Desert Time

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven… Ecclesiastes 3:1

I just returned from what has become an annual post-Easter retreat to Las Vegas. Actually, Sin City is not really the destination. It ‘s just that the airport there is conveniently located for anyone who enjoys the Southwest and might be open to spending time away from crowds and air conditioning.

This year, my acting spiritual director led us on a 3-day odyssey that included hiking, climbing and mountain biking. It was demanding on the legs but it was worse on the sinuses. The desert is, of course, a challenge on the spirit as well…But in a good way. Exerting ourselves, whether it be in physical rigor, thoughtful consideration or prayerful exertion almost always leads to some kind of blessing provided we are willing to suffer whatever price being asked of our body, mind and spirit.

This year, my price came by way of an age old enemy, time. I have always struggled with time, especially the singular direction in which it appears to move. The desert was a constant reminder of time. From the petrified sand dunes and scarred mountains to the images of animals and symbols that had been etched upon them, the desert seemed a chorus with a compelling refrain...“this too will pass.”

I was especially surprised by a walk through what’s left of a ghost town at the far end of Lake Mead. In 1938, the people of St. Thomas were forced to abandon their homes and community for the sake of Hoover Dam. For many years, the town was covered by the waters of Lake Mead but because of increased pressure placed on the reservoir, the remnant of the town is now visible again. Except for the occasional dish or bottle, little is left beyond the concrete foundations and its rusting rebar. Two of the foundations were considerably larger than the others and my friend and I tried to figure which one had been the church. Walking through the ghost town, it initially seemed only depressing—a forgotten town now largely reclaimed by the sand and sage. Yet, in the midst of the ghostly refrain, there also seemed to be a distinct voice of hope. It was a hope that seemed connected to the challenge of the desert itself. I tried to imagine making a home in such a place. It would have been hard but this somehow seemed encouraging.

The town of St. Thomas is no more. Time and change have seen to that. Yet, it is still very good that these people once lived there in that valley. Looking at the foundations and trying to imagine how things once might have looked reminded me of the petrified dunes and petroglyphs that also remain and bear testimony to time gone by.

I believe that whatever lies ahead—whatever God has planned for eternity—it will somehow preserve the good of the past. Beholding the beauty of the desert, a beauty that challenges our mind, body and spirit… it makes me wonder. Perhaps we are wrong about that age-old enemy. Perhaps, time is actually our friend.

He is not here

Early Cave Drawings

Keeping it real on the way to the Cross

As Easter approaches each year, I often get sense of anxiety. I worry that I will not be able to preach a sermon that is worthy of the mystery and joy of the season. After all, the Resurrection is really the high holy day of the Christian calendar, if we preachers don't have something to say on Easter Sunday, then we might as well hang it up.

Of course, theoretically, the pressure really isn't on us. It sorts of boils down to whether or not God gives us something to say. Or, perhaps more accurately, whether or not God can break through all my blocks and distractions to get out whatever message needs to be proclaimed. This is sort of rule #1 in preaching and ministry generally. It's either God's work or its not. And if its not, its pretty hard to justify, at least over any length of time. Yet, even though preachers should know this, it is still easy to forget. It is easy to sort of buy into the ole cliche' "if it's to be, it's up to me."

One helpful aspect of all this is that Easter comes at the end of Holy Week. So by the time we are expected to be "real," we've already had a fairly substantial dose of reality. Thursday and Friday help pastors and congregations alike remember that Sunday isn't so much about us. Except to the extent that we are surprising beneficiaries.

Coming to understand ourselves as a sinners is both a burden and a blessing. It is a burden to the extent that we aren't necessarily the people that we imagine ourselves to be. It is a blessing to the extent that we realize that no one else is much surprised by all this. It can be tough to live with though. We want to be good. We want to avoid the betrayal. We understand the nails and the thorns, we would just prefer to imagine that they have been placed for the sake of someone else.