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An Open Letter to Those Elected... "What the American People Want."

matt@fortdavispresbyterianchurch.org (Matt Miles) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 22:40:49 GMT

... What the American People Want...

Can I rant a minute? Would that be okay with you? At first glance this might just look like one more political statement but I promise it is not. If you were to ask me who is going to get my vote for president this year, you would meet a man with a thousand yard stare because it boggles my mind to think of how far from anything resembling reality we have come to be. There is one thing, though... something very tangible and ugly in American national politics that just must stop.

“... What the American People want...”

How many times have you heard that statement lately? It comes from the yap of every Republican, Democrat, and independent in national public office. Every time a microphone is slipped in front of a politicians’ face and the “on air” light is illuminated, that person at some point is going to say...

“... what the American people want...”

When you say that, I want to jump right through the television, stick my index finger in your faces and let you know that any time you say

“...what the American people want...,”

you are doing nothing other than proving how disconnected you are with the very people who, for some reason, put you in office.

We are gay, straight, and celibate. We are black, white, Hispanic, Asian and a million combinations of a thousand shades of brown that make us beautiful together. We are married parents and single parents and we are no parents at all. We are the richest people in the world and people living in cardboard boxes under bridges on cold, rainy nights. We eat caviar at $1,000 per ounce and we eat scraps from garbage dumpsters behind fast food restaurants. We are big, strong 20 something men who wear Super Bowl Rings and numbers on our backs. We are scared children who don’t even know how to spell “Leukemia.”

We live in mansions and pay people to mow our lawns and we mow lawns for people who live in mansions. We are pro-life and we are young women raped who desperately seek answers to complicated questions. We “just say no” and we want to legalize cannabis for medicinal purposes. We are Roman Catholics and Protestants, Atheists, Agnostics and Muslims and Jews. Our favorite color cannot be contained in a million rainbows.

We are NRA members who want gun control and pro-war hawks singing “Give Peace a Chance” to scratchy recordings of John Lennon. We don’t want to pay taxes but we want our welfare checks to come in on time.. We use Macs and PCs and we don’t even know how to turn them on. We drive pickups to honkey tonks and and BMWs to to country clubs. We walk to our university classes and take golf carts to the back nine. And you, Mr. Politician, want to stare out of my television screen and tell me...

“... what the American people want...?”

We are unique and diverse and we are incredibly beautiful because of our differences. We are divided in our opinions even with our closest neighbors. We sit in churches and give hugs to our brothers and sisters with whom we disagree because we are all Americans and we love one another. Or at least we used to. That is before all you stuffed shirts in Washington D.C. started telling us...

“... what the American people want...”

We are a country divided on the issues. We all know that. Look at any national poll on any issue and look how close the number is to 50% in any column. We may not always remember that the media, both liberal and conservative, stand to make millions by keeping us divided and that’s why I am going to tell you exactly...

“... what the American people want...”

What we want is leadership. What we want is people who work for us in our government to sit down with one another and work with our differences. What we are tired of seeing is those who lead this country play this game where differences are supposed to be a bad thing with which you beat your opponent over the head. What we want is not a bunch of people in suits talking about a Christian nation. We’d rather see you, just once, love your enemies and pray for them as Jesus taught or turn the other cheek in a political argument. We don’t expect you to agree on everything but we do expect you to have enough respect for your electorate to know that we cannot be made in your cookie cutter image because we were already created by God in God’s image... and that image is as diverse as the many faces who turn toward 50 stars and 13 stripes and pledge our allegiance with covered hearts to the states...

UNITED!

Reflections on a Very Bad Day

matt@fortdavispresbyterianchurch.org (Matt Miles) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 17:29:09 GMT

Have you ever had one of those days? You know what I mean. By about 8:00 AM, all I wanted to do was crawl back into my bed and read the book of Job because he was the only one in the grand history of all the world I could think of who had been in worse shape than I. Let’s see if I can even begin to describe for you the ... well you’ll see.

My lovely bride had just kissed the kids and me and stepped into her car at about 7:00 for her daily commute to Alpine. I had looked at the calendar on my iPhone to determine that I had an astonishingly busy day ahead but it was one to which I was looking forward. After all I was actually going to get to have lunch and spend some time with my wife. She was taking a half day off, coming home for lunch. Then we were going to attend a meeting concerning one of our children at the school. I had a lot to get done before lunch and then, after the meeting, there were a couple of projects I needed to complete followed by a training meeting at the fire station that evening. Great. No Problem. We got this. May day would be completed in a mere 14 1/2 hours or so.

No sooner had Stessa’s taillights disappeared from the driveway than young John (age 4) decided to be helpful and pull out the brand new bottle of RED V8 Fusion (strawberry banana). He is such a good boy, and so very helpful! As the big guy was stretching to put the unopened bottle of RED juice on the kitchen island, his little arms just couldn’t handle the weight and he dropped it. He dropped it just right. The lid broke and RED juice EXPLODED up and across the east wall of our kitchen. Now friends, I am not talking about a simple mess. I stand 6’3” and this wall was COVERED with RED juice above the level of my head. Did I mention it was RED? This is the time of day that I typically sip coffee and reflect on the events of the coming day while the children finish their breakfast. Instead of that calming and preparatory ritual, I spent every second of that time and used every towel in the kitchen, cleaning the juice from the wall, floor, cabinets, countertop, refrigerator, window, etc.

I finished the cleaning just in time to get all three kids headed toward leaving. As with all families, we have a routine. I holler, “let’s go!” The kids bundle up in their jackets and grab their backpacks. I remind them that they have, once again, forgotten to turn off EVERY LIGHT IN THE HOUSE (yes, I have become my father), and we all pile in the pickup for or short, two minute, sojourn to the school. Only this morning, the trusty old truck did not start. It didn’t even click. There was no noise at all, save the subtle jingling of the keys and the sudden onset of Lamaze style breathing from yours truly, the one who is now wondering how I am going to get these kids to school on time. I had left the two-way radio on the night before. During the summer, that is typically not a problem. When the nights turn cold, that thing can drain a battery faster than John can splatter juice on a kitchen wall! No problem. I am super Dad! A quick call to a good friend who I knew was also taking his kids to school at that very moment and would be passing within a couple of blocks of the house assured me this was going to work. By the time he pulled up, I had the jumper cables hooked to my truck. We hooked them to his. It cranked on the second try! Off to school. Thanks Roy!

On the way to the school, I received a phone call which reminded me that I needed to send out some email early. The plan was to go home and grab the laptop and head for the office as usual. Because I had this email on my mind, I wanted to get it done before I forgot so I sat down in my chair at the house to breathe a moment and brush off the stressful events of the morning. Then I would send the email, pack up the computer, and be in the office by 8:00!

I had just received this machine. I had had it literally for a week. My old trusty Macbook pro (on which I am currently typing) is beginning to show signs of age after nearly seven years of constant use. So I had ordered a new one. A brand new shiny one! It had been delivered late in the day on the Tuesday before. I had an evening meeting that day so I waited until Wednesday to set it up. It’s now Wednesday again and I opened the thing only to realize that I had completely fried it the night before.

Advent is coming and with it comes some extra hours of work. I had several projects going and wanted to get some of them completed so I had worked late on Tuesday night. At about 9:30, I had finished all I could get done and reached over to take a big swig of the cup of coffee I had sitting on the table beside my recliner. As the gulp reached the back of my throat, I felt the dreaded but ever recognizable movement of a large insect struggling to be freed from the yawning maw of the predator who was about consume it. It was visceral. It was completely involuntary. It was a rapid and absolute reversal of the natural act of swallowing. Yes. I spewed coffee, bug and all, forth! It splattered my shiny new Macbook Pro. It splattered the floor, and the chair and the shirt I was wearing. It was not quite the mess John would make with the juice but it was a mess. I realized at that moment that I needed to clean off the computer so I dried everything up quickly, believing that I had saved it. That is, until Wednesday morning when I opened the thing up and realized that it would not even power up. Emitting from it was the unmistakable aroma of coffee and electrical fire...

All before 8:00 AM.

I was reminded of Judith Viorst’s Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad, Day. Of course I had just purchased a new computer so a trip to Australia was out of the question. The money was spent. My stomach was in knots. My body was tense. I was angry and sad and mostly scared. It was one of those very human moments. I felt I needed to do something to fix this mess. I kept finding myself returning to the computer to make sure it was dead. My grief was so seeped in reality that (I now recognize) I was in a deep state of denial. I had killed my beloved new computer.

I called Apple to see what I could do. I called American Express to see if this was covered under my purchase protection plan. I called my little brother (the Mac genius) to see if there was anything he knew I could do to reverse the course of damage only to learn that I was, in fact, going to be without the new Mac for some time and that there would be a cost.

At that moment, it seemed as though the world were ending. Life was bad. Things were stressful. As it turns out, the American Express Purchase Protection Plan covered most of the cost of the repair. I dropped the computer off at the Apple store in El Paso that Saturday. It was delivered to my door the following Tuesday which I thought was amazing since it had been sent to Memphis, Tennessee. Add to that the fact that it was the week of Thanksgiving and I am even more impressed with Apple’s ability to handle such a crisis. I am now back to editing this blog with the new machine!

As it turns out, the situation was not so bad. In the moment, it seemed horrible. But the truth of the matter is that I can afford healthy juice for my child to drop in a world where there are children who have no food. A truck with a dead battery (I did end up having to replace that battery, by the way) certainly beats no truck at all. I am reminded of those who have no transportation and are forced to face the elements to move around their world, some without shoes. Who am I to complain about a ruined computer in a house that’s wired with wireless internet? There are homes around the globe with no electricity, much less incredibly advanced technology. In cleaning that wall that morning, I forgot to give thanks for the wall itself. Many in the world don’t have walls at all.

I don’t mean to say that we can’t have bad days. We all have them. I think we would all have to agree that my Wednesday morning qualified. We have a right to moments of sadness and anger and frustration and fear. We have a right to raw humanity. Put into perspective, though, a bad day for me is a pretty good day compared to everyday for a huge percentage of the population of the world. When my father (also a minister) got wind of my morning, I got a text message from him saying, “Give thanks in all things.” It is good, sound, Biblical advice. Take a look at 1 Thessalonians 5 for that little jewel. My response was, “too soon.” Too soon for what? I was returning his text with an iPhone 4S for Pete’s sake!

I have three healthy, well fed children to make messes in my house. I have a wonderful, loving wife. We both have jobs. We each have cars. We have a house with walls and heaters to keep us warm and nobody inside those walls has anything to fear from one another. We have an incredible church in a remarkable community of loving people.

Forgive me, O Lord, for forgetting the blessings.

In Memory of a Christian

matt@fortdavispresbyterianchurch.org (Matt Miles) — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 19:34:50 GMT

After more requests than I can count, I have done my best to reproduce this sermon. Brady Mayo was a dear friend and a member of our church. He also happened to be homosexual. He died a couple of weeks ago. This is the sermon I preached at his funeral. I don’t use a manuscript when I preach and so I have had to use my notes from that day to reproduce it as best I could. Those who are are grammatical experts will notice that many of these sentences are not complete. I have tried to write it as I preached it. It was not intended to be a written document. Please forgive my lack of attention there. It is intentional.

Week after week on Tuesdays at 10:00 Brady came into my office, usually with Tamara (his niece) in tow. We spent time together... talking. At first we dealt with his wounds. Sadly most of them were caused by the church of Jesus Christ. They were caused by those would claim to be better Christians than he. They were caused by those who were unable to admit that it is possible for a guy like Brady to believe that Jesus Christ is his Lord and Savior.

Brady, in every way, was dedicated to Christ... to God... to his church. Wherever he was, he sought to fit in and to do the right thing. To give generously of his time and energy. To give generously of his money. Time and time again, he was hurt. He was damaged by leaders in the church, by people who found one rule in a few spots in the Bible. Most of which were taken out of context. All to tell him he was a sinner. Mostly by people with half the dedication to life in community as Brady himself.

The trouble is that he began to believe them. There were people who literally nearly killed Brady as a young man. He was given insulin shock and electroshock therapies that brought him very close to death in order to change him. To fix him. All because he began to believe what society was telling him at the time. He could not be Christian. He could not be a good human being and be gay. Trust me. If ever there was evidence that same gender attraction is not changeable, Brady is proof. As a young man he would have done anything and he did do everything to change. And so he became convinced over time that he was the person who God created him to be. He sought to surround himself with people who treated him as such. Sadly, that for many years was not the church.

He was in a committed relationship for nearly 30 years. That relationship was not without its problems but he was faithful in it. Right up until the death of Zim in 1994, he was faithful. And then he was celibate for 17 years after Zim’s death. Yes... Brady and I had these conversations. Do you know what we call a faithful relationship that ends in the death of one of the people involved in it? For most people we call that a marriage.

I never met a man who was more kind and gentle and loving. Tamara, He loved you with all his heart. Leslie (niece), you too. We talked about you. James (brother) and Stephana (sister in-law), he had the deepest respect and love for you even though he disagreed with you on every political point possible. He recognized that you had the perfect right to be wrong as often as you wanted!

I first knew Brady as a medic. He would first respond early on in my time with this department. Anything that happened in the DMR, we knew Brady was out there. Even when he was growing more feeble, he responded. He gave us assessments. We knew he was taking care of our patients long before we could get there. Since Brady quit serving as a medic, I think we all have a little more anxiety about calls out in the DMR because we know he is not there.

He had also been a water tender for the DMR Fire Department. It was a role he downplayed. It was a thing he had enjoyed doing but didn’t consider it to be an important job. I tried to convince him that being a water tender was one of the most important jobs on any department. It’s not glorious. It’s kind of boring. But a water tender sees that there is water for the fire trucks. A fire truck without water is a pretty useless piece of equipment. In fact, a fire truck without water is pretty much... well... a truck!

Brady loved people and he wanted to help in anyway he could. He stood up for the poor. Most of Brady’s neighbors know he hired quite a few people to help around his place. What most probably didn’t know is that he didn’t really need the help. They did. He hired people who needed money because he saw a way to protect their dignity and to help them out.

He tithed. To whatever church he belonged, he didn’t just give generously. He tithed. He did the math and gave 10% of his income. Then he gave beyond that to other programs. He loved to give to organizations that serve children. Smile Train was one of his favorites. Either he supported my daughter’s Girl Scout troop or he had the darndest addiction to Girl Scout Cookies I have ever seen. He’d buy boxes of Peanut Butter Patties from her on Sunday after worship and call me with another order to have ready on Tuesday morning. How in the world he didn’t weigh 400 pounds when Charis was selling cookies, I will never know.

Brady’s generosity astonished me every moment I knew him. When t became clear to him that he could no longer run with EMS, it tore him apart. He wanted to be involved. He wanted to help. He wanted to be the good neighbor he clearly heard Christ calling him to be.

Brady was among the most inquisitive people I have known. I never knew any person to take church membership more seriously. We have a constitution in the Presbyterian Church consisting of two pretty good sized books, The Book of Confessions and the Book of Order. He read them both before he became a member of the church. Then he came back for more books. He wanted to read the History of the Church so I loaned him another book and he read that one. He read book... after book... after book. Then he came back with questions. I’d send him home with a book and he would bring it back twice as thick. There would be Post It notes on every other page with questions. Questions to which he wanted answers. He’d show up for the adult Sunday School class and he would ask questions to which he wanted answers. It took me forever to convince him that there are a certain number of questions about God to which there are no answers. Most of them are simply questions with which we must live. They are mystery. He was getting there!

He was a fun guy to joke around with and humor was a good way to teach him... and to learn with him. Just days before his death, Brady had made the decision to stop treatment and to move into Christopher House, a marvelous Hospice facility in Austin. Tamara and I had the conversation. Was Brady really ready to die (a thing we both knew he was not afraid to do)? Or was Brady simply being a drama queen... again? Because he had the ability to do that better than any man I have ever known. And it was fun to joke around with him about that because he took it so well. He played along. He was a funny guy.

I have missed our Tuesday meetings since Brady first went to Midland for heart treatments back in March. Gosh he regretted not being able to sing here on Easter. All that treatment in Midland led to a diagnosis with lung cancer. That led to surgery from which he simply could not recover. And he died... after bravely facing basic torture for seven months.

I am amazed at how this man lived his life. In a world that sought to define him by what many consider sin. He lived a life full of grace and truth. He lived a life full of faithfulness and love. He lived a life full of confidence that he was doing the best he could. When he was going in for surgery he asked me to pray for him. Not for healing. But that he might have the strength to live out God’s will. WOW! What a brave guy. I have been involved in daily ministry for almost 15 years now. That’s a first for me.

Was Brady a sinner? -- YES! -- Aren’t we all? How many of us want to be defined by our sin? For that matter how many of us would want to be defined by our sexual attractions? All people are more complicated than that. And the Grace of Christ rains down on all of us. All of us! As Paul Says... NOTHING CAN SEPARATE US FROM THE LOVE GOD IN CHRIST!

Roy (friend and church member) has said several times that Brady finally got all those questions answered because Brady really did have a lot of questions. If his questions are not answered, I guarantee you he is reading every book in Jesus’s library. If all his questions are not answered, I promise you that he is driving Jesus nuts today! He was one inquisitive dude.

I hope we are learning as a church. Not just First Presbyterian Church. I am incredibly proud of this congregation for the way that all of you welcomed him in. He was proud and found fulfillment in his leadership position with the music. But I hope the whole church... every denomination... every church... every person who claims to be a Christian... I hope the whole body of Christ is learning. I hope we are learning to pay attention to grace. To name the sin without paying attention to grace is to ignore the most significant parts of scripture. It is to ignore the gospel of Christ. I hope we are learning to watch folks like Brady Mayo and to pay attention to grace. To name the sin without talking about grace is no less honest than if we were to ignore those parts of Leviticus and of the Pauline epistles that name sin. To say that there is no such thing as sin would be dishonest. But is it our job to name it? Brady was not defined by his sexuality. Why would we define him that way? Would we want to be defined that way?

Friends, it is our job to spread the good news of Christ. Yes, you may have flaws but Jesus loves you ... as he loved and loves Brady. Yes. You may be a sinner but so am I. Aren’t we all? Welcome in. Welcome home! Brady Mayo was one of the most devoted Christian men I have ever known. I am proud to have known him. Thank God I got the chance to learn from him. Thank God I got to love him and to be loved by him.

Jeff Davis County Relief Fund

matt@fortdavispresbyterianchurch.org (Matt Miles) — Wed, 24 Aug 2011 19:24:27 GMT

Monday evening CBS 7 news from Midland presented a story that painted the Jeff Davis County Relief Fund board in very bad light. Luckily most of it was untrue. Shannon Murray stated that “board members refused to go on camera” while giving board members credit for telephone interviews. What Mrs. Shannon did not know was that none of the board members had the time to meet with her Monday afternoon because all of the board members who were in town were in the process of meeting a self imposed deadline to get letters out to victims by Wednesday morning. As of press time, all applicants for home grants have been sent certified letters informing them of what the fund is going to be able to do for them. Because these funds concern themselves with personal finances of victims and donors, board members have opted to keep all information confidential. The board is still pondering the best action for agricultural funds and will communicate with those applicants very soon. CBS 7 claims to have an additional $250,000 available for victims. Board members encourage victims to apply for those funds as well. The Relief Fund was not made aware that those funds existed until Tuesday morning when the statement appeared on the CBS 7 website.

Since April 9th, the Relief Fund board has formed and met regularly, and received 501c3 status with the IRS, a process which typically takes more than six months. The board has raised funds, acknowledged receipts, developed an application process in English and Spanish, spoken with victims, received applications, and made decisions on how to best distribute the funds based on need. As a part of this process the board has met with CPA’s and attorneys in order that all donors, recipients, and board members would be properly protected. To the victims, this process certainly seems endless. For board members, there are not enough hours in the day.

It has been 19 weeks since the Rock House fire started and shortly over three months since it ended. Given the amount of good the board is going to be able to do for victims of the fire, this is a relatively short amount of time.

Barstow

matt@fortdavispresbyterianchurch.org (Matt Miles) — Sun, 16 May 2010 03:35:00 GMT

Tear drops turn to hope as they mix into mud with time honored dust.

At the beginning of today, I would never have imagined the sadness I felt as I locked the door and walked away to wash my children’s hands with the jug of Ozarka water we purchased in Pecos for that purpose on the way.

We drove to Barstow, TX today in order to peruse the building that once housed First Presbyterian Church in that small and dying community. I had been there during the June 2009 Presbytery meeting in El Paso when we voted to finally dissolve that little church. Members of the Black family who find their roots in Barstow were there. That experience is recounted far better than I could tell it here:

http://sun.pnnews.org/view/articles/18908?page=1

I got the email last week that invited all of the Presbyterian churches in the area to go through and take a look at the furniture in the building. If there was anything that could be of use, we should pick it up. As it turns out, the entire building will be moved to a museum in Lubbock. I can’t wait to see it restored because today ended rather melancholically.

Admittedly, I felt a little like one of these west Texas buzzards that have recently returned after the long, cold winter. I couldn’t very well imagine going through this old building where people had worshiped for so many years. According to the cornerstone, it was erected in 1900. Picking through their building just seemed foreign to me but there is something about the mystery of the sacraments that made it seem all right to go.

The church I serve is just about as old. Established in 1888, our ancestors worshiped without a building for the first 16 years, first in homes and then in the Methodist sanctuary and finally in the old fort chapel until our building was completed in 1904. The difference between our church and the one in Barstow is that we are growing. New members are joining and visitors are visiting. The average age of our congregation continues to decrease. We are growing and alive and vibrant. Our building is used weekly by different groups. Boy scouts and girl scouts meet there. A group of quilters meet to sew bright colored cloth into useful and beautiful things there. We worship in that building every week and still hang our Christmas greens and place our Easter lilies during the appropriate seasons.

The first task of our day was to drive out of our way. I managed to get the key from our Midland offices into the hands of my father an hour and a half closer to home. Dad (another Presbyterian minister who grew up 4 miles from Barstow in Pecos) met us for lunch in Fort Stockton and told me that the building hadn’t been used hardly at all for the last many years, to be careful of the children in the dust and to watch for snakes if we went into the basement. Good advice! Trying the key unsuccessfully in one door on the north side of the portico entrance, I turned to the south door which opened to a foyer where folding chairs speak of the last two or three worshippers who met faithfully in that tiny room until they just couldn’t do it any more.

Our task? Find communion wine trays! The Fort Davis church has had what my friend Tom Koger would call a “high class problem” several times in the recent past. That is, during special times of the year, we have run out of communion cups before we have run out of worshipers. Our session has been struggling with the best course of action and had decided to look into something other than the old style silver plated trays that go back to the beginnings of our congregation. Something had to be done but it seemed poor stewardship to spend so much money on something that would only be used a few times each year. So we had looked into less expensive solutions which sounded better but never quite felt right. When I forwarded the email concerning furniture in the Barstow church to the session, I immediately got a note back from Linda, our clerk, suggesting that we seek out a communion set in that building. A marvelous idea. There were also some other suggestions for actual furniture we might need. I promised to take a camera and snap some pictures if I found anything. I didn’t.

As we turned right into the sanctuary from that foyer, my wife said, “It looks like they all left worship and just never came back.” She was right. So was Dad. Years of dust was layered on everything in site. Hymnbooks were in the racks on the backs of pews with the Bibles. A few of those old books were left on pew seats as if the person who last sat there forgot to put them in the proper place when they left for lunch after the benediction on that last Sunday. A large Pulpit Bible still held several bulletins from services in the 1960‘s. The sense of loss was overwhelming. The 1904 Pecos River dam break that flooded the land around this little town of a little over 1200 had begun the downward spiral until there is nearly nothing left. A couple of old bank buildings are boarded up. The fire station no longer has a bay door out of which to drive a truck. All around, the once fertile farm land is grown over with mesquites, cedar, and no grass at all. The town has died and with it, this place where the faithful gathered for worship.

My twins are soon to become seven. Our youngest just turned three. I wonder how many generations have passed since the silence in this behemoth of a building was broken by the rumblings of tiny feet pounding across the floor? Remembering the warning about snakes, I left the children with their mother and, flashlight in hand, wondered down the rickety stairs into the darkness that was the basement. It was divided into three areas, more reminiscent of cubicles than of rooms. Obviously I had entered Sunday School territory. Scribblings low on an old blackboard tell of the presence of small hands holding chalk. Old crafts and curriculum, piled on floors and tables and in closets mean that Christian Education was once important to the saints who roamed these halls. It’s all memory to some folks a long way from here.

But I had seen those communion trays, still on the table upstairs in the sanctuary, covered with decades of dust... and maybe... maybe there is a way to honor those memories. The Black family who had been at that presbytery meeting to honor and close the church where most of them were baptized continue to come to the Davis Mountains each year from the scattered parts of the world where they have all found places to eek out a living. They all come to celebrate with us one week out of each year at Bloys Camp Meeting. And so those trays from which many of them have tasted the blood of Christ will return to this county and to the church that Dr. Bloys began and together we will remember the body of Christ and “proclaim the saving death of our Lord until He comes again”. And we’ll do that together with all the saints of the Barstow church and the ones who warm the pews in Fort Davis today.

And so I locked the door and walked away to wash dust from the hands of my children and to carry these old trays back to share with a new generation that must be reminded that churches die... unless...

Blackberry

matt@fortdavispresbyterianchurch.org (Matt Miles) — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 16:06:00 GMT

Does anybody out there have a good recipe for cobbler? Maybe even a pie? At this stage in the game, I might even go for some nice preserves.

Let me explain: My father is also a Presbyterian minister and I guess I watched him go through every stage of communications equipment available throughout my life. There was a time, not that many years ago, that you had to seek out the minister. You could call him (at that time they were all male) on your rotary dial telephone but if he wasn’t sitting in the office, you tried again later. Maybe he was at home? Well, you could try that number too and maybe leave a message with his wife or one of the kids. One of the worst scoldings I ever received was when I answered the manse telephone with a childish prank, “Miles morgue service. You plug ‘em, we plant ‘em.” Dad explained in no uncertain terms that sometimes folks call to let him know that family members have died and that they are in need of a minister and that I was being incredibly insensitive. Well...we live and learn. Luckily it was him on the phone and the only damage was that I had to sit with a limp for a day or two!

Then came the old two tone pager, very much like the ones we still carry in the fire service. Everyone had their very own tones and some answering service somewhere would receive the call and then tone Dad out. You could audibly hear exactly who he was supposed to call and what their number was. If he missed the information, he could then pick up the nearest phone and call the answering service back. They would give him the information over the (by now) tone dial telephone device. This system was limited geographically. You had to be within range of a radio tower in order to receive your messages.

At some point, I don’t remember at which stage, the telephone answering machine was born. It was now possible to leave a message at the office when a person called and there was no one in. It was a wonderful invention until there was a hiccup in the electrical service... then all was lost. Answering machines have improved considerably over the years and now store your messages (incoming AND outgoing) digitally so that you don’t lose nearly as much as you used to. We have one now that will allow us to retrieve messages remotely.

Remember the digital pager? Those came into play sometime when I was in high school, I think. I can’t tell you how many times, how many hours we spent sitting in the car waiting for Dad to return calls received on his digital pager. The thing would beep, he would take a look at it, and a phone number would appear on a little screen. Then we would find the nearest pay phone (come to think of it, we don’t see many of those around anymore either), and call that number back. If we were out of town, he always used a calling card to make that call. This was the first shot at nationwide wireless coverage! Although it was always spotty, we were no longer limited to receiving messages only when we were in town. Family vacations could now be interrupted at any time!

The digital pager finally gave way to the cellular phone. At first, this was a big clunky thing that was mounted into one’s car. Then it became a purse sized bag that could be moved from car to car and plugged into a cigarette lighter. Then we all got these pocket sized things to carry around. By the time I graduated seminary and became an ordained minister myself, nearly every adult was carrying a cell phone. Teenagers didn’t have them yet but at least they were around to help us learn how to use them! This allows us to be on the phone constantly. No matter where we are or what we are doing, there is always a way to get in touch with us. If we are out of range of a tower, you can leave a message on our voice mail and we will get right back with you... BEEP! Those formerly interrupted family vacations are not truly vacations any more at all. Between the laptop computer and the cell phone, we carry our offices with us!

If I learned nothing else from my father, I do know that the first priority for a minister is to be accessible to anyone who needs me at any time.

And today... today we have the smartphone! Two weeks ago I bought my first Blackberry. Being an incurable user of Mac computers, I was holding out for an iphone that would work with our local carrier (which is not AT&T). After several conversations with a number of people, I decided this was probably going to be a long time coming so I decided to take the plunge and get one of these things to hold me over until Steve Jobs actually gets around to developing a CDMA iphone.

This thing is amazing. It receives my email, converts voicemail to text (apparently... I have not yet figured out how to make that work), it will browse the internet, it will receive SMS and MMS messages as well as allow me to do instant messaging (I still don’t know why I would want to do that on a phone even though there are those who are sending me such requests). I can keep email on the server selectively so I can come back to the office and deal only with those things that require a response.

The problem with a smartphone is that I am not smart enough to use it. It vibrates constantly on my hip with one type of message or another. I have learned to use it as a phone and learned to respond to simple messages but I can never figure out which kind of message I am trying to return. Sometimes it makes noise even though I have tried to turn all of that off except for actual telephone calls. We had a really neat couple of people visit the church on Sunday and I received an email from them which I accidentally deleted from the server (mis)using my Blackberry before I got a chance to answer [Jack and Janee try again... I know you are reading here!]. In an attempt to become more accessible, I actually became less accessible.

Conceptually, I know what want this thing to do. I just have not figured out how to make it happen yet. I am actually on my second Blackberry now. The first one lasted less than two weeks before it died. Apparently there was a glitch in the hardware that rendered it useless all in one fell swoop! My cell phone number was forwarded to my wife’s cell phone for about 24 hours until I could get things worked out. How’s THAT for accessible? It is now a pastoral emergency for one’s cell phone to break. Somebody might need to call me and they can’t. Oh the joys of modern technology!

Dr. W.B. Bloys was the founding pastor of our little church here in the Davis Mountains. He started several churches as he rode around this part of the country either on horseback in his wagon. As early as 1888 he would gather people from all over town in that wagon by riding around and hollering, “come to church!” At the camp meeting that now bears his name, children continue to honor his memory by ringing a bell 20 minutes and 5 minutes before each worship service. “Come to Church” was the way to communicate. The children scream those words at the top of their lungs as they ring the bell.

As I think of Dr. Bloys and the lives he touched all over this country, I wonder about his accessibility factor. The telephone was first used by Bell and Watson in 1876, 12 years before Bloy’s arrival here. Did he have one in his home at that time? Did he ever have one installed before his death in 1917? I don’t know. What seems obvious, though, is that when he left town on his horse to attend to the ranchers in the area, he would have been gone for days at a time. When he was gone, he was gone. There was no getting in touch with him. There was no knowing if he was safe or in danger. There was no way for his wife and children even to get in touch with him. There was no leaving a message after the beep. He was gone.

There was a time when email was not a word and a blackberry was something you put in a dutch oven with the right kind of batter to make a tasty dessert. Ministry happened then but it happened in very different ways. Every morning I pray for a long list of folks. At times I feel called to check in on them. This is done in a variety of ways. I can pick up the phone and call, drive over and visit, check to see if they have posted anything new on Facebook or CaringBridge, shoot them a text message... you name it, I have it. I can communicate with those on my prayer list in numerous ways. I can know what I need to be praying for at a particular time and I can let those folks know that I am doing that praying. What’s more, I can do all of that from anywhere in the world.

I was just about to walk out the office door and throw my new Blackberry as far up the mountain as I could send it this morning when this vision of Dr. Bloys saying his morning prayers by a campfire over coffee with only his God, his horse, and himself came to mind. I can imagine a hand written list of prayer concerns kept folded between the well worn pages of a Bible or kept close to his heart in a breast pocket with no way to contact those people and no way for them to contact him.

I wonder if technology has changed the face of prayer in the same way that it has changed the face of ministry? I wonder if all this new technology is as much a distraction to me as it is a help to my ministry? I wonder...

...gotta run... the phone is ringing!

That Was Easy!

matt@fortdavispresbyterianchurch.org (Matt Miles) — Fri, 23 Oct 2009 17:43:00 GMT

I finally got my easy button! A quick look around my office will explain this one. I have a tendency to collect little toys and gimmicks for fun. Most of them have been gifts I have received over the years. I have little toy train and Matchbox cars, Brain Teaser puzzles and even a denim side holster for a bottle of Tabasco sauce. A dear friend of mine has drawn a couple of cartoons of me and they are proudly displayed as well (We love you Matthew... hang in there!). These things lighten the mood in a pastor’s office and make the stresses of life seem a little less daunting. Some of my toys give kids something to do when they come in with their parents. Sometimes they entertain my own kids when they are hanging out with Rev. Daddy.

A couple of weeks ago, I was placing an order for some office supplies we needed at the house when I discovered the order was about $3.00 short of reaching the $50 free shipping amount so I added an easy button to my shopping cart. Spending $4.99 on an easy button replaced paying close to $15 on shipping. It made sense economically... and I got an easy button! Of course I could have purchased an extra ream of paper or a box of pens or something more productive... but I got an easy button!

You have seen these things on Staples commercials, I am sure. Some completely disheveled office is the scene. The employees are facing an impossible task and talking about getting organized. One of them hits the easy button and ... POOF!... suddenly everything is done! Everything is orderly and in its’ place. There is always some poor sap who ends up stuck in the closet or a drawer or some sort of silly thing... and the voiceover proclaims, “that was easy!”

Mine seems to be broken. As soon as I took the thing out of the box, I pressed my new easy button and was disappointed to notice that my desk was still an avalanche hazard. My sermon was still not written for the week and I still had a number of phone calls and visits to take care of. There was an audible, “that was easy” but none of the work was done. I am now working on the theory that it may not be the result of a faulty easy button at all. It may be that I am pushing it wrong. I am working on my technique. As soon as I get it right, this blog will write itself! I have faith.

On the other hand, I did manage to rather easily make my wife happy this morning by supporting the other man in her life. Stessa is the most faithful, loyal woman in the world but I am positive that if Harry Connick Jr. ever walks through the door, I will be kicked immediately to the curb without a second thought. Lately she has been quite stressed and dreading her daily 25 mile commute to Alpine so I thought I would try and help out a little. This cold, 38°, morning she climbed into her mini-van to find the CD case of Harry’s (as she affectionately calls him) new album with a note from me. The CD was already in the player. I got a very appreciative phone call from her as she drove into Alpine.

I used to do little things like that for her all the time. In seminary, we lived in Austin, a much larger city. I could swing by Central Market at lunch time and pick up a bouquet of flowers at very affordable prices. I could purchase her favorite chocolate covered strawberries from Lamme’s Candies and have them delivered to her classroom. I could take the time to meet her for a matinee at one of the local cinemas on her way home from work. The trend continued when I took my first church. Even though we lived in the smaller town of Seymour, it was easy for us to meet for lunch or maybe I would pick her up a small gift while making hospital calls or attending meetings in Wichita Falls or Lubbock. Then we had kids; twins first and then a third. Life got really busy all of a sudden. When the twins were first born a funeral director friend said to me, “business has certainly picked up at your house lately, hasn’t it?” Boy was he right! Not only did life get busy but it got expensive. Little surprise gifts for one another gave way to diapers and doctor’s visits. Time together now included short young people. Basically... life happened.

How easily we forget how easy it is practice random acts of kindness for those we love. As a minister, one gets to know all sorts of things we would rather not know. I have known about extramarital affairs before the spouse ever did. I have known about abuse and fear. I have even been involved in the aftermath of a husband murdered by his wife. I have been privy to all sorts of horrible ways people treat each other in marriages and all sorts of relationships. Those things burn deeply into the memory and just won’t go away. The more pleasant ones are harder to notice.

Newlywed grooms don’t come to the pastor and proudly proclaim, “I REMEMBERED TO PUT THE TOILET SEAT DOWN THREE TIMES THIS WEEK!” Wives of retirement age don’t mention the passionate comfort of a glass of wine and a meal out with a spouse of 48 years. Less stressful mornings where all the children get off to school without a fight or a fit or mess or a tear are not reported by middle aged couples working their way through life. Often times these things go unnoticed but they are the things that give life it’s most vibrant colors when things begin to appear a little grey. I wonder, then, why are we not more intentional about them in all of our relationships? Why have I let the desire dwindle to offer my bride little gifts or actions of comfort that say, “I love you and I am thinking about you in this moment?”

$9.99 on Amazon.com and a handwritten note will by no means win me the husband of the year award but I managed to make a wonderful woman’s drive to work in the dark a little bit brighter this morning. Making her happy may just be the most well spent expenditure of my time, money and effort that will present itself all week. THAT WAS EASY!

For what great person can you do a small thing today? Who can you make smile by offering just a little effort? I was thinking that if we all made it a point to do some small something for someone each day this planet would be a much more pleasant place to reside. I invite you to join me in such an endeavor. And if you are thinking about doing this but can’t find the time or the money or the energy, come on by the office...

I’ll let you push my easy button!

Autumn's Advent

matt@fortdavispresbyterianchurch.org (Matt Miles) — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 18:46:00 GMT

Fort Davis is a tourist town and we invite everyone to come and visit us. We love this place and want to share it. Here’s a little hint, though: I drive a silver Chevrolet pickup with a clergy sticker in the front windshield and an emergency light bar on top. If you see it coming, clear the sidewalks!

It’s actually September 22nd and it would seem that Mother Nature was glaring right at her calendar when her alarm clock began to ping. Fall blew in right on time this year. Yesterday was the last day of summer and it was a blustery 89° outside. This morning we awoke to temperatures of 48° with the wind blowing at 26 mph. The seasons are changing.

Adding to the dreariness, we also awoke to the reality that our 14 year old Australian Shepherd/ Border Collie cross met with some intestinal discomfort during the night. Trust me when I tell you that’s all the details you want there! While I was cleaning that rather gruesome mess, my lovely bride announced that one of the twins has a fever. I’m working from the house today as I hang out with a girl child who is angry with me because I won’t let her go to school to take her first grade math test (I have to wonder if she will meet future exams with an equivalent amount of enthusiasm?)! Yup... turning out to be a banner day at the Miles’ house.

As we were dropping the other two kids off at their respective places, it occurred to me that it was darker at 7:30 than it has been recently. My immediate suspicion is that it has something to do with the rather large formation of blackish looking clouds in the eastern sky. Already dim at that time of day, we are only moving toward darker morning hours which brings a new cause for alarm in my life.

For a little over a year now, my eyesight has been somewhat off. Oh shoot, let’s admit that my eyesight has been horrible most of my life. I have been wearing glasses since the 5th grade. When I first started needing them, I remember not being nearly as eager to wear my spectacles as my daughter is to go and take her arithmetic exam this morning. As I got older and as my classmates began to lose the desire to call me names like “four eyes” all the time, I finally got used to it. Eventually, I grew to appreciate that I could get a new prescription when things started to become fuzzy.

Last summer, I received my new glasses and knew immediately that I was still not quite seeing right. Attributing that to the fact that there is a period of adjustment, I ignored it for a time. Denial is a wonderful thing! It’s a three hour drive to get to my ophthalmologist, so I put off the inevitable fact that I was going to have to confront somebody at some point. It was obvious that either the doctor had missed the prescription or the people who made the glasses had made a mistake in filling it. Driving grew increasingly difficult as time wore on. Driving at night has just become frightening so I finally broke down and headed to Odessa to face the music on Friday.

A quick view of the glasses at the doctor’s office told us his prescription was perfectly matched. If the glasses were okay, that meant that the prescription must be wrong. After several tests, it turns out that my eyes have not changed and that they are as corrected as they can be. So the obvious question had to be asked; “Why can’t I see?” The doctor explained to me that that happens to folks who have cataracts.

CATARACTS?

I’m too young for that!

Friday was a depressing day. As I struggled with reading road signs in a city I don’t navigate every day; as I tried to see down aisles in stores while we did the inevitable shopping done by all rural folks in urban settings; as I tried to keep an eye on my kids playing with a bunch of other kids, I grew sadder and sadder by the moment. My doctor has told me we have to wait to treat this problem. For how long? We don’t know. But we have to wait. And in the mean time, I cannot see well. My frustration must continue for a time.

I’m certainly not the first one to whom this has happened. As early as Genesis, we read that Isaac grew old and his eyes were so weak he could not tell the difference between his two sons. It’s just that I have the distinct honor of being the youngest person I know with this problem. But here’s the thing.... this is fixable. I’m still trying to learn all the particulars but I understand that cataracts have to get “ripe for the pickin’” before they can be treated. Then it is a really simple procedure. When I asked my doctor what I was to do about it in the mean time, he said, “be careful.” Thanks Doc!

Friends will joke about my blindness. I’ll even make an occasional quip about this to beat down the annoyance over my ever dimming sight. But the truth is that I am so very blessed. There are truly blind people in this world. There are those who have never seen light or color and those who have suffered horrible injuries who’s sight simply and suddenly left them. There are also those who suffer some disease of the eye that, at least with modern technology and understanding, will not be healed.

And... there are those who are blind to the goodness of God. In this world are those who suffer anger and loneliness and torn relationships. It’s hidden behind racism and sexism and it’s found in the form of violence in their own homes. It’s hidden in the lack of listening to enemies and friends. It is camouflaged behind the judgement of others. I may have the beginnings of cataracts... but at least I can see!

As the seasons change in my life, I’m thinking of 11 year old Cole who had surgery for brain cancer yesterday. I am thinking of those who suffer the cold without shelter. I am thinking of those who live without love in their lives or food in their bellies. Maybe my daughter has a stomach bug and my dog made a mess. Maybe I don’t see well at the moment... All things considered, though, my life is really, really good. Thanks be to God.

My friend, Jim Fowler, reminded me this week that you can see God better without eyes. Not bad... not bad at all. Thanks Jim.

Praying the Night

matt@fortdavispresbyterianchurch.org (Matt Miles) — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 15:05:00 GMT

Mixed Emotions this morning: The weather is nice, really nice. After a long hot summer in which many Texas cities (luckily not Fort Davis) set records for how long they held out under 100 degree temperatures, it’s 57 out there at 7:52 AM as I settle into my office and seek to process all the beauty and all the ugly that is churning in my head. It’s not raining. It’s not really even sprinkling but there is moisture in the air. It’s just enough to feel the occasional cool drop of life giving water on already cool skin. It’s almost cold... almost.

The ballet has begun. Outside my office window are the towering cliffs of Sleeping Lion Mountain. Fifty feet of vertical igneous rock is inspiring to watch as the eastern sun embarks upon it’s journey across the sky. The daily dance of light and shadow requires no music save the dove’s song. Every time; every moment I watch the ballet, I see a brand new mountain. It’s all right here. I’ve dropped the twins off for another day of first grade. Our youngest is safely ensconced at the baby sitter’s. Life is grand this Tuesday, the day after Labor Day.

I’m sleepy, though. Actually, I am one of those rare ducks whose body requires little sleep but I am emotionally sunk to start the day. Last night, the world came apart for one woman I have in my mind and on my heart as I wrap myself in morning prayers. Strangely I don’t even know her name as I seek to call God’s attention to her. Things just happened too fast. I suppose I could go and look her name up on the report but I know God knows it and that’s all that matters today.

We were called to her side after a horrible accident in which she, her mother, and her two sons were injured. It was hectic. There were ambulances running all over west Texas and none of them were where they belonged. One, I understand, was transporting a rape victim (God help that woman too) to the hospital 90 miles from their base . At the same time another man was running from the police when his car lost a battle with a train. It took us about 45 minutes to get where we were needed because we were needed in places others could not be.

One of the sons (age 11) died on scene. Another one (13) will surprise us all if he made it through the night. The grandmother was injured but will survive. The mother’s heart is breaking. Her body will be sore in the weeks to come but her soul may never heal from the injuries she received in the midst of a tragic accident. None of these folks spoke English and we did our best to communicate with them all in their Spanish tongue. None of that really matters, though. In all the combined languages of the world, there are not sufficient words to touch the hurt of a grieving parent. Only time will help... and that... not much.

I should drive up Skyline Drive this morning. It’s on the top side of Davis Mountains State Park on the other side of Sleeping Lion. From my office window the cliffs seem larger than anything imaginable. From this place, it seems as if I could stare forever and never truly see them all. From Skyline Drive, though, one realizes that Sleeping Lion is one of the smallest formations in these hills. From there, one almost does not notice this incredible spectacle. From there one sees, as far as the eye can see, bigger mountains tower; further above and even beyond the farthest horizon.

It’s all about where you sit.

I was thinking about all of this as I was leaving a bread crumb trail of kids around town this morning. While I was unloading at the elementary school, Cara Merrill (one of the teachers) pointed out a rainbow to me.... and there it was. Right before my very eyes was the reminder that God is in his heaven and that as long as the earth endures, his covenant to be our God will remain.

From where I sit, this mountain looks huge. From the other side, it’s an almost insignificant land mark. I wonder how big that mother's seemingly insurmountable mountain of pain seems to God this morning? As she awakens to the reality of what her life has become, my prayer is that she will see the rainbow and remember the covenant. Her pain is enormous but there is another side of that pain and on that side resides a great big God. Be with her, almighty ONE, on this day, and help her to feel your presence, your power, your love, your peace and your grace. AMEN!

When Our Things Go Away

matt@fortdavispresbyterianchurch.org (Matt Miles) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 13:31:56 GMT

As I post this blog, my laptop will be plugged into an ethernet cable. That’s right, a WIRE. I say, “will be” because, as I write, I am not currently in contact with the internet in any way, shape, or form. When it comes time to post this post, I will walk into the next room, plug in and log on. How PRIMITIVE. The horror of it all!

All this started with the crashing of a hard drive on my wife’s computer. This was no big loss, actually (although we are trying desperately to save the pictures of the last two birthday parties in our household). That was an old Dell PC that has been around for about six years. We have built and rebuilt. Duct tape and baling wire were soon to be a part of the equation with that machine. A few months ago, it was infected by a virus and we were already budgeting for a new Macintosh laptop for her. No Major loss. The new computer has been ordered and we can share this one for a few days while we await it’s delivery. Once the new machine arrives, my wife and I will be even more compatible!

We began to suspect a larger problem,though, with the untimely demise of the DSL modem that was wired to that computer. There were about four days in there where we were completely without internet service in our house. A new modem installed and verified to be running has now led to the revelation that the wireless router has also lost it’s sense of identity (it has ceased to be a router and now thinks it is nothing other than a plastic box). We have also lost the hard drive on our satellite DVR controller. We’ve either had a power surge or an incredible run of bad luck.

This whole experience has got me to thinking. There was a time that we didn’t have all this stuff. When Stessa and I married, there was no internet. I had an 8088 machine that I had somehow managed to salvage so I could write my college papers on it. We didn’t have internet, there was no way to play music on a computer and video was not even a dream on a PC. Email was not a consideration. Neither of us even owned a cell phone because those were priced for only the very elite at the time. Even then, phones were big ol’ clunky things that were mounted into cars by professional installers.

I bought a new computer the first year of seminary (believe it or not, this was only 13 years ago) that had all the modern amenities. You know... we had a dial up modem and an account with the ISP that allowed for a certain number of minutes of internet use per month. Email was GREAT! You could turn on the computer, connect via phone line, and download your email. Then you shut all that down, read and responded to your emails before logging back on to send your responses. You didn’t want to stay logged on all of that time because it was cost prohibitive. You used up your precious online minutes. Not to mention, it tied up the only phone line you had while you were logged on. People would get a busy signal if they called.

Stessa and I have been talking about how life has changed just since our marriage. Our children will never have to live a life where this technology is not readily at their fingertips. We don’t own Blackberries or iPhones in our house (yet) but I get a sense that by the time our kids are teenagers, the next new technologies will have taken over anyway.

Most of all, I think there is a lesson to be learned by our loss of modern amenities. It IS possible to live without them. Sometimes it’s even better. There was a time, when one got curious that we actually wandered into the community library and looked information up in... wait for it... books. While it is nice today to be able to pick up the closest computer and “Google” it, we also miss a visit with the librarian and other community folks we might run into at the library.

Computers aren’t all either. Not so many decades ago, families were driven by the heat of summer’s dog days onto their front porches where lemonade, conversation, and dominoes were shared each evening until things began to cool off a bit. Neighbors walked by and joined in conversation. Children safely played kick the can in the streets. Today we have been sucked into our homes by the cool air created by our air conditioners. Dominoes and checker boards are gathering dust in the closet as our interest has turned to television and video games. We have lost some of our sense of community as a result of our “progress.” We don’t talk as our ancestors did in this society.

In some ways, it’s great fun. I have reconnected with a number of high school, college, and seminary friends on Facebook. I can meet face to face with international friends on Skype. I can email large numbers of church members by selecting their specific group and moving on. I can look up each week’s sermon pericope with the click of my mouse. But what has this done to my being able to connect directly with local folks in community? Can I really get to know people without face to face, heart to heart conversations? Can I know people as well, if I can’t share a handshake or a hug each time we meet?

Our world has become much smaller with the advent of the internet. We can know more people for longer and stay connected easier with people around the world. I can’t help but wonder, though, are these relationships less meaningful than they once were when people knew each other without the filter of technology between them?

Airports and Planes

matt@fortdavispresbyterianchurch.org (Matt Miles) — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 00:45:00 GMT

Airports have changed. I used to travel extensively but it has been several years since I found the need to crawl on a plane and be hurled through the sky. Today, with apologies to Ray Whitley and Gene Autry, I find myself “Back in Saddle Again.”

Things have changed around here. There was a time before cell phones and laptops that people would actually have conversations in Airports and planes. Little temporary communities would pop up in the boarding areas before flights. Small talk was all about “where are you from?” and “where are you going?” and “why?” Eventually conversation would turn to jobs and family, children and church, friends and fun. Grandparents would smile over kids they never met, mothers would meet and congregate with one another for moral support as they sought to travel with their young offspring. People would talk.

Of course all of that was during a time before September 11, 2001. I suspect a part of what has broken down the sense of community in airports is a sense of fear. The necessity of greater security has raised the stress level in these places. Long lines of shoeless people holding their belongings in plastic bins are not typically looking for companionship. We just want the whole screening process behind us.

More than that, though, there is a sense in today’s airports that nobody is really present. The teenager across the way from me is obviously talking to the boyfriend she just left or is heading to see on her cell phone. One guy in a business suit behind me in this uncomfortable chair is discussing (at the top of his lungs, I might add) some kind of important thing that simply cannot wait and I simply cannot understand. On my last flight, there was man next to me who, just before takeoff, used his cell phone to discuss his cancer treatment at MD Anderson with a friend. Several of these folks are sending and receiving text messages.

As I look around here, I am one of probably a dozen people who are working on a laptop. I am blogging. What are they up to? To be honest, I ran a quick check of my Facebook account before I started this article. While our bodies are all in this place, I am not sure any of us are really here. There’s not a single person around me (myself included) that is not involved with some sort of modern technology. Our bodies are all sharing in an experience of waiting for a flight. We all have similar looking boarding passes. We are all going somewhere. We have something in common that could lead us to conversation and to community. I miss the airport as it used to be.

How much of the rest of our lives do we spend doing this? The world seems to be getting smaller in many ways. I have friends all over the world with whom I can communicate via Skype or Facebook, email or any number of “chat” options. There are people who I have not even laid eyes on in 20 years with whom I can communicate at the drop of a mouse click. Yet here I sit in a room full of warm bodies and none of us seem to be in communication with anyone else in the room at all. This sea of faces are turned downward to the technology we hold. I wonder what it would take to engage some of these people in conversation.

I think I’ll go try.

Rain, Faith, Confusion, and Wisdom

matt@fortdavispresbyterianchurch.org (Matt Miles) — Wed, 06 May 2009 15:52:00 GMT

One of the great things about being Presbyterian is that I get to have friends all over the country. I am in pretty constant contact with folks who are also Presbyterians. It is a nation wide community of faith. We have things in common and we have places where we differ. Of course, life has changed a bit in the last few years. Contact with people is no longer a problem. Whether it be email, AIM, Facebook, Myspace, Twitter, Skype... you name it, we have the media to stay in touch with one another.

I’ve been listening to my friends for some weeks complain. It seems that it is raining quite a lot around the country. Every time I sit down at the computer, I am inundated with frustrated folks who desperately wish a little sunlight would shine on their heads. Then I turn and look out my office window at the parched and dusty brownness of our part of the world. I think about the number of people I know and love who are praying almost ceaselessly that the rain will come. And there are others who are praying equally as hard that the clouds would part and the rain would stop.

Although our community has largely become a part of the tourist industry over the last couple decades, we still identify ourselves as a ranching community for the most part. At least the older families around here still hold on to their land and still have a good herd of cattle hanging around on the place. People make their living off the land and rain is a large part of what keeps all of that going. But we are stuck in the middle of a horrible drouth and the conditions outside are frightening.

I also hang around with a group of good folks who volunteer as firefighters. All of us have jobs and lives outside of the department. All of us gather several times a month for business and for training and do what we can to help when the time comes that someone in our community needs us. There is a real sense of dread about what might be coming if the rain does not begin soon. We had the brief promise of rain a couple of weeks ago and all we got was 22 wild-land fires caused by lightening strikes. That was an unprecedented number of fires even though it is a very typical event this time of year. We dread what is coming. The time away from our families, our jobs, our friends, and our churches is never easy, but part of life way out here in the wild, wild west where we cannot afford to pay people to help those in need.

So how is it that I justify these two sets of friends? One group, geographically distant from me, complains about rain. The other, so very close to me, worries that the rain will never come again. Some worry about their homes being lost to floods. One old college friend in Houston has been fighting a roof leak for some weeks now. The other group worries that their homes will be taken over by fire or economic hardship due to drouth. Irony!

As a very young man, still in seminary and preaching each week at a little church in Rocksprings, TX, I had the frequent opportunity to visit with a man named Brooks Sweeten. Brooks was in his late 90‘s when we met. He and his wife had tried to move into a nursing home but the rules would not allow them to share a room. After three nights of trying to sleep apart from one another, they came home. Being separate after over 70 years together was simply not an option for them as they approached the last days of their lives. Brooks had been a founding member of the Angora Goat Breeders Association, a successful goat rancher, a staunch supporter of his little church, and one of the most generous souls I have met to this day. One day I tried some small talk with Brooks and mentioned the need for rain. With a very fatherly demeanor, he assured me that there were “two things that always come back, young man. That’s mohair and rain!” He trusted in that truth and that portion of the conversation ended there.

There are a lot of things in life we can control. Weather is not among them. Some of us will pray for rain, others will pray for the rain to stop and God will decide how that all balances out. All we can do is stand on the hope that there is one outside of us and over us who understands it all and will finally redeem.

In the mean time, may we all pray for the faith that comes from 98 years of wisdom and a man named Brooks Sweeten, and the promise of faith in Christ.... and mohair and rain!

Saving Easter

matt@fortdavispresbyterianchurch.org (Matt Miles) — Tue, 14 Apr 2009 14:33:00 GMT

Easter. Is it over or has it just begun? I dare say for most folks in the United States of America, Easter comes and goes in one short day. Some may give it a long weekend on the outside. This year, the kids were out of school on Good Friday along with their mother who teaches in a different school district. Her school is in session on Monday but the kids have that day off too. So, Monday is my day to hang out the with the kiddos and celebrate a little downtime. Then Easter is over, right?

I suppose that on some level it is. At least in the secular world, everyone will go back to work on Monday or Tuesday. The next Sunday, liturgically known as the “Second Sunday of Easter” is also known as “Cannon Sunday” among clergy. That’s the day you could fire a cannon in the sanctuary on Sunday morning and not hurt anybody! My father, also a Presbyterian minister, says that no minister has the ego it takes to preach on Easter and the Sunday after. Typically, a church will have it’s largest attendance of the year on Easter and the smallest numbers the week following. How soon we forget.

Easter comes at the end of Lent, my favorite time of year. I enjoy the extra prayers, the longer meditations, the truth that we are to reflect upon our own spiritual lives in hopes that we might narrow the chasm between ourselves and our God. Holy Week, My favorite week of the year reminds us that we ourselves play a role in the crucifixion of the Christ. The reason Easter is such good news is because Holy Week is such bad news. During Lent, we reflect upon our own sinfulness and our own lack of faith. Lent ends in Holy Week where we collectively gather and watch in wonder as we all cry “Hosanna” on Palm Sunday and “Crucify him” on Good Friday. Then comes Easter, Resurrection day, the day the truth of the gospel comes to light. The chasm between us and God cannot be narrowed by those things we have been thinking about. That chasm has already been completely closed by God’s actions in the death, life, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. “Alleluias” resound again in the church. Our relationship with God has been made perfect by God's actions. Then we all go home and hunt Easter eggs with our kids and grandkids. But it doesn’t end there.

We give as much time to Easter as we do to Lent, six weeks. Easter does not end on Easter but Easter begins on Easter. This party goes on for a long time. We celebrate the day of resurrection until the day of Pentecost (May 31 this year), that day the Holy Spirit came to the church, born of Christ’s free will to sustain us until he comes again.

I learned how to celebrate Easter properly as a very young child. It seems that several weeks after Easter, there was a horrible odor coming from my bedroom. After some parental investigation and a prison style search of that room, the culprit was found in my dresser drawer in the form of the most beautifully decorated hard boiled egg anyone had ever seen. Apparently my young mind had opted to savor the moment of Easter and keep that egg. I don’t recommend savoring Easter in this way but I pray you will find a way to hold on to the resurrection of Christ.

What eggs will you savor in the weeks to come?

Grieving Gemini

matt@fortdavispresbyterianchurch.org (Matt Miles) — Thu, 26 Mar 2009 16:35:00 GMT

Burying pets is never easy. Especially in the rocks! To be completely honest, I never expected much sadness when Gemini died. She was my wife’s cat. Never mine. There was no love lost between “that beast” (as I affectionately called her) and myself. We had a mutual disdain that seemed to work for us. It was almost a game for me. You could tell, though, that cat meant business!

I married two feline friends (I think it was Hemingway who said, “one cat just leads to another!”) It was not my intention to fall in love with a lover of cats. I’m a dog kind of a guy. But when I got Stessa, she made it clear that she came with two cats, Ting and Gemini. So when we decided to marry, we agreed that I would live with these two for a couple of years until they died and then that would be the end of it. Ting and I got along really well after a time. Gemini, not so much. I used to take an afternoon power nap in my recliner. Ting would rest on my chest. I think Gemini considered her a traitor for that little indiscretion.

When we started dating they all lived in a mobile home. Gemini fell out of the window one day. She was a little overweight then and the screen just simply couldn’t hold her. Gemini found a hole in the underpinning and slinked all the way back to the back corner of that trailer house. Stessa called me, frantic. So I did what every courting young man would do. Flashlight in hand, I crawled on hands and knees the 80 feet through spiders and snake skins back in there to retrieve her. She didn’t appreciate it nearly as much as I thought she should have but her owner did and finally showed enough mercy to marry me!

Never in my life would I have thought those cats would last 14 years! Ting passed away a couple of years ago. Gemini died on Tuesday. I buried her on family land on Wednesday morning and never would have expected the tears that came with that task. When you spend 14 years under the same roof with an animal, I guess they get into your heart whether you like it or not.

More than that, I love the woman who loved that cat. Abraham Lincoln once said, “I care not for a man’s religion whose dog and cat are not the better for it.” I can say, with absolute certainty that Gemini was loved with utter perfection. To see my bride so completely undone by the grief is hard on all of us. The kids will miss her. My wife will grieve her beloved friend for years to come. One day, in the not too distant future, we will lose the dog we got together just after our marriage ... and I too will be inconsolable for a time.

What is it about these creatures that jump into our hearts and stay? Why do we love them so much that it pains us so deeply when they depart? Could it be that it is because that kind of love is the natural thing for us to feel for all of God’s creation? Mark Twain quipped, "If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous, he will not bite you; that is the principal difference between a dog and a man." I wonder if we could learn to love our fellow humans as much as we love our animals. Even better, maybe we could learn to love each other as much as our animals love us. You know... the way they forgive our faults and mistakes and oversights?

Gemini and I never got along very well. Still she brought joy into my home and into my heart and I buried her on Wednesday. Join me today in giving thanks to her creator for the lessons our precious pets bring to us us and while you are at it, would you join me in prayer for my grieving spouse?

Goodbye, Farewell, and Amen.

matt@fortdavispresbyterianchurch.org (Matt Miles) — Fri, 13 Mar 2009 04:15:00 GMT

For some of us in this world, there is at least one single truth and that truth is that all good television entertainment ended with the Final episode of M*A*S*H. It was a wonderful break from reality with characters many of us grew to love over the years. I still look for reruns late at night when I get a chance. Sadly there are fewer and fewer occurrences each time my wife actually allows me the use of the remote control. The finale remains my favorite of anything I have seen on television... ever. A mass of humanity had been thrown together for so many years. The individuals involved had nothing in common other than their profession and the war. The irony lies in the building of authentic relationships in the midst of the institution of war, that part of humanity that so intentionally tears us apart.

Hawkeye tries his best to get his friend, B.J. to say "goodbye" to him. B.J., the consummate hardhead, refuses to even enter into the conversation. It seems apparent that he is in denial. He does not want to distance himself from his best friend (who he met by chance when Hawkeye's last best friend, Trapper, left Korea without him being able to say "goodbye." ) Hawkey and B.J. meet at the airbase and their friendship begins like so many on the show and in reality, over drinks. And finally, they have come to the end of the war. It's the moment they have prayed for, cried for and pled for for years. And when that moment comes, it is the most heart wrenching event imaginable for all the characters (and the fans). Hawkeye will return to his father in Crab Apple Cove, Maine, B.J. to his wife and daughter in Sausalido, CA. They will be divided by all the real estate in the United States and, yet, B.J. refuses to say "goodbye."

In the final scene, Hawkeye, the last to leave the post, has hugged his friend who rides off on a motorcycle. As the very familiar medivac helicopter lifts him up to a life far beyond his control, we all read the word, outlined on the ground in rocks... "GOODBYE"... and the credits roll.

I have been watching this US economy come apart with some real curiosity. It's odd, while the church's finances have suffered (and that could, honestly effect my personal income in some very interesting ways), my family has come through unscathed, thus far, at least. I have noticed, however, that there are people I love who's lives are not what they seem to have planned. I am watching intelligent, capable people who once worked powerful jobs do some of the strangest things. These folks have moved to this part of the world in order to retire and most of them have had to take at least some part time work in order to make ends meet on their dwindling retirement income as a direct result of the economic downfall. I try not to pry into people's finances unless they ask for my help but it seems to me that this is not what these folks had intended. I watch it and I wonder... what comes next?

And then I learned this week in a very profound way. Some very good friends' jobs were "downsized" by an institution from which I hold a degree (vague enough?) These are good folks. They are people who could be trusted to further the best intentions of the institution to which they have given years of their lives. They are stalwarts and the image of love and grace that I think of when my mind goes to that place. These folks are honest, loyal, and selfless and they have been forced out of their livelihood because of dishonesty, disloyalty, and greed that is far beyond their control. Like Hawkeye in that final scene, they are being lifted from the place they found safety and rest in the midst of a chaotic world. With no control over what happens next, all they can do is read the inscription left for them there by those they thought were their faithful friends, "GOODBYE."

The news gives us numbers. "The unemployment rate has risen to X% in Y months and that means blah, blah, blah..." Sound familiar? "X number of thousands of jobs have been lost since a particular time." Numbers are great. They show us the breadth of the problem. Unfortunately, they cannot begin to reveal to us the depth of the problem. For the depth, we must look into the eyes of the people we love where we will find worry, fear, and fatigue. We find people doing things in retirement they never planned to do. I see young folks who are capable, strong, intelligent, and worthy walking away from places to which they have been committed for years. These are not numbers. They are people with names and lives. They have families... children, spouses, parents who rely on their stability and their income and their well being and those family members have names we know too.

What does it all mean? Will we know, in our generation, what the final outcome of all of this is? Will we build into our common lives the safeguards needed to keep a greedy few from bringing down the greater whole? Will we find, in this time, a way to turn from the material wants we all have and turn toward the spiritual needs?

Small town folks have a deep seeded understanding of something: We are responsible for one another. We take care of our neighbors and do what is right for everyone involved even when it gets in the way of our plans. It's the only way we survive. I suspect there is a valuable lesson in that for the people charged with digging us out of this hole.