David Hardy Nease

I got my middle name from my dead uncle. 

I'm not sure where my grandparents got his name, but I like to think how it came all the way back from the greatest king of the nation of Israel, "a man after God's own heart," a guy who quite literally screwed up royally and yet came to be the name that would set the pattern for the Messiah. 

David: man after God's own heart. 

Jesus: man after God's own heart.

My uncle died two months short of turning ten years old in 1970. When I was younger I used to think it funny that I had an uncle younger who never surpassed me in age. Of course, I never met him because he died over 10 years before I was born. It's also funny to think that he would be be almost 53 years old today. That's a difficult thought even more than it is a funny one, because we think of years lost, memories never made, and people never met.

Though the drowning of a ten year old boy who was trying to help his dog out of a frozen pond is particularly perplexing, the wake of death at any age brings a surge of questions: 

Why? Why him (her)? How could there be a loving God? What in God's name does this serve? 

I didn't really see the explicit resulting markings of my uncle's death upon my grandparents, though I've often wondered if I could see them implicitly in moments of silence or when catching them staring off into the air, particularly for my grandmother.

My wife's uncle was a long-time friend of my grandparents. I've heard him tell the story often of the time when my grandparents were sent away by those who loved them to have opportunity to grieve. One of their take aways from that time was a shared song. 

No limits, no measure, no boundary, indeed.

I preached on resurrection in light of the Sabbath this past Sunday. It's notable to me that Jesus was dead for the whole of the Sabbath; that on the day of not-work, after a life of (quite literally) giving his all, Jesus' dead body was in the ground. We so often assume that the best results come out of an activity that produces. But there's apparently something very worthwhile about what "happens" in times of sabbath. And despite the lingering of death, pain, grief, missed opportunities, and regretful (in-)action, something can yet be resurrected out of the death-full grave nonetheless.

Uncle David's grave marker says simply, "Dear Jesus I love you. Amen." I'm told that this was his prayer most nights. My seminary-trained, perpetually-theologically-thinking heart-brain couldn't have come up with a better prayer.

Sabbatical Sermon Series Recordings

I sure thought I'd have more updates on the sabbatical planning here on the blog than I have so far. This is not to say that a lot hasn't been happening! The church board has a Sabbatical sub-committee working hard on the congregational aspects of the summer including the day outing on June 15th and the additional Labor Day Weekend All-Church Retreat. I'm working on all sorts of aspects including the internship program, buying tickets (finally got the bank account straight), making connections with people I'm visiting, and currently working on my main reason for this posting: preaching a sermon series on sabbath that began yesterday. If anyone is interested in listening, I will update the recordings here as we go along. First week is up:

January 6, 2013 - Sabbath Series #1: Re-Create
January 13, 2013 - Sabbath Series #2: Re-Member

January 20, 2013 - Sabbath Series #3: Re-Store (unfortunately, this recording failed)

January 27, 2013 - Sabbath Series #4: Re-Deem

February 3, 2013 - Sabbath Series #5: Resurrect
February 10, 2013 - Sabbath Series Narrative Conclusion

Scripture passages and supplemental material are also linked from our recordings page over on the church website.

The Ridiculousness of Joy at this Time

Sandy Hook happened.
Sunday came.
I had to preach.

The texts, as loosely as I used them this week, were Luke 3:7-18 and Philippians 4:4-7.

If you'd like to listen to it, it is here:
Joy: What then should we do?

A (Slight) Lament

Meghan and I share the same love for a lot of different things. 

Some things I've picked up from her, like an appreciation for Yankee macintosh candles, sweatshirts, marriage, child-rearing, and even (slightly) the story of Anne of Green Gables. Some things she's picked up from me, like stove-cooked popcorn, theology, apolitical positions, or even (slightly) Boston sports. Of course, many other things we appreciated well before we even came together, like Christmas, driving through Vermont, the seasons, and Jesus.

Love has a way of drawing various parties together toward one another's interests and concerns. Surely that is part of what has happened for Meghan and I. I cherish this.

For one, we've loved to visit used bookstores. We've found them while traveling, spending time perusing, sometimes buying, but more often not. She heads for the children's and classics sections while I prefer theology and photography.  The best book stores are ones that have good coffee and some tables. We've frequented bookstores in Kansas, Vermont, and many places in between. Some stores are duds. Others have been more fruitful.

About a year and a half ago, we were in North Conway at a bed and breakfast thanks to the generosity of our church community. As we often did, we sought out a local used book store. A beautiful little building with a second-floor loft (children's section, of course), it was very pleasing to the eye and slightly exciting in thinking about the possibilities within.

But after some time spent browsing, I was rather disappointed. 

And realization set in. 

Theology books just aren't exactly best-sellers these days. While I'm truly okay with that (I don't mind pop theology dying, and these are usually the types of theology books that would be in stores), I lament it in that the space I used to inhabit in book stores doesn't exist like it used to.

And secondly, used bookstores are going the way of wagon wheels and landline phones. I am typing this on my iPad, from which I also do 90% of my reading these days. I love the minimalist nature that technology brings. But with the advance of the electronic (like books) goes the demise of the material (like ink and paper). 

Sad.

But true.

And by sad, I don't mean that it should be otherwise. I feel for bookstores and bookstore owners (Meghan apparently does too since she's watched the movie You've Got Mail about a million times). But in life, this is the way things go: things die. Out of them, new things grow. 

And so today, I lament.

I am up in North Conway at the moment, this time without Meghan. (It's likely that this post was birthed from our separation.) My father and I are together and he wanted to go to a bookstore, so I brought him to the one Meghan and I "discovered." I was even more disappointed today. The theology books in the inspirational section were limited to one by Joyce Meyer and a commentary on The Shack (not even the book itself). Wright, Newbigin, Hauerwas, and even Lewis and Lucado: all missing. There were five copies of Satanic Verses from the Underground (or some such thing). 

Inspirational, indeed.

And so I lament today. 

Of course, there are "much more important" things to lament. The list is obvious. Today though, this is on my mind.

But to lament is not necessarily to wish for something to be different. Instead, it may simply be to acknowledge that we don't enjoy the truth of a matter, however inevitable it may be.

Seeing the Church Again

The property next door to our chapel and parsonage has been under development for what seems like years. It appears that an end might be in sight for this project to restore an historic house and barn that sit on the property. As part of it, the developers are installing a new driveway that hugs our property line. And to be able to do so, they had to cut down a number of large trees where the new driveway will eventually sit. While those trees were admittedly pretty old and not-so-glorious, it's somewhat sad to see trees go regardless. In the end, it's the way of life sometimes. No big deal.

In another area, I'm dealing with a bit of angst at the moment. Unfortunately, it does have to do with the fact that it's November, 2012, and the first Tuesday of the month is soon upon us. Now as much as I've tried to deal moderately with the port-a-potty-and-spittoon-all-in-one that is the political scene in America (for one: I'm still undecided on what I will do - if anything - in regard to voting for a President at the moment), I was recently told by someone that he didn't feel welcome to accept my invitation to share the Table of Communion with me. While I'm not completely sure why that is (it may be simply because I am not able at the moment to choose a particular candidate), it gives me angst whatever the reason. I would like to think that any followers of Christ could feel welcome to gather at the table after an election regardless of whether or not they voted or for whom. And to think he doesn't feel welcome to do so with me makes me - to use a big boy word - sad.

I've been trying to get out and walk a bit more. This morning as I was returning from my walk down North Street, I saw our chapel from a new perspective. The fact that those trees that were cut down has allowed for a new view of the chapel from the east. Before, sight of the chapel was mostly blocked from certain angles to the east. But this morning, with those old trees cut down, I could see the chapel from an angle that I couldn't before.

Despite the early morning darkness, I had to stop and take a picture (the resulting blurry image above). As I was listening to a sermon that was encouraging the Church to always remember that the throne of the world is occupied by a slain little lamb and not any human nation or superpower, the image of a fresh perspective of the Church was encouraging. 

For many, there is a certain cloud, a mass of twisted trees: an object of blockage between who Christ would have his Church be and who she currently is in this nation. (I do think it's slightly better than four years ago, but that may simply be due to my perspective and geography). 

And oh...for God to come and chop down those trees, burn the chaff, and make way for a Spirit to blow through and sweep away the leaves...so the Church could be seen as she should be: devoid of human division.

Tuesday's passing will be wonderful - both personally and corporately. It's sad that it has to pass for some things themselves to pass, but oh well. It'll take it. 

I'd like to see the Church again.