From the Pastor’s Heart

I suspect many of you might share with me a personality trait. Now, I do think of myself as an impatient person. What I think is I am just a person who does not like to wait! Yet in this season of Advent, what we are called to do is wait: to wait for the delight of Christmas Eve; to wait for the joy of Christmas Day; to wait, once again, to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ.

If we fail to be patient and wait we often miss out on the blessings God has in store for us. I came across the following story: The Cab Ride (author unknown), a story of the patience of a cab driver and it is also a timely story for Christmas.

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute then drive away.

But I had seen too many impoverished people who depend on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself.

So I walked to the door and knocked. “Just a minute,” answered a frail elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor. After along pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80’s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned to it, like somebody out of a 1940’s movie.

By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All of the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

“Would you carry my bag out to the car?” she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, and then returned to assist the woman.

She took my arm and walked slowly to the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness. It’s nothing,” I told her. “I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated.” “Oh, you’re such a good boy,” she said.

When we got to the cab, she gave me an address, and then asked, “Could you drive through downtown?” “It’s not the shortest way,” I answered quickly.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said. “I’m in no hurry. I’m on my way to hospice.” I looked in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were glistening. “I don’t have any family left,” she continued. “The doctor says I don’t have very long.”

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. “What route would you like me to take?” I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.

Sometimes she’d ask me to slow down in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, “I’m tired. Let’s go now.”

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.

Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

“How much do I owe you?” she asked, reaching into her purse. “Nothing,” I said.

“You have to make a living,” she answered. “There are other passengers,” I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent over and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly. “You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,” she said. “Thank you.”

I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn’t pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had not waited and refused to take the run, or had honked once, then drove away?

On a quick review, I don’t think that I have done anything more important in my life. We’re conditioned to think our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware—beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

And so we are called to wait. In this joyous time, Advent, we are called to wait in hope and anticipation, for we know at the end of our wait stands Jesus the Christ.

My Christmas prayer for each of you is that you not miss the blessings God has planned for you in your waiting. I pray that we all join together in waiting in joy, in anticipation, in hope this Advent Season. For in this Advent Season and all the Seasons of the year the Holy Spirit journeys with us to our destination. We are not alone. God has gifted us with Emmanuel (God with us.)

“But as Joseph considered this, behold an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream, saying, ‘Joseph, son of David, do not fear to take Mary your wife, for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Spirit; she will bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins. All this took place to fulfill what the Lord has spoken by the prophet: ‘Behold, a virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and his name shall be called Emmanuel (which means God with us) Matthew 1: 20-23.

Advent and Christmas Blessings in your waiting,
Pastor Russel

The Holidays are a time for family traditions. Webster defines tradition as: “A mode of thought or behavior followed by a people continuously from generation to generation, especially by oral communication.” We all have our “sacred” traditions that help define our holidays. They help define who we are as a family and our traditions give birth to comfort and peace.

Thanksgiving at my mother’s home includes all the delicious traditional Thanksgiving foods. But Thanksgiving would not be Thanksgiving without my mother’s homemade wedding soup.

Traditions have a way of changing. Traditions are a welcome change when there is a marriage or the birth of children or grandchildren. The birth of Victoria Rachelle and a grandson on the way will bring new and exciting changes.

Often, however, change does not come easily or by choice. And when those changes come, we are forced to redefine our traditions and find a new kind of normal where we once again can embrace peace with a thankful heart.

When my father was alive, Thanksgiving dinner would take place later in the day after he returned home from hunting. We would sit around the Thanksgiving table where everyone was regaled with story after story of our hunting expeditions. Those stories have come to an end with the passing of my father and brother. Reluctantly and painfully, circumstances dictated a change in our traditions.

But some traditions would continue. We could always count on Granddad’s stories. Granddad (who is 96) sits at the head of the table and tells and retells his stories and laughs as though he was telling them for the first time. We all join his laughter even though we have heard the stories countless times. 

Unless there is a healing miracle, Granddad will not be at the head of the table this year, or will we be blessed with his story telling. As many of you know, Granddad suffered a stroke a few weeks ago leaving him incapacitated. At least for a season, his story telling has been silenced.

This year, once again, Thanksgiving will be different. Painfully and reluctantly, we will be forced to discover a new kind of normal.

When life is less than easy, it is sometimes difficult to celebrate with a thankful heart. It is difficult to be thankful when the going gets tough. It is hard to sing “hallelujahs” when hearts are heavy. But the scriptures call us to be thankful in ALL things!

Our forefathers were not so much thankful for something as they were thankful in something. In bounty or in want, they were thankful. In feast or famine, they were thankful. In joy or in misery, they were thankful. There is a big difference between being thankful for things and being thankful in things.

The Psalmist reminds himself and us that thanksgiving is possible by looking back—“forget not all his benefits.”

We will gather this Thanksgiving as we always do, in love and with a thankful heart, thankful for Granddad’s 96 years of love and story telling; thank for his always being the first one there when there is a need; thankful for his spirit of loving a good party; thankful for his giving out ice cream cones whether you are three or eighty-three.

True thanksgiving is not dependent upon circumstances. When life gets us down and gratitude seems inappropriate at best and impossible at worst, the Christian gazes backwards and recalls the past mercies of a loving God and the sustaining grace of a Savior.

After looking backward to the past blessings of God, the Christian can express gratitude in the present by learning as the apostle Paul did, to be content regardless of circumstances (Philippians 4: 11-12). Such contentment is a function of the peace which passes all understanding—a peace which God grants to those who humbly place themselves trustingly into his care (Philippians 4: 6-7).

The future dimension of thanksgiving is based on hope. Not only has God brought us through the often threatening past; not only does he enable the person of faith to endure the painful present; but his promises are sure for the things yet to come.

One day you and I are going to travel that long last journey. In the meantime we have life in this world; life with its challenges and its blessings, joys and ecstasies; life with its occasional pain, but also life with excitement and victory and surprises and times of incomparable inspiration. How can any one of us be ungrateful, regardless of our circumstances? How can anyone of us fail to thank God for all that he has done for us. It’s that kind of gratitude that allowed the apostle Paul to write from a prison cell: “I give thanks to God through our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

Blessings for a grateful Thanksgiving,
Pastor Russel

Several years ago when I was substitute teaching in the public school system I was called to be a “wrap around” (shadow) for a young boy named Tony for a day. I met Tony in the principle’s office. He appeared shy and quiet. There was an aura of being lost about him. His eyes were dull and appeared empty. He was slight in stature and sported a buzz haircut. His clothes were a bit unkempt. His mother was by his side and she seemed more than a little upset with the office personnel.

I was quick to say; “Hi Tony, I’m Rev. Shuluga. I’m pleased to meet you. I trust we are going to have a great day.” As his eyes turned away from me his mother ordered; “Stand up and shake the Reverend’s hand!” Tony slowly rose to his feet and extended his left hand with his head buried in his chest.

Suddenly Tony’s mom became his biggest cheerleader as she encouraged him; “Tony, you can do this. I know you can. I would love a hug but you probably don’t want to hug me in front of people.” I immediately chimed in; “You can never get too many hugs, Tony.” He reluctantly and half-heartedly gave his mom a semi-hug.

The principle called me aside and explained that Tony had some issues: one of which was his refusal to stay in school. He would slip out of the building after homeroom. They were hoping for a change in his behavior since they put him on anti-psychotic medication. Perhaps that helped explain the empty eyes and the very lethargic attitude.

Tony didn’t talk much. In fact, he didn’t want to talk at all. He limited his talking to brief answers to my questions. As the day progressed, Tony became a little more comfortable with my presence and began initiating conversation. We talked about school. He made it very clear that he didn’t like it and didn’t want to be there.

As we talked, the walls Tony built up around himself began to come down and he started to open up. “Rev. Shuluga, I’m afraid. That’s why I leave school,” Tony blurted out. “Tell me about your fears,” I said.

Tony shared his story. “I was in seventh grade at the beginning of the school year but they put me back in sixth grade with the learning support kids. I’m afraid everyone will make fun of me.” I guess the principle forgot to tell me all of Tony’s story.

“Tony,” I said, “all anyone can expect of you is for you to do your best. No one can expect anything more. Tony, don’t bury your head in your chest; you need not be embarrassed. You are so very special and someone loves you more than you can imagine. God made you in His image and God loves you just the way you are. So, hold your head up high!”

At some level we are all Tony. We all have our stories and at times find it difficult to hold our heads up high. But we are a “somebody” in the eyes of God. God’s love gives us the courage to stand tall. As much as we don’t like to admit it, like Tony, we too are afraid. We are afraid of what people think of us and what they might say about us. After all, affirmation is important to our emotional well-being. The last thing we need is to be ridiculed. 

We often allow fear to drive our Christian witness. They might make fun of me in the work place if I invite someone to come to church. People may start avoiding me and labeling me a religious fanatic if I start telling them about God’s love for them. It is much easier to skip out on our commitment to the Greatest Commandment: “Love the Lord with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.”  Fear also keeps us away from the second of Jesus’ greatest commands: “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

Jesus puts his arm around each of us and says, “My son, my daughter, you need not be afraid for I love you and am with you until the end of the age. Hold your head up high and I will give you the courage and wisdom to share my Good News with all the world.”

Blessings,
Pastor Russel

In the “Chicken Soup for the Soul; 101 Stories to Open The Heart And Rekindle The Spirit” by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen there is a very moving story about Bobsy which touched my heart. It reads…

The 26-year-old mother stared down at her son who was dying of terminal leukemia. Although her heart was filled with sadness, she also had a strong feeling of determination. Like any parent she wanted her son to grow up and fulfill all his dreams. Now that was no longer possible. The leukemia would see to that. But she still wanted her son’s dreams to come true.

She took her son’s hand and asked, ‘Bobsy, did you ever think about what you wanted to be when you grew up? Did you ever dream and wish about what you would do with your life?’

‘Mommy, I always wanted to be a fireman when I grew up.’

Mom smiled back and said, ‘Let’s see if we can make your wish come true.’ Later that day she went to her local  fire department in Phoenix, Arizona, where she met Fireman Bob, who had a heart as big as Phoenix. She explained her son’s final wish and asked if it might be possible to give her six-year-old son a ride around the block on a fire engine.

Fireman Bob said, ‘Look, we can do better than that. If you’ll have your son ready at seven o’clock Wednesday morning, we’ll make him an honorary fireman for the whole day. He can come down to the fire station, eat with us, go out on all the fire calls, the whole nine yards! And, if you’ll give us his sizes, we’ll get a real fire uniform made for him, with a real fire hat—not a toy one—with the emblem of the Phoenix Fire Department on it, a yellow slicker like we wear and rubber boots. They’re all manufactured right here in Phoenix, so we can get them fast.’

Three days later Fireman Bob picked up Bobsy, dressed him in his fire uniform and escorted him from his hospital bed to the waiting hook and ladder truck. Bobsy got to sit up on the back of the truck and help steer it back to the fire station. He was in heaven.

There were three fire calls in Phoenix that day and Bobsy got to go out on all three calls. He rode in the different fire engines, the paramedic’s van and even the fire chief’s car. He was also videotaped for the local news program.

Having his dream come true, with all the love and attention that was lavished upon him, so deeply touched Bobsy that he lived three months longer than any doctor thought possible.

One night all of his vital signs began to drop dramatically and the head nurse, who believed in the Hospice concept that no one should die alone, began to call the family members to the hospital. Then she remembered the day Bobsy had spent as a fireman, so she called the fire chief and asked if it would be possible to send a fireman in uniform to the hospital to be with Bobsy as he made his transition. The chief replied, ‘We can do better than that. We’ll be there in five minutes. Will you please do me a favor? When you hear the sirens screaming and see the lights flashing, will you announce over the PA system that there is not a fire? It’s just the fire department coming to see one of its finest members one more time. And will you open a window to his room? Thanks!’

About five minutes later a hook and ladder truck arrived at the hospital, extended its ladder up to Bobsy’s third floor open window and 14 fireman and two firewomen climbed up the ladder into Bobsy’s room. With his mother’s permission they hugged him and held him and told him how much they loved him.

With his dying breath, Bobsy looked up at the fire chief and said, ‘Chief, am I really a fireman now?’

‘Bobsy, you are,’ the chief said.

With those words, Bobsy smiled and closed his eyes for the last time.”

This story that tugs at the heart strings; reminds us of many things.

We all have hopes and dreams for our children and grandchildren. The greatest hope we can have for our young people is for them to know the love and grace of God. Home, Church, and Sunday School are the best places to learn of and experience God’s love. I am sure you will do everything in your power to make this hope and dream come true. 

We too will someday close our eyes for the last time in this life. Not only do our young people have hopes and dreams we do as well. There is no better time than the present to make those hopes and dreams a reality.

As followers of the Christ, we are called to love God and our neighbor, and in doing so, we become a part of each other’s lives in helping hopes and dreams become a reality. Nancy and I would like to thank the women of the church for the unconditional love expressed to us and Lee Ann by way of the baby shower. It is so greatly appreciated. 

We all have hopes, dreams and visions for our church. Those hopes, dreams and visions can only become a reality with your talents, gifts and willingness to serve. As we kick off the fall season, I look forward to your spiritual discernment as we strive to be the church God has called us to be.

Blessings,
Pastor Russel

While I was away at Annual Conference Nancy was watering our hanging baskets on the front porch and noticed a nest with 5 little blue eggs in one of the baskets. Fortunately, she spotted the nest before I destroyed the nest and eggs with my hap-hazard way of watering. I now gingerly remove the basket from the chain from which it hangs and ever so carefully water the flowers as to not disturb the nest of eggs. Almost daily I eagerly peek into the nest to see if the birds have hatched from their eggs.

When time and weather permit Nancy and I enjoy sitting in our rocking chairs on the front porch. We find it relaxing as we catch up on the events of the day. Unfortunately Mama bird gets quite upset with our presence. She quickly leaves her nest at our opening the front door. As we sit there she and Papa bird fly around chirping in the hope of coaxing us to leave. They fly to a nearby tree and watch with concerned eyes. After a while Mama bird will land on the basket for a few seconds just to make sure we have not hurt her eggs. Papa bird is not as brave. He will fly near but does not land. (I can tell he is the Papa bird because he is better looking with a little red throughout his feathers.)

 Nancy likes to interpret for me what they are saying to each other. As they sit on the tree branch and chirp Nancy informs me that he is scolding her for being so foolish building a nest so close to humans. She chirps back “If you would have been around to help maybe this would not have happened.”

Now I am not sure what they are trying to say but I do know I wish I could communicate to them that we will not hurt them or their little ones. In fact, I want to convey to them I will do everything I can to keep them safe. But I have no way of reassuring them that it is going to be okay.

God continues to communicate to us that it is going to be okay; it is going to be more than okay. God wants us to know that we are loved unconditionally and that his grace saves each of us. But like those birds we often don’t understand. We just don’t seem to grasp this all inclusive love that embraces even us.

I came across a story that comes out of World War II. This story helps us understand the depth of love a parent can have for a child.

A Jewish Family by the name of Rosenberg was confined to a concentration camp, where prisoners could escape the gas ovens as long as they could work. A young boy in the family was partially disabled from birth and could not carry a full workload. The parents were separated during the day by their work responsibilities. At night they would anxiously gather to check on the condition of each family member. One evening the father’s worst fears were realized. He could not spot his disabled boy. Then he saw his older son weeping in a corner. The son informed his father that his younger brother was taken to the gas chambers because he could no longer work due to his disability. The father cried: “But where is your mother?” The older boy told how his little brother was afraid to go and clung to his mother, who said; “Don’t cry; I’ll go with you and hold you close.” And she did!

Do you hear God’s message? Do you understand what God is conveying to us?

We are unworthy because of our sin but God says to each of us, “Don’t cry, there is no need to be afraid. I will hold you close and I will send my Son to die in your place.”  And so he did!

We are called to embrace that message of love.
We are called to live that message of love.
We are called to spread that message of love.

But first we must hear and understand God’s message of love.

In Christ’s Love,
Pastor Russel

A young couple was going out for the evening. They called a taxi and put the cat out for the evening. The taxi arrived and as the couple walked out the front door the cat shot back in. They didn’t want the cat shut in the house so the wife went out to the taxi while the husband went upstairs to chase the cat out. The wife, not wanting it known that the house would be empty, explained to the taxi driver; “My husband’s just going upstairs to say goodbye to my mother.” A few minutes later the husband climbed into the cab. “Sorry I took so long,” he said, “Stupid old thing was hiding under the bed and I had to poke her with a coat hanger to get her to come out!”

Miscommunication can be embarrassing, and it can be hurtful and damaging.

We find ourselves entering the season of Pentecost, the birth of the church by the giving of the Holy Spirit. Luke reports in the Acts of the Apostles:

When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability…Amazed and astonished…they proclaimed, in our own languages we hear them speaking about God’s deeds of power.”

Various tongues, but yet all understanding the power and praise of God. What is the language of God? What is the language of the church? The language of the church is love. Christian love is always understood, tearing down all barriers. The language of love is a language of forgiveness, a language of hospitality, a language of welcoming.

There is an old Appalachian folktale about a small town in Tennessee called Galax cove. There were two churches in Galax Cove, a Baptist Church and a Methodist Church. The Baptist preacher, Ike Gallaher, always preached against the Methodists, and the Methodist preacher, Wes Shelton, always preached against the Baptists, and the townsfolk learned to hate each other in the most Christian kind of way.

Then one spring, the rains came down, and the creeks rose, and a flood tore through Galax Cove. Ike Gallaher attempted to move his family to higher ground. But the flood waters trapped them on some rocks. Suddenly, a wave rose up and tore his baby daughter from Ike’s arms. Just then, a man on the banks jumped into the water and swam toward the little girl. He reached her just in time, and pushed her up on a nearby ledge. Then, the man was swept away with the flood. It was Wes Shelton, the Methodist preacher. They found his body a few days later.

After the flood waters cleared, Ike Gallaher went back to preaching. But this time, he didn’t preach against any Methodists. He didn’t preach against anybody. His heart had been broken by the love of his enemy and all he could preach was love.

One of the churches was destroyed by the flood and the people never rebuilt it. Instead, they all began attending the same church, and they renamed it Sweet Harmony Chapel.

That ought to be the name of every church—Sweet Harmony Chapel. We are all followers of Christ. We need to love one another and respect one another.

Each time we celebrate Pentecost we experience again the birth of the church and our roots in salvation history. We celebrate again all that God has called us to be and what we are called to be about. We celebrate again the Holy Spirit that compels us to move forward to follow the Lord Jesus Christ beyond what we have dared in our wildest dreams to aspire.

We are called to speak the language of Christian love!

In His loving Service,
Pastor Russel

Mother’s Day is a few short weeks away. I would like to share with you an article that first appeared in The Erie Times on May 10, 1980. It is an article by retired editor Larie Pineta and has been reprinted many times since. It is a little lengthy but certainly worth the time and space. The article is titled “On Mother’s Day, tough guys don’t cry!

“Pa was really a funny guy when he was being secretive. He did secrets in super-exaggeration, with a lot of looking over his shoulder, and ‘shushing,’ and whispering in my ear. One of Pa’s whispers could be heard about two houses away.

We clearly understood that this kind of deportment was his idea of how ‘American’ secrets were handled, especially since the words were always in heavily-accented English.

He came swinging up the street after making the turn by No. 5 Firehouse, where he greeted all the firemen sitting in the doorway, all of them in mustard-colored coveralls. The big LaFrance pumper in the main bay of the firehouse sparkled like a fine watch. Some days Pa would stop and talk to them, but today he just waved his lunch bucket and kept going until he spied his son roller-skating on the street.

Pa didn’t have to holler for a kid’s attention. He just stopped and looked. That meant, ‘I’m waiting and you better get here awful fast.’

So I skated over, jumped the curb and let my skate wheels sink into the lawn.

Pa went through his ‘secret’ sequences, looked to see if Ma was standing right there (which was hardly likely) and reached into his pants pocket.

‘Hair is monee. You go Laffer’s flower plece and ged your Mama flowers. Sunday is Mudder Day.’

Pa said it in a whisper that left my ear ringing. Now Ma would have to be stone deaf not to hear that, but she wouldn’t let on anyway.

‘Can I skate ver to the Laver aFlower Shop, Pa? I won’t get hit,’ I assured him.

‘Only on sidevak. Vatch for car. Dan ist okeh,’ Pa said, cramming money into my shirt pocket and watching until I buttoned it.

I tore off down the street with that peculiar ‘scraech-clik-scraech’ that iron skate wheels had on a sidewalk.

‘Hide em ven you ged back,’ Pa said in his stage whisper when I was about four houses down the block.. Then he turned and whistled that off-key, tuneless whistle that he had when he was doing something secret.

Sunday morning Pa was up early, stropping his straight razor with the ivory handle, taking his time to get an extra close shave. The night before he had gone to Paroby’s crowded barber shop on Pennsylvania Avenue between 9th and 10th, and his ears were a good inch lower than when he sat down in the chair.

Pa and his son left for church earlier than the rest of the family. Pa took care of all the candles in church, and I would pull on a white altar boy’s cassock.

Ma was waiting at the door as we left the house and pinned on the flowers, a ritual only she could do.

As we walked along East Avenue, I suddenly noticed something different. Every year Pa and I wore red carnations. Ma explained that a red carnation meant that your mother was alive. Pa saw my puzzled look and asked, ‘Vat’s mettar?’

‘Pa, you have a white carnation this year. How come? Did they run outa red ones, Pa?’

Pa reached down and took my hand. He knew I didn’t like my hand held, but he was holding it so tight I couldn’t pull it out of his big, calloused mitt.

‘Dis yars I am vere vite flowers. My Mamma ist die,’ Pa said walking along, looking straight ahead, holding my hand.

Now, I understood that Pa’s mother lived in what everybody called ‘The Old Country,’ and that Pa had never seen her since he was 15 when he came to America by himself.

‘How do you know she died, Pa?’ I asked, watchinghis face.

‘I ged letter from brudder. He say my Mamma ist die,’ Pa said, his voice getting sorta soft and shaky.

‘How come you didn’t go to the funeral, Pa?’ I asked, trying to wiggle my crushed fingers a little.

Pa didn’t say anything for about a half-block.

‘Ven man come to dis country, he leaf femly sometime fareffer. Ist too far go beck. His femly is har in Amerika,’ Pa told me, speaking slowly. He dropped my hand and rested his heavy hand on my shoulder.

‘Did you have a good mother, Pa?’ I asked, suddenly realizing that Pa was looking the other way.

‘Yah, sure. I am hav best Mama. Gut voomans,’ Pa almost whispered, and I saw his huge left hand reach up and brush across his eyes. ‘She vas chantle ledy. Mek me studie buks, Ven my Papa vant spenk me, she tail heem, ‘No, he ist my boy. I spenk heem.’ She geef to me gut vans, and she vas kry, too.’

I looked up and I could see that Pa’s eyes had tears in them. I never saw my Pa with tears—–ever!

‘Are you crying, Pa?’ I asked incredulously.

Pa took out his neatly pressed white handkerchief, blew his nose and quickly wiped his eyes.

‘Whose kry? Tuff guy don kry. I tail you dat lonk time ago. You and me are tuff guy. I em hev somtheenk een eyes. Dat’s all,’ Pa Said, almost buckling my shoulder with a whack reserved for ‘tuff guys.’

It was many years later, and the old man in the hospital bed was in a coma.

He was at least 84, but that was his secret. And despite his years, his hair was still mostly black, his arms and chest still showing the muscle of a younger man.

Dr. D’Angelo met me at the door to the room. He shook his head, ‘Not this time, Larie.’

Ma and I stood beside him and watched his labored breathing. He seemed to struggle to say something, and I bent close, sure that I would hear Pa say my name or the name of his beloved Sylvia.

Pa said one word before he died. He opened his eyes just for a moment and said the word “MAMA.”

I learned something in that moment, something about the priority of love. A single last word that was a message, an endearment, an order, a benediction. And this year when I wear a white carnation for the first time, I will remember what Pa said, ‘Tuff guy don kry.’

And I am almost as tuff as Pa.”

Some people ridicule Mother’s Day as a lot of sentimental drivel. They say that it is nothing more than the creation of the greeting card companies and the florists. And, to be perfectly candid, there are many ministers who shun this day because, they say, it is not a religious holiday. And therefore Mother’s Day is left out.

Well, of course, we must admit that there is sentiment to this special day when we have an opportunity to honor the women who have taught us what it means to love. At least I pray that is your experience.

I too can say with Larie’s father when he was asked if he had a good mother…”Yah, sure, I am hev bast Mama. Gut voomans!” My mother is the Martha of the Bible, always serving others. I think if you look up the word hospitality you will find her picture.

She loved and cared for her husband, my father, my children’s grandfather until the day he died at a much too early age. She buried her oldest son, when he was only 48. And now her father lives with her as she cares for him in the final chapter of his life. And every Sunday when she is able she can be found in her little country United Methodist Church worshiping our great God from whom she draws her strength and peace. Yah, sure. I am hev bast Mamma. Gut voomans. And I will wear my red carnation proudly on Mother’s day.

I am double blessed because I have another “gut voomans,” the mother of my children, my wife Nancy, who also knows the word sacrifice when it comes to her husband and daughters.

I pray you will join me on Mother’s Day so we might honor all the women of our church for they too are “gut voomans.”

Not just on Mother’s Day but every Sunday we are given the privilege of worshiping our awesome God who loves us even more than our mothers.

In His service,
Pastor Russel

Holy Week begins with Palm/Passion Sunday: remembering the day that began with the excitement and joy of a parade with Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem. We remember as youngsters the joy and excitement of standing along a parade route stretching on tip toes eagerly anticipating all that would pass our way. But the joy and excitement of Jesus’ parade quickly turned ugly; the same voices shouting Hosannas, only hours later, would shout CRUCIFY HIM! CRUCIFY HIM!

But there were others there that fateful day that we give very little attention or praise. It was their spirit of giving that made the events of that day and days to come possible. We know the story well; Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey. That donkey belonged to somebody and that somebody willingly gave his donkey to help bring about Jesus’ mission. (“Go into the village opposite you, and immediately you will find an ass tied, and a colt with her; untie them and bring them to me. If anyone says anything to you, you shall say, ‘the Lord has need of them,’ and he will send them immediately.” Matthew 21: 2b-3.)

The Passover Meal, which has come to be known as The Last Supper, took place in an upper room that someone was kind enough to give for the festivities. (“And on that first day of Unleavened Bread, when they sacrificed the Passover lamb, his disciples said to him, ‘Where will you have us go and prepare for you to eat the Passover?’ And he sent two of his disciples and said to them, ‘Go into the city, and a man carrying a jar of water will meet you; follow him, and wherever he enters, say to the householder, ‘The teacher says, Where is my guest room, where I am to eat the Passover with my disciples?’ And he will show you a large upper room furnished and ready…” Mark 14: 12-15a.)

God’s work is accomplished by those who are willing to give…giving of themselves and of their resources.

Bill Wilson pastors an inner city church in New York City. His mission field is a very violent place. He himself has been stabbed twice as he ministered to the people of the community surrounding the church. Once a Puerto Rican woman became involved in the church and was led to Christ. After her conversion she came to Pastor Wilson and said, “I want to do something to help with the church’s ministry.” He asked her what her talents were and she could think of nothing–she couldn’t even speak English–but she did love children. So he put her on one of the church’s buses that went into neighborhoods and transported kids to church. Every week she performed her duties. She would find the worst-looking kid on the bus, put him on her lap and whisper over and over the only words she had learned in English: “I love you. Jesus loves you.”

After several months, she became attached to one little boy in particular. The boy didn’t speak. He came to Sunday School every week with his sister and sat on the woman’s lap, but he never made a sound. Each week she would tell him all the way to Sunday School and all the way home, “I love you. Jesus loves you.”

One day to her amazement, the little boy turned around and stammered, “I…I…I love you too!” Then he put his arms around her and gave her a big hug. That was 2:30 on a Sunday afternoon. At 6:30 that evening he was found dead. His own mother had beaten him to death and thrown his body in the trash. “I love you. Jesus loves you.” Those were some of the last words this little boy heard in his short life–from the lips of a Puerto Rican woman who could barely speak English. This woman gave her one talent to God and because of that a little boy who never heard the word “love” in his own home, experienced and responded to the love of Christ.

The defeat and horror of Holy Week do not have the last words. God’s victorious love evidenced in the resurrection of His Son on that first Easter morning always has the last word. Easter proclaims loudly and clearly; GOD LOVES US!

What can you give? What is your colt? What is your Upper Room? You and I each have something in our lives, which, if given back to God, could, like the colt, like the Upper Room, move Jesus and His message further down the road.

Easter Blessings,
Pastor Russel

Several years ago I came across the following story, a story that continues to touch my heart, even though I question some of the theology of the story. I think it is very applicable for our Lenten journey.

At a “Chush” fundraising dinner, the father of a Chush child delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended. “Chush” is a school that caters to learning disabled children. Some children remain in Chush for their entire school career, while others can be mainstreamed in conventional schools.

This father, after extolling the school and it’s dedicated staff asked, “Where is perfection in my son, Shaya? Everything God does is done with perfection. But my child cannot understand things as other children do. My child cannot remember facts and figures as other children do. Where is God’s perfection?”

The audience was shocked by the question, pained by the father’s anguish and stilled by the piercing query.

“I believe,” the father answered, “that when God brings a child like this into the world, the perfection that He seeks is in the way people react to this child.”

He then told the following story about his son, Shaya…

One day Shaya and I walked past a park where some boys Shaya knew were playing baseball. Shaya asked, “Do you think they will let me play?” I knew that my son was not at all athletic and that most boys would not want him on their team. But I understood that if my son was permitted to play it would give him a comfortable sense of belonging.

I approached one of the boys in the field and asked if Shaya could play. The boy  looked around for guidance from his team mates. Getting none he took matters into his own hands and said, “We are losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we’ll try to put him up to bat in the ninth inning.  Shaya was told to put on a glove and go out and play short center field.

Shaya’s team scored a few runs but was still behind by three. In the bottom of the ninth inning Shay’s team scored again and now with two outs and the bases loaded with the potential winning run on base, Shaya was scheduled to be up to bat.

Would the team actually let Shaya bat at this juncture and give away their chance to win the game? Surprisingly, Shaya was given the bat. Everyone knew that it was all but impossible because Shaya didn’t even know how to hold the bat properly, let alone hit with it.
However, as Shaya stepped up to the plate the pitcher moved a few steps closer and lobed the ball in softly so Shaya could at least be able to make contact.

The first pitch came in and Shaya swung clumsily and missed. One of Shay’s team mates came up to Shaya and together they held the bat and faced the pitcher waiting for the next pitch. The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly toward Shaya. As the pitch came in,  Shaya and his team mate swung the bat and together they hit a slow ground ball to the pitcher.

The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could easily have thrown the ball to the first baseman. Shaya would have been out and that would have ended the game. Instead, the pitcher threw the ball on a high arc to right field, far beyond reach of the first baseman.

Everyone started yelling, “Shaya, run to first base, run to first base!” Never in his life had Shaya run to first base. He scampered down the first base line wide eyed and startled. By the time he reached first base, the right fielder had the ball. He could have thrown the ball to the second baseman, who would tag out Shaya who was still running.

But the right fielder understood what the pitcher’s intentions were, so he threw the ball high  and far over the third baseman’s head. Everyone yelled, “Shaya, run to second base, run to second.”

Shaya ran towards second base as the runners ahead of him deliriously circled the bases towards home.

As Shaya reached second base, the opposing short stop ran to him turned him in the direction of third base and shouted “run to third!”

As Shaya rounded third, the boys from both teams ran behind him screaming, “Shaya run home!”

Shaya ran home, stepped on home plate and all 18 boys lifted him on their shoulders and made him the hero, as he had just hit a grand slam and won the game for his team.

“That day,” said the father softly, with tears rolling down his face, those 18 boys reached their level of God’s perfection.”

They did a wonderful thing for Shaya but the truth is those boys nor any of us are perfect. The reality of the situation is we are all Shaya. It is virtually impossible that we are capable of hitting that spiritual homerun of “perfection”.

Only by the grace and benevolence of those boys did Shaya experience victory. It is only by the grace of God that we too will experience victory. Not a single soul can claim to have done something to contribute toward his or her own salvation.

Lent is our journey to Good Friday where we witness again the extent of God’s love for each of us pointing us in the direction of Easter where our victory is found and we are hoisted up on the shoulders of God and paraded around for all to see as the cheers of victory and celebrating ring out.

Blessings,
Pastor Russel

The other day I had the privilege of helping my mom with a few chores around her house. She had asked me to remove the battery from the Cub Cadet lawn mower. Sounds like an easy enough task except for those of us who are mechanically challenged. And those who know me recognize my challenge. Just ask my granddad the next time you see him.

The job required a wrench. I at least knew that much. I tried a crescent wrench but was not having much success so I had to go in search of a wrench that would do the job. I went to the basement where my father had stored his tools. There neatly setting on top of the toolbox was my father’s tool belt; a belt that held screw drivers, pliers, needle nose pliers, all of the things necessary for him to do his job. My father was an electrician by trade. In addition to his job at the Carbon Limestone Company he also wired houses as a side job for many years. My brother Tommy and I were drafted to be his apprentices; actually we were go-fers.  Tommy and I took turns being his helper. It was a job I DID NOT LIKE! I found it very boring and lonely. My father did not talk much, basically because it is very hard to talk when you have a mouth full of chewing tobacco. My father was also a perfectionist that drove me to distraction. But everyone knew if Tom (Porky) Shuluga wired a home it would never burn down as a result of faulty wiring.

I cannot tell you how many times I saw that tool belt strapped around my father’s waist. Now that belt and its contents aren’t put to much use. My father died over nine years ago and he retired a few years before that.

I’ve never owned a tool belt nor have I ever worn one. (Thank you, Jesus!) But as I reflected on my father’s tool belt I am reminded of other tools, tools that are necessary if we are going to take seriously our call to be followers of the Christ and bring the good news of God’s love to others. Paul writes to the Colossians: “ So, chosen by God for this new life of love, dress in the wardrobe God picked out for you: compassion, kindness, humility, quiet strength, and patience. Be even tempered, content with second place, quick to forgive an offense. Forgive as quickly and completely as the Master forgave you. And regardless of what else you put on, wear love. It is your basic, all purpose garment. Never be without it” (The Message; Eugene Peterson).

Paul puts it this way in 1 Corinthians: “Love is patient and kind; love is not jealous or boastful; it is not arrogant or rude. Love does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrong, but rejoices in the right. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends…”

Those who bear his name, Christian, cannot be without any of these tools. They are all essential if others are to experience Christ’s love in us. There is never a time in which we can put one or all of these tools in storage. They must always be put to use if we dare call ourselves followers of the Christ.

February is often known as the month of love. I look forward to worshipping with you as together we praise the One who is Love.

In His Service,
Pastor Russel

Looking Ahead with Faith or Fear?

It is hard to believe that we are already closing the tablets we have written in for 2006. Another year submitted to the history books! And now, fresh in our hands once more is laid a clean new book, twelve new chapters ready to be filled. Standing on tiptoes we may wonder what 2007 has in store for us. With that thought I would like to share a story with you I read a few years ago…

“An old piano man ran his fingers up and down the keys of a run down instrument. He sang a few sad notes to himself. It was Christmas Eve and old Amos was feeling pretty sad. He was alone with nowhere to go. He once had a wife and a beautiful little girl, but somehow they slipped out of his life.

While walking through the streets of downtown, he saw a small girl standing in front of a department store window. The little girl was looking at a display of the nativity. The decorations had spared no expense in recreating the scene: a marble pillared inn, an immaculate manger made of finished hardwoods and a stable of solid polished mahogany. 

As the little girl stood and stared at the display a security guard chased her away. The little girl began to cry. Old Amos came over to her. ‘I just wanted to see the baby,’ the girl kept repeating over and over again. ‘That’s not the way they looked,’ Amos said. Let me show you how it really was.

In another section of  the city Amos gathered some of his friends. Together they recreated the Christmas Story for the little girl. ‘When the baby Jesus was born’, said Amos, ‘it wasn’t in front of a great big inn with marble columns. And the crib wasn’t sitting under a polished mahogany stable. It was  in front of a crumbling down hotel, and the stable wasn’t much different than this old awning hanging over the sidewalk.

The little girl watched in awe as Amos and his friends acted out the Christmas drama. Others who were passing by also stopped to watch.  Angel Amos whispered, ‘The baby Jesus is one of us.’ Don’t you ever let anybody make you feel any different. He walked  the same kind of road we walk. From now on wherever you go, you just remember; He’s walking right there with you and there “ain’t” nothing you two can’t handle.’”

This is the message of hope we all must embrace at the threshold of this New Year—2007!

 In Ecclesiastes 3  we read….

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted: a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence and a time to speak; a time to love and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace.”

Whatever time you find yourself in during 2007 just remember: He’s walking right there with you and there “ain’t” nothing you two can’t handle!

Peace and Blessings in the coming year.

In His Service,
Pastor Russel