Lonesome Dove: Not the book, not the movie -- but a place for rural pastors, and troubled kids to heal

You've heard of Lonesome Dove. 

When I think of it, there come visions of dusty cattle drives from Texas to Montana, cowboys, gunslingers, outlaws, soiled doves, and Indians that were made iconic of Old West fiction by novelist Larry McMurtry, and the TV mini-series that followed.

But there really is a Lonesome Dove Ranch in Texas, and today it is devoted to two pan-denominational ministries. One of them focuses on worn out, struggling rural pastors and their families, those country ministers who often work fulltime at both "regular" jobs and behind the pulpit . . . and the second, to abused, endangered kids in need of short-term refuge and care.

If one of the last stories I will be doing for AGNews, capping 12 years freelancing for that online news outlet for the Assemblies of God fellowship, I was privileged to share some of the dream of community and pastoral outreach spearheaded by Dallas-area pastor Bryan Jarrett.

Here's a link to the article.  https://news.ag.org/en/News/Rural-Ministry-Matters

HVAC in Utah: Or fire and ice as blessings, or curses, relative to the seasons

It's the little things, sometimes, that make all the difference.

In the hottest, record-setting days of summer, it's air conditioning.

In the coldest, subfreezing nights of winter, it's a working furnace.

We've had to deal with failure of both of these past several months. It took several weeks in late July and early August, when temperatures soared well above 100 degrees (F) and stayed in the 80s overnight, to get our AC system finally fixed.

And so, until it was fixed, we baked. Our "home warranty" insurance covered very little. Oh, so worth the monthly payments, right? Truly, though, the couple grand we had to spend seemed little enough when those first whiffs of cool air flowed from the vents in our condo.

Perspective. Important quality, that . . . whether it concerns a sweaty, sticky neck, or numb, icy toes.

Then in late December and through January, we noticed the temperature in the condo -- regardless of the thermometer setting being nudged upward -- struggled to reach upper-50s or low-60s. Tough on Barbara, my wife, especially. Extra blankets and our two tiny pups helped, but it was still chilly.

At the coldest, I mused, and shivered in the dark of night, imagining the visceral joy our forebearers must have felt huddle around a fire in some dark cave. (Thus the image above, in case you wondered).

So, today, the furnace is back!  Two weeks this time, with different sets of perplexed technicians visiting. Nice fellows, but they couldn't figure it out. Finally, today, they did . . . and we have heat again, along with a chunk of missing drywall over the wall unit where the previous AC-related upgrade installers had managed, somehow, to cut off the flow of hot water that warms our home -- when working properly.

Our HVAC system incorporates the AC unit, outside, when feeds into the condo, and also connects to our hot water heater and furnace. It's supposed to be one efficient, happy holistic system to maintain comfortable temperatures year-round.

So, while the first time the HVAC folks did their thing inside we got stuck with the cost of the drywall patching after the cutting away part was done, this time -- God bless 'em -- the company, taking responsibility for the previous errors, is covering it all . . . the furnace repair, the drywall patching, everything.

I just about to the point of rethinking my cynicism about business ethics in America.

Well, in this case, anyway.
😉

Kyrie Elesion: More than a plea for 'don't beat me,' but for healing of the soul

Any Protestant, especially Evangelicals and Pentecostals, is probably stunned the first time they enter an Orthodox Christian liturgical service by at least two things: veneration of the icons, especially Mary, and the frequent prayer, "Lord have mercy." 

Three years ago, that was me. Doesn't the prayer work the first, tenth or hundredth time, I asked Fr. Justin Havens. 

Soon after, I became a catechumen, was baptized, and learned more about Mary (the Theotokos, or bearer of incarnate Son of God), and what was deeper behind the "Lord have mercy" bit. 

It was not, as I thought, just a groveling version of "don't hit me, I'll be good!" 

I learned that, "Lord Have Mercy" is a rather abrupt and incomplete English translation of "Kyrie Elesion," a Greek expression in which the root from the latter word is "eleos," Greek for olive oil -- used anciently for and associated with healing, as a soothing agent for bruises and minor wounds. (Remember the story of the Good Samaritan? He treated the wounded man with oil, etc.)

And wait, there's more! The Hebrew word also translated as eleos and mercy is "hesed," i.e. "steadfast love."
So really, praying "Kyrie Eleision," or "Lord have mercy" conveys a prayer to God for soothing, comforting, and alleviating our pain, and in so doing, showing us His steadfast love.

That's what I've learned, which puts me at perhaps kindergarten level for understanding the theology of the ancient church. 

At 66, I know I may not make it to "big boy" school in understanding the Faith; thank God, there's Eternity.

A year later, a candle, incense, an ancient prayer of mourning -- and hope

So, it's been a year since I received that call from the Cheney (Wash.) Care Center telling me my father, Robert Sr., had passed away.

On Friday, I woke up, showered, dressed and went to my icon corner. Lit candles, set incense aflame, and recited the morning prayers of the Orthodox Christian. Then, placing a portrait of Dad on the ledge under an icon of the Theotokos, I opened a booklet containing the Akathist for the Departed and began to repeat the ancient words.

For the 40 days following Dad's death on Jan. 17, 2019, this is the prayer I offered for his "repose." Though he was not Orthodox (Dad was a retired Pentecostal Evangelical pastor), I had the blessing of my parish priest to do this;  and I found in the prayer's ancient prose and, to me truth, comfort as the tears flowed then.

It was the same on Friday.

The emotions were sweeter, a year later. Oh, still grief, but with less emotional guilt baggage. Time does not heal all wounds, you see -- that's a well-intentioned lie we tell each other. But Time does lessen the pain of the scars of loss. . . and memories can flow of loving moments shared.

There were more tears of the former kind, than the latter. 

In six months, I'll be turning again to the Akathist prayer for Mom, who died six months after Dad, also at Cheney Care Center. Alzheimer's had robbed her of speech, memory and mobility long before she passed away. But there are also precious memories left to me of her better days, her loving moments.

Does it sound delusional to say I felt Dad's presence during Friday's prayers? OK, but I did, and he was like a sweet perfume born on the cloud of Light warming my heart. I glowed within as I breathed the words of devotion and petition repeated from the lips of millions of mourners, by ancestors in faith, over the past two millennia, in languages both current and lost.

I anticipate that comfort, and mystical assurance of faith, when I pray again for Mom's soul, and our future reunion.

"At Thy breath flowers come to life, the river Nile is resurrected and a multitude

 of tiny creatures awakens. 

"Thy glance is brighter than the spring sky; and Thy love, O Jesus, 

is warmer than the rays of the sun. 

Thou didst raise our mortal human flesh

 from the dust of the earth unto the blossoming of the eternal spring

 of incorruptible life.

 Do Thou then illumine also Thy servant Robert Sr. with the light of Thy mercy."

Do-it-yourself home deadbolt lock installation, St. Doofolupoulis help us

Note to self. (And any other acolyte's of the little known, heterodox very minor *Saint Doofolupoulis).

When installing that new dead bolt lock with more secure 2 3/8 inch screws where half-inch ones were previously, it is a good idea to drill the hole deeper and not just try to muscle it in, ending up with it two-thirds of longer screw the way in, tight as granite, and the screw head rounded off.

So, while I stand guard over the open door, wifey is off to Lowe's for (a) a new screw, (b) a vice-grip to get the ruined screw out, and (c) a hand drill to do it right.

Dumb, dumb-dumb-dumb, DUMB!

Update: Vice-grip wrench set, electric hand drill, check; oops, put in the deadbolt bolt backwards, start over, yay!

Tis done, and it only took three plus hours, and scatological epithets (confession fodder, Dagnabit! Sorry Fr. Justin), and a pulled lower back muscle!
Lord have mercy. 🤬😳🤫

*There is no Saint Doofolupoulis. You knew that, right?

Being alone is one thing; finding purpose in solitude of the soul, is everything

Being alone, is one thing. Finding purpose in those inevitable moments of solitude of the soul, is another. 

Finding how best to live that purpose, once revealed, can seem impossible.

Yet that is, I suspect, a universal, and most particularly intense American experience. 

We are so material in our orientation, so selfish.

Asked what motivates acts of charity, of perceived "selflessness" -- our proffered tokens of time, wealth, and feelings toward another human being or cause -- and many, if honest, admit: "It makes me feel better about myself."

If that is it, then fine; who am I to judge? Been there, done that. Such benevolent actions, donations, and affection given do, at least, show another suffering human that someone or something "cares" for their plight, and perhaps even them personally.

Still, does the purpose revealed still essentially come down to a sort of self-affirmation that we are "good?" We deigned to stoop, to sacrifice a tithe of our lives and resources to someone in need, after all.

Or, maybe they are not in need, but a professional cardboard sign holder at an intersection. "Homeless, hungry, anything helps, God bless," they declare -- yet an enterprising reporter may spot them later exiting a middle class home, their rags exchanged for cleaner, newer garb as they pop into a late-model SUV for a night out.

You see it happen regularly on TV news. Confronted, there is no shame. "I've done nothing illegal. People want to give. It makes them feel better. So, I give them the chance," they say and drive off.

Certainly, there is no 100 percent effective way to know the difference between the fraud and real need. And to many, it ultimately doesn't matter. 

We want to do good, however marginal the effort may be, and welcome an easy way to do so. Roll down a window, hand a buck or two to the cardboard sign set, get a "God bless" and you can smile and feel good all the way to the next intersection.

Even if you suspect you've just been conned, it's easy to suppress that feeling. We are very good at that, we Americans.

We embrace black-and-white logical fallacies all the time, if you think about it: Trump/Pelosi are either evil or righteous, completely, with no shadows of gray; war is absolutely wrong -- but killing life in the womb is undeniably justified as the end means of a reproductive "right"; morality itself can be individually defined as we wish, and if you believe there are indeed things and actions that are inherently good or evil by nature if not whim, you are a bigot or (choose your flavor)-phobic.

And yet, down deep, there is that desire to do . . . something, something we know is right, however confused our conception of "rightness" is.

C.S. Lewis opined that the very fact that this primordial moral sense exists -- something he called "Tao" in his book, "The Abolition of Man" -- is a worthy starting point for arguing for eternal and objective Truth, natural law, and yes, Nature's God.

So, when our former "purpose," in my case a career as a writer, editor, and journalist, comes to an end, then what? 

We are, painfully and mercifully both, left to finally embrace that which we for so long avoided, that Truth we may have partially acknowledged but still held, through delusion and token practice, at arm's length.

That Truth is that our "purpose" has never really been ours; rather, we find true meaning, the kind that transcends, in seeing ourselves as part of the Purpose. Finally, we surrender to what we knew all along, deep down. . . that we were created for this, and not for that.

As atheist-turned-believer Lewis wrote: 

"An open mind, in questions that are not ultimate, is useful. But an open mind about the ultimate foundations either of Theoretical or of Practical Reason is idiocy. If a man's mind is open on these things, let his mouth at least be shut. He can say nothing to the purpose. Outside the Tao there is no ground for criticizing either the Tao or anything else."

2019: What I've learned from a year of pain, triumph, grief, hope

When I was a young(er) father, dealing with the outrage of our single-digit year old son and daughter about how this or that was not fair, I suspected trying to explain theologically, philosophically, metaphysically how this could possibly be so true in a universal -- yet not, ultimately, eternal -- sense, would simply confuse the heck out of their precious, beloved minds.

And on a recent trip to visit my grandchildren in Maryland, I saw the same learning curve on the Question of Fairness in play. Wheel do go 'round in circles, still.


It certainly had that effect on me. So, I simply repeated -- after each mean-spirited slight of another child toward them, or when one of them was convinced the other had more ice cream (as measured by teaspoons, I suspect), or the miscarriage of justice in both of them having to go to bed at the same time (despite the eons of difference between being 5 and 7!) -- that, "Life is not fair. It just is (life)."

OK, certainly not as profound as God declaring to the curious Moses that His Name was, "I AM that I AM."  Although, within the Mims household of the kids' youngest years, the debate certainly was as intense, if things are relative. (But of course, we know relativity, applied to questions of fairness, justice, and all the rest is also a plunge down the rabbit hole that lurks at the base of our finite minds; that's another conversation, though).

But no matter how "mature" we get, we always will have moments where our inner child flops on the ground, disconsolate, and cries, "This just isn't fair!"

When your 96-year-old father -- once a talented musician, bright of intellect, and example of Christian faith lived as much as he preached -- lives his final year in arthritic pain, stroke-induced dementia, and deafness that has you shouting "I love you in his ear," is that "fair?"  

Or, your 91-year-old mother -- once sharp-minded, funny, fiercely loving, and able to play the piano as if she were bleeding her vibrance into its keys -- lives her final years having lost cognition, memories, or even the ability to care for her most basic bodily functions? Again, not "fair."

I promise, this will not become a litany of "unfair" events or situations I've seen in 2019, or in my span of 66 years. Honestly, they pale compared to those endured by millions of others on this planet we call home. And truly, what makes any one of us immune to the sufferings, too-often self-imposed, that are common to human kind?

Life changes, every day, in ways dramatic and miniscule alike. We love, we lose; we delight, we suffer; we comfort, and we are comforted.

On Earth, we have what we have . . . measures of joy and mourning, triumph and disappointment, years of health and decline, opportunities to serve, heal and embrace, and to learn humility, by being served, being healed, being embraced.

Those things I have learned, either in 2019 itself, or through life-long experience and what illumination faith has provided to clarify, and expand in the past trip around Old Sol. Most important to me, as a believer, is that God is with those who call upon Him. Mostly, He sees us through the pain, disappointments, challenges, but does not deliver us from them.

Babies don't learn to crawl unless you put them down and beckon them. Toddlers don't walk successfully until they are released to step, fall, and get up again. And in the scope of Eternity, we have all just begun to crawl.

Even at 66 years old.

As you can, walking in the eternal, uncreated light, Love, unconditionally. Give, generously. Live each breath, each heartbeat, each second, minute, hour and year you have left in forgiveness, and gratitude.

May God bless your New Year with His Presence, in and through all things.

Prayer Walks: You never know what life, your feet, and faith, will bring you

I love to walk, to feel the blood pump through my legs and fresh air fill my lungs.

In warmer months, that happens in a T-shirt and shorts. In mid-December, with daytime temperatures in the mid-20s (F), that means warm socks, thick fleece pants, gloves, a sweater and a warm coat.

And lately, I combine the physical exercise with spiritual nourishment via recordings on my iPhone: maybe a monk reading from the Psalter, or Orthodox prayers chanted in Byzantine style by Eikona (http://www.eikona.com/prayers-for-orthodox-christians/), or podcasts from Ancient Faith Radio (https://www.ancientfaith.com).

Sure, I could walk on a treadmill in a nice warm Planet Fitness gym (I do have a free membership through AARP). But I like to feel like I'm actually going somewhere -- in both a linear and metaphysical sense.

Which (finally, thanks for waiting) brings me to the theme of this entry: You never know what life your feet, and faith, will bring you.

On Wednesday, for example, I was doing my few miles on the Jordan River Parkway when I came upon a young woman, in her late teens I would guess, sitting hunched over on the side of the trail. As I got closer, I could see the sadness, that look of hopelessness.

We've all been there. And we all remember how it feels. You look at the cold, gray skies -- and in this case the snow-covered Wasatch Mountains rising in the east -- and watch your breath as a wreath of mist, its warmth and hope gone before you can inhale again.

I couldn't just walk by. I mean, I probably could have done . . . but, for crying out loud, I had just heard a homily about the Good Samaritan through my earphones seconds earlier.

So . . . "Are you all right?" I asked, and tried to smile disarmingly. Shouldn't be too hard for a 66-year-old, gray-haired and -silver bearded, bundled up grandpa with a walking staff.

When she turned to look at me, her eyes were swollen, red, wet. "I live over there," she waived toward a residential treatment facility about a quarter-mile away. "I just needed some time to . . .", and her voice trailed off.

I stayed quiet. She looked back up. "I'm missing my parents. I can't reach them. I don't know how they are. They don't know how I am."

Loneliness is the worst, especially this time of year, when Christmas is so hyped as a time for love, gifts and everything bright, yada yada yada.

So, I told her to try to look at herself, from outside herself. "This feels awful now, but life changes, sometimes every time we just stop and look around. I get up, walk, sleep, and get up, and it's changed. Always. Sometimes not much and not for what seems a long time, but sometimes, you realize what hurt so much is yesterday, and today is new."

There was a glance of hope, or at least interest. She was listening for more.

"I lost both my parents this year. Just me and my sister left, and she's almost a thousand miles away," I shared. "I miss them very much, but I pray for them every day, and I know they pray for us."

I suggested that there are people who care about her, too. They may pray for her, they may think of her with love and concern, and that, too, is a prayer of sorts.

But we are not alone. Hope finds a way, and faith helps guide it within us.

"Things will get better, sooner or later. Trust it will, and until then, just do what you need to do to get where you need to be. God bless your day, young lady."

She nodded, sniffed, and seemed to calm a bit. "Thank you, sir." She took my hand and squeezed. We both smiled, and I resumed my trek.

Half an hour later, as I returned on the way home, she was gone. I whispered a prayer for God's mercy and protection for her.

And I wondered, had I done enough? I may never know the answer to that question.

What I did know, however, was that or this senior citizen, the day had a purpose.

Riches in Heaven: Or, how a tiny church in a poor New Mexico town makes a difference

Pastors Paul and Diane Hesch with inmate friends (Hesch photo)

My latest freelancing effort:

"On Sundays, pastor Paul L. Hesch tells the 60 congregants at Victory Life Church about the power of Christ’s love to bring the spiritual riches of faith, hope, and healing to the poverty-stricken community they call home.

For Hesch and pastoral partner and wife Diane, that home is Las Vegas — not the sprawling gambling hot spot in Nevada, but the economically challenged and historically rough-and-tumble city of 13,100 that straddles northwest New Mexico’s Gallinas River. The U. S. Census Bureau reports that 34.4 percent of local residents live at or below the poverty line, compared to the 12.7 percent of the overall U.S. population. . . . "

To read the rest of this story, click on this link: https://bit.ly/34UB2bK

Book review: The Divine Liturgy: When Heaven and Earth are one

As an Evangelical preacher's kid, Sunday worship was this: three drum-and-electric guitar and keyboard pop-rock worship songs, pulsing stage lights and haze from a smoke machine, a sermon and a quarterly and self-served "communion" of oyster crackers and grape juice.

Then, three years ago, I attended Divine Liturgy at an Eastern Orthodox church. I was inundated by the flickering light of candles, incense, icons, vestments, chants and singing, ancient prayers -- true reverence that engaged all the senses -- and stirred the spirit.

In "Orthodox Worship: A Living Continuity with the Synagogue, the Temple, and the Early Church," co-authored Benjamin D. Williams and the late Harold B. Anstall, I learned it was all that . . . and much, much more.

I experienced this work as Ancient Faith's newly updated, audiobook format (https://store.ancientfaith.com/orthodox-worship-audiobook/). At just under 6 and a half hours long, it was the perfect devotional companion for my daily walks.

Striding down forested trails flanked by meadows and streams, I was easily able to immerse myself in the history of how today's Orthodox Christian worship as a continuation, and fulfillment, of the Jewish temple and synagogue liturgical practices Christ's first disciples and apostles knew from their childhoods.

Deacon Kenneth Timothy's engaging and passionate narration conveys both authors' deep faith, as well as his own. In this way, the book becomes something more than words on a page or eBook reader; it is a conversation with a friend and spiritual brother.

This is a book aimed at the layperson, but no less complete in its theological exploration or attention to details of the Divine Liturgy's content and ancient symbolism and rituals, culminating in Holy Communion, the mystical yet real joining of heaven and earth in true worship.

The Divine Liturgy, at its inspired and best, is not a spiritual spectator's sport. To merely listen, occasionally make the sign of the cross, get in line for Eucharist and then leave unchanged within, is a tragic waste.

The blessing comes with participation, Williams and Anstall stress. Given the invitation for a foretaste of the Kingdom of God, along with the saints and angels, why would we not?