In Turbulent Times

I used to marvel at the changes my parents had seen during their lives. Born into an age of horse-drawn implements and hand-dug cisterns, they lived to see space travel and micro-computers. By the time Mom and Dad died, preschoolers were toting cell phones and a few driverless cars were spiriting about the streets of cities.

My parents saw similar changes in other aspects of culture. Music shifted from crooners to shroomers, from pastoral to psychedelic, from ragtime to rap, from big band to heavy metal. Dozens of clothing fads came and went and cars morphed from gas-guzzling dreadnoughts of solid steel to fuel-scrimping concoctions of minimalist synthetics. America went from what they thought was a monolithic reflection of their own views and values to a hodge-podge of religions, politics, culture and sub-culture and micro-culture. Somehow, simultaneously, things shifted from when majority views trumped the Constitution to times when it seemed that the more ridiculous the individualistic perception, the more forcefully it was defended by the courts.

In retrospect, America was never as uniform as Mom and Dad might have believed. They grew up and lived much of their lives surrounded by their own reflections. It seemed they believed that America was white, Anglo-Saxon and Protestant, that the Bible was the universal standard of truth, and that middle-class values were the gold standard of the world. Even through the cultural chaos of the Sixties, in the midst and immediate aftermath of riots and mob actions, the shape-shifting Seventies, they still thought that they were the genuine reflection of America and that eventually their silent majority views would prevail.

Of course, during that whole time, a counter-culture continued to gain in political power and influence. This way of thinking rejected traditionally defined gender roles and even concepts of gender orientation; it also rejected traditional concepts of marriage, work, morality, religion, society and global roles. Where others perceived stability it perceived repression. Where others saw principle, it saw exploitation. What others viewed as sacred moral principle, it viewed as rigid imperialistic tradition.

Even though the clash is often framed in terms of moral absolutism, it really isn’t as simple as Good versus Evil, though there are certainly elements of that perceived. What is often going on is more a matter of very different perceptions of what truly is “good.” And, another aspect sometimes voiced but often unseen even by those most affected, is fear. Fear of losing power, fear of being dominated, fear of being forced to accept things that we do not want to accept. Fear of seeing what we disagree with enthroned in power.

Unfortunately, fearful people often become dangerous.

In times such as these, we become so polarized that we gladly embrace lies that align with our preferences and become unwilling to even consider any contradicting evidence. We are so eager to have our own views re-established as dominant that we no longer care about the character of those who carry them forward. We are so tired of seeing our values trampled on that we are willing to abandon the best parts of our own beliefs. We forget about turning the other cheek, returning good for evil, responding with compassion for cruelty.

In such times as these, we desperately need the peace, power and incredible release of loving our enemies. We need to remember that we are called to speak the truth, yes, but we are called to speak that truth in sincere and gentle love. Walking in holiness does not require hostility.

H. Arnett
4/10/18

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Warm Blessing on a Chilly Day

In spite of threatening skies and a chilling wind, I decided to spend a couple of hours riding my bike yesterday afternoon. Usually, when I am leaving the house, I tell Randa the exact route I plan to ride. Might make it easier to find the remains, you know, should something go terribly wrong. I also give her an estimated time of return so she’ll know when to send out the search party.

I paused at the door yesterday and told her I wasn’t sure where I was going to go. She asked, “Are you sure you want to head out in this?” and showed me the weather radar on her iPad. It showed a large sweep of green with a little seam of red, swirling down from the northwest and pushing right across Ark City and south central Kansas. I shrugged, “Guess I’ll take my chances.”

Within five minutes of leaving the house, I felt a few sprinkles on my face. For thirty minutes or more, it looked like that could turn into a pour. Then, the heavier clouds passed and I made the rest of my ride in mostly sunny times. About ten minutes before I completed my loop, I thought about stopping to text Randa a request that she go ahead and run me a tub of hot water. That’s mighty soothing after twenty miles on a chilly day. I decided, though, I could just run my own water after I got home.

Back in our driveway, I did a gliding dismount and rolled the bike into the garage and closed the big door. As I walked through the entry room and turned down the hall, I noticed the bathroom door was closed. I was surprised to see Randa sitting on the couch, since the bathroom door is almost never closed unless the room is occupied.

Randa smiled up as I walked into the living room, “How was your ride?” “It was good,” I grinned, “Only got a few sprinkles and saw some pretty sights. Some dramatic lighting with the sun shining on some really dark clouds.” I pulled off my hydration back and set it on the kitchen counter for cleaning later. Headed down the hall to start the bath water.

When I opened the door, I felt the warmth and saw that the tub was already filled. I walked back into the living room. “Thank you!” I smiled. “I actually thought about texting you about ten minutes ago to ask you to run water for me.”

Randa smiled warmly, “I know.”

In response to my slightly puzzled look, she shrugged her shoulders slightly and shook her head slowly, “I just sensed it.”

“When was that?” I queried. She responded, “No more than ten minutes ago.”

I am blessed beyond what I deserve but not beyond my awareness.

H. Arnett
4/9/18

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Kicking Against the Goad

What is the part of you that God has been working on the longest? What is the part that seems to be taking the most time and effort to re-shape into the reflected image of Christ?

Some people might say, “Oh, just all of me, mostly,” and others might say, “Just the deepest parts.” Still others might say “Well, if you can’t tell I’m not going to tell you!”

At the moment, I’d have to admit that’s the way I’m leaning. I figure that my faults are evident enough and you could probably list more of them than I’d want to listen to anyway. And therein is a hint of the honest answer. Deep down beneath the ground level of what seems to show pretty quickly, my answer would be “pride.”

I don’t think it’s the kind of pride that walks through the room feeling superior to everyone else or even to anyone else. Not the kind of pride rising from privilege, ancestry or one’s station in life. No, it’s more the kind of pride that likes to handle things in its own way. The kind that prefers to be left alone to do what needs to be done. The kind that believes it’s fully capable and will figure things out and find a good route to getting where it needs to get.

At an even more basic level, it’s probably the pride of wanting my own way. Isn’t that what all pride usually is? Thinking I should be in charge of everything pertaining to my own work and will and happiness?

I keep telling myself that I’ve made some progress over the years. Much more inclined in many situations to recognize the gifts of others, encourage them to use their areas of strength and figure out how to blend mine with theirs. I’ve focused more on giving credit to others and taking more of the blame myself. Making sure the focus is on those whose work is really responsible for the good that is gained.

I guess that is progress but I have some pretty regular reminders that I’ve still got a ways to go. Seems like any time I quit focusing on humility God reminds me of my pride. But sometimes it seems to take me quite a while to figure out that’s what he’s doing. I’m not sure why I’m so reluctant to remember that “God resists the proud but gives grace to the humble.”

I’ve got this feeling that he’s just going to keep doing this for as long as it takes. Humility is often the quickest path to ending our own self-induced suffering.

H. Arnett
4/6/18

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Even Within These Walls

I took advantage yesterday of the opportunity to attend the graduation ceremony of some of our adult education program completers. Nearly twenty men varying in age from early twenties to mid-fifties had finished their preparation studies and successfully passed the GED exams.

Just for the record, past studies have shown that about forty percent of folks who obtain a high school diploma cannot score high enough to earn the GED. So, it’s no small accomplishment. Beyond that, three of the men scored high enough to qualify for Cowley College scholarships. Even better!

In view of their accomplishment, a few of the men had family who made the trip over from wherever they happen to live to witness the ceremony. Some had driven a few hundred miles to be there. It’s hard to over-estimate that kind of support.

Along with the usual protocol of recognizing appropriate dignitaries, we also acknowledged and applauded the work of our colleague, LaVaughan Scheurich. LaVaughan works for Cowley College’s adult education program and excels in working with this particular demographic. Her unflappable firmness, decency, encouragement and intelligence create a darn near perfect blend for getting these men on track for successful completion of this credential. At the appropriate time, the graduates and their friends gave LaVaughan a well-earned and very enthusiastic round of applause.

In similar fashion, as each man’s name was called and he came forward to receive his certificate, he was greeted with loud clapping and friendly hoots and calls from audience members. Some of the graduates responded with cheerful fist pumps of celebration and then moved along the receiving line of College, local and state officials. It was gratifying and enjoyable to see the sharing of celebration.

The final speaker, after all the awards had been handed out, asked for one more round of applause for LaVaughan and we all happily obliged. Then, he said, “Let’s give some recognition to the entire staff here for the work they do.” Once again, there was a loud and enthusiastic response.

I leaned over to the state director of adult education who was sitting next to me. “You know, if you can treat people in a prison in such a way that prompts a response like this from the inmates, then you ought to be able to treat any group of people in a way that conveys respect, don’t you think?”

She smiled and nodded vigorously.

H. Arnett
4/5/18

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Of Wisdom and Humility

You ever have one of those deals where you pretended to ask for someone’s advice? You know, one of those times when you already knew exactly what you wanted to do in a certain situation, what you wanted to say, how you wanted to respond? And so, you went to someone that you were pretty sure would agree with you and asked them, “What would you do?” or “What do you think I should do?” And the whole time, you just wanted them to say, “Oh, honey, you’re exactly right!”

I reckon all of us have accomplished that same feat at some time or another. We pretend we’re soliciting advice, counsel and wisdom when really we’re just trying to rack up support or gain sympathy. Maybe it is a bit manipulative and probably even somewhat self-deceptive. Most often, our friends and colleagues probably know what we’re really up to and figure “That’s what friends and colleagues are for, right?”

There’s a pretty simple litmus test in those situations, a check that reveals right quickly whether or not we are sincerely seeking the wisdom of others: how do we respond when they tell us something other than what we wanted to hear?

It’s easy to listen to the affirming answer, the comforting nod, the assuring assent. “Full steam ahead; do exactly what you already decided you were going to do!” But when the counsel of another is that we do something other, something more humble, more patient, more gracious, more forgiving, that’s not so easy, is it? But it is incredibly more valuable and potentially more helpful, more healing, and actually more empowering.

When friends and colleagues tilt us toward the higher path, push us against the grain of our own nature and urge us to do the better thing instead of the easier thing, they transcend the role of easy commiseration. They actually take on the role we only pretended we wanted them to take; they become true friend and genuine colleague.

In gently speaking the words others may not want to hear, we demonstrate true friendship. In the humility of listening, we demonstrate true character. The more we share of such moments, the better we both become.

H. Arnett
4/4/18

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A Gray Easter at the Community Church

It wasn’t the sort of weather any of us would order for Easter: a bitter wind sending the temperature below freezing and a dismal gray sky. The eggs were hidden and found in shorter time than usual and not many bothered with that third scouring search around the edge of the yard just in case one or two had been missed.

It wasn’t the sort of morning in southern Kansas that would draw out many for the sunrise service. “Sunrise” was a sort of dubious concept anyway with all that gray and no perceptible shift to clearly say when a sun you couldn’t see had risen. Just a few gathered among the hardwood pews for that particular celebration.

It wasn’t the sort of situation that you hope for when you’re planning a potluck breakfast for Easter morning. If it had been sunny and sixty there might well have been thirty or forty gathered there to share sausage-and-egg casserole and fried sweet rolls covered in granulated sugar. While the few who did make it over sipped coffee between bites of breakfast, they wondered aloud how the crowd would be affected by the weather.

And though there must have been some who stayed away on such a dismal day, there were enough who came to nearly fill the building. They packed into the pews until only the very first seats were empty. They came, shook hands and hugged one another, sang hymns and stood together beneath pastel banners that testified “He Is Risen.” They listened to the Children’s Sermon about the “Colors of Christ” and to the adults’ sermon about “The Witness of Stones.”

And in the sharing of bread and cup, reminded each other of sacrifice and hope, of pain and promise. As they knelt before the altar, they remembered the stones of Abraham’s faith, the Stone of Calvary and the stone that an angel moved away. They remembered an empty grave, a prophecy fulfilled and love that will conquer all things.

They remembered that wherever two or three are gathered in his name, he is there among them. And here, on this gray day and its chilling wind, they had Easter. And were glad for the having.

H. Arnett
4/3/18

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Spoke Van Winkle

I’ve been getting a bit serious about my bike rides. I started out in October, building up from just a few miles. After these few months, I’ve managed to work my way up over the fifty-mile mark. I can tell a definite difference in muscle tone in my calves and thighs. I’ve also seen improvement in my ride stamina and ability to make it up some tough hills. I’m definitely not a fast rider but nonetheless have seen my average speed increasing.

What I haven’t decided yet is whether or not a biker’s bottom adjusts to long rides on a narrow seat. It does seem that I am able to ride farther before discomfort turns into pain. My first few rides last fall found that point occurring after a dozen miles or so. Now it seems that I can make it up to twenty or so before the first serious fidgeting starts. Around thirty miles and the fidgeting turns into serious searching for some slight change in position that can bring relief.

On this past Saturday, I was significantly induced to seek that relief through extraordinary measures. I had to get off the bike for a while. And so, in broad daylight on a breezy, sunny day, only five miles away from the end of a fifty-mile ride, I took a break.

I pulled off the shoulder of US-166, a few miles east of Ark City. I rolled the bike over about thirty feet from the edge of the pavement and lay it down gently against the sloping bank. I took off my hydration pack, set it in the tall grass and lay myself down beside it. “Just gonna close my eyes for a few and not feel my butt bumping against that skinny seat for a while.” In spite of all the stems and stiff blades of dead grass pushing up against my neck, back, legs, arms and ankles, it felt surprisingly comfortable lying there in the sun. Sixty-five degrees and out of a strong north breeze was a pretty good combination.

In a few minutes, I heard the sound of tires on the shoulder. Figuring someone had pulled over, I sat up. There was a big, white Chevy Silverado quad cab sitting in front of me. A big guy with a gray beard called out through the open window in a concerned voice, “Are you okay?”

I gave him two thumbs up and said loudly, “Yep, just taking a break.” He waved, raised the window and the driver did a U-turn and they headed back east on the highway. I realized that they must have noticed me lying on the ditch bank and turned back to check on me. Later, when I checked the time, I also realized that I’d slept for over thirty minutes! Apparently, my rear end wasn’t the only part of my body that was tired.

Eventually, our bodies will demand the rest that they need. When you can sleep in the rough grass with cars and trucks and tractor-trailer rigs flying past at sixty-five-miles-an-hour, it’s a pretty good bet that you need to rest. And it’s more than a little comforting to know that strangers will take time to make sure that old guy lying in the ditch is just tired and sore and not in need of something more.

Sometimes, just knowing that others care is enough to help us make it a few more miles up the road. Especially once our lower parts have rested a bit…

H. Arnett
4/2/18

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On the Morn of Resurrection

In the black shadows of the longest night,
when all of love and might seemed turned to naught,
it seemed that even angels dared not speak
and all of light turned weak, caught in darkness.

The voice mute that called forth the dead—and they heard—
that opened the eyes of the blind,
commanded the lame to rise, take up his bed and walk,
the voice that spoke the words of life and echoed among mountains.

Hollowed now the eyes that pierced heart and soul,
divided bone from marrow and revealed deepest thought.
The hands that healed with or without touching,
bound with the thongs of thieves and murderers.

Voices that had cried out hosannas demanded his death.
The breath of those he had fed and comforted burned against him.
All had abandoned him except the one who stayed close enough to watch,
close enough to look at him even as he cursed and swore

he did not know the man!

We have all wept the tears of our own dark betrayals,
all felt the weight of our own deep guilt,
all wilted in the light of infinite love and our own acrid unworthiness,
knowing that we are the scars that pierced his hands, his feet, his side.

And in the black shadows of our longest nights
know that love of such might can never be taken from us,
that we sing a song of redemption which angels cannot speak,
and that even our darkest weakness will one day be born into light.

He has already paid the price,
already conquered the grave,
already defeated death,
already forgiven.

He proved the possibility of our hope,
the substance of our faith,
the expression of our love,
the infiniteness of the grace created for our lives

while we were yet sinners!

H. Arnett
3/30/18

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The Promise & Prophecy of Spring

Five days and two hundred miles north at this time of year can sure make a difference in things. Particularly in the things of spring. After spending those few days in Doniphan County, Randa and I returned to the southern border of central Kansas to quite the change.

The green blades of jonquils and daffodils were just starting to push through the dirt in Wathena. They’re on a rampage here in Ark City! The bright yellow bursts of forsythia accent yards and white explodes from the branches of crab apple, Bradford pear and wild plum. The first red hints of coming blooms nest among the early leaves on the apple trees. Even in these chilling winds, all that color sends a contradicting hope of warmth and spring. Three days of rain and showers has soaked into the ground. Even in the slight sounds of drizzle on the windshield, there is something here of hope and good to come.

We need this season of change and promise after the long months of drought and cold, the bitter days of aching winds and wildfire danger rated in the “Catastrophic” category. We need the hope of plowing and planting, the reminding that even in the lean years the earth will yet have its seasons. We need the passing of winter and the splintering of green shoots from buried roots and the opening of seed to the needs of growing.

We need this healing from winter’s aching rest, to see fallow fields tilled in hope and planted in faith. We need the joy of promise, that what was planted in the earth will rise forth in life and living. We need the closeness of blooms and blades, of stalk and stem brought to life, of the tender leaves showing on the tips of bare limbs.

We need the remembering that we were born to planting, made for growing and filled with the promise of God’s own good yield, sown in the fields of heart and soul. Good seed planted in good soil, nourished by the Son and watered by the Spirit.

H. Arnett
3/28/18

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Friends and the Art of Leftover Chili

Our version of spring break was pretty low key, certainly not the sort of thing that gives rise to college legends and C-grade movies. No beach parties, drunken brawls, or bail money involved. It was right pleasant, though. After dinner with a state legislator in Topeka on Thursday evening and the next morning observing the Kansas House of Representatives, Randa and I drove on up to Doniphan County. We had a wonderful time getting together with friends and family over the weekend. Some wonderful food shared, some really great conversations, sincere discussions and more than a few good laughs.

Of course, we had to leave that all behind on Monday and head back to Arkansas City. We drove through nearly three hundred miles of clouds, fog and intermittent rain. After unpacking the car on our return late in the afternoon, I scanned through office email and began handling a couple of semi-urgent issues. Not far into that, Randa asked me if I’d like a bowl of chili. Chili at the end of a dull and dreary day? Well, yes, I would love a bowl of chili.

I’ve liked chili for as long as I can remember, going all the way back to those winter days on that two-hundred-and-fifty acre dairy farm. Something about the smell and taste of spices, all those textures, the comfort of something fine and hot on a cold day. I especially love good chili after it’s had a while to season in the fridge for a few days and the seasonings permeate every bite. Even though all of the individual parts are still clearly recognizable—the different types of beans and peppers, the chunks of meat and everything else—it has all taken on all of the flavors that give each batch its own distinctive character.

Good families, good churches, good schools, and just about every other good human unit I can think of are like that, too. Each individual member clearly distinctive and yet each contributing to make something larger than the self. If every part had the nature of chili powder, who could stand to eat it?! If there were nothing with the character of spice, who would want it? It’s the combination that makes it “chili,” right?

I’ll admit that I don’t want to eat chili every single night of the year. Sometimes, a plate of beans and cornbread sounds mighty fine to me. But even then, I like a touch of seasoning. A little pepper on the beans and a bit of salt in the batter. Maybe even some minced onions. Like the points of differing opinion in a conversation, it takes a touch of something other than our own views to make relationships interesting and interactions worth the while. If our hearts and minds are not made larger in the process, then what’s the point?

Once we have mastered the fine and delicate art of retaining a sense of individuality while yet achieving a genuine unity that defines us in a larger purpose, we have made something truly fine.

H. Arnett
3/27/18

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