In the Name of the Father

It is a moment I want to wrap up securely and tuck into a safe niche in my heart where it will not be forgotten or lost, though right now it's hard to imagine it ever fading. 

My young friend has many times shown a unique sensitivity to spiritual things. On the swing with Miss Linda, he would name classmates and teachers who were missing that day so that together they could pray for those friends. A couple of years ago we began our practice of leaving the classroom and going into the Worship Center for the music portion of the service, then returning to our own room. On more than one occasion, he would look up, around and above us, then turn and ask, "Holy Spirit?" He seemed to sense something very special when he entered that big space and sought confirmation of its source. 

We have seen many baptisms at the beginning of these services. Often when the traditional words were spoken just before a candidate was tipped back into the water, my friend would echo the words of the pastor then snuggle into the adult who accompanied him. The tenderness was palpable. Knowing that his responsiveness to God was growing, several months ago we visited the baptistry to learn more. Many Sunday evenings he would ask to go there and see if anyone was being baptized at the beginning of that service. We would hide in the wings and work on whispering as he asked his questions each week. There was a conscious effort on my part to increase his understanding but not lead him into anything. God was doing His own work in this fellow's life and did not need my help. I thought my heart would burst, though, when he announced, not asked, "I be baptized. Me!"

For several weeks following, different adults approached him with their questions, wanting to hear the standard responses of one seeking baptism. He never came through that way. You see, there is nothing standard about my friend. Every cell of him is unique. His obsessions, his energy, his need to have control are all parts of the package that sparkles and flashes in our Special Needs class. He is not strong on the social graces and traditional cliches that his contemporaries possess. Good or bad, he says it like it is and he's not one to give you the answer you want. He will speak what he really feels and believes. Music, however, connects with him in a very powerful way and the lyrics of Mandisa's Not Guilty became his tearful profession of faith. I know you, I love you, I gave my life to save you.  

Church leadership was sensitive enough to accept the interpretation of this young man's faith by those close to him and agreed to his baptism. Though there are dozens of pastors who regularly baptize in our mega church, our tender-hearted senior pastor entered the water this Sunday and told this story of faith. The obsessions were tabled, the attention was focused, and the will was quietly submitted as this young disciple was lowered into the water. "I baptize you, my brother, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. We are buried with Jesus in likeness of His death and raised to walk in a brand new life." 

Bringing the basin

Been talking with friends this week about foot washing. Each one who has participated in it has a significant and emotional memory connected to the event. Words like humility, service, worship, and love were repeated. Tenderness was evident in their hearts. J saw the daily opportunities to serve one another as a higher application of Jesus' intent than a ceremony. L struck a deep chord with me as she reflected, "I knew how Peter felt when he tried to refuse to let Jesus wash his feet, and I realized how much pride we have to release in order to admit our needs and let others help us." 

Foot washing seems to be another side of the coin of confession, a picture of humbly cleaning another's soul.  Confession is bringing something from the darkness into the light, or acknowledging harm I've done, seeking forgiveness, and moving to repair it. Could foot washing be allowing another person close enough access to my life to help me clean up, to take care of an area that is hard for me to see or reach by myself? Can my spouse or my friend have the freedom to cleanse a part of me that I have not washed myself? An area of my body or of my soul? Or am I insulted by the thought? Do I, like Peter, recoil from the approach of one who would touch me that way?

We were not in a theological debate. We were talking about the heart, which is where Jesus seems to do His daily work, touching each one at their point of need and applying the theology as only He can.

Please, God, open my eyes, my ears, my heart, to the truths You were communicating in this tender act of Jesus in His last days.

Of pots and pans and the essence of a friend

I have Teflon Brain. Seems like nothing sticks to it anymore! I've been aware of that more and more in recent years and have come to accept it as a fact of life. This morning, on a walk with my dear friend Elane, a new element appeared in my personal cookware. My brain may be Teflon, but my soul is iron. As in cast iron skillet.

If you don't have one, you know that Grandma does and she cooks everything it. It's a heavy bugger! And it rusts if you don't take care of it. But if she uses it a lot, no doubt she does take care of it. She probably doesn't use soap on it, but scrubs it a bit and maybe sets it on the still-warm burner to finish drying.

What keeps things from sticking to it? It's certainly not Teflon! She'll tell you it's the seasoning. Not a spice from the cabinet above, but the accumulation of good residue over the years of use. It's the fat from frying chicken in it, the rendering of bacon and beef, bit by bit, day by day. She always removed the surface stuff and even scoured it, but knew that the benefit of leaving some of the fat, the oil, the essence to penetrate and fill the tiny negative spaces of the surface of the pan. 

A brand new cast iron pan is a real pain. But one that has history, well, it's a treasure of a tool.

As my friend and I talked through the nitty-gritty of daily life this morning, her essence was filling and enriching my pan. My soul has been seasoned by her richness and my substance has gained value to the discerning Master Chef.