Our dear friend Ralph Grisham died peacefully in his sleep last week.
He was suffering from many ailments related to his spina bifida, but about a month ago he was diagnosed with bladder cancer.
He is now living large, up out of that infernal wheelchair, dancing and laughing with sheer delight with the Lord of all life.
I am sad I did not get to say goodbye to him. I am sad because I am sure I would have said many more things differently in the last weeks of his life had I known time was so short… Ralph had a lot of needs. You could say he was needy. In fact, Ralph could make you think of Bill Murry’s character in the movie “What About Bob”. “Please, please please, I need I need I need, gimme gimme, gimme, please?” Ralph was not usually shy about making his needs known. Maybe you are like me in this- I wonder if we did enough, if I did enough. When I heard the news last night, I did what comes naturally to me- I thought of myself. I cried to God, “I did all I could- the best I could do! How could I have done any more to love him?” The beautiful, bitter sweet truth is that I could have done more…I could have loved him better. Can’t we always? Of course, because our model is Jesus. We are to be like Him, so we will always, always have lots of room for improvement. This is comforting, because Jesus calls us to a high standard, something big to reach for- loving others as he loves us. And we can never reach that, so we have absolutely everything for which to strive and absolutely nothing to regret, both at the same time. And that goes for everything we do and everyone we love. There is so much pain and heartache around, the real shame would be to never see it, feel it, enter into it with each other. It would be easier not to, I think. I hurt more since I came to know and love Ralph. That hurt is a gift from God. Why choose to hurt more?
Because Jesus calls us to take up our cross and follow him, he calls us to enter into others’ pain. Mother Teresa, and those who still follow Jesus as she taught them, spend everything they have, all their resources, talent, energy, on behalf of the poorest of the poor, the sickest of the sick, those who have days, hours or even minutes to live on the streets of Calcutta. Is it worth it? Or is it a waste of time? What if they get to the dying person in time for him to have some significant change of heart? In time for him to whisper confessions? In time to whisper to him, “Jesus loves you”? What if they get there a minute later, after his spirit has gone? Then is all their effort wasted? Of course not. The worth of that love has nothing at all to do with any response from the loved.
So it is with our calling. Everybody hurts, and everybody is dying. In 5 minutes or 50 years… The common moment is right now. Right now. How open are you to love others in the name of Jesus right now? To share their pain right now? What if right now is the only chance you have? What will you say? How will you love? Will you expect/demand a response? What if, while you are formulating your question, the targeted spirit slips away? You missed your moment to love without condition, to touch without reservation, to heal without payment, to give without thanks.
I think about the many moments I had with Ralph. Moments to laugh, moments to give grace, moments to say “I’m sorry”, moments to speak hard truth, moments to quietly care, moments to cajole and encourage, moments of impatience and moments of waiting… I had all of those with Ralph and many more… Yellilng “Bravo” and “Brave” at the SF Opera… Accidentally dumping him out of his wheelchair when I hit a lip in the pavement… Eating lots of things in lots of places with someone who really enjoyed good food…
Ralph was a fighter. I know, because he fought with everyone at one time or another, including me…while I was preaching. Ralph was a true extrovert- he got energy from being with people, and he craved it so much. I am sure sometimes he picked fights just so he could talk to someone. Ralph was profoundly lonely. And yet he could entertain himself… for hours…days. He got to know and be known by a lot of people, a lot of hospital staffs, a lot of churches… He lived courageously with constant pain, emotional, physical and spiritual. In his last painful year, he had been moving away from our church community, and I prayed that he would find what his restless soul was seeking. Well, he has.
He now knows. He knows what it is to be loved unconditionally, the way he always craved to be loved. He knew in part, but now he knows in full, how incredibly beautiful and loved he is. Like all of us, he believed some lies that hurt him. He believed he had to measure up to some religious standard, to earn his way into God’s good graces; he berated himself for not measuring up (don’t we all?) and he prided himself for attaining a partly imagined maturity (don’t we all?). I know that he started to see through some of these lies, and the religiosity that had him in chains was losing its power over him. He felt the love of his friends and he soaked in the gospel of God’s grace, and his mask of religious performance began to slip.
He began to awaken to the truth of the Gospel- that he was broken beyond his ability to fix, and loved beyond all his imagination, and he didn’t need to earn it. He didn’t come easily. He fought against the Gospel. (Don’t we all?) His default mode (and ours) was to compare himself to others and to argue for his rank.
He wanted so desperately to belong. To be valued. He told me he wanted to be co-pastor with me, and he would jump in and share his thoughts in the middle of my sermon, between naps… He made sure his voice was heard during singing, with or without a microphone… He wanted to lead small groups that he had rarely if ever visited… He would shove his oar in and share his strong opinion on anyone’s personal relationships or business whenever he felt like it, but he could also be extremely sensitive and insightful. Sometimes, he just knew things… you know what I mean..
Ralph was gifted. God spoke to him and used him to bless and encourage others. Ralph used his gifts well and not so well. Sometimes he believed the lie that his gifts were what made him valuable, rather than the giver, and so he at times displayed his gifts to get recognition and approval (Don’t we all?).
I know above all that is what Ralph would want for all of his friends and family to know, deep in their souls, that you, all of you, are loved by a God who made you, who knows you inside and out, who cares so much that he died so you could live, really live! Ralph was most alive when he was communing with his savior, Jesus, and praying for others to do that too. Right now Ralph is with his Jesus. Maybe they are playing hopscotch, or cooking. Ralph finally fully belongs.
My prayer is that we can all come to embrace the gospel truth that Ralph now knows perfectly- the only approval we need comes from God, apart from any action of ours, due only to Jesus’ sacrifice on our behalf. As we embrace that truth, God looks at us and sees the perfection of Jesus, who lived the life we should have and saved us by dying the death we deserved. So we can add nothing at all to his approval of us. We are perfectly and forever accepted because of Jesus, the one dancing with Ralph at this moment. Someday we will join the dance- won’t that be something?
Monday, November 14, 2011
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
We're All In The Same Boat
One of the things I am known for saying is, "We are all in the same boat". What I mean by that is that the great love of God extends to all equally- The Gospel of grace shines the light of truth on everyone's sinfulness and need for a savior, (not a life-coach who gives us a hand when needed- Jesus is my co-pilot? No, he's the plane!) And we are all equally and dearly loved, so much that Jesus died for us.
The boat story below has to do with our vision and calling at Bridge of Life. This past year has been full of the stuff of life- that is, joy and pain, difficulty, triumph, loss and struggle. Our Bridge of Life family has experienced loss through moving, misunderstanding, crises, death, miscarriage and mental illness. The loneliness has been palpable as dear friends have slipped away.
When I say we are all in the same boat, it may at times have sounded like we were packed uncomfortably into a smelly old (beige) leaky creaky rowboat with one oar. Ignoring the stench and the leaks, we flounder about in rough seas, attempting to row towards drowning individuals who keep popping up in different directions, sometimes simultaneously, crying for help, hungry and cold; we reach them and drag them into our boat, give them our only warm soup and our last sleeping bag, and as soon as they slurp up the last of the soup they frickin’ jump overboard again, dragging our sleeping bag with them, and they flounder off without a thank you; then we see someone else floundering and go after them, ignoring the new leak we have sprung in our haste to rescue this new victim, wondering why the going is so slow as we begin to sink… Has it seemed like that? Well that's not it!
How about this instead- We are all hands on deck on a beautifully hand-crafted sailboat. The maker of this boat knows us and the waters well, and he has given us a clear destination and a manual with guidelines for how to work the boat. We have deliberately and obediently left the shelter of the bay and we are in uncharted choppy waters; some of our deck hands are green. Others are turning green. The wind is strong and sure, and we have had some trouble catching it. We have tried different sail angles and combinations of rudder tiller mainsail jib and boom. Sometimes we are luffing, sometimes running pell-mell and maybe a bit off course, but we have flirted with that good line, where we are heeled over to just about the right degree and our sails are full. We know where we are called to go and we have instructions for how to work together on the boat. We have to remind each other of the destination and we have discussions about the best way to get there- at times we neglect the manual about how to work together- at times we distrust the boatmaker, thinking we can rig the sails better than how they were designed. When we go back to the book, we see our folly, adjust the jib and the wind fills our sails again.
The boatmaker knows us, the waters, and our course so well. He has instructed us to schedule times of rest and listening on deck. He sings truth to us- he sings the Song softly on the wind, so softly we can only hear him when we stop all our efforts and listen. The more we listen the more we recognize his voice and the more we can hear the Song clearly. We can hear him sing about the brokenness of the world and the wholeness only he offers. His Song leads us to lost souls that he puts in our path; he instructs us to care for them and invite them aboard, so we do. They look familiar, and we remember when we were invited on board, the hunger and cold we still feel at times. So we give them soup and sleeping bags and invite them to join our quest, explaining that the journey itself is an important part of our destination and that we can trust the boat because the boatmaker is trustworthy, and he made everything, including us. Some of them join us joyfully and begin hearing the song, reading the book and learning the ropes; some down the soup, grab what they can and jump overboard. We are often sad to see them go, but we have extra soup and sleeping bags, even if they swim back into our course again later. Sometimes they swim away crying for us to follow, that they need more soup and sleeping bags, and only we can help… It’s tempting, because we like the feeling of helping others, but we know that theirs is not the voice we are following, and we know the Singer is their only hope. So we quiet our hearts, listen to the Song of that still small voice and stay on course, mourning for those lost souls, welcoming their return, but staying on course.
The seas are rough, and the boat is difficult to maintain. It takes a lot out of us- we get sick, and tired, and sickandtired. Sometimes we wonder if the boat is off course, if it is being steered expertly enough by the captain and crew, we wonder about that other boat in those other seas…is it calmer there? Is that sighing the boatmaker’s song, or the wind and waves?
We read in the manual about rest and nutrition for the crew, and we are determined to prioritize the care and feeding of our co-laborers. Our needs are different- some need more food or more training, but we all need each other, and we all need the song and the book. We get discouraged and feel like we need more partners who have read the book, who have heard the Song, who have strong backs and arms and who know our destination and have been called on the quest…. The book tells us how to sing back, tells us even the Song is a dialogue that can change…so let’s sing, together, to the boatmaker, the wind and the wavemaker, the great Singer whose persistent voice calls us on…. Will you join us?
The boat story below has to do with our vision and calling at Bridge of Life. This past year has been full of the stuff of life- that is, joy and pain, difficulty, triumph, loss and struggle. Our Bridge of Life family has experienced loss through moving, misunderstanding, crises, death, miscarriage and mental illness. The loneliness has been palpable as dear friends have slipped away.
When I say we are all in the same boat, it may at times have sounded like we were packed uncomfortably into a smelly old (beige) leaky creaky rowboat with one oar. Ignoring the stench and the leaks, we flounder about in rough seas, attempting to row towards drowning individuals who keep popping up in different directions, sometimes simultaneously, crying for help, hungry and cold; we reach them and drag them into our boat, give them our only warm soup and our last sleeping bag, and as soon as they slurp up the last of the soup they frickin’ jump overboard again, dragging our sleeping bag with them, and they flounder off without a thank you; then we see someone else floundering and go after them, ignoring the new leak we have sprung in our haste to rescue this new victim, wondering why the going is so slow as we begin to sink… Has it seemed like that? Well that's not it!
How about this instead- We are all hands on deck on a beautifully hand-crafted sailboat. The maker of this boat knows us and the waters well, and he has given us a clear destination and a manual with guidelines for how to work the boat. We have deliberately and obediently left the shelter of the bay and we are in uncharted choppy waters; some of our deck hands are green. Others are turning green. The wind is strong and sure, and we have had some trouble catching it. We have tried different sail angles and combinations of rudder tiller mainsail jib and boom. Sometimes we are luffing, sometimes running pell-mell and maybe a bit off course, but we have flirted with that good line, where we are heeled over to just about the right degree and our sails are full. We know where we are called to go and we have instructions for how to work together on the boat. We have to remind each other of the destination and we have discussions about the best way to get there- at times we neglect the manual about how to work together- at times we distrust the boatmaker, thinking we can rig the sails better than how they were designed. When we go back to the book, we see our folly, adjust the jib and the wind fills our sails again.
The boatmaker knows us, the waters, and our course so well. He has instructed us to schedule times of rest and listening on deck. He sings truth to us- he sings the Song softly on the wind, so softly we can only hear him when we stop all our efforts and listen. The more we listen the more we recognize his voice and the more we can hear the Song clearly. We can hear him sing about the brokenness of the world and the wholeness only he offers. His Song leads us to lost souls that he puts in our path; he instructs us to care for them and invite them aboard, so we do. They look familiar, and we remember when we were invited on board, the hunger and cold we still feel at times. So we give them soup and sleeping bags and invite them to join our quest, explaining that the journey itself is an important part of our destination and that we can trust the boat because the boatmaker is trustworthy, and he made everything, including us. Some of them join us joyfully and begin hearing the song, reading the book and learning the ropes; some down the soup, grab what they can and jump overboard. We are often sad to see them go, but we have extra soup and sleeping bags, even if they swim back into our course again later. Sometimes they swim away crying for us to follow, that they need more soup and sleeping bags, and only we can help… It’s tempting, because we like the feeling of helping others, but we know that theirs is not the voice we are following, and we know the Singer is their only hope. So we quiet our hearts, listen to the Song of that still small voice and stay on course, mourning for those lost souls, welcoming their return, but staying on course.
The seas are rough, and the boat is difficult to maintain. It takes a lot out of us- we get sick, and tired, and sickandtired. Sometimes we wonder if the boat is off course, if it is being steered expertly enough by the captain and crew, we wonder about that other boat in those other seas…is it calmer there? Is that sighing the boatmaker’s song, or the wind and waves?
We read in the manual about rest and nutrition for the crew, and we are determined to prioritize the care and feeding of our co-laborers. Our needs are different- some need more food or more training, but we all need each other, and we all need the song and the book. We get discouraged and feel like we need more partners who have read the book, who have heard the Song, who have strong backs and arms and who know our destination and have been called on the quest…. The book tells us how to sing back, tells us even the Song is a dialogue that can change…so let’s sing, together, to the boatmaker, the wind and the wavemaker, the great Singer whose persistent voice calls us on…. Will you join us?
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