier of someone who's a part of that older generation.  Now I am there -- and it is good.

There are, however, responsibilities attached to being part of the older generation.  Scripture repeatedly exhorts people like me to be sure that we are passing on what is important to those who are what we used to be - the younger generation.  In the words of Asaph, "we will tell the next generation the praisworthy deeds of the Lord, his power, and the wonders he has done." (Psalm 78:4)

One of my valued gifts this last Christmas is designed to help me live up to that responsibility.  It's a journal that with a specific question each day invites Grandpa to share his memories through the year.  There is a lot to like about this gift.  Memories are valuable things that should serve as prompts to thanksgiving and worship.  Simple things like recalling the places I have lived triggers memories of the kind of things Asaph was talking about, those praiseworthy deeds of the Lord and the wonders he has done.

Writing those memories down is a good thing.  Memories, after all, can be fragile things as well.  With seven decades behind me, I recognize the possibility that by the time Mateo gets around to asking those questions, I may not be able to answer them. We're only a month into the year, and I'm not quite up to date with that journal.  But I'm going to keep jotting stuff down in the hope that one day that journal will become even more valuable to this little guy than it is to me today.