tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91171747059153247712024-02-19T19:28:58.285-06:00I ReidAn Examined LifeReid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.comBlogger236125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-88068247164306416732023-05-11T16:49:00.001-05:002023-05-11T18:01:49.164-05:00The Pit<h1 style="text-align: left;">In the beginning was the pit.</h1><div>Yesterday, I did something I hadn't done in a quarter century. To be entirely frank, that quarter century has gone so fast that I didn't realize how much I missed it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I moshed.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was the perfect 'dance' for Generation X; a simplistic jumping motion, bouncing into other flannel-covered, Birkenstock-wearing, holey-blue-jeaned grungers, like molecules under high heat and pressure. Moshing was wild abandonment to a moment of uncaring. The 90's were a time of transition, from the overly-synthesized 80's to the crunching, distorted guitars. The music reflected this transition: the nostalgic syrup of Baby Boomers, fresh from Disco and its tight polyester, to under-dressed and overly-simple catchy tunes and lyrics. Gone were the days of Toto and their rains in Africa; in was Weezer and their mournful retelling of the ruination of a sweater.</div><div><br /></div><div>While yesterday I moshed with a group of teenagers to the greatest grunge song of all - Smells Like Teen Spirit - my thoughts floated back to a day, a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. </div><div><br /></div><div>In October of 1994, I was a bartender at the VFW (Veterans of Foreign Wars) in Waverly, Iowa. On the north side of town, the VFW was a quiet, smoky dive, decorated with the autumn colors of the seventies - bright oranges, chocolatey browns, tans and a smattering of faded yellow. The mottled carpet was worn thin in places and holes created from long dead cigarettes pocked the material, especially around the pool table. On the long south wall was a juke box with a coin slot. </div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>One song for a quarter. Eight songs for a dollar!</i> The discs were tracks straight from the 70's: Steppenwolf, Kansas, Led Zeppelin, the Eagles. </div><div><br /></div><div>On most nights the faithful few, three or four WWII veterans and their wives would pull up to the bar stools and order their drinks (which we got to know very quickly) and then the women would retreat to a table while the guys would tell stories and tease the bartenders. They came for the camaraderie and the conversation, not to mention the incredibly cheap drinks which their $20 yearly memberships bought them. </div><div><br /></div><div>One night, as Don and Ray (I still remember their names) were chatting with my brother and I behind the bar, Don said, 'Why don't you bring some of your friends down here? Liven the place up a little bit?'</div><div><br /></div><div>'You mean that's legal? Even if they aren't veterans?'</div><div><br /></div><div>Don raised an overly long, curly eyebrow and snorted. 'As long as they pay their dues, we'd love to have them.'</div><div><br /></div><div>To be fair, $20 seemed like a lot of money in those days. For a college student on a budget, it could buy 1/3 of a college text book or five cases of Grainbelt Beer (free t-shirt included!). Ryan and I decided to invite a few of our closest friends and see what they would do. </div><div><br /></div><div>The next weekend, we brought half a dozen of our preppiest friends - ones that scrubbed up pretty nice so as not to frighten the veterans and their wives. One friend, Eric, walked through the door and his eyes lit up. Suddenly, it appeared as if he'd walked into Nirvana: 70's furniture, 70's music, 70 year old people, 75 cent draughts of beer! Eric strode confidently across the room and without further ado slapped a $20 bill on the counter. 'Make me a member and give me a beer!' Within seconds of his membership, Eric and Don, a suspender wearing man with a protruding gut, were in avid conversation about life and all that it meant. </div><div><br /></div><div>Fast forward four months. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's February of 1995. The bitter cold winter of the midwest had settled in. Mounds of snow were heaped on the corners of streets. The wind had a bite that stung. But I didn't feel it, because the VFW was the site of a concert unlike they'd ever had before.</div><div><br /></div><div>For four months, word at Wartburg had spread. The VFW was <i>THE</i> place to be on weekends and Wednesdays. The half dozen preppies in the beginning grew to one hundred and fifty memberships. Almost nightly, college students were driving to the south side of town, away from the dance club on the main drag, to drink beer and talk to old people. In fact, it wasn't just an increase in college students wanting to drink cheaper, more older folks were coming in to check out the noise and the laughter. </div><div><br /></div><div>On that magical night, though, there was a lineup at the bar twelve deep. The juke box was ringing out a song about a magic carpet ride; a score of veterans were chatting with college students clinking glasses and and asking the young ones to talk a little louder. We were running out of cheeseballs and onion rings, and for some reason, the owner of the VFW had purchased pickled eggs which were being gobbled quickly. There was so much excitement that night because above us, on the second level, was a dance floor, and the band was getting ready to play. </div><div><br /></div><div>Generally, musical groups that played at VFW's lean in the Big Band direction, but that night - that most memorable night - Sweatlodge, made up of Wartburg's own students, was playing. The sound began to thump through the floor, glorious thrashing sounds of grunge. As the students two-fisted their cheap beers and headed up the stairs, I caught Don's raised eyebrow. 'You should go check it out,' I said.</div><div><br /></div><div>He shrugged, grinned, and nodded and limped his way after Eric who had, unsurprisingly, begun wearing matching suspenders to Don. These two unlikely twins marched up the stairs. After a while, when the rush for beer had ended, I could tell the moshing had begun above us because the ceiling was starting to bounce. Dust filtered down on us from the antiquated (and most likely) Asbestos flavored tiles above us. I looked at Ryan. He said, 'I hope the building holds.'</div><div><br /></div><div>When almost everyone had gone upstairs, I told Ryan I was going to see what was going on. I dropped my bartending towel on the sink, lifted the bar barrier, and took the steps two at a time. With each step, the music got louder and louder, harsh, scratching guitars, thumping bass, out of control drums and the throaty, vibratoed voice of Mike Jensen singing about going to a Happy Chef to dance around. People were moshing as if their life depended on it. Sweat and happiness dripped from the phalanx of Gen Xers, but then I found Don and Eric positioned at the edge. Eric was teaching the 70+ year old veteran how to mosh.</div><div><br /></div><div>And so yesterday, when Smells Like Teen Spirit blared from the speakers, I couldn't help but start bouncing, and sweating, and laughing. I closed my eyes and remembered a time gone by, what it was like when life seemed easier and less fraught with drama and stress. I jumped and jostled people, people, like in 1995, who were only in your life for a short while so we needed to bump into them more often. </div><div><br /></div><div>Life is a mosh pit. It really is. Don't stop bumping into them. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's Nirvana.</div>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-33576058742167778652023-02-06T02:52:00.000-06:002023-02-06T02:52:54.501-06:00Artificial <p>I'm having reservations. </p><p>At the risk of sounding old-ish, technophobic, or even wallowing in grumpiness, I'm hesitant about embracing artificial intelligence. But it's not for any particular Hollywood reason: I have no reason to think humankind is about to be used as batteries, or that computers will take over the world, or AI will don a maroon, Spandex outfit and float off with the rest of the Avengers. I believe that AI's greatest threat to humanity is not in the destruction of civilization, but destruction of creativity. New technology like ChatGPT offers an incredible opportunity to save time, but at what cost?</p><p>Isn't that the question of every new technology invented? When the car was invented, travel became faster. When electricity was harnessed, heating and cooling became easier. When the computer was invented, almost limitless amounts of information and data could be crunched. But what did we lose?</p><p>To go slower meant we spent more time together in conversation. Now we are solo drivers in cars, or ear-phone-stuffed commuters, or video-watching flyers who struggle to connect verbally.</p><p>To have no central air (not that I'm complaining now), meant that we were more adaptable to the elements and able to survive in difficult conditions. We were fitter, quicker, more aware of our surroundings.</p><p>To have search engines rather than the Encyclopedia Britannica, means that we can find things out faster, but we don't retain (maybe even learn) anything. </p><p>And now we have the ultimate laziness tech barreling down the digital highway on a collision course with our creativity, the very thing that makes us human. Over the last thirty years, during the evolution of music, we've seen how computers have (in some ways) enhanced music, but we also found a genericking of music. One no longer even needs to be able to play an instrument. One can push a button on a keyboard and the rhythmic crashing of drums can be recorded, or a looped guitar riff, maybe even the vocals! Processed sounds, combined with generally inane lyrics, have undermined the music industry and reduced it to a (and I'm vastly generalizing here) talentless pool of bass beats and thumping drums. And now, with AI, we have come to a place where computers will not only help us with music, they will actually write it. Barry Manilow can no longer claim to write the songs that make the young girls sing. Albert Indigo can now be credited.</p><p>And what does this do to us as a species?</p><p>We'll be even lazier than we already are.</p><p>We'll be even more sedated by the vivid colors that computers create, the sounds that AI manipulates, and the words that no longer mean anything at all. Suddenly, I'll receive a letter from someone I care about and consciously wonder if they wrote it. And the only way I'll be able to tell for sure is if that person hand writes it.</p><p>But that won't happen. Because we don't really teach handwriting anymore.</p><p>We'll be even more dependent on the digital world for everything, until eventually, we forget what a spring breeze smells like; what snowflakes on our eyelashes feels like; what a lemon tastes like; what the enmeshed fingers of a lover feel like; what the voice of the ocean sounds like before and after a storm. </p><p>AI will not destroy our humanity, but it may destroy what's best about who we are as humans: our ability to sing, to paint, to dance, to cook, to speak, to love, to sigh.</p><p>These are my reservations, and it has nothing to do with saving time writing a formal letter or take the MCATs.</p><p>I want to retain my ability to feel.</p><p>And so I will be careful and watch where my digital footsteps take me.</p><p>I want you to know that I did not use ChatGPT to write this blog post. But can you be sure?</p>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-6736922997781594012023-01-26T23:03:00.000-06:002023-01-26T23:03:00.591-06:00The Pen<p>I have to admit it. </p><p>I suffer from a particularly strange form of covetousness about pens, writing tools, you know - sharp pencils are a source of fascination for me, and the mere thought of a fat ball point pen makes me shiver with delirious glee. Why, if I see someone has left a pen on a bench, or a seat in the park, maybe lying on the ground after it's dropped from their bag, I rarely will say, 'Excuse me, but I think you dropped this.' The chivalrous thing to do would be to pick up the pen, hold it like the holy grail in front of them, and await their over-the-top gratitude for returning it.</p><p>More often than not, I don't do that. I wait with restless, malfeasant expectation, hoping that they overlook the lost pen, so I can collect it, like Gollum and his Precious, and put it with the other hundred pens that are strewn inside my desk drawer along with paper clips, rubber bands, and anything else that wasn't nailed down.</p><p>Is this weird? I don't know, but I don't think it's rare. In fact, the BBC approved an article entitled:</p><p><i>The Psychology of Stealing Office Supplies.</i></p><p>According to the study, 100% of office workers - every last one of them - have 'stolen' something from the office. Whether the 'thrill' of lifting a pack of neon Post-It notes, or the more nefarious photocopying ten photos of a missing cat on the office Xerox, everybody does it - everybody has done it.</p><p>But why? Why do we take stuff from the office?</p><p>According to <i>The Psychology of Stealing Office Supplies,</i> it comes down to what I'll call the <i>I'll-Show-You</i> reasoning.</p><p>When people accept a role in a company or business, they generally align themselves with assumptions that the company will keep their promises about employment. For example, some companies will say, 'We will hire you to work 9-5, Monday to Friday, and no weekends unless reasonably related to your role.'</p><p>Employees read: Eight hours a day, five days per week unless I need a personal day, a sick day, a dog carer's day, a doctor's appointment day, or any other number of necessary 'days' to keep their personal life finely tuned. And, for heaven's sake, no weekend duties. According to an employee, there is no weekend reasonably related to the role, and any ask would be completely 'un'-reasonable.</p><p>Now, what generally happens, is that companies may need an employee, during the busiest times of year, to fill in on a weekend, or aid a colleague. Certainly, this is above the 38.6 hour work week, and if it happens more than once, the employee may feel somewhat put out that the employer has gone back on his/her word. But the employee does not want to lose the job. No way; it's a good job and pays well for 38.6 hours, but working on a weekend is miffing. Instead of confronting the manager about the outrage, the employee opens the drawer at work and thinks:</p><p>'I'm entitled to this highlighter because you made me work a weekend. Ha! Take that! I'll show you.'</p><p>The more I think about this, the more I wonder about its universality with regards to humankind's inability to be sinless. Paul writes to the Romans about their righteousness - both Jew and Gentile - and that 'All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.' This sinning often takes the same shape as our justification as the <i>Psychology of Stealing Office Supplies</i>. In general, we are under the general assumption that God is very much like a benevolent genie who will, during the course of a day, week or lifetime, bring about overwhelming happiness whenever we desire it. </p><p>That's got to be in the Bible somewhere, right? My life is meant to be happy, therefore, the omnipotent, omniscient and omnipresent God, will use his power, his knowledge and his presence to bend to my will. That's the contract I signed up for. </p><p>I'm sure of it.</p><p>But somewhere along the line, in the fine print (or more likely the parts we don't like to pay attention to), the scriptures point out something quite frightening, 'Not only (do we boast in the hope of the glory of God), but we also glory in our sufferings.'</p><p>There it is. Suffering is part of life. It's part of the contract.</p><p>But I don't like it. And so, instead of working through this with God, we shake our fists silently, with outrage, and outrageously say, 'Okay, okay, God, you who are all-powerful and all-knowing, I'll show you. I'm going to sin and see if you're going to do anything about it. I'm going to... to... to... take your name in vain! Yes, that's what I'm going to do. Or, I'm not going to go to church for a couple of weeks. (Not that church-avoidance is a sin, but you can see what I'm getting at). Or, I'm going to lie a little bit on my income tax, or covet my neighbor's shovel. I'll show you!'</p><p>And then, if you're like me, when I sin, I say, 'You haven't held up your end of the bargain. You owe me, so I took it.'</p><p>Of course, this is the sophomoric, kindergartenish, childish response to an egotistical worldview. </p><p>But what's the alternative?</p><p>We recognize that the fine print, the work-on-weekends, the suffering has a point. 'We also glory in our sufferings because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.'</p><p>The theft of glory from both God and suffering leaves us with shame, but the recognition of God's faithfulness <i>in</i> suffering, or perceived altered-promises, leads us to find hope. And hope is a very rare spiritual resource in our frequently hopeless world.</p><p>At the end of this missive, I want you all to know that I've found the owner of the Uni P/N Fine Line water and Fade proof pigment ink pen (2.0, in case you needed that detail). </p><p>She was quite happy.</p><p>I like making people happy, even better than filling my drawer with stolen pens.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-23153969592943022952022-10-18T06:19:00.000-05:002022-10-18T06:19:15.908-05:00Untethered<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIhGHZt__kjh2GxKwTSiSok2lN9CdDJoxf9nxO7WRQiJG90V8AnXOIw3msuh_YOYVMoIRwMWWiqgKtbRvBGbLtAtkiol--XWk-OT7WRTYopvOO0SnvknvMDUrateT_qPDdBghY0Sy5STAQ7eWgOD3WfGwFB6ple_cZtRPADyyWsISMTPytA9HD8tWL8A" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIhGHZt__kjh2GxKwTSiSok2lN9CdDJoxf9nxO7WRQiJG90V8AnXOIw3msuh_YOYVMoIRwMWWiqgKtbRvBGbLtAtkiol--XWk-OT7WRTYopvOO0SnvknvMDUrateT_qPDdBghY0Sy5STAQ7eWgOD3WfGwFB6ple_cZtRPADyyWsISMTPytA9HD8tWL8A" width="192" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>Not long ago, I forgot my phone sitting on the counter at home.</p><p>In general, I'm not particularly strapped to my phone, but when I got to work and realized that I was now without it, I experienced something odd.</p><p>I know I'm supposed to write something like, <i>I felt so free,</i> or, <i>Finally, I could focus on the tasks at hand</i>, and yes, there was a semblance of that, but what else I felt was disturbing. I felt a sense of loss and something escaping me. As a Gen Xer, I should have been above it, but I wasn't. Suddenly, I recognized a deep sense of...</p><p>Untethering. </p><p>It's a good word for the way I felt about my phone that day. The phone represented possibilities, people who <i>might</i> need me, a future that <i>might </i>be out there, an escape from something that <i>might</i> be bothering me. And yet when I thought about it, I realized my phone was a mirage. Everything it represented was unreal - or perhaps the better term is - 'Unrealized.'</p><p>This moment of realization reminded me of a scene from one of my 'favorite' movies, <i>Castaway.</i> Throughout the movie, using the inimitable acting of Tom Hanks, the director, Robert Zemeckis, takes the viewer on the incredible journey of falling in love with a volleyball named 'Wilson.' As Chuck Noland (Hanks' character) finds himself planewrecked on a deserted island, he turns to a piece of flotsam to remind him that he is not 'alone' and still alive. As only Tom Hanks can do, the viewer finds himself or herself pondering, 'Would I not do the same? Would I get so lonely that I could have fully two-sided conversations with a piece of sporting equipment?'</p><p>And then it all comes to a head. After Chuck constructs a raft, he plants Wilson on a pole, and they sail off over the reef and into the wildness of the open ocean. Night after night, storm after storm, sunburn after sunburn, we nervously await the moment when Chuck and Wilson will be rescued. But then the unthinkable happens.</p><p>Wilson plips into the water and begins to float away.</p><p>As viewers, we are trying to splash water on the sleeping form of Chuck Noland. 'WAKE UP!' we shout at him. But it's too late. The camera floats away with Wilson until finally, Chuck wakes up and realizes that his only 'friend' in the world is gone and that he is finally alone.</p><p>With great trepidation, we view Chuck slide into the water and begin to swim after his volleyball friend. Just as he is about to reach Wilson, the rope connecting Chuck to safety and salvation strains tight. And in that moment, Chuck has to make a decision. Will he release his grasp on what is real to swim after what is not?</p><p>As viewers, we all understand that Wilson is not a real person. Zemeckis has used the volleyball as a symbol for the innate human need for connection and relationship. But the volleyball, if placed in the normal world, would not have any other use than to be smacked over a net. No (sane) person would hold a conversation with the volleyball much less risk his or her life for it. </p><p>Somehow, though, I understand symbolically that Wilson is my mobile phone.</p><p>My phone is not a real person. My phone is a symbol, or representation, of the future, of people who might need me, or things I might be missing. My phone is a symbol of my inability to be present in the moment.</p><p>To leave it at home, for even a day, was an eye-opening experience where I had to choose what I wanted to be tethered to, and untethered from.</p><p>I needed to be tethered to people in the moment, listening to the stories and ideas of people around me, and untethered from something that is unreal - or unrealized. </p><p>The future.</p><p>Jesus explains it this way: 'Don't worry about your life and what you will eat or drink, or about your body, what you will wear... Seek first God's kingdom and God's righteousness, and all these other things will be added. Therefore, don't worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.' Matthew 6:25a, 33,34</p><p>In other words, 'Don't tether yourself to the unreality of tomorrow, but seek first the things which are present here and now': God's gift of life and God's reality of righteousness. When you see these things, you'll understand that God provides the others as well.'</p><p>I hope you can untether for a while this week, not just from your phone, but from the worries of life! Enjoy the people around you!</p>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-244317665274793622022-06-06T19:43:00.000-05:002022-06-06T19:43:28.917-05:00In the Way<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdJXLoeBbtlCG-4SpEwa1EG9Fy82GsbkKGR9caVqjP8gtLEQF08sOi7axQ_WmuFq8AN8iLb1n8KsgQO73sg3HAp1AmHNxpTxPED16QNMEcDVVdDM4zFZRBJVZ0s9U8t3s9u8yTRl_jOXZsSP85sSG_37ZOK05QAlXWwvh4yPHJzg_sEsFVT5oZ2ucx1A" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjdJXLoeBbtlCG-4SpEwa1EG9Fy82GsbkKGR9caVqjP8gtLEQF08sOi7axQ_WmuFq8AN8iLb1n8KsgQO73sg3HAp1AmHNxpTxPED16QNMEcDVVdDM4zFZRBJVZ0s9U8t3s9u8yTRl_jOXZsSP85sSG_37ZOK05QAlXWwvh4yPHJzg_sEsFVT5oZ2ucx1A" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>Once upon a time, a woman bought an estate with a large house, an expansive yard and a brooding forest in the acres beyond. The woman fell in love with the mansion, with arched porticos and terraced gardens along the side. After moving into the house, she entered the lawn to bask in the rays of the sun. Eventually, she approached the forest and found a hidden path with an old oak tree positioned beautifully in the middle. When she returned to the sanctuary of her house, she thought, 'I have finally made it in life. I have everything that I desire.'</p><p>One morning, when the light was not yet fully born, the woman stubbed her foot on the wall while making her way to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Cursing, she rubbed her foot and stared up at the wall vowing to remove it before it did any more damage to her being.</p><p>Later, with swollen foot elevated on a chair, she called a remodeling company. When they arrived, she pointed to the offending wall. 'I want you to remove it. It's in my way.'</p><p>The remodeler, with hands on hips, shook his head. 'I can't do that, ma'am. It's a load-bearing wall. The structural stability of the house will be compromised.'</p><p>'I don't care,' she responded. 'I want it out.'</p><p>He refused, so she called in a less reputable company who would do it if she signed a waiver to release them of any consequences. Happy to have the wall out of the way, she agreed, and after the company removed the wall, she felt content.</p><p>Until cracks began to show in the ceiling. Calling the company back, she pointed above her. 'Why are there cracks in the ceiling?'</p><p>'Because you've had the structural support of your house removed. It was inevitable.'</p><p>'But... but... you should have told me!'</p><p>'You wouldn't have listened anyway.' </p><p>'What do I do now? My house is falling down around me?'</p><p>The man shrugged. 'Have you got a tent?'</p><p>And so the woman moved into a luxurious tent in the expansive lawn of her backyard. At first, she loved the thought of 'roughing it.' To feel the wind in her hair and to hear the night time noises was a wonderful change. Even though she felt a slight resentment for losing her house, she was happy with her beautiful lawn.</p><p>But the rains came. The woman could put up with the rain, but the grass began to grow, and continue to grow. Frustrated by the continual mowing and upkeep, she called a lawn care company.</p><p>'I want this grass removed,' she exclaimed. 'It's in the way.' </p><p>The lawn-specialist put his hands on his hips and sighed. 'You can't be serious. This lawn is beautiful and well-kept. People would die for a lawn like this.'</p><p>'I don't care. I want it out. I don't want to mow the grass anymore and I certainly don't want to pay anyone else to do it.'</p><p>With great sorrow, the lawn-specialist rolled up the sod one strip at a time and replaced the offending grass with white pebbles. The backyard glittered with light, day and night, and the woman felt happy.</p><p>Until the winds blew up one evening. Startled awake inside her luxurious tent, the woman peered outside and saw the pegs were beginning to pull up from the rocks. Her home was about to be unmoored in the fury of the storm.</p><p>With great fear, she wondered to herself, 'Now where will I go? I can't go back inside the house safely and I can't stay in my tent because there is nothing to hold it fast to the ground.' Grabbing her sleeping bag and her small stash of valuables, she ran across the pretty white pebbles towards the almost-hidden path in the forest. Wending her way into the forest, she piled her belongings as the rain began to teem down. Hastily, she constructed a crude lean-to of branches and leaves and then hunched morosely with her valuables underneath the makeshift shelter. As the storm raged overhead, she rued the fact she couldn't sleep in her mansion or even in her tent. </p><p>Finally, the storm passed and the morning dawned. But the darkness of the forest was frightening. Light was only filtering mistily through the trees. When she looked up, she saw that above her, were the beautiful oak tree branches that had kept the worst of the storm from her. Instead of being thankful, she was indignant that this large tree should be keeping the warm sun from her. Calling a tree specialist, the woman made her complaint.</p><p>'I want this tree removed. It's in the way.'</p><p>The woodcutter put her hands on her hips and looked up at the beautiful old oak tree. 'I don't think that's such a good idea. This tree is providing shade and shelter for you.'</p><p>'I don't care. I want it gone.'</p><p>Sighing, the woodcutter took out her chainsaw and began dismantling the ancient boughs. When finished, the woodcutter stacked the wood neatly along the path. </p><p>Now satisfied, the woman felt the last rays of sun on her face. Then, as dusk transformed into darkness, another storm blew up and the woman's shelter was destroyed.</p><p>The woman and her shelter had been in the way of the storm.</p><p>In this parable, what does the wall symbolize for you? The lawn? The tree? The storm?</p><p>I'll give you my own thoughts next week.</p><p><br /></p>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-27031123449296460592022-05-31T23:50:00.000-05:002022-05-31T23:50:28.555-05:00THERE<p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRQYdbsdg1LsCF6tUqfjtVoO09fWPwCZtdNzKTZ1PyZFOMSU3T1kQVPlZin5AdQ_VYTucaAyXb7h5QgPMuXpBm6UVY5LlIPig68V8bAQ53d9JVs2XnPh4QmRQ4JpyrVPxP1ZwFo79E6mJnqWQk5ur7CZ3sVgn7lAxGAZV0_Sgv_r2RQ67fvpokrc5QLg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="429" data-original-width="600" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRQYdbsdg1LsCF6tUqfjtVoO09fWPwCZtdNzKTZ1PyZFOMSU3T1kQVPlZin5AdQ_VYTucaAyXb7h5QgPMuXpBm6UVY5LlIPig68V8bAQ53d9JVs2XnPh4QmRQ4JpyrVPxP1ZwFo79E6mJnqWQk5ur7CZ3sVgn7lAxGAZV0_Sgv_r2RQ67fvpokrc5QLg" width="320" /></a></div><br />It's a definite Australianism (like 'G'day mate, Yeah - nah, or She'll be right, mate') to respond to the question, 'How'ya Goin'' by answering,<p></p><p>"We're getting there."</p><p>Usually, this response means that the person 'Getting There' is having a particularly difficult time but doesn't really want to talk about it, and the hearer of the response is to proclaim in a particularly cheerful way, "Good on ya."</p><p>Because I'm not one for idle banter, not that I despise it, but I find it a thick veneer to cover up what we really <i>need</i> to talk about, I ask the question that many don't expect.</p><p>"Where is there?"</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"You said, 'I'm getting 'there.'' I just wondered where there is?"</p><p>They wait, mouth screwed up, eyebrows knitted, wondering if I'm yankin' their chain. But I'm not. I'd really like to know where they're getting.</p><p>"It's just a saying..." they respond lamely and probably want to move on without any of my dialogue. </p><p>But I don't want to let it go. I truly want to know where people are on their journey.</p><p>Where is <b>THERE</b>? What is <b>THERE</b>? And, most importantly, how do we get <b>THERE</b>?</p><p>While in prison, Paul writes to the people of Philippi telling them that he is (presumably) <b>THERE</b>. </p><p><i>...I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through him who gives me strength. (Philippians 4:11b-13)</i></p><p>As some of the most mis-used verses in the Bible, often used to justify any endeavor (usually something virtually impossible) Philippians 4:13 states most assuredly that Paul <i>can do <b>all this</b> through Christ who gives him strength.</i> </p><p><b>All This</b><i><b> </b>= <b>THERE</b></i></p><p><i><b>THERE</b> = </i>being content whatever the circumstances. </p><p>Often, in our contemporary post-Christian world, we imagine the journey to <b>THERE</b> travels directly through the mountains of psychological and emotional well-being. And yes, this is an important part of the journey. To work on the skills of self-control, monitoring both how we think and how we feel, is very important. But it's only one part of the journey to being well, to <b>THERE</b>. And the reason I know this is because there are many people who are able to 'control' their emotions and 'regulate' their thoughts, but aren't particularly content with <i>where</i> they are in life or <i>who</i> they have become. They have no idea where <b>THERE</b> is, only happily bouncing back and forth, like the tiny white dot in Pong, the video game.</p><p>No, there is something more than good mental health to find contentedness. </p><p>There is also a hunger for something deeper, meaning with meat, something we can gnaw on and savor. We hunger for healthy relationships and people to share our stories with. We are well-fed on the exchange of both information and care. If mental health are mountains, relationships are a rainforest through which me must pass. And lastly, walking through the valley of physical health (or un-health) is part of this trek from life to death and back to life again. </p><p>But even if we don't feel particularly healthy mentally or relationally, we know that contentedness can be found in Christ who gives us strength. </p><p>This strength, a hope and a joy in Jesus that is something far deeper and mystical than simply focusing on ourselves, is what will help us find true contentedness even while on the journey. Strength on the way to <b>THERE. </b>And <b>THERE</b>, truly, is right now. <b>THERE</b> is here, whether stable or shaky, hungry or well-fed, needy or in plenty. <b>THERE</b> is being content.</p><p>Like Paul, I hope that you can learn the secret, too.</p>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-66822298712163548832022-05-25T17:03:00.002-05:002022-05-25T18:35:26.082-05:00What Do We Do Now?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg47n93h06XKwL7tKX2jHWcSJzS1GgdTMFoxQgTl2n70hSoXMu5_WnP8wysSqDwksJyoAbv4GgIgLTYvbecEPiPV8gpwvjuFZ7aYYzLPSIZaUczpwHmcGZf6stAfYSrGiFKQDz-C08kVFZaEMROabPxgcufv2nbcGxFiBdk5JFK7aw3oXSFrDl3hRElKw/s3500/marcus-ganahl-V1XfjTMZZQY-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3500" data-original-width="2333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg47n93h06XKwL7tKX2jHWcSJzS1GgdTMFoxQgTl2n70hSoXMu5_WnP8wysSqDwksJyoAbv4GgIgLTYvbecEPiPV8gpwvjuFZ7aYYzLPSIZaUczpwHmcGZf6stAfYSrGiFKQDz-C08kVFZaEMROabPxgcufv2nbcGxFiBdk5JFK7aw3oXSFrDl3hRElKw/s320/marcus-ganahl-V1XfjTMZZQY-unsplash.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div><p>I was all set to write about the disappointing reality of attempting to remain positive with <i>3 EASY STEPS</i>, but the truth is, everything crumbled again yesterday with the news of another school shooting in the U.S. </p><p>Those three words:</p><p>Another</p><p>School</p><p>Shooting</p><p>are the greatest symbol of a world gone mad. And yet, while Americans scramble to fight over political militarized zones, gun rights versus the eradication of things that kill people (the irony should not be lost on many other things that both sides conveniently ignore which kill people), much of the world looks on derisively. </p><p><i style="font-weight: bold;">Another</i>. As if one school shooting at Columbine couldn't change things, nor Parkland or Sandy Hook, now Uvalde, the country reels from the word 'another.' According to the World Population Review, the state of California 'leads' the country with 'another' with 164 school shootings since 1970. </p><p>Horrifically, this is not a new thing.</p><p><i style="font-weight: bold;">School</i>. According to multiple sources, in a Jewish kibbutz (an agricultural, collective) children's quarters and the school are placed in the center of the community so that in case of attack, the children are hurried toward the middle and protected by the adults. The school was the safest place in the village.</p><p>Now, school age children have an urge to look over their shoulders. Which deranged adult in their community will enter into the sanctuary of the school, lock the door and end the beautiful dreams of families? Is not the society deranged? </p><p><i style="font-weight: bold;">Shooting. </i>In this world gone mad, assault rifles are placed in the hands of teenagers who, after years of metaphorically holding them in their hands during slaughterhouse video games, have taken them to the streets, and worse yet, to the schools. Some will take great offense to this, but a truth needs to be told: When Jesus said, 'If your eye causes you to sin, then pluck it out,' maybe the better answer is, 'If your society puts in the eyes of children that which causes them to sin, murder, rape, destroy life, it is better to hang a millstone around that society and drop it in the ocean.'</p><p>Both political sides keep harping about gun control vs. gun rights. And yet the basic question is something that Paul the Apostle said, 'All things are legal, but not all things are beneficial.' </p><p>Yes, it is legal for me to buy an assault rifle. Yes, it is legal for gunshops to sell assault rifles to eighteen year olds. Yes, it is legal for my society to provide <i>at least</i> one gun for every citizen. </p><p>But is it beneficial?</p><p>I would argue an emphatic no. It is not beneficial in the least. And if it is not beneficial, then our next steps should be not for gun control, and not for political control, but what's the best for our kids. Not... another... school... shooting... ever... again.</p><p><b><i>And what do we do next?</i></b></p><p>Firstly, and at the risk of offending a few people, but it's worth it: I believe prayer is an awfully powerful thing - more powerful, in some ways, than assault rifles. And the prayer is not 'Dear God, change the mind of our politicians so that they get rid of guns.' No, it sounds more like, 'Dear God, I'm so sorry that I've been part of a culture and society that glorifies violence so that lives are tragically lost in such horrific ways. Help me, and others, band together to act for change, not by screaming at other people, but actively, and gracefully, changing the world together.'</p><p>This prayer, as I prayed it today, was an eye-opener for me. I, as a Christian participant in this world full of incredible and amazing people of different faiths, cultures and ideologies, should be hesitant to make my prayer a public spectacle. </p><p>People of faith, be implored not to take your prayer into the sanctuary of your church, surrounded in safety of your rafters, and your glass, and broadcast your pleas to the world. Don't invite me to be part of your online prayer, but go into your closets, or better yet, go pray with people where they are. Pray as Jesus modelled, Our Father in heaven, who is here with us today, make this kingdom like yours in heaven. With people dedicated to the transforming role of eradicating the trespasses before they occur. </p><p>Republicans and Democrats, Liberals and Conservatives, people of every political party, set down your colors, your banners and your <i>issues-du-jour</i>, and take up the fight against this evil consuming <i style="font-weight: bold;">another school</i>, another family, another nation. </p><p>Work together for the good of our kids and the fight for their dreams that they can live in a world without fear of attending school, going to the mall, or the grocery store, or wherever it is that they find life.</p><p>It's time. </p><p><br /></p>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-23524880319275781182022-05-18T15:11:00.001-05:002022-05-18T15:55:03.410-05:00Testing Positive<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_FbyMJtB_acoruFqfdd-3TkwksVcY2P7ho-eBUtjgPL7NGcRdBs4p3IqufMTTcU9U4dl7-bb8-wAwZhjasCNZhoftLVc_2qlq3j-yrpldgV7KXkdV1MvIMbxH63XyKfYEJs5on4G7nQpZv4gz27F9mJKU6LYWpk0jF7yn3wFtVEEkfSXrD87L5F1hXA/s6000/rod-long-jcckAkxMvUk-unsplash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_FbyMJtB_acoruFqfdd-3TkwksVcY2P7ho-eBUtjgPL7NGcRdBs4p3IqufMTTcU9U4dl7-bb8-wAwZhjasCNZhoftLVc_2qlq3j-yrpldgV7KXkdV1MvIMbxH63XyKfYEJs5on4G7nQpZv4gz27F9mJKU6LYWpk0jF7yn3wFtVEEkfSXrD87L5F1hXA/s320/rod-long-jcckAkxMvUk-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p>It's just one of those things. A common occurrence, I guess. First a sniffle, then a slight cough, <i>Can I take a deep breath?</i> and you know what's coming. You're about to jab a plastic stick up your nostril, past your sinuses and scrape the inner lining of your brain. <p></p><p>A few mornings ago, I woke up with the symptoms listed above, and because I haven't had COVID yet (that I know of), I thought it had arrived. After dunking the plastic stick containing my grey matter into the little plastic tube, I squeezed it out and waited.</p><p>Deep down, I had a feeling it wasn't COVID. I was right. My symptoms probably have more to do with the incessant rain and humidity here in Queensland, which has been an incredibly conducive Petri dish for mold growth in our house, than with a virus. Yet as I waited while only one line appeared on my Rapid Antigen Test, I had time to ponder what I <i>was</i> testing positive for. And it feels equally harmful.</p><p>I am testing positive for negativity.</p><p>Yes, when I jammed a metaphorical stick into my mind to wonder why I feel so deflated and grumpy, the two lines appeared. My symptoms for negativity include:</p><p>Oversensitiveness</p><p>Persistent irritation with those who have opposing ideas</p><p>Impatience with people I love</p><p>A desire to escape </p><p>An increased worry about what the next (or final) straw will be</p><p>Struggling with motivation for healthy activities</p><p>These symptoms have not arisen overnight, but over the last few years. The disease, I'll call it <i>Chronic Negativitis,</i> is contagious and I'm sure that I could have picked it up from any number of places. Most likely, Op/Ed pages of newspapers, Facebook posts, a general malaise from society in general that all things are just a little overwhelming right now. And I'm pretty sure that I've transmitted it to people around me at certain times. That's what infectious fake diseases do. </p><p><i>Chronic Negativitis</i> is not lethal, but it is certainly debilitating. As it shuts down my will for movement and crushes my spirit for excitement, I wonder what kind of medication will heal me. I wish there was a pill for it, or an injection of something fresh and new, but alas, there's no panacea. Only time, and natural remedies which are completely unnatural in our world.</p><p>So, if I'm going to diagnose myself with <i>CN</i>, I'm going to write a prescription for myself, also. I've got my little pad out now.</p><p><b>1. Turn off the news</b></p><p>This is not that we shouldn't be aware of what's happening around us, but embroiling ourselves in the daily dose of despising other people is making us sick. For all the articles regarding murder, hate crimes, and blaming governments for inflation, there should be items reminding us that life is good, even in a moldering world.</p><p><b>2. Take your social media app off the phone</b></p><p>Studies have proven that just one week without social media has incredible health benefits including healing <i>Chronic Negativitis</i>. If you type 'What happens when you give up social media for a week?' into your web browser, not one of the articles will say, 'Things will be worse for you.' In fact, every last one of them says that too much emphasis on social media in your life actually creates a breeding ground for <i>CN.</i> You and I both know that this is nothing new, but it's the reminder that might save us from the debilitating effects of testing positive for negativity.</p><p><b>3. Eat a meal with people you really enjoy</b></p><p>Once again, this is not rocket science, brain surgery or even underwater basketweaving. This concept is so simple, yet so rare (and so good for us) that we disregard it. We need a solution that tells us, do an hour of weightlifting, try yoga, six fish oil pills per day, don't drink alcohol. While these things are positive (but very difficult for some people), the easiest thing is to cook a meal together, sit down at a table together, use a knife and fork together, take your time talking about the great things of life together, and then do the dishes together. The healing benefits of relational bread-breaking is why religions all over the world stress it, and hospitality, so highly.</p><p>As I've tested positive for negativity, I'm not going to isolate. In fact, I'm going to do the opposite. I've written the prescription and hung it up on my board. This week, I'm going to journal my health (mental, spiritual, physical) and see what next Wednesday looks like. </p><p>Would you like to join me on the quest for testing positive for positivity?</p>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-74219433276209239632022-05-12T23:39:00.006-05:002022-05-12T23:39:50.689-05:00Interpreting Language<p><span style="font-size: x-large;">R</span>ecently, my daughter Josephine, who is in her last year of studying Chemical Engineering, had the opportunity to do some internship work at a lead smelter. Part of working at the smelter is to learn the risks of working with (and in) a facility that deals in dangerous chemicals. Thus, Josephine had to learn about the effects of lead on the body and how to mitigate against these risks by policies and procedures.</p><p>One of these obvious procedures is to cover up the entirety of her body so that no lead was absorbed into her skin. This meant that from head to toe, she wore a thick, orange jumpsuit and a full facemask which filtered the air that she breathed. This is a great idea to protect the workers at the smelter, but with the covering comes various drawbacks.</p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzWuDvZX-0adDImuctBUzSCjzZDanDtssQ3qhl0g79lGkfla770a2-N_z6e4O-_JK-6XsR5zw0vqADVkhnKvuMxJv3rKQ6EGYLtqSTfyaqGSpO6c9JE1Yuum2lovaRg7Tlzm26pzNbRAOIiIYt5s3XFQPzIbJ743m9q6kdzz7TVdqCvgr7N5dC5LSzFQ/s1757/josephine%20ppe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1757" data-original-width="576" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzWuDvZX-0adDImuctBUzSCjzZDanDtssQ3qhl0g79lGkfla770a2-N_z6e4O-_JK-6XsR5zw0vqADVkhnKvuMxJv3rKQ6EGYLtqSTfyaqGSpO6c9JE1Yuum2lovaRg7Tlzm26pzNbRAOIiIYt5s3XFQPzIbJ743m9q6kdzz7TVdqCvgr7N5dC5LSzFQ/s320/josephine%20ppe.jpg" width="105" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>1. When it's 42 degrees Centigrade, the outfit becomes a mobile sauna.<p></p><p>2. Communication is severely limited when you can't hear the person who is trying to speak to you.</p><p>As the summer went on, and Josephine was in and out of the body suit, she came up with a great idea as to how to communicate with others in spite of the covering.</p><p>Josephine had been learning Auslan (Australian Sign Language) in her spare time. If she could somehow, at the very least, spell the words she was trying to tell others, then they could communicate without trying to yell through the facemasks.</p><p>One day, as the heat was building outside (and inside her jumpsuit), she had to tell one of her co-workers something. Beginning to sign the letters, she watched with frustration as her co-worker shook her head.</p><p>It then hit Josephine: It's all right for <i>me</i> to learn the language, but if <i>they</i> can't interpret what you're saying, it's useless, like speaking Spanish in India. No matter how much you emphasize your words, no matter how loud you speak, you are just going to frustrate the person who wants to know.</p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">I</span>t's not a stretch to understand the same thing about the Christian faith. As the language has become bulky, so many theological words (even the word 'theological' makes some people scratch their heads) are confusing and irrelevant. Yet, as the decades and centuries have continued, we've continued speaking words that make no sense to our contemporary world, words like 'repentance,' 'righteousness,' 'doing life with Jesus.' </p><p>And the world, covered by religious protective gear, shakes their collective heads, frustrated by the lunacy of repentance (when they don't think what they've done is wrong), the judgmentalism of righteousness (when they are, by nature, a good person) and doing-life-with-Jesus (when they are perfectly happy doing life on their own). Yet the Church keeps insisting that if you get <i>our </i>language right, or <i>when</i> you get <i>our</i> language right, then you will be ready to encounter God.</p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">H</span>ow does the world come to grips with a post-religious language? What is its syntax? How does a life-long Christian translate this? It would be like Elizabethan Christians speaking olde English attempting to understand (and communicate in) binary computer language (machine language). Unless they could find a middle ground and intersecting points, they'd just spend most of their time shaking their heads.</p><p>This isn't to say that the church sheds its theology, but certainly it can translate the beauty of the gospel into a language which some of the world, dressed in its religious protective gear, can understand. We can speak in terms of a different kind of abundant living, talking about the good works that one does as a reflection of a God who was thinking ahead, and living a faithful life with Jesus as the cornerstone of all that we do. And this can't simply be language, it must be action. If we proclaim the call to repentance, we must be active in establishing justice. If we proclaim a call to righteousness, we must be active in acknowledging our own moments of un-righteousness. If we proclaim our own walk with Jesus, we are fair-warned that we must start walking with people who are considered outcasts by the rest of the world (and by some of the Church world).</p><p>Is this not the new language needed? Can the world interpret this word and action better? Won't this draw people closer to each other and to God?</p><p><br /></p><br />Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-11663216709338904962022-04-28T20:20:00.001-05:002022-04-28T20:20:43.413-05:00What's in a name?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeEeIUrJRTQefrrHWm1jqVcjfyp60qlTRwfnwGdPJqswU2RPZ3JF07kU29EVO30xtf1GOfvSO0ekC09jwkehMQJCjOuBKXrJBLyiMibRb0u5QXTSh4ZiHUEgHZ8Nj_ovj4KtfNVkAf1M8SsfoKBVICjlkT-9c_QYhc2XCzLLpRFtmCGtDkq1pr2pWMnA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="600" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeEeIUrJRTQefrrHWm1jqVcjfyp60qlTRwfnwGdPJqswU2RPZ3JF07kU29EVO30xtf1GOfvSO0ekC09jwkehMQJCjOuBKXrJBLyiMibRb0u5QXTSh4ZiHUEgHZ8Nj_ovj4KtfNVkAf1M8SsfoKBVICjlkT-9c_QYhc2XCzLLpRFtmCGtDkq1pr2pWMnA" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>It's an amazing thing to be able to overhear how young people speak with and to each other. </p><p>In general, teenagers are in the throes of navigating space, personal and social, and finding order in a chaotic world. Often, their discussions reveal a desire for understanding - both their own, and how they can be understood. In our contemporary world, teenagers catch a lot of flack for all sorts of things, but are they really any different than any other generation? Aren't they trying to find their way in a world that is completely different than the one their parents inhabited?</p><p>So they communicate through images. And in these images, their stories are written and told: memes and emojis express how they are feeling and how they want to be known and understood. They (and we) post how we want to be seen and also the things of which we are most afraid.</p><p>For people of all ages, one of our greatest fears is to be called names.</p><p>The other day, I had the opportunity to hear a discussion after a group of fifth-graders (roughly ten or eleven years of age) were having after we disembarked the bus after an excursion. They were ebullient, joking, doing what kids do (and practicing the craft of communication that they will need even more as they enter their teenage years). One of the students had a white, fluffy bunny attached by a keychain to her bag. Here is the brief description of their conversation as I walked behind them:</p><p>Student 1: "Hey! I really like your white bunny!"</p><p>Student 2: "Thanks. I like having it on my bag."</p><p>Student 3: (running up behind them) "You shouldn't say that. (He's laughing) You're being racist to that bunny."</p><p>Student 1: "What?"</p><p>Student 3: "Yeah, you're a racist!"</p><p>Student 1: (now slightly upset) "I'm not racist. I just said I liked her white bunny."</p><p>Student 3: "That's racist."</p><p>Student 1: "I'm not racist! I'm not racist! It's just a stuffed bunny."</p><p>To say that I was flabbergasted would be an understatement. What I was expecting to hear was a thrilling discussion about Lego, or bus-riding, or... or... ANYTHING but a defamation of a young girl who had the gall to correctly identify the color of a stuffed rabbit.</p><p>This young girl was adamant about <i>not</i> being a racist, because in our contemporary world, there are few names that carry with it more negative connotations than 'racist.' And yet the term was bandied between eleven-year-olds as if it was a commonplace thing for eleven-year-olds to talk about.</p><p>This brief interaction helped me to realize two things we, as adults, need to be tremendously careful with.</p><p>Firstly, the words we speak in front of our children will be absorbed quickly and unconsciously. Whether we speak graciously or we practice a particular innocuous brand of slander, kids (as they always have done) will repeat what they hear. For us, a word filter should be fitted the moment we get up in the morning until we put our heads down for sleep at night. Not only is this a good thing for our kids, but it also changes how we see the world.</p><p>Secondly, no matter how much filter we have over our own words, unless we help children navigate the tumultuous online world, kids will be unable to understand the importance of their words on other people. I'm not talking website filters or nannying the internet, and I'm certainly not advocating censorship, but I am encouraging active participation in listening to kids and what they experience while online. For the kids in the above narrative, in all seriousness, they probably did not pick up the finger-pointing-racism from their parents, but have been osmotically gathering ideas online. Without guidance on how to correctly speak about racism, it just becomes a name (and unfortunately) a joke.</p><p>Some who read this may think I've overreacted. I wonder that myself. <i>They were just playing around. It's just a white bunny.</i> But somewhere deeper inside of me, I feel there is a modern metanarrative occurring that reveals this is not simply a one-time event, but will be a greater issue as the years pass. </p><p>Each name we are about to stick to someone else is an opportunity: for them and for us. I hope we can stick to choosing a graceful name.</p>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-47288423963490802232022-04-21T23:14:00.001-05:002022-04-21T23:14:35.537-05:00When Giants Appear<p>The world is shaking with giants.</p><p>Giant fears. Giant anxieties. Giant obsessions and addictions. Gigantic problems with escapism. While these 21st century Titans of Despair may seem much larger than David's Goliath, the pathway to victory is the same.</p><p>One of the most fascinating aspects of the David and Goliath story is Israel's incredible devolution of a country devoted to hearing God through the Judges, to a nation quaking in fear at the thought of one man who would stand against the king that they'd chosen - a large man himself. Saul.</p><p>One would expect that someone like Saul would have charged headfirst into glorious battle, donning his own armor and carrying his own weapons, to defeat his greatest challenge. But as we read Saul's narrative closely, charging headfirst into battle has never been his <i>modus operendi.</i> </p><p>In 1 Samuel 9, Saul's task was to go search for some lost donkeys. What we find from Saul, '...a handsome a young man as could be found anywhere in Israel, and he was a head taller than anyone else,' (9:2) is an unprepared, fearful boy who wants to turn away from the task because it becomes too difficult.</p><p>After this episode, Saul meets with Samuel and is convinced that he will be the first king of Israel. For some people, this would be a thrill - to have power, riches, people bending to every whim - but when Saul is announced to the crowd, he is '...hidden among the supplies.' (10:22b)</p><p>Although he looks the part, Saul is no giant killer. </p><p>So when Goliath appears on the scene, it really is no surprise that Saul is paranoid, unprepared and fearful. </p><p>It is here we understand that Saul's anointing, although serving a purpose, also serves the point that God does not '...consider appearance or height... the Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at outward appearance, but the Lord Looks at the heart.' (16:7)</p><p>So David, the youngest brother, a shepherd - good looking with healthy cheeks (as if that's a prerequisite for royalty) - passes in front of Samuel. This is the one that will be king.</p><p>Interestingly, David is anointed king when there already is a king. David also is unwilling to lift his hand against the current monarch. He shows his integrity and his fearlessness - the anti-Saul, if you will. Then, the giant shows up. The time has come for Israel to see the future.</p><p>Giant's will fall because of God's faithfulness, power and unyielding mercy for his people.</p><p>So, how did David kill the earth-shaking giant?</p><p>I. Belief in God and belief in himself. </p><p><span><span> </span><span> "Your servant has killed both the lion and the bear; this uncircumcised Philistine will be like one of them, because he has defied the armies of the Living God. The Lord who rescued me from the paw of the lion and the paw of the bear will rescue me from the hand of the Philistine." (17:36,37)</span></span></p><p><span><span>II. Using his strengths and advantages.</span></span></p><p><span><span><span> </span><span> Everyone expected David to fight conventionally. To use a sword or spear would have been expected, but it would also have played into Goliath's strengths. For David, his strength was his size and speed and his ability to fight from a distance.</span><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span><span>III. Faith in God.</span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span><span> "All those gathered here will know that it is not by sword or spear that the LORD saves; for the battle is the LORD's, and he will give all of you into our hands." (17:47) It is a tremendously freeing thing when ultimately we realize that the battle's victory is God's responsibility and the part we play is following his direction.</span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span>IV. Being prepared and realistic.</span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> It's always made me smile that David's faith in God was extreme, but he picked up five stones. Sometimes I have thought, 'If David really believed in God, why didn't he just pick up one stone?' But a true leader/warrior is prepared for the unexpectedness of battle. Flinging stones can be affected by all sorts of things - wind, movement, nervousness, sweaty palms - so best to be ready for anything. I'm positive that God doesn't see our preparedness as a lack of faith. Yet far too often I (maybe others, too) bluster about faith and pick up one stone because of laziness rather than faith.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span>So how does this translate to our contemporary giants?</span></span></span></span></span></p><p>I. Belief in God and yourself.</p><p><span> Look, much of the world believes that there is a God, but treats this God as distant and hands-off-ish. With our words we exclaim that we trust this Lord who Saves, but with our handwringing and our worry, we look for someone else to protect us from the giants. Like Saul, we ask around for anyone (Beuller? Beuller? Anyone? Beuller?) who is willing to stand up. </span><br /></p><p><span><span> The LORD will rescue us from the hand of our 21st Century Philistines and can use all of us to do so.</span><br /></span></p><p><span><span>II. Use our strengths and advantages.</span></span></p><p><span><span><span> We keep expecting to solve problems by fighting these giants of fear, anxieties, obsessions and addictions by doing the things we've always done: We battle with swords of words, cutting down people and histories in the process; we put up the armor of online anonymity; we retreat into another world and submerse ourselves in the swirling battle of social media, biased news and distorted talking heads. Yet the strength of the faithful person is not based in a war of words, but by care and compassion in acts of service.</span><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span><span>III. Faith in God.</span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> I keep hearing the phrase 'Post-Christian world' and it makes me feel like someone is standing over my grave and talking about me, but I'm not dead yet. Christian and secular authors alike write both obituary and epitaph about Christianity, "She was a good person, well loved, but she got old..." yet the heart of the body of Christ, Jesus himself, never grows old. When it feels that we are at our weakest and frailest, there it is that God's strength is most magnificently revealed. We are given the courage and strength to stand in the battle with the Lion of Judah at our back, and pick up our stones.</span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span>IV. Being prepared and realistic.</span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> Unlike Goliath, our contemporary giants quickly shift shapes. They are wily and agile and can slit us to death rather than stab us. So what is the tactic - the polished river stone - of the contemporary giant killers? </span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p>Retreat.</p><p>As I write that, I think, 'There are some pretty negative connotations from that word.' </p><p>1. Retreat is not from the battle, but a retreat from the online world, away from the tech-giants, the media-giants, the fear-mongers and death-dealers.</p><p>2. Retreat from fear, not out of fear, but to regroup with fellow believers to remember that the battle belongs to the Lord. The giant cannot get at us when we stand behind the Lion of Judah.</p><p>3. Retreat from our own self-addiction and embrace the opportunity to reconnect with others, no matter their political, ideological or religious identification. If there is anything that the world needs most is to circle the wagons. They're all the same wagon.</p><p>In this world full of giants, it is the LORD who looks at the heart of his people, the body of Christ, and smiles. As we are prepped for a battle that he has been/is already fighting, breathe a deep sense of relief. It is already won.</p><p>Now, just pick up your sling and stones.</p><p><br /></p>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-62594515107905107992022-04-05T05:15:00.000-05:002022-04-05T05:15:10.179-05:00Holy Distraction, Batman!<p>There is an Australian saying that goes like this: </p><p>"Head down - bum up." This adage signifies that the speaker is going to keep one's proverbial proboscis to the grindstone, work hard and long hours until the task is completed.</p><p>Over the last two years, as some (if not most) employees have worked from home, perhaps promising to keep the morning raids of the refrigerator to a minimum and time spent on social media in check, they have also signed an unwritten personal contract to keep a head down and a rear end up.</p><p>So some (if not most) have worked from home, staring at a computer screen until their eyes swam. They've done meetings via Zoom; conferences held through Teams; purchased equipment and supplies through Amazon, and through it all, they've attempted to keep distractions at a distance. </p><p>It's ethical, right? Just keep doing what we've been doing, but online. Just get the task done so we can move onto the next one. </p><p>You can't spell routine without 'rut.'</p><p>In my opinion, Moses, in Exodus 3, was very much caught up in the adage, <i>Head down, bum up.</i> </p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>Now Moses was tending the flock of Jethro his father-in-law, the priest of Midian, and he led the flock to the far side of the wilderness and came to Horeb, the mountain of God. There the angel of the LORD appeared to him in flames of fire from within the bush. Moses saw that though the bush was on fire it did not burn up. So Moses thought, "I will go over and see this strange sight - why the bush does not burn up.'</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>When the LORD saw that he had gone over to look, God called to him from within the bush, 'Moses! Moses!"</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>And Moses said, 'Here I am.'</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Now eighty years of age, Moses had been routinely tending his father-in-law's flock, head down, bum up. From Prince of Egypt to Sultan of Sheep, Moses had taken a prodigious demotion, the mundane task of taking care of his father-in-law's flock. Can you imagine what that was like? The humdrum of following sheep across the wilderness: watering them, grazing them, protecting them. Day after day after day.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">One day, though, he took his flock to the far side of the wilderness, to Horeb, the mountain of God. Whether or not he knew this was the mountain of God beforehand is up for debate, but for some reason his flocks are grazing on holy hillsides. Whilst the animals munch away, he sees a strange sight: a bush that seemed to be on fire, but it was not being consumed. He even mutters to himself, perhaps this is a sign of the craziness of the rut: "I will go over there to see this thing..."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">It was a holy distraction. Moses was well within his rights to simply keep his head down and his bum up, but instead, he does the opposite. He puts his head up and sets his bum down in front of a sight that he would have missed.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">It's here that we sometimes miss the third most important word in the narrative (beyond LORD and God)...</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i>When.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">It wasn't until Moses made a conscious decision to deviate from the original plan - to work hard, do the task, feed the sheep - that God could see Moses was ready.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">When the LORD saw that Moses had gone over to look </span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Then God spoke to Moses from the bush.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">This holy distraction had caught Moses' attention, but if he hadn't turn aside, he might have missed God's call on his life to do something different.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Over the last two years - well, let's be honest - over the last few decades, Christian churches everywhere have been working really hard, keeping heads down and bums up, to attempt to grow the church. In doing the same things we've always done, whether staring at a computer screen or looking out over a congregation, we hope that in being faithful to the task, we are faithful to the calling. Somehow, if we can just keep going, things will turn around.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">And yet, maybe it's at this point in Christian history when it's time to stop putting our heads down, but actually lifting our heads up to see holy distractions. Maybe it's time for us to turn aside from those routine tasks, to go and have a look at these new and creative things that God is doing in the world. Maybe it's from this new 21st century - almost burning bush - that we'll hear God's voice speaking very loudly to us, calling us by name, to tasks unthinkable and untouchable just a few years past.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">What will it take for you to lift up your head and put your bum down? What will be your holy distraction to hear God calling you into something new?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-48697360363429877182022-03-02T18:47:00.001-06:002022-03-02T18:47:20.761-06:00Injection<p><span style="font-family: times;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgbP81ozKTIrfUFp4XztT0sfIw7NH9ITtviwJw6ykWfcxyZayq8WdLDosHcgy1JR0kY7hyhJhuCc77zF-wg1ZuUOiwnqeMxluPD7qh2UAI05T9LsWxaZEzzfG11oNSCux3cBcD_njhWoDZ3vhiLM2C6_MU4UuFzwL-gORnR3QAlh3nJoFqwOgL4rJFgKw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgbP81ozKTIrfUFp4XztT0sfIw7NH9ITtviwJw6ykWfcxyZayq8WdLDosHcgy1JR0kY7hyhJhuCc77zF-wg1ZuUOiwnqeMxluPD7qh2UAI05T9LsWxaZEzzfG11oNSCux3cBcD_njhWoDZ3vhiLM2C6_MU4UuFzwL-gORnR3QAlh3nJoFqwOgL4rJFgKw" width="160" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><br /></div></div><span style="font-family: times;">The old man sat with his hands resting on the arch of his cane. His chin, embedded in the papery skin on the top of his right hand, was set firmly. It was obvious he was unhappy and he had every reason not to be.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">Over three nights, the rains on the eastern shores of Queensland continued unabated until finally, Tallebudgera Creek couldn't hold back it's gorge and it vomited millions of litres of water over the banks and through the streets near the creek. As the water surged between and into houses, most people were forced to evacuate. Emergencies services drove (or boated) through water-swollen roads to reach the unhoused. But the question that resonated with everyone was, where were they going to go?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">For Eddie*, an elderly man who lived with his daughter Evelyn*, finding a place to stay was particularly difficult. As they, and a small mass of humanity were rescued from their home, they came to my school for short-term housing. It was here that I found Eddie sitting morosely in the middle of the hallway.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">As a pastor, there are times when I am put (or insert myself) in situations which are completely unexpected. For me to be sitting with Eddie on a rain-soaked Monday afternoon was certainly unexpected and more. For my part, I did not do what a pastor was 'supposed to' do, but what a member of the human race is required to do.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">I sat down with him.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">Eddie was hard of hearing. To make matters worse, my accent was difficult for him. Thus, our interaction was a string of questions (by me) answered by a string of 'Huhs?' (by Eddie). For almost an hour, my first question was asked slowly and deliberately, and the refrain was asked even louder and more deliberately. Finally, I worked out the best way for me to hear Eddie's story and why Evelyn was pacing further up the hallway.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">"It's been a hard day," I said.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">"You think?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">"Have you seen this kind of flood before?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">"Yuh."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">"Tell me about it." It sounds like an abrupt question, but sometimes one is able to read people well enough to know that if I asked Eddie if he wanted to talk about it, he would refuse.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">For a while, I'm not sure how long, Eddie's eyes wandered back to a previous place in a previous time. He jumped from topic to topic, from the last flood a few years ago, to his time on the farm. Acres and acres of wheat and sheep, reaping and shearing, harvest and drought. He spoke of his football playing days, how fast he used to be. Throughout his description of 'used to be,' it was quite apparent that much of his despondency was not about the flooded river, but the flooded emotions of being unable to do the things he wanted to do. At the end of his narrative he fell quiet, and I asked the question that is considered taboo, but I asked it anyway.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">"How old are you, Eddie?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">When he turned to me, I saw the drained tiredness in his eyes. "I'll be ninety at the end of next month."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">"How will you celebrate?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">He snorted. "I won't. Basically, I'm ready for the injection."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">Startled, yet not surprised, I pressed him.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">"When you can't do the things you used to do," he responded, as he stared into the vacant space opposite him, "and you can't enjoy life the way you want to - they won't even let me drive a car anymore - and my daughter has to take care of me and take me to places, it's time to hang up the boots."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">I wanted to object. I wanted to contradict this dark assessment of his life, but there was nothing I could say which would bring back the joy of 'used to be.' His instinct for an injection was rational. Pain and loss can bring us to our knees and a desire to end their influence. And the thought of being placed in a nursing home, even short term, was almost too painful for him. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">"I'm so sorry, Eddie." </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">He grunted, but there was something about empathy that stirred him.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">"Maybe when the waters go down, we can drive over to your house and have a look." </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">It was his turn to be startled. "You would take me to my house?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">"Yes," I answered. It was then, I saw an injection of something different in his life. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">Hope.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">It wasn't simply seeing the house, damaged or otherwise, it was that someone had taken the time to sit with him in the dark hallway of time and shine a light to expose a connected humanity. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">I hope, as you read this, that this episode had very little to do with me, and more to do with a perspective of humankind which injects hope rather than selfishness. A humankind which seeks a joy for the communal rather than a protection of the individual. Even as we see the endless debates over masks and restrictions, wars and threats, anger and outrage, can we not infuse the syringe of the future with hope rather than despair?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;">I hope we can.</span></p>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-76976897925185940302021-10-28T15:02:00.001-05:002021-10-29T16:14:14.569-05:00Limited Resources<span style="font-family: georgia;">As the rain came down this morning, I stared over my coffee cup towards my friend who was smirking. He had lines around his eyes. I knew that he was tired, but we wanted to have coffee. We won't have that many opportunities soon. I'm moving and he's staying.</span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">So that's not so easy.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">He started off our morning conversation this way:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">"I've been meeting up with a lot of people. It seems like the world is full of struggle and tragedy."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I nodded. He's right, but...</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">"I was meeting with another friend who's going through a tough time," he continued, "and we got onto the subject of 'time.' He doesn't know how much he has left. Whatever is still in the hourglass, it never seems enough."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I agreed with him. We don't really think about the time that we have, only the time we don't have. We don't have time for conversations like this because we've spent too much on work, on recreation, on distraction. So we complain that we have 'don't have time' to slow down because life is fast.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">My friend agrees with me on this, but he actually acts on it.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">"As my friend and I are talking, I said to him, 'We don't realize how precious a resource is until it's limited."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">My mind caught there. Like a skipping record, I realized that he had expressed something I'd been pondering for a long time. Not the old flippant, 'Time is Money," but time is the most important resource that we have. But just like any other gift we have, time isn't just <i>spent</i> it should be <i>shared.</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">We're bombarded by the media today the limitations of resources. Pipelines are being nixed, there are shortages of fuel and deliveries; people are worried that there won't be enough presents for Christmas (what has the world come to?), there's even a question of supply chains not bringing us the goods we need for everyday life. (Toilet paper shortages, anyone?)</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">These media driven fears are all a distraction from the fact that there is only one resource for humanity that is completely limited, and that's time.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">And yet we waste it on so many things that don't matter. We spend frivolously on things that don't mean anything. I'm preaching to myself even before anyone else.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Yet one of my other friends spoke just as profoundly to me the other day as he left the church. He said, 'Pastor Reid, thank you for sharing time with me.'</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Incredibly, I was stabbed through the heart, because this person expressed the truest of all truisms - when we think about time as something being shared, it is multiplied. That sounds odd and perhaps cliched, but it is true. As he and I sat together over a cup of tea, time seemed to cease to exist. Just two people who had all the time in the world.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">As each of us draws closer to the end of the line, the last grain of sand in the hourglass, whatever metaphor you want to use for the end of life, wouldn't it be great if our world recognized that this limited resource is so precious, that not a second of it should be wasted, but shared. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I hope you have a chance to reach out to someone you love today and share time with them.</span></div><div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div></div>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-56987964613271001582021-09-27T21:59:00.000-05:002021-09-27T21:59:16.823-05:00Laces Out<p> Around 8:00 p.m., a nine-year-old boy came to me with a problem.</p><p>It had been a long day. It started early, around 5:30 in the morning: packing, checking, rechecking the list for all the things one might need on a 3rd and 4th grade school camp. </p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Sleeping bag and pillow - Check</li><li>Towel and bathroom necessities - Check</li><li>Ear plugs - Check</li><li>Patience - Pick some up on the way</li></ul><div>If you've ever been at camp before, there are always things one forgets, whether deodorant, toothbrush, pillow or clean socks. But what one can't (or shouldn't) forget, is an open mind ready for fun.</div><div><br /></div><div>For many people, chaperoning camp might sound like a foray into one of Dante's circles of Hades, somewhere between Anger and Heresy. Yet for me, there is something incredible and uplifting about seeing young people away from their devices and left to their own devices to entertain themselves and others through conversations and laughter.</div><div><br /></div><div>We arrived at the campsite on a particularly beautiful afternoon. The sun shone across a vast expanse of grass, then to the right over a rustic looking Old West village replete with hitching posts and dorms labeled "Barber, Locksmith, Saddler and Bank." In the back of the camp were two sets of adventure opportunities, a 'Tarzan' swing and a Flying Fox, both of which were underlined by woodchips for safety. I'm pretty sure those wood chips were for the adults that pretended they were still kids. The young ones tended to land on their feet whereas the older ones tended to land on their... well, you know.</div><div><br /></div><div>Throughout the day, after various activities from rock climbing to laser tag, archery to low ropes courses, I thought for sure that the kids would be as tired as I was. By 5:30 p.m. when the dinner bell rang summoning voraciously hungry children to the dining hall, I was exhausted. Sometimes you forget the limitless batteries that kids have (and you used to have) that don't really need recharging, just cooling down.</div><div><br /></div><div>As the decibel level in the cafeteria rose to ear-shattering proportions, one of the teachers spoke over the din with the microphone.</div><div><br /></div><div>"After dinner, when everything is all cleaned up, you'll be allowed some free time before we have our closing calm-down."</div><div><br /></div><div>The cheer went up. Free time, of course, was the icing on the camp cake, and I wondered in the swirling cyclone of noise how the teachers actually planned on calming them down. Other than a plane flying over head dusting the camp with tranquilizers, I had no idea how tranquility might settle. <i>Oh well, </i>I thought to myself, <i>I can always sleep next year.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>After dinner finished, the dishes were packed up, the last announcements made, the kids were released from their bondage of the cafeteria through a crack in the door and they burst from it like water from a dam. </div><div><br /></div><div>The adults, we teachers and parents, were asked to 'supervise' the free time which basically meant that we were strategically positioned around the Old West village to make sure that there was no shoot out (kids getting angry with each other) no stampede (kids getting trampled by each other) no bank robberies (kids entering other rooms and looting stashed candy and other goodies) and no jail breaks (kids running off into the night to test out the Tarzan swing or the Flying Fox). </div><div><br /></div><div>I was positioned like Wyatt Earp between the Livery and the Grocery Store. As free time went on, more and more children had decided to 'Ding Dong Dash' which was to rap on the door of whichever kids had barricaded themselves in the room and then run away screaming with delight that they were so clever and clandestine. </div><div><br /></div><div>Thus entered the boy with a problem. He was one of the 'ding dong dashers,' a bright faced, brown-eyed boy with rosy cheeks and sweaty hair. Looking up at me with pleading eyes, he asked for help.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Pastor Reid, can you help me tie my shoes?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"Of course," I responded without extra thought. I suppose at nine years of age he should have been able to tie his own shoes, but what difference does it make? I only have one pair of shoes anymore that actually has laces.</div><div><br /></div><div>I could see the problem immediately. Along the tongue of both shoes, a twist had shown up not allowing the laces to be tightened, thus his impediment for dashing while ding donging. He stood above me (impatiently, but grateful) glancing around at all the frantic activity across the Old West village. I could tell he wanted me to hurry. This may have been a new occurrence in his life. Many of the young people had mentioned how little time they spent outdoors - most played video games in their off time. To run and jump and laugh and interact with other young people, not simply at school, but here in the 'real world' was a learning opportunity and he wanted to get back at it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Finally, with great relish, I finished tying his shoes. His smile was as wide as the western horizon. Amazingly, he didn't run away quickly, but stopped and thanked me. And then said, 'Now, I can go play again.'</div><div><br /></div><div>The older I get, the more I recognize that's why we're put on earth. To help the next generation 'go play again.' To provide spaces where they can learn to connect, to learn safe (calculated) risks, to be without a screen and make memories. Sometimes kids face obstacles, much greater than loose laces; whether emotional, educational, family situational or otherwise. And it would be easy for us (and often times it happens) to overlook their struggles by focusing on our own: the mortgage, work, marriage, stress, our own personal/emotional difficulties. Of course we can't disconnect from our own problems, but alleviating the distress of a child sometimes changes our perspective and brings a new dawn beyond the setting sun.</div><div><br /></div><div>This week, if you have a chance, find ways to tie the laces of young people around you. Whether this is literal or metaphorical, watch the reaction of those who are allowed to go play again.</div><p></p>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-12169482962725790572021-09-13T23:07:00.004-05:002021-09-13T23:07:49.134-05:00Music to My Ears<p> Do you ever wonder if anybody listens anymore?</p><p>The current scourge of listening impairment is built upon decades long ear-plugging. Maybe it was the infuriating 'Talk to the hand 'cause the ears ain't listening,' or the equally dismissive 'Oh, no you di-n't' that started this blooming mess of social deafness. In any case, we can certainly quote an oft overlooked movie <i>Cool Hand Luke:</i></p><p>"What we have here is a failure to communicate."</p><p>In a world that has ceaseless avenues of communication, from analog letter writing to digital forms of modern day social media, we fail to communicate the <i>right</i> things. Certainly, our digital words speak a thousand pictures, but almost always they are meant to intimidate, pressure and demonize. Take, for instance, the story of Leigh Sales, a journalist for the ABC (Australian Broadcasting Company) who regularly takes to task politicians keeping them honest. Here is what she said about the current culture of social media:</p><p><span style="font-family: abcsans, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> "</span><span style="font-family: abcsans, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">It is that the bullying and harassment now comes, not in an occasional phone call from a real person, but at a furious pace on social media from politicians' acolytes, lackeys, fans and proxies, mostly — but not always — operating anonymously. </span><span style="font-family: abcsans, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">It is non-stop, personal, often vile, frequently unhinged and regularly based on fabrications. It has the effect of an angry phone call from a politician magnified thousands of times over."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: abcsans, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">(</span><span style="font-family: abcsans, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "Segoe UI", Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> </span><a href="https://www.abc.net.au/news/2021-09-14/twitter-social-media-bullies-political-journalism/100458714">Bullying on Twitter has become unhinged. It's time to call out the personal, sexist attacks - ABC News</a>)</p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Notice the 'vile, unhinged' part. Has anyone noticed how this has become the norm, not the outlier? Some would chalk this up to people who 'can't take a joke,' or 'this is part of your job, deal with it.' But harassment on this level serves no purpose other than to destroy the very thing that makes humanity human - communication. Over the last years, people have stopped talking to each other, they've stopped reasoning with each other, they've stopped caring for each other for fear that somewhere and somehow, their good intentions will be transformed into duplicitous aims. And why? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">To build a platform. Lord, I almost loathe that phrase now. And the irony is, I'm using a Blogger 'platform' to generate an idea that hopefully will help in the dark night of someone's digital misery. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Whatever happened to the delight of something like Ephesians 4:29... </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>No foul language should come out of your mouth, but only what is good for building up someone in need, so that it gives grace to those who hear. (Christian Standard Bible)</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Now I know that many people view the Bible as antiquated and out of date with our current realities, but to speak well of others interpreting the things that they do in the best possible light? This is good and helpful stuff. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here is a miracle that I would love to see happen: Social media transformed from a platform of self-aggrandizement and political warfare, to a celebration of life together and an interpretation of others' acts in the best possible light. Still, of course, calling out injustice (but seen through the lens of communal good, not personal interpretation), so that this world can inch towards a more beautiful place for everyone. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">How about that for communication?</span></p>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-10633290532732408112021-08-31T20:51:00.000-05:002021-08-31T20:51:08.227-05:00Cricket Church<p>When I use the word 'cricket' in the United States, an image of a fiddle-playing black insect springs to mind. It brings back memories of summer evenings, windows open, a warm breeze filtering in through the screen and the crickets singing for company, a symphony of summer love.</p><p>But when I use the word 'cricket' in Australia, it has to do with a pitch (the field on which a game is played), a wicket, (not the one that lives on Endor) and bowling, (but there are not ten pins and the ball is <i>much</i> lighter). It is not a game I grew up with, and one with which I only have a passing interest in. For those who have mastered the art of Test Cricket (a true test of endurance and patience - FIVE DAYS of bunting and foul balls, I think) I can appreciate the skill involved.</p><p>The other day, as I was walking home from work wandering across a path I don't normally take, I stumbled across a pickup cricket game on a pitch in an isolated park. The late afternoon was bright and gloriously sunny; laughter could be heard - some heckling and a few players idling behind the wickets (a set of thin posts behind the batter with a piece of wood on top). As it is not my game, I wouldn't normally have stopped, but I walked close enough to one of the players and thought I'd have a chat.</p><p>He looked like Jesus, maybe that's why.</p><p>"Hey, you want to play?" I looked around to see if he was actually speaking to me, but his smile was wide.</p><p>"Uh, sure, I'd love to." That might have been a slight overstatement, but what I'm finding lately is, that if I've been invited to do something, I will think twice before rejecting the invitation.</p><p>There was a crack of the bat and he took off running. "Maybe next time, okay?" He laughed and inwardly I was thankful that my skills for cricket wouldn't be put on display. Although similar to baseball, cricket certainly has its own quirks that confound me. Especially hitting the ball off a bounce.</p><p>I moved down the line of fielders and stopped next to one whose arms were folded. He looked like more of a bystander than an outfielder. "Hello," his voice was soft, but welcoming. He had glasses on and his accent was open and rich. He was from India, he told me eventually. All of the guys playing were. </p><p>"Are you good at this game?" I asked.</p><p>"Not particularly," he chuckled, "but I like being with my friends."</p><p>"What do you talk about?"</p><p>"Home."</p><p>At that moment, we felt like brothers. I think about home a lot nowadays. When there is no possible way to travel, connect and to feel the warm embrace of people you haven't seen for a while, there is an ache and an itch that cannot be soothed or scratched.</p><p>"What do you miss about it?"</p><p>His eyes stared to the west, the golden sun reflecting in his brown eyes. "Everything: sights, sounds, smells, but mostly people. But," he came back to the present, "I have these guys, my friends. It will be okay."</p><p>I nodded. It was all I could think of to do. We stood side by side, strangers on a similar journey, watching the game. For a moment we stood like that, then I turned and bid him goodbye. Suddenly, though, I remembered my manners. "I should have introduced myself. I'm Reid." He smiled and told me his name, then, almost as an illicit afterthought in our pandemic world, he reached out his hand. "Nice to meet you. I hope I see you again."</p><p>As I walked the last kilometer home, I thought about the experience and its implications for a Cricket Church. I noticed that the first instinct of the players was to invite me into the game. Even though I didn't know the rules, even though I might be seen as a hindrance to the team, even though I didn't look or sound like them, invitation without expectation is the first thought.</p><p>You see, for them, this game was about remembering - an echo of home. The Church, its worship, the way it works and lives and moves, is about remembering the echo from Home. Even as the writer of Hebrews reminds us that all the people of faith, foreigners in a land of promise, "saw (the promises) from a great distance, greeted them and confessed they were foreigners and temporary residents on the earth. Now those who say such things make it clear that they are seeking a homeland. If they were thinking about where they came from, they would have had an opportunity to return. But they now desire a better place - a heavenly one. Therefore, God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them." (Hebrews 11:13-16 CSB).</p><p>There is an echo of heaven inside all of us, resounding quietly in the corners of our souls, reminding us that even though this life is good (and hard), there is something better.</p><p>What if the Church was like this? Instead of worrying about better sermons, or upbeat music, or making sure that Sunday morning worship was 'perfect', or even inviting people to come along to a building, what if we simply did what we were made to do and walk alongside fellow sojourners who are all seeking a common homeland - heaven. Along that journey, we tell the stories of the path that brought us together; along the journey, we admit that we don't know all the rules and, frankly, that the game confuses us sometimes; along the journey, we recognize that although the game will have fun moments, eventually there will be a time to put the bat down and we will be called home. What if we didn't see the Church's mission as programs, resources or 'targeting' groups, but simply a matter of connection through story?</p><p>Doesn't that sound like Church to you?</p><p>When we turn to leave from the game, the Church extends a hand of blessing, an exchange of names and the opportunity for a 'see you later.' Because in the end, that's what it all adds up to. 'I'll see you when we're all called home.'</p><p>I hope that wherever you are, you can find your own 'Cricket Church.'</p>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-76649596317396600842021-08-16T23:11:00.001-05:002021-08-17T04:00:42.808-05:00Gently into that Good Night<p>Well, here we are, twenty-months into the incessant conversation starter, filler and finisher, that is COVID-19. Interspersed with climate change, race relations and a filled quota of natural disasters, the news certainly is not a place one wants to dwell too long.</p><p>As I watch, or listen to the media reports, I have noticed something about myself and my fellow humanity that surround me: </p><p>We are really selfish.</p><p>Generally, I don't mind watching the news as long as it doesn't really apply to me. I hear phrases from others like, 'Thank goodness we don't live in (fill in the blank). There are so many selfish people there. You know, the ones that load into their cars and just drive everywhere. Automobile superspreaders! How dare they invade us here in (fill in the blank)!' Or, one of my favorites: 'There are some good things about the global pandemic - at least air traffic has dried up somewhat. So much better for our environment.' When questioned about how others felt who had family in some other far place, they sheepishly responded, 'Jeez, don't get offended. I'm like, just sayin..."</p><p>Surely, I am one of the offenders in my own private thoughts, as I want to rip off the mask; I want to hug my neighbor; I want to travel anywhere. Because the virus/climate/race/natural disaster hasn't affected me imminently, my selfish tendency is to tell everyone to put on their big person pants and move on. </p><p>I am selfish, and yet that is not unprecedented. Not for me. Not for anyone. Not just because of the highly politicized and unproductive talks about COVID and its vaccines, masks and whatever.</p><p>Here is an example:</p><p>During World War II, German submarines patrolled the eastern seaboard of the United States in hopes to sink or destroy American warships. Unfortunately, as the warships steamed north and south along the coast, the background lights of the American cities illuminated the ships making them easy targets for the submarines. Thus, it should have been an easy choice for the American coastal dwellers to acquiesce to the ordered blackouts which would save the lives of the sailors.</p><p>Instead, there was an outcry from Atlantic City to Miami Beach, "If you turn off the lights, you'll ruin the tourist season!"</p><p>Does that sound familiar?</p><p>If you make me wear a mask, if you keep me at home, if you put restrictions on me, you'll ruin my tourist life! You'll ruin my entertainment! You'll drive me crazy by staying at home! You'll take away my freedom!</p><p>Do I like to wear a mask? No, not at all. Do I like that people aren't allowed to embrace each other, or are limited at funerals and weddings? No, not at all. Do I like that some members of my family have been suffering from endless lockdowns, ridiculously inconsistent restrictions, and baseless fearmongering from the media? No, not at all. But for the greater good, I will acquiesce during this time to keep people a little bit safer (except from the baseless media fearmongering. I will keep speaking out about that). </p><p>Why will I do this? Because I think we've been called by God to 'rejoice in the Lord always,' (Philippians 4:4a) even in the midst of endless reports of tragedy. This does not mean to celebrate tragedy, but to walk with people in the midst of it to remind them that 'The Lord is near.' (Philippians 4:4c)</p><p>And what does this gentleness accomplish? It shows the world that faithful people everywhere, no matter denomination or view on vaccination, can express compassion to everyone (Philippians 4:5). This gentleness might be the only vaccination against the dread that is spreading so quickly, far more rapidly than the virus. This gentleness and selflessness might be the only thing that helps us to persevere through an unseen and difficult future, an endless night of questioning fear.</p><p>I encourage you who are reading this: Be gentle. Be patient. Be kind. </p><p>God is near.</p>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-33717160320775747832021-01-21T20:25:00.000-06:002021-01-21T20:25:44.407-06:00The Church in Palliative Care<p>It's painful to write this.</p><p>When someone you know and love is nearing the point when they must make decisions about the end of life as we know it, we tend to desperately desire a miracle. Pleading with God, bargaining with the Fates, raging against the machinations of a seemingly fickle existence, we pray that the disease might be taken away so that we can return to normal life.</p><p>All of us know someone, maybe more than one person, who is dealing with a debilitating and (often) terminal illness. Whether cancer, motor neuron disease, Parkinson's or dementia, these painful and difficult attacks on the body push us to confront our own mortality but even more present, the mortality of those we love who are about to be moved into the dreaded realm of memory only.</p><p>In times like these, the dying process can be helped by utilising palliative care where the 'aims are to give the best possible quality of life to someone who is seriously ill or about to die. It helps people live life as comfortably as possible.' (Health Direct definition)</p><p>During the palliative process, the dying and their families are given options. In palliative care, the patient and family do not necessarily end all treatments, but they do get to select which treatments are important and which are not.'</p><p>The Church, as we know it, is dying. There are many diseases that have ravaged the body over the centuries and it has survived. I won't list the cancers or syndromes that have been chronicled <i>ad nauseum</i> by a particularly virulent anti-religious world press. But it feels like in the last twenty-five years or so, the writing has been on the wall. The Church that we've known and loved, the place of relationship and connection, of spiritual health and healing, of music and ministry to the joyful and the bereaved, is waiting for the end.</p><p>There are options of course. Treatments will not end. Worship in buildings will continue. We will share the stories of the past with great fondness. Just like getting together with a loved one as they move on from this life to the next sharing humorous moments, loving times of connection, we, the Church, will gather to reminisce about the time Jane accidentally tipped the communion cup onto the floor, Ezra knocked out a window playing baseball in the church hall or those wonderful Christmas services where we came together to celebrate a God who descended to us as Immanuel - a baby born for all people.</p><p>Yes, we will still share the stories and we'll make the church feel comfortable as the pain overtakes it. As it writhes intermittently in agony with the shock and fear of what comes next, we will attempt to treat it with loving kindness, hold its hand and tell it we loved everything about it - the good, the bad and the exquisite.</p><p>The statistics don't lie.</p><p>We don't need to be spiritual doctors to read the charts. All metrics for church 'attendance' are down. Buildings are being closed and repurposed. Financial donations are shrinking. A secular world that has no interest in the things of the Spirit tears down faithful, caring and serving communities because of their financial mania.</p><p>The building is crumbling.</p><p>And yet isn't this the very thing that Jesus spoke about when they were on a lovely morning walk? "As he was going out of the temple, one of his disciples said to him, 'Teacher, look! What impressive buildings!' Jesus said to him, 'Do you see great buildings? Not one stone will be left upon another - all will be thrown down.' (Mark 13:1,2)</p><p>In John 2:19-21, "Jesus answered (the Jewish officials), 'Destroy this temple, and I will raise it up in three days.' Therefore they responded, 'This temple took forty-six years to build, and will you raise it up in three days?' But Jesus was speaking the temple of his body.</p><p>Isn't Jesus still speaking about the temple of his body? Isn't the body of Christ still the people of Christ, the living, moving and breathing church? The people who, from the very beginning, '...were God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works which God prepared ahead of time for us to do? (Ephesians 2:10)</p><p>As the buildings of churches around the world enter the final phase of their existence, the next generation of faithful, those who have received the stories of a loving God from the faithful before them, must have 'their eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith.' (Hebrews 12:2)</p><p>The living, moving and breathing Church, the people, <i>must</i> seek God's vision for the people post-church building/temple age. </p><p>What does this look like?</p><p>Well, we have the opportunity to treat the building-centric church with dignity, care and respect. We continue treatments of joy and celebration for all that God has done. We remember. Simultaneously, we engage the collective energy and wisdom of new generations of believers who are chomping at the bit to understand both their faith and how it is employed into the same world that has brought about the last gasp of the building-centric church. We, as older members of the body, diligently take a step back to hear and to be led by the newest church full of what John Perry Barlow calls 'Digital Natives' who understand the next phase of building up the Church and reinforcing it with spiritual pillars rather than those of stone.</p><p>Next week, we'll have an interview with some young people about what it means to be part of the 'Resurrected Church' and what priorities are for the future.</p>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-69822952010332837462021-01-14T23:45:00.000-06:002021-01-14T23:45:26.362-06:00The Bicycle Shop<p>A man wanted to get his bicycle fixed. There was something wrong with the gears - they wouldn't switch properly and they kept catching so that his foot kept slipping and he was tipping over. Years ago (it had been many years since the bike had a tune-up) the man took the bike to a repair shop in the city. The repairman had done such a good job: not only were the gears lubed and rusty parts exchanged, but the brakes worked without screaming and tire tubes were replaced and inflated.</p><p>"I'll go back there," the man said and loaded up his bike in the car.</p><p>When he reached the address, the man pulled the bicycle from the car and wheeled it up to the front door where he noticed a large sign written in block letters on the door:</p><p><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">Moved to 371 1st Street - great new location!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">Sorry for the inconvenience, but thank you in advance for your business!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The man was very frustrated. He'd stuffed his bicycle into the back end of the car, he'd driven all the way into the city and then wheeled it up to the front door. This is where bicycle repairs took place - not somewhere else.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The man had options at his disposal, though:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">1. In his frustration, he could pack the bike back up and take it home. To heck with getting it fixed. He didn't need it anyway.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">2. Even though he thought the shop owner did a really good job, he could disparage him online for inconveniencing him. Then, when he really needed the bicycle, he could take it to the new location.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">3. Or, he could just wait at the old repair shop hoping for his bicycle to be miraculously changed simply by staying where the old shop was.</span></p><p>4. He could pack the bike back up and take it to the new location and get his bike fixed. It was even closer to home than the city!</p><p>This scenario, allegorically speaking, works really well for the 21st century Church. For a long time it feels as if the Church hasn't been moving as smoothly as it used to. Switching gears is hard, our feet slip and, maybe, the tires feel a little flat. Making disciples has always been hard, but in the contemporary world of digital communication and information gathering, we struggle to find ways to stimulate the imagination of a world that is overstimulated by everything else.</p><p>The Church does have a choice for the future and they can come from the analogies above:</p><p>1. The Church can just pack it in now. Worship used to be the main draw card for people to encounter Jesus - invite people to a Sunday morning 'experience,' let them (hopefully) hear a good, uplifting sermon that helps them to feel good about themselves, sing with the band (or organ, for that fact) some popular Christian songs, have a cup of coffee with your friends and then go home for a roast dinner that you put in the oven before you left for church. </p><p>I hear some saying, 'Those were the good days of Christianity, when it was easier.' We can't do that now, so let's just wait until the church doors close and then pray for Jesus' return.</p><p>2. God was so good when he was blessing us with all the new families, and the new programs, and a budget in the black, but now that things have turned - 2020 hit us, COVID blasted away at all the things that were good - maybe God is struggling with this omniscience and omnipotence. We know what humans are like in the 21st century. We know that they need a quick worship service, some online social media memes and a <i>gentle </i>encouragement to live better lives. But if things get really bad... he promised he'd never leave us, right?</p><p>3. Many churches choose this option because it seems to be the easiest. Twenty, thirty or forty years ago, God fixed all our problems by showing us contemporary worship, youth bowling nights and Sunday School. But it's too hard to do that now - everyone's so busy, and there is soccer on Sundays, and, oh, football games tend to get in the way. Maybe if we just change the service times, people will start coming back.</p><p>If we just stay where we are, the Spirit will eventually find us again.</p><p>4. Or, we could move to the address where God has called us to be and it might not even look like the traditional Church. More thoughts on that next week...</p><p>So, I'm leaving you with this fill in the blank statement: When I came to know Jesus it was because of ________.</p><p><br /></p>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-14767937024796557342020-11-11T20:47:00.000-06:002020-11-11T20:47:20.178-06:00Leaving Offense: Three Ways to Live a Life Free of the Chains of Offense<p>My daughter, Josephine, went to the Post Office the other day. As she stood in line, socially distanced, waiting to top up her MetroCard, she noticed that the attendant was a conversationalist. Because conversation in public is on the endangered list, Josephine took the time to have a chat. Here is a recap of the interaction (as best as I can write it down from Josephine's descriptions).</p><p>Post Office Employee: Good morning! How are you today?</p><p>Josephine: Very good, thank you. A beautiful morning outside today.</p><p>POE: Wonderful. Now, what are wanting to do today?</p><p>Josephine: I'd like to top up my MetroCard.</p><p>POE: (typing in the computer) So you go into the city a lot?</p><p>Josephine: I'm at university.</p><p>POE: What are you studying?</p><p>Josephine: Chemical engineering.</p><p>POE: Wow. Not many girls in that, are there?</p><p>Josephine: (stays quiet but grinds her teeth and smiles)</p><p>POE: Are you passing?</p><p>Now, everyone person who reads this, or even hears the story, has already had the narrative prepared in advance for that which should occur next. This is just what we do in the 21st century.</p><p>Step 1: Be offended.</p><p>Step 2: Take offense and tell the Postal Employee that his outdated, ageist, misogynistic ideas are shameful in the current century. Half of the students in her class are women, than you very much.</p><p>Step 3: Post her frustration and outrage online. Everyone should know about this episode. Social media should be invited to take part in the outrage party and eventually, if there is enough public shame frenzy whipped up, this postal employee should get fired (or cancelled, in this present age).</p><p>Step 4: Continue to stew over the event and feel victimised by the moment. </p><p>Step 5: Perpetuate the pain of offense inwardly until it alters the way she looks at other people, especially men, in general.</p><p>Okay, so you've followed with me in this over-exaggerated, step-filled process. When I first heard her retell the story, I found myself wanting to march down to the Post and give him a piece of a father's mind: women have every opportunity and every ability to do chemical engineering. But when I looked into my daughter's face, I found wisdom well beyond a parent's protective response.</p><p>Josephine had stopped the narrative after step 1.</p><p>Josephine had every right to be offended. She had every right to be angry and affronted by the naivete of this man and his outdated understanding. <i><u>Being</u></i> offended is one of the few ways that we experience enough frustration to speak out and change what's actually wrong.</p><p>But step 2 is the killer.</p><p>Once you take the offense, you pack it into your bag and you carry it with you. The offense is acidic and it eats away at the entirety of your joy. When you take offense and worry over it in your mind, it becomes something even more significant in your daily life. You find that what used to bring you happiness sits chained in the shadow of that offending moment.</p><p>Thus, here are three ways to break the chains of offense in life: (these are not exhaustive)</p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Leave the Offense Where You Found It</b></span></p><p>Like a coin glittering in the pit of an outhouse, the offense is nice and shiny and seems to have value. But really, retrieving it and polishing it up is actually not worth the effort. It just makes you holding... well, something covered in... um... someone else's issues.</p><p>In Josephine's story, imagine if Josephine would have gone off on the postal employee who, in some ways, was just asking a question about how Josephine was doing in university with her classes. In berating him, she leaves herself wide open for a negative response. She also slams the door on being able to offer a moment of education to him - like women in engineering was not just a thing of the present, but also of the past. She might even begin the next part of the conversation with, "Yes, I'm passing, and I love it. I want to follow in the footsteps of great chemical engineers like Joan Berkowitz who helped solve problems with pollution and waste." This might even intrigue the Postal Employee to immediately Google 'Joan Berkowitz' right after she leaves (which I hope you do also).</p><p>Solomon had something to say about this, too. Proverbs 19:11 <i>A person's insight gives him or her patience, and their virtue is to overlook the offense.</i></p><p>A helpful virtue to have.</p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Kick the Offense into the Gutter</b></span></p><p>Taking offense serves no purpose whatsoever other than to stir up difficulty in one's own life. Once you have moved on to Steps 3-5, you open yourself up for hypocrisy. </p><p>And, hypocrisy is a murderer of most good things.</p><p>All of our lives are exposed to media, recording, visual reminders that we are being watched constantly. The moment we post something entirely negative about an offense taken, there is always a person we have offended in the past who rolls their eyes, points a finger and says, 'Yeah, poor baby, but what about the time you...'</p><p>Ecclesiastes 7:21,22 <i>Don't pay attention to everything people say, or you may hear your servant cursing you, for in your heart you know that many times you yourself have cursed others.</i></p><p>Soon, the offense you took and posted online has suddenly become a dagger in the hands of an old enemy and it is plunged straight at your back. You never even saw it coming.</p><p>Kick that offense right into the sewer so that you can...</p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Move On</b></span></p><p>It's forgiveness, not forgetness. When we move on, we are allowed the gift of forgiveness which might be less for the other person and more for ourselves. We won't forget that moment of offense. We won't forget the times when someone said something inconsiderate or unconscionable.</p><p>But it can be a henna tattoo rather than an ink one.</p><p>Move on. </p><p>Don't stare into the gutter where you've kicked the offense. Keep going. Enjoy the very things and gifts that God has given you to do. </p><p>Colossians 3:12,13 <i>Therefore, as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, put on compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience, bearing with one another and forgiving one another if anyone has a grievance against another. Just as the Lord has forgiven you, so you are also to forgive.</i></p><p>If God can move on, we can too.</p><p>I pray that you can break all chains of offense in your life.</p>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-52408466430448641082020-10-05T01:09:00.000-05:002020-10-05T01:09:08.644-05:00The Wild Silence<p>There is a place on the Onkaparinga River, just past the chattering rapids, just beyond the clamouring spindrifts where the currents and the cataracts copulate, where the water makes no noise. Most hikers do not spend much time in this silent place. Their eyes, ears and thoughts are on far busier vistas - perhaps waterfalls around the next corner, or billowing trees swinging in the wind. No, most people do not pause at the still place where the eddies have turned and flipped making it seem as if the river is running backwards.</p><p>I wondered to myself at that moment why we don't stop in these quiet places. Is it because we are so captivated by movement and sound that we cannot be bothered to stop? Or, is it because the silence speaks louder to the mortal soul, whispering, ever so slightly, that the river of time is as unstoppable as the Onkaparinga?</p><p>In this wider place, the quiet seemed to catch the hands of time and slow them down, and I was grateful. I was thankful that I could find refuge in the wall of silence and think. </p><p>Just think.</p><p>This inability to pause is a product of the world in which we live. The human species alternates between needing space and needing attention. We withdraw into the cocoon we've spun, a coffin of self-interest, fed intravenously by the internet while excreting the byproducts of our neuroses - these unconscious and automatic ways in which we attempt to deal with our individual and collective anxieties. We distract ourselves from the knowledge that none of this, and none of us, is permanent. Through the manipulation of endorphins, or dopamine, entertainment, sex, drugs and rock and roll, we wend our way through life pushing noisily from one thing to the next but often missing the very thing that makes life worth living.</p><p>Meaning.</p><p>We miss it. In our constant search for adventure, the longest pause we take is for a selfie on top of Blueberry Hill where we've been searching for a thrill that was never up there in the first place. The thrill is actually in the valley, in the wild silence, where our thoughts and imaginations are given room to grow. </p><p>You see, we've tamed the towns and the cities and the urban wastelands. Inside the city limits, almost all things are controlled, from what we eat to what we wear, what we say to what we see. The limitations placed upon our thoughts are a weedmat for what we believe. They actually produces the very things we are most anxious about:</p><p>I am alone. I am valueless. Life has no meaning.</p><p>Yet when we push down into the gorges of our life, pausing, yes, to see the rapids and the foaming beauty brought about by the recent rains, we could enter the wilderness of silence. Here, we can imagine the moment of creation, the beauty of the human soul and how much better life is finding meaning.</p><p>I have people to walk with. I have abilities and talents that other people need. There is a greater good in the world than the parameters we've been given. Suddenly, I realize that I don't <i>need </i>noise. I don't need the next best thing, or see what's around the corner. I suddenly understand, that this second in which I live is permanent and fixed and I can find beauty in it. Whether I am happy or in pain is irrelevant. </p><p>Our rapidly moving world which never halts, never breaks off its endless march to be more efficient, pushes us to the tenuous limits of our exhaustion and we wonder, 'Why am I always tired?' Isn't it because we never stop not only to smell the roses, but their beautiful cousins next door? If I never get off the treadmill, I'll never rest.</p><p>So today, as we walked back from that place on the Onkaparinga River, that stretch beyond the big boulder where the brown water seemed to flow backwards, I felt better. I went into the wild silence and found rest.</p><p>Where is your place of wild silence?</p>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-89885840128375916472020-09-17T21:14:00.001-05:002020-09-17T23:32:57.862-05:00Monger<div>Throughout my life I (and I'm guessing you) have encountered a lot of people who have tried to sell me something. Through this process, I've developed a pretty healthy sense of scepticism when someone says to me, 'This is not a sales call..."</div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah, right.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's not that I don't understand economics, marketing and selling, but it seems like business is so, I don't know,<i> invasive</i>, you know what I mean? Telemarketers, television advertisements, thousands and thousands of promotions in my email box and on the web pages I visit. Heck, supposedly my phone is listening to me (that is so weird to write) to eavesdrop so that businesses can get a headstart on what kinds of things I might buy.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is frustrating beyond belief. I've come to a point in my life when I'm pretty happy with the things (and the amount of things) that I've been fortunate enough to place into my house, but every time someone tries to see me something, I get this... itch that I can't scratch. I have this worm that wriggles through my conscience that says, a little bigger TV would make your life better, a better bottle of wine, maybe a vacation in a galaxy far, far away.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, I give into the temptation to listen to TVmongers, winemongers, vacationmongers, any kind of mongers that will distract me from the despair that seems to grip the world and squeeze the love out of it. The current and best selling monger is the fearmonger. </div><div><br /></div><div>Let's face it: fear sells, and it's very convincing.</div><div><br /></div><div>As Christians it can be very easy to buy into this. When Jesus said that there would be persecutions, struggle, and lives rife with pain, death and loss, it's easy to fork over a lot of emotional and relational capital to build walls of safety. But the great lie in this advertising is that the purchase does not actual inoculate you from any of these things. It only reinforces the reality that life is short and the<i> things</i> we purchase are for less valuable than the people we share them with.</div><div><br /></div><div>The opposite corollary is what we, as the human race, should be selling. Actually, we should be giving it away.</div><div><br /></div><div>We should be hopemongers.</div><div><br /></div><div>The fearmongers circle like buzzards hoping that this present generation will give into fear. They hope that the corpse of collective humanity falls down, pulseless, stricken dead by the despair-pill it has swallowed. But as Christians, we understand the polar opposite, that the life giving force of the Gospel written in Paul's words gives hope: "You are a new creation. The old has gone, the new has come." </div><div><br /></div><div>In Christ, fear doesn't have to control us. Our selfish natural tendencies don't have to buy into the fear mongering. Satan has no power over the one who has already been made new.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here is hope. And I give it to you for free.</div><div><br /></div><div>Notice how Paul speaks to the people of Rome who suffered exactly the same things that we are today - even more! Persecution, sickness, temptation to give into idolatry, fear of the future:</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Therefore, since we have been declared righteous by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ. We have also obtained access through him by faith into this grace in which we stand, and we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>And not only that, but we also rejoice in our afflictions, because we know that afflictions produce endurance, endurance produces proven character and proven character produces hope. This hope will not disappoint us, because God's love has been pour out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit given to us.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Hopeongering in a world full of the opposite. And it's not even for sale - it's given away for free because the price was paid for by the giver of hope.</div><div><br /></div><div>If there is anything worthwhile holding onto today, I hope you can take hold of the hope in Jesus.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-40038802275232854142020-08-26T22:05:00.002-05:002020-08-27T15:20:37.467-05:00The Wrestler<div>The foam mat was semi-squishy, kind of like my nerves. </div><div><br /></div><div>After lacing up my high top shoes, donning my plastic ear guards and turning to my coach who was doing his best to pump me for the match, I noticed that his enthusiasm lacked authenticity. His smile kind of hung lopsided on his chin and his eyes had kind of a<i> cringy</i> look, as if he was already thinking a little further into the future.</div><div><br /></div><div>You see, I was an undersized, underdeveloped, frightened twelve-year-old wrestler who wanted to be doing anything - anything at all, even homework, or the dishes - than facing off in a spandex singlet grappling with another twelve-year old, underdeveloped and frightened boy. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was the last match of the year. I had participated in seven of these contests. Pretty much after the first one I wanted to quit, but quitting was not acceptable in the Matthias family. If you said you were going to do something, you did it. But the coach's reservations about my abilities were real: I had won one match. Generally, I was finished off by the end of the first period; if I was lucky, I'd make it through the second. These three periods, each a minute in length, seemed interminable. The minutes stretched into eons as we entered the circle and into the fray, faced each other, one foot forward, hands ready and raised. Frankly, I just wanted it to be over, but my competitive nature did not allow me to simply flop onto the ground and pin myself.</div><div><br /></div><div>The referee would blow his whistle and we would grapple.<i> Mano y mano.</i> Hand to hand, man to man - there was no outside assistance.</div><div><br /></div><div>Once locked into the struggle, I knew I was losing. The other boy obviously had a strength (and will) advantage. My main tactic, as far as I can remember, was to attempt to escape the circle. Generally, ones who do this lose points for stalling, but I didn't care. Unfortunately, my opponent was quite good at counteracting my best move of running away.</div><div><br /></div><div>He just kept dragging me back in.</div><div><br /></div><div>It feels like the year 2020 is the same kind of opponent. Bush fires, coronavirus, riots, protests, political insanity. This year has stretched interminably - minutes have become locked-down hours; hours have become isolated days; days have become weeks of worry. There have been times when I've wanted to throw in the towel, but more often I just wanted to escape the circle for a while. I wanted a breather - and frankly, I just wanted 2020 to get off my back. </div><div><br /></div><div>But the year keeps dragging me back in.</div><div><br /></div><div>I can't even imagine, then, what Jacob felt like during his wrestling match written about in Genesis 32:</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Jacob was left alone and a man wrestled with him until daybreak. When the man saw that he could not defeat him, he struck Jacob's hip socket as they wrestled and dislocated his hip. Then he said to Jacob, 'let me go, for it's daybreak.'</i></div><div><br /></div><div><i>But Jacob said, 'I will not let you go unless you bless me.'</i></div><div><br /></div><div>There are all sorts of things that I wonder about this story:</div><div><br /></div><div>1. Why was there a wandering wrestler in the wilderness?</div><div>2. How could they possibly wrestle all night? A minute was long enough.</div><div>3. As Jacob pulled the man back into the circle, he pinned him down so that he could be blessed. How did Jacob know how to do this?</div><div><br /></div><div>If I think about it, this year is very much like this story. For all the years of comfort we've grown accustomed to, 2020 arrived very much like a strange, wandering wrestler. Entering into the circle of our comfort, 2020 pulled some moves we weren't expecting: fires, viruses and general global unrest. 2020 dislocated us, not just upsetting our comfort, but truly stopped us from moving. 2020 arm locked us down, and strangely, it's felt like the referee doesn't feel good about stopping the match. </div><div><br /></div><div>And now, we have a choice:</div><div><br /></div><div>We can try to just drag ourselves to the end of the year, tap out and hope that 2021 is far less aggressive, or we can hold on tight and find the blessing of this year - fight until the daybreak of December 31st and marvel that we have, as a global community sought to find meaning and life in the midst of all the struggle.</div><div><br /></div><div>What blessings are you holding (on) out for? What have you struggled with already? Are you tired out? Are you stronger? Are you blessed? </div>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117174705915324771.post-1405719078132788552020-07-02T21:47:00.000-05:002020-07-02T21:47:27.821-05:00Singing HomeIt was hard not to have a tear.<br />
<br />
It's even harder to distinguish whether the tear had materialized because of sadness or joy, because both are found in equal proportion.<br />
<br />
I heard people singing this morning.<br />
<br />
Sure, I hear music on the radio. I hear heavily manipulated voices resonating beautifully, reverbed to perfection, highlighted by dulcet backing vocals. These songs play well through speakers and I tap my hands on the steering wheel to the beat.<br />
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But nothing compares to human voices surrounding you in unison, singing the song of home.<br />
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We had staff devotions and prayer at the school this morning. The staff, lead by a group of teachers, sang songs of hope, songs of lament, songs of joy as they were designed. I wasn't really prepared to be moved by it, nor was I completely aware of how much I missed it. I realized that I'd taken group singing for granted.<br />
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Throughout history, people have always sung, and they've done this for a variety of reasons. Recently, most singing is done for entertainment; we plug a playlist into an app (or now, the app knows us better than we know ourselves and chooses for us) and we passively enjoy the music that someone else sings to us.<br />
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Before this, though, singing almost always took on a different purpose. Not for entertainment, but for remembrance.<span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">There is something intrinsically beautiful and deep about whatever place you call home. There is a profound echo in our modern perspectives that, if we just listen closely, we can hear home sung for us.</span><br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
Call to mind the<i> Sound of Music</i> if you've ever seen the movie. When the von Trapp family are about to leave Austria, what do they sing? They sing a song of home. For many, this is a scene that resonates deeply, a desperate longing to return to times and home before.<br />
<i></i><i></i><i></i><br />
Think about the Israelites in exile...<br />
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<i>By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat done and wept when we remembered Zion.</i><br />
<i>there we hung up our lyres on the poplar trees, for our captors there asked us for songs,</i><br />
<i>and our tormentors, for rejoicing:</i><br />
<i>'Sing us one of the songs of Zion!'</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>How can we sing the Lord's song on foreign soil?</i><br />
<i>If I forget you, Jerusalem, may my right hand forget its skill.</i><br />
<i>May my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth if I do not remember you,</i><br />
<i>if I do not exalt Jerusalem as my greatest joy.</i><br />
<i>(Psalm 137:1-6 CSB))</i><br />
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They needed to remember home, so they sang about it. They didn't want to forget.<br />
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What about the people of the Reformation? They fashioned hymns to talk about the great things that God has done in the world and will continue to do. These hymns, a final end to strife and war, injustice and sadness, they spoke of a people longing for 'home' - the eternal place of God.<br />
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And the Spirituals sung by slaves in agony? Who cannot be moved by these lyrics by Thomas A Dorsey?<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"></span>Precious Lord, take my hand<br />
Lead me on, let me stand<br />
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn<br />
Through the storm, through the night<br />
Lead me on to the light</div>
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Take my hand, precious Lord<br />
Lead me home<br />
When my way grows drear<br />
Precious Lord, linger near<br />
When my life is almost gone<br />
Hear my cry, hear my call<br />
Hold my hand lest I fall</div>
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When the darkness appears<br />
And the night draws near<br />
And the day is past and gone<br />
At the river I stand<br />
Guide my feet, hold my hand</div>
The people sang to be reminded of a home they could never experience again other than the one that God had planned for them. These are the words of humanity.<br />
<br />
As we have entered a new age, a new era (and I will not say a 'new normal') singing home is all that we can do. We cannot return to the way before, but in singing about it, we are transported to the feelings of it and the memories can sustain us until our Precious Lord leads us home.<br />
<br />
Sing loudly into the darkness. Sing as the dawn comes.<br />
<i><b></b><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br /></i>
<i></i><i></i>Reid Matthiashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05142089063234632183noreply@blogger.com1