This was written for a friend's mom who recently underwent a "medical procedure."
At her age it surely seems
“the I’s” her middle name.
From everlasting she has been
to endless years the same.
The Dr. says it is only
a simple procedure,
but when it is your mom at risk
you want to be quite sure.
I know she’s not invincible
and surely, so does she.
So, hold her in your palm dear God,
she means the world to me.
Amen.
© 2010 Todd Jenkins
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Ordinary Ministry
We work, play, and casually interact with people every day who have unspeakable tragedy lurking just beneath the surface of their lives. Sometimes we’re on the other end and the tragedy is our own. Most of the time there's no longer a visible indication of this suffering but, occasionally (more often than we probably realize), there are "thin places" where the fresh coat of "normal" does not completely hide what has been buried in the shallow ground.
We stub our metaphorical toe on another’s invisible pain. We accidentally rake across non-sequiturs of rage, anger, or shock. Momentary silence creates a complete change of subject. Punctuation’s pause opens the door to overflowing catacombs of emotion.
Pay attention! These are the places where we can rise to the occasion and be fully present. These are the times for which we are created. These are the experiences by which, if we can resist the reflex of withdrawal, we are warmed by love and soldered together by God’s healing touch. These are the foundational blocks of the priesthood of all believers. These are the blessed sacraments of ordinary ministry.
© 2010 Todd Jenkins
We stub our metaphorical toe on another’s invisible pain. We accidentally rake across non-sequiturs of rage, anger, or shock. Momentary silence creates a complete change of subject. Punctuation’s pause opens the door to overflowing catacombs of emotion.
Pay attention! These are the places where we can rise to the occasion and be fully present. These are the times for which we are created. These are the experiences by which, if we can resist the reflex of withdrawal, we are warmed by love and soldered together by God’s healing touch. These are the foundational blocks of the priesthood of all believers. These are the blessed sacraments of ordinary ministry.
© 2010 Todd Jenkins
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Puzzle's Pieces
Summer's been hot and dry, not just on the outside, though I've collected a few moist towelettes for future use. Here's one from a few weeks ago:
For the one whom God has sent speaks the words of God, for God gives the Spirit without limit. John 3:34
“God has a plan” we’re told
at every twist and turn.
When I stop to look and listen
I sometimes catch a glimpse.
Not enough to figure out
why our lives are full of hurt,
much less the way things
are working together and out.
Six billion is the last number
I heard used to name the count
of earth’s people currently alive,
so maybe we’re all part of a puzzle
with that many pieces to fit together.
This doesn’t even begin to include
all those who’ve passed before us:
pieces of the communion of saints.
But since we’re being honest here,
which poetry has a way of doing
with few words to hide behind
and truth erupting from its vast blank space,
I must confess that most of the time
I find myself imagining a much smaller puzzle,
a 10 or 20 piece version whose box reads,
“Six months to one year.”
Is that how long it’ll take me to finish,
or how old (mature?) I’m acting,
or the limits of my vision?
Some days it seems like all three.
In this much smaller puzzle, of course,
as intimate and manageable as it is,
I am always the central, most important piece,
in the same way that channelers
always reach back into our past
and find that, once upon a time,
we were, of course, royalty,
and never lower-caste peasants.
But as the universe’s true size and age
sink into my dense gray matter,
I sometimes ponder its enormity
that might as well be infinity.
Suppose I am merely—
and I say merely because
I’m thinking small and selfishly again—
a tiny piece of gorgeous blue sky
that fits into a few million other blues
to reflect the absolute beauty
of a single snapshot in time,
captured on an artist’s canvas?
How many times do you think
that eyes roll and sighs flow from God,
exasperated that I’m looking to become
anything and everything except
the very thing for which I was created?
Not that my piece of the puzzle
is not placed in a single right location—
the only spot that it correctly fits—
but that I refuse altogether
to let it fit in any of the many places
it might have twisted and clicked
to fit a hole in the universe’s scheme
that my absence makes so obvious.
On my computer the other day
I saw an image that, from far away,
looked like nothing more
than a single, familiar celebrity’s face.
But when I clicked on any given spot
I zoomed in to find that each pixel patch
was actually composed of many other faces.
Funny how easily we can be convinced
by fear, anxiety, envy and control,
that our own comfortable little perspective
must be THE true universal reality.
© 2010 Todd Jenkins
For the one whom God has sent speaks the words of God, for God gives the Spirit without limit. John 3:34
“God has a plan” we’re told
at every twist and turn.
When I stop to look and listen
I sometimes catch a glimpse.
Not enough to figure out
why our lives are full of hurt,
much less the way things
are working together and out.
Six billion is the last number
I heard used to name the count
of earth’s people currently alive,
so maybe we’re all part of a puzzle
with that many pieces to fit together.
This doesn’t even begin to include
all those who’ve passed before us:
pieces of the communion of saints.
But since we’re being honest here,
which poetry has a way of doing
with few words to hide behind
and truth erupting from its vast blank space,
I must confess that most of the time
I find myself imagining a much smaller puzzle,
a 10 or 20 piece version whose box reads,
“Six months to one year.”
Is that how long it’ll take me to finish,
or how old (mature?) I’m acting,
or the limits of my vision?
Some days it seems like all three.
In this much smaller puzzle, of course,
as intimate and manageable as it is,
I am always the central, most important piece,
in the same way that channelers
always reach back into our past
and find that, once upon a time,
we were, of course, royalty,
and never lower-caste peasants.
But as the universe’s true size and age
sink into my dense gray matter,
I sometimes ponder its enormity
that might as well be infinity.
Suppose I am merely—
and I say merely because
I’m thinking small and selfishly again—
a tiny piece of gorgeous blue sky
that fits into a few million other blues
to reflect the absolute beauty
of a single snapshot in time,
captured on an artist’s canvas?
How many times do you think
that eyes roll and sighs flow from God,
exasperated that I’m looking to become
anything and everything except
the very thing for which I was created?
Not that my piece of the puzzle
is not placed in a single right location—
the only spot that it correctly fits—
but that I refuse altogether
to let it fit in any of the many places
it might have twisted and clicked
to fit a hole in the universe’s scheme
that my absence makes so obvious.
On my computer the other day
I saw an image that, from far away,
looked like nothing more
than a single, familiar celebrity’s face.
But when I clicked on any given spot
I zoomed in to find that each pixel patch
was actually composed of many other faces.
Funny how easily we can be convinced
by fear, anxiety, envy and control,
that our own comfortable little perspective
must be THE true universal reality.
© 2010 Todd Jenkins
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
The 3 Rs
In Sunday worship, or at the start of a church event, when you hear prayer concerns offered, you heard the tip of the iceberg that comprises a pastor’s life. The weight of all the information and concerns that I hear on a weekly basis concerning not just church members, but also community members and family members (yours and my own) is like steady snowfall on a roof. Each flake, each layer, doesn’t seem like much by itself. But over time, they accumulate and produce a weight that is capable of crushing even the strongest joists.
In a perfect world, a perfect pastor would be able to pass all those concerns directly to God and never bear the weight of anxiety, never feel the pressure of answers’ absence, never hold onto the helplessness of not being able to “fix” all of our problems. Those two perfections have completely passed me by. I am who I am, where I am, doing and being what I know and can.
In a world that is far more comfortable with and capable of measuring “do” than “be” my role is often to practice and mirror the lesser and the less precise. That’s where “The Refreshment of the 3 Rs” comes in. Beyond my own practice of prayer and worship (not on Sunday morning), there are three other things I do in order to survive. To relieve the stress, pressure, and depression of my inability to let go of our collective angst and my immersion in the personal lives of all the people who trust me with their pain—I do these three things: Read, Write, and Run.
I don’t just read theology or church books. I read novels and comedy; things that let me escape for a while to subconsciously process my own thoughts and feelings. I write stories and poetry/prayers, all of which not only give me a chance to see what’s lurking deep in my head and heart, but also help me let go of that swirling grief and anxiety. Hence, this very piece is a part of that catharsis.
I run because it gives me a built-in time frame for organizing thoughts, words, and conversations. When I come to a steep hill, I forget the additional incline-induced strain on my overweight 50 year old body by forming and reforming the words of my next sermon, prayer, or poem as I trudge upward. So, when you see or hear of me plodding along the roads or trails of Lincoln County, know that there’s more than meets the eye going on out there. It’s life, it’s hope, it’s healing. Now you know.
The Baseball Booster Club asked to “borrow my voice” for their “Senior Day” pre-game festivities and announcing of the season’s final home game. I count it an honor and a privilege to take part in this. There’s a different kind of healing that happens here, as I think back on my “Glory Days” such as they were, and reflect forward on the hopes and dreams of our community’s future leaders. I heard a preacher recently say, “The church exists at the intersection of memory and hope.” If that’s the case, and I believe it is, then events like “Senior Day” and graduations are as much church as anything we do on a Sunday morning.
Despite my dismal record last season (3-7), I have been “re-hired” as the pre-game motivational speaker for the LCHS football team this year. I think you’d have to have been part of an adolescent team of some sort to understand how this kind of privilege impacts your life. Whether or not we pray, read scripture, or mention God at all, I believe what I do on Friday afternoons in the locker room is an integral part of “being church.” I hope to see you somewhere out there, in all the different places where we all have opportunities to “be” church.
© 2010 Todd Jenkins
In a perfect world, a perfect pastor would be able to pass all those concerns directly to God and never bear the weight of anxiety, never feel the pressure of answers’ absence, never hold onto the helplessness of not being able to “fix” all of our problems. Those two perfections have completely passed me by. I am who I am, where I am, doing and being what I know and can.
In a world that is far more comfortable with and capable of measuring “do” than “be” my role is often to practice and mirror the lesser and the less precise. That’s where “The Refreshment of the 3 Rs” comes in. Beyond my own practice of prayer and worship (not on Sunday morning), there are three other things I do in order to survive. To relieve the stress, pressure, and depression of my inability to let go of our collective angst and my immersion in the personal lives of all the people who trust me with their pain—I do these three things: Read, Write, and Run.
I don’t just read theology or church books. I read novels and comedy; things that let me escape for a while to subconsciously process my own thoughts and feelings. I write stories and poetry/prayers, all of which not only give me a chance to see what’s lurking deep in my head and heart, but also help me let go of that swirling grief and anxiety. Hence, this very piece is a part of that catharsis.
I run because it gives me a built-in time frame for organizing thoughts, words, and conversations. When I come to a steep hill, I forget the additional incline-induced strain on my overweight 50 year old body by forming and reforming the words of my next sermon, prayer, or poem as I trudge upward. So, when you see or hear of me plodding along the roads or trails of Lincoln County, know that there’s more than meets the eye going on out there. It’s life, it’s hope, it’s healing. Now you know.
The Baseball Booster Club asked to “borrow my voice” for their “Senior Day” pre-game festivities and announcing of the season’s final home game. I count it an honor and a privilege to take part in this. There’s a different kind of healing that happens here, as I think back on my “Glory Days” such as they were, and reflect forward on the hopes and dreams of our community’s future leaders. I heard a preacher recently say, “The church exists at the intersection of memory and hope.” If that’s the case, and I believe it is, then events like “Senior Day” and graduations are as much church as anything we do on a Sunday morning.
Despite my dismal record last season (3-7), I have been “re-hired” as the pre-game motivational speaker for the LCHS football team this year. I think you’d have to have been part of an adolescent team of some sort to understand how this kind of privilege impacts your life. Whether or not we pray, read scripture, or mention God at all, I believe what I do on Friday afternoons in the locker room is an integral part of “being church.” I hope to see you somewhere out there, in all the different places where we all have opportunities to “be” church.
© 2010 Todd Jenkins
Monday, April 26, 2010
Left in the Lurch
Knowing reaches into the future.
Not as far as we’d like, but
something is better than nothing;
memory and hope must somehow intersect.
Information comes at us in fits and starts.
Life’s puzzle’s in infinite pieces;
doesn’t arrive all at once in a box;
sometimes we’re sure some major pieces are lost.
Good news sometimes, bad news others.
Mostly somewhere in between,
whose final determination must wait
for more time to pass, paths to cross.
It’s hurry up and wait most of the time,
arriving at a known milestone,
waiting for the journey’s next leg to appear:
“Recalculating” life’s operative word.
Memories not only of knowledge gained,
but also of futures planned,
sunsets and evenings, new days dawning,
all hang in the balance as earth and sky touch.
Hope: once simple, pure, and light;
now queasy from life’s roller coaster;
whole-grain heavy, fibrous husks and all;
certainly different but more substantial.
Feed us from the heart, O Lord,
of your promise lived-in-skin;
richness and depth of hope that is
broken-in and not just broken-down.
© 2010 Todd Jenkins
Not as far as we’d like, but
something is better than nothing;
memory and hope must somehow intersect.
Information comes at us in fits and starts.
Life’s puzzle’s in infinite pieces;
doesn’t arrive all at once in a box;
sometimes we’re sure some major pieces are lost.
Good news sometimes, bad news others.
Mostly somewhere in between,
whose final determination must wait
for more time to pass, paths to cross.
It’s hurry up and wait most of the time,
arriving at a known milestone,
waiting for the journey’s next leg to appear:
“Recalculating” life’s operative word.
Memories not only of knowledge gained,
but also of futures planned,
sunsets and evenings, new days dawning,
all hang in the balance as earth and sky touch.
Hope: once simple, pure, and light;
now queasy from life’s roller coaster;
whole-grain heavy, fibrous husks and all;
certainly different but more substantial.
Feed us from the heart, O Lord,
of your promise lived-in-skin;
richness and depth of hope that is
broken-in and not just broken-down.
© 2010 Todd Jenkins
Monday, April 19, 2010
Church Again
When the work of doing church
Overcomes the gift of being church
There comes a time in every life
We organize and plan ourselves
Into a full-blown hurricane
Of meetings, measurements, and pain
Forgetting that we ever heard
The peaceful call of Jesus’ words:
“Come to me… and I will give you rest.”
O, how we long to once more feel
Joy of resting in God’s grace
Revel in sacred time and space
Receive again your invitation
Join the worshipful congregation
Let church be church’s gift to you
© 2010 Todd Jenkins
Overcomes the gift of being church
There comes a time in every life
We organize and plan ourselves
Into a full-blown hurricane
Of meetings, measurements, and pain
Forgetting that we ever heard
The peaceful call of Jesus’ words:
“Come to me… and I will give you rest.”
O, how we long to once more feel
Joy of resting in God’s grace
Revel in sacred time and space
Receive again your invitation
Join the worshipful congregation
Let church be church’s gift to you
© 2010 Todd Jenkins
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Bigger than That
Sometimes we have a difficult time connecting God with everyday life because of the limits of our understanding. Other times it is because of the limits of our expectation. A couple of Sundays ago, during worship, I experienced a little of both.
As you may know, we send a small gray duffle bag home with a different family at the end of worship each week. We ask them to put something in it and bring it back before worship the next week. During worship, Pastor Jessi or I open the bag and attempt to make a connection between its contents and the life of faith.
It looked like a large black and gray speckled rock that had been tumbled smooth from many years in a river bed. But it weighed only an ounce or two. It was about the size of those souvenir footballs the cheerleaders throw into the stands at football games. The ends were a bit more rounded than a football—more like a rugby ball—and there was a small hole at each end. I couldn’t tell if it was hollow or filled with something extremely lightweight.
My first guess was that it was a float for a trot line or crab trap. Finally I had to ask. “It’s an Emu egg,” I was told. An egg? Really? That big? I was so taken aback by the sheer size of this egg that my mind went blank. Had I not been so surprised that an egg could be that large, I could have made all sorts of connections between it and our faith practice. Between my surprise and the time it took to correctly identify the object, I failed to make any everyday life and faith connections.
That’s the way it is with God, sometimes. I get so comfortable with the little bit about God I think I’ve figured out that I don’t make room for any more. I’m not expecting and I don’t allow myself to imagine anything more. An old friend once told me, “Each time you think you’ve figured out what God can or will do, don’t forget: God is bigger than that.”
© 2010 Todd Jenkins
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