Sun, 15 Jun 2025 23:45:55 -0700WeeblyFri, 09 Aug 2013 21:23:29 GMThttp://www.kcfellowship.ca/pastor-dales-blog/-alzheimers-anniversariesOur consciousness of morning breaking came earlier than what is
usual for me. From my location in our old limestone house, I began to overhear
and comprehend scattered portions of conversation occurring between Wenda and
her father.

“Happy anniversary Dad!”

I knew then it was once again the 31st of July. Sixty
five years had slipped into history since the wedding of Wenda’s parents; which
was one year before I was born.

The core gist of the exchange was the issue of what were we to
do to recognize and celebrate this event.  The questions inevitably evolved:
“should anything be done at all? Was there anything left to celebrate? Were we
simply endeavouring to revive something well beyond any hope of reviving? At the
end of the day, for whom and what real reason was there to
celebrate?”

This early morning exchange was much more poignant and at a
deeper level than it was only a year ago. This July 31st demarcation
brought into conscious focus one more difference in a journey of endless
differences. The passage of time brings the fact that things change over the
course of a lifetime into a sharpened reality that leads to contemplation. What
we contemplated this year was that, Wenda’s Mom would not be able to leave the
assisted living residence; another of those unpleasant “firsts.” 

Alzheimer’s disease had essentially eroded all definition of
awareness of time and place in eight short years. The physical shell remained –
though greatly reduced and withered – but all other identity markers had been
erased. No matter how gently or aggressively the probing, or how much a response
was desired, nothing was to be resurrected – not a flash, a hint, or shadow of
the real, vibrant person that once was. In fact the last few visits had been
nothing less than cruel and disastrous.

Regressed to a previous time, driven by a single frantic
obsession to get home and nurse her ailing mother, who departed this life more
than 30 years ago, there was no hope of settling her or bringing her to any
semblance of rest. Hour upon hour she shuffled through the long shiny corridors,
in and out of rooms, violently yanking on closet doors; searching here,
searching there for a recognizable moment in the far distant past. 
Her tormented journey was all in a swirl of muttered passion: “I must get
home to mother.”  Once she entered that zone, the only reasonable action was to walk away leaving her behind the locked door and seek solace, comfort and support for your own soul with the
thought: “Perhaps next time…..” Yet more than once the tears glistening on my
wife’s soft face betrayed the “blustering confidence” of ‘Perhaps next time’.
Those close to and around her just knew the far more real thought was, ‘Will
there even be a next time?’

But it’s July 31st, and the arrival of the 65th anniversary day brought with it the demand that the “next time” be decided.

Wenda’s Mom could not come to where we were but we insisted that
this damnable disease and her present condition would not keep us from going to
her. This decision was made in part, I think, out of sheer teeth gritting and
fist shaking defiance of the disease.

It was now 4:15 PM and with eighty dollars worth of delicious
food in tow we arrived in front of the residence. Keying in the door code and
entering, Darline and Gramps would make the ride to the fifth floor. Wenda and I
would set a “proper table” – a table fit for a 65th Wedding Anniversary celebration.

A “proper table” required a location other than the general
dining hall. The perfect spot was a round table (very family friendly) in a well
windowed corner of the room. This was not a dark corner where things hide. It
was filled from floor to ceiling with the light of the setting sun. As it was,
we were the only occupants.    
  
The great feast was readied: meals in place, chairs positioned
and a seemingly breathless, eternal wait.  Wenda and I did not hear the fitful
stopping of the old elevator that consistently squeaks, squawks, moans and
groans in some kind of low key, aging protest of its function. We did not hear
the clanging of its door that is bereft of all grace in its clumsy and awkward
  opening. With every trip on this piece of equipment I am left with the feeling
  that it is sending a message to anyone listening: “I never wanted to be an
  elevator. I am nauseated with the constant ups & downs of my life – endless
  motion that never graduates me beyond present structure. Would you kindly exit
  and quit pushing my buttons.”

Suddenly, the shuffle of slipper shod feet, the sounds of
familiar voices and there was the happy trio: Wenda’s parents and our daughter.
 If there was to be an expectation, if at all, what should the expectation be?

It was not mere imagination or a circumstance born from a
desperate hope of a response. There was a definite light in her countenance,
light we thought had been extinguished forever. The windowed sunset light
enhanced a slow smile upon seeing Wenda. Then there was “magic”, pure, unbridled
magic: the clear articulation, “Oh, I love you. You are my daughter.” I think we
all at that moment allowed ourselves to dare believe there had indeed been a
“next time” and the present reality proved our partaking in it.

For the next hour and a half, seated at the round table, it was
almost like old times. There was no deception in our own hearts when compared to
the hellish, nightmarish and diabolical bleakness of what the last several
visits had been.  This in fact, closely resembled the older days of normalcy within the confines of our unique family dynamic.  We breathed it in, absorbed it, held it close to our hearts and thought thanksgiving toward our God.

Last year Grammy was able to recall and rattle off with ease the
family blessing over the meal. The unavoidable reality of this disease caused
one to wonder, “How would it be this year?”  Given the progressive nature of the
disease we knew it would be different, even on this July 31st. Wenda
had to put the words of the blessing in Grammy’s mouth. But, so what! She
repeated them and that much was a joy.

Surprises seemed to randomly drop out of the blue. In the
un-orchestrated family chatter of soft words and gentle phrases, the voice of my
mother-in-law suddenly rose above it all and as if making a Sunday morning
declaration during testimony time she emphatically stated: “Our God is a good
God, isn’t He?”

In wide gaping, wondrous amazement, three sets of jaws dropped,
and three mouths fell wide-open. Our individual gazes bounced around the table
from one to another with the silent question, “Did we just hear correctly?”
Knowing full well we had. There was total agreement that our God is good and we
were experiencing that goodness. If you are wondering about the fourth “set of
jaws” – well, Grampy is about 90% deaf.

The pleasant food on the round family table was disappearing.
Cameras were flashing. Grampy was spitting out in rapid-fire fashion sixty five
years of memories in a voice loud enough that he could hear – which, of course,
put it way over the top for healthy ears. His idea seemed if he could just speak
loudly enough, his words would penetrate deeply to evoke their memories in her.
Those memories he needed to believe were not vanquished to some long lost region
of her brain that was beyond recovery – some nether land from which there can be
no return .

Suddenly another moment of magic: Grammy peered across the round
table, lit up with a smile and with excellent clarity of voice said, “Why,
that’s Dale. Well if anyone tries to hurt him they will have to come through
me.” My pride says that I made such a profound, wonderful, meaningful and
favourable impression upon my mother-in-law that not even Alzheimer’s could
expunge it; however, in the magic of the moment, it was pleasant and that’s all
that really mattered.

Wenda spares no expense or effort when it comes to special
occasion cards, and this special anniversary was no exception. Grampy read the
card and held it for Grammy to see. She “authoritatively” removed it from his
hands, looked it over and even read a few of the words. Seeing the envelope, she
attempted to place the card in it. It was not easy for her.  Grampy
in his always ready to “fix” things mode swept it away. If looks could kill,
Grampy would be in glory today.   
        
Wenda’s Mom turned her eyes toward her, sighed deeply, and with
obvious impatience and disgust began muttering in a low voice: “And a one, and a
two, and a three...” The round table rang with laughter. Grampy heard none of it
but laughed as if he had.

As the end of the meal approached, it became evident that this
monster called Alzheimer’s disease has not wrought its final destruction. My
mother-in-law has loved sweets forever. She endures the front end of meals while
living for the “last hurrah” –desert of any kind and in any form; hot, cold,
warm, soft, hard-- doesn’t matter.

Her gaze was now locked upon a substantial swath of bright
yellow lemon pie topped with a “snowdrift” of white meringue. Her tiny hand
instinctively reached for the spoon and all we heard was, “Yum! Yum!” The Lloyds
and the Harts (including Grammy) laughed like giddy fools. 

Shortly thereafter, with the fullness of the meal and the magic
of the moment fading, her eyes began to droop, her head began to lean. 

We disturbed the old elevator yet again, took a short ride, and
passed beyond the locked door on floor five. But there was yet one more
manifestation of this good God of ours. Leaving has never been easy or smooth.
She always pushes to come with us in search of her mother, ending with feelings
of deep frustration and aggressive anger. We stagger our leaving her in stages;
first one then another. I am always the last to
leave.

It may be a small thing but when caught in the experience of
this nasty disease, small things take on huge significance. We all have the
maturity to “handle it”; however, it nonetheless seemed such a shame that this
three hour visit of celebration, and true magical, grace-filled wonder would
come to an end with the usual aggravation and agitation. Historically it did so
nearly without exception, always accompanying our leaving her “until the next
time.”  Why should this otherwise warm, wonderful, beautiful and amazing memory now be tainted with this “testy confrontation”?

She sat in a big chair. One by one we passed by her and shared a
hug and a kiss. We all moved away simultaneously with no aggression,
frustration, anger or even a passing mention of mother. Crammed in the open
doorway we turned to look. She lifted her left arm and waved. Each of our souls
just kind of rested with a final, “WOW!”

Will there be a “next time” – a 66th anniversary?
Will it be as good as this time? Only a Sovereign God knows who in His infinite
wisdom, grace, mercy and kindness gave us “this time.” 

Walking through the experience of Alzheimer’s or any other
wasting, debilitating disease deeply affects the soul. It causes one to see God
where one had not experienced Him before. It’s not that we bring Him to a
particular place and make Him present there, but we discover Him working in the
present details; in which, otherwise, we would always be oblivious. This keen
awareness of discovery causes one to become overwhelmingly grateful for every
moment such as these and takes nothing for granted. Every flash and every hint
of redemption and promised restoration is carefully noted even if it’s just a
fleeting moment.       

Until the “next time” then.......  
 


       


 
]]>Thu, 18 Jul 2013 16:46:06 GMThttp://www.kcfellowship.ca/pastor-dales-blog/a-mess-a-message-a-ruby-ring THE MESS

The voice on the other end of the telephone conversation was gruff and gravely. The
words sounded intimidating, demanding and hard. “I understand you baptize at
your church. Well, I need to be baptized. I will see ya at Sunday morning service.”  Beginning with that call, an incredible, most interesting journey, intertwined with pathos, admiration, and affection was born, now more than three decades past.

The journey concluded (at least the part of it that is in the realm of the physical) Tuesday morning, June 25, 2013.

Sunday morning arrived and an old, beat up pick-up truck paused for a moment in front
of the church and as suddenly as it appeared, it wheeled away. The driver would
tell me years later that the reason he did not stop was because the people were
not lined up to greet and welcome him, and in his “no excuses” persona, he meant
it; a fact that would bring much laughter to us both through the years. A short
time later the old chariot returned and this time the occupant came into the service. 

If one thought the voice on the phone was intimidating, the physical image now
before me was even more so. Shoulder length black hair cascaded from the crown
of his head and fell rather carefree until it met and mingled with a heavy
beard. His clear eyes, sharp and penetrating, enhanced the sparkle of the ear
ring. He had more rings than fingers: too numerous to count (rings that is not fingers). It was obvious this fellow was obsessed with working out and lifting weights. Yet with all that strong physique, he walked with a distinct limp.

I would like to think that my “willingness” to baptize this very strange stranger
reflected some deep spiritual maturity complete with unconditional love,
unconditional acceptance, the “Christ-broadness” that takes risks, thinks
outside the box, and dares to go where mere religion refuses to go. I claim none of that. 

All I can do is confess I was afraid NOT to baptize this dominating personality that seemed to tower over me.  More likely afraid perhaps that he would “baptize” me and in that “watery grave” I would remain until the second coming.

Whatever the truth of that moment I did baptize this man and before the year was out, I
baptized around 75 members of his community and society of the Federal Penal
System of Canada.

Marshal Montgomery Lewis would often remark that his name seemed more a title than a
name. Birthed in Cape Britton Island, Nova Scotia, he was born into a culture of
addiction, violence, brokenness, fear and confusion. Shaped by that culture he
lived out everything he hated about it and swore he would never repeat. That
story can be found his book: The Caper.

A MESSAGE

After his baptism, “Monty” became part of the church of which I was the pastor. I
witnessed his wedding, dedicated his first child, watched over his evolution into the church
leadership. He walked with me through those difficult and pain filled early
years of my pastoral journey. He frequently offered his services (those with
which he was familiar and all too comfortable); i.e. breaking a few legs and
arms of those who made my life miserable thinking their “ministry” was to make a
pastor’s life miserable. This, too, we would laugh about through the years;
however, at the time he actually meant it. This reflected his former cultural
frame of reference.

I would hear the story of his conversion to Christ many times. I hear his voice
now repeating the story once more.  I can see the light of his countenance and witness his enthusiasm and animation. Naked and alone, in the hole of a prison cell in London, Ontario,
teetering on the fringe of wild insanity, his soul riddled with paranoia and
convinced he would be put to death by the guards. The reality was incarceration
and his only conscious fear was that he would not die “like a man”; thus not
earning the respect in death those of his society would consider his due. 
 
Dying “a hero” was the conscious motivation of his desperate cry into the walls and
ceiling of his confinement: “If there is a God anywhere in this universe please
come and help me die without cowardice – die fearlessly as I have lived.”

And so God came down right there in that prison cell, in the mess and nightmare that
is imprisonment, as much flesh and blood real as was the Salvation Army Chaplin
  who now stood outside the bars and told my friend his real problem was sin and
  that the only real solution to this real problem was the unvarnished gospel of
  the grace of God. That revelation was what all the secular psychologists and
  psychiatrists could never tell him because they are incapable within the
  training of their profession to explain reality that only the Holy Spirit can
  create and communicate. 

To go from where my friend was in that moment; then, to become what he aspired in
the unfolding journey cannot be explained outside a chosen act of a Sovereign
God. This truth, this reality, and this experience was never compromised or
watered down. His was a God-story and not a Monty-story. 
 
From that salvation morning in London, he finished his sentence from the earthly
courts and emerged from the prison system in Kingston, Ontario. I was his first
pastor upon his release.  He finished his final calling last week and experienced his final
release.

Knowing none of his experiences at the time and just bouncing around the fringes of the
details, events and circumstances of then an uncharted journey, I would live to
discover that life is never about the mess but about the message that is formed
in the mess but emerges from it. King David lamented in his prayer of deep
repentance: “I have been evil from the day I was born; from the time I was
conceived, I have been sinful.”  What he groaned concerning himself is
true of all men – we are birthed with a sin nature that guarantees we will sin.
When this is consciously recognized, the God-message to us forms and takes shape
in us. So it was with Monty - my great friend.

Being increasingly aware of that message and a growing conviction that the message in
the mess must be released to the world in a prison ministry, ‘Cons’ for Christ
was born.  When the mission’s budget was divided, Monty Lewis left the board meeting with seven dollars and thirty six cents ($7.36) and Cons for Christ was off. It would become Bridges
of Canada Prison Ministry with its presently significant annual budget. But I,
on the night of this reflection, can see only (even through my present tears)
that tiny offering and I hear the voice of sacred scripture: “Despise not the
day of small beginnings.” 

After that, my journey took me to Memphis TN. and shortly thereafter, his to
Fredericton, New Brunswick. Over the next 25 years our physical meetings were few but each
  meeting and each phone call were God moments. He would tell me I had been upon
  his heart and then proceed to give me a word that could only have been given to
  him from the Holy Spirit. 

Time passed – the seasons flew by. While blissfully unaware of the swiftness of their
passing suddenly the season we tiptoe most around was upon us: my great friend’s
health was failing. And even more suddenly I found myself staring at the Caller
ID on my office phone and not wanting to pick up the receiver; however, I did.  

Following a very brief conversation, I sat in silence and deeply reflected upon the last
three visits with a brother now departed, a true friend now home with the Lord, a warrior of spiritual battles now at rest .
I will never reveal the contents of those conversations except to say that in
the end the soul of my great friend was poured out in its entirety – nothing
hidden, nothing held back, no shadows – all open and transparent.

THE GIFT

And yet one detail must be shared – the detail of the ruby ring. Monty had a hobby
as a means of unwinding, disengaging and relaxing: making jewellery. 
He made jewellery from the beginning of the process by taking the stones
and gems in the rough to the finished product. For the last 15 years he kept
promising me a ring.

 I am not a jewellery kind of guy so while I never exactly discouraged his desire I
never encouraged him either. All of that changed on a Monday evening, a week
before his home going. 

I was returning from a rather long trip to Nova Scotia, still 1100 kilometres from
home and wanting to be there, but here I was in a hospital room in a city I did not 
like because of some very sour, unpleasant memories of having been there before. 
  
As I looked upon my rapidly departing friend, he gathered as much physical strength
as was left, and through tears told me the last thing he would do was make me a
ruby ring. In the presence of his tears and my own I knew this was no longer a
mere issue of jewellery and my personal taste: it was a matter of a "covenant gift" for
a keepsake that represented 30 years of relationship and friendship; 30 years of
mutual respect and honour in a shared journey of mess and message. This was now
about a prescient item of value as a symbol of things that are beyond earthly
value; symbols of values and value systems that most will never have or will
ever understand. 

The memory of that moment will last forever. I bent low over the bed in an attempt
to hug my friend. I felt his effort to raise himself from his mattress. Being
unable to do so, I slipped my arms beneath his upper body and lifted him into my
embrace.

No words passed between us. Words were no longer necessary. Our language now
was that of our tears – far more eloquent than the greatest of oratory. This was
the moment my heart became one with his regarding the ruby ring – I MUST have
that ring for no reason other than his passion that I have it. My deep sadness
was that I knew it was now too late, that the last desire of my friend would
never be realized: he was simply unable to make the ring.

His final instruction to me was that I was to go to a particular address in the core
of the city and find a certain man.  When I did as he instructed, I found the man was a jeweller. He sized my finger. The plan was that as soon as Monty was released he would construct my ring.

Tuesday morning dawned and the darkness of night scattered. I was torn between the
feelings that home was calling and the needs of a failing friend. I decided to
return to the hospital. I was amazed at what the night had done to my friend. I
tightly held his cold hand and I prayed from the depths of my spirit.

I left him with the only words that were in my soul trailing out behind me into
thin air: “I’ll see you on the other side of all of this, my great friend.” And
as incredible as it may seem, he left me with the whispered words most important
to his soul – whispered because that’s all the strength he had left, “I will see
to it that you get that ring.” 

The voice was so diminished I had to position my ear almost against his lips, but I
heard what Monty said.

Seven days later my friend was in heaven while I was very much still on earth. My eyes
seemed strangely drawn to the naked finger that a week before had been sized.
Every view of the unadorned finger reminded me of my friend’s last request. Not
that it mattered to him now, I am sure, but my soul was flushed with sadness not
that I did not get the ring but that his final desire for me was denied.

It would not leave my soul and I still cannot quite believe my actions. Driven by
that consciousness I found myself way out beyond my comfort zone having a
telephone conversation with the man who had sized my finger. I entered the
conversation slowly and reluctantly – there was a definite stumble in my verbal
stride. Sensing my struggle and discomfort the “finger-sizer” came directly to
the point. “Dale, obviously I do not know you. But here is what I do know. Monty
knew you and his last request was that you have this ruby ring. I got the stone
from him and am making it now.  It will be in the mail next week.” 

And so I watch the letters appear and form words on the screen in front me and as my
fingers search for the proper keys I notice one finger in particular. I see the
gold band and my soul is strangely comforted. And then I catch again the flash
of the fire of this incredible ruby stone. 

From somewhere deep within the soul a smile forms and slowly makes its warm and
pleasant journey to the surface of my face. In the privacy of my heart I think
simple thoughts: ‘Rest easy my great friend. Rest easy! We shared the mess. We
shared the message. And in some wonderfully mysterious way we now share a ruby ring.’

]]>Thu, 17 Jan 2013 15:20:28 GMThttp://www.kcfellowship.ca/pastor-dales-blog/a-post-christmasI established my blog last year, expecting posting an entry every month. The true result is I entered a single post for the entire year. Let’s see what develops this year. 

BACKGROUND: Six weeks before Christmas “Mrs. Santa” warned me to within an inch of my Christmas life not to purchase any DVD concerts until after Christmas. I was doing so well resisting temptation when on a shopping trip I was in a retail outlet surrounded by Christmas movies and Christmas concerts. A curiosity awakened and a wonder quickly grew, “Got that one, and that one; yes and that one too.” I ticked them off one after another feeling quite relieved that I was beyond temptation.

 However, every garden has an apple – a forbidden fruit. There it was in its enticing, ever beckoning wrapper. It could not have been a resistible single disk; it had to be an irresistible double disk – two Christmas concerts. Double the temptation! My soul began speaking to my head how much I really needed it if I intended to have a really Merry Christmas.  And then another voice spoke: “Yea, did Mrs. Santa really say you shall not buy this specific DVD?”

It was evening of that same day and the answer to the question came clearly and unmistakably concerning what Mrs. Santa really said—and meant. “What part of DO NOT purchase any DVDs do you not understand?” I couldn’t say what my first father said: “That woman you gave me…..”This was that woman He gave me and I crossed Santa’s line from “good” to“naughty.” Being chastised, dutifully obedient and properly penitent, I returned the DVD, hoping that forgiveness would prevail and eventually I would get to see that double DVD concert of the music I love played by the composer and director I so admire.

Christmas morning evolved with painful slowness. This gift, that gift, and still another. Even DVD movies and concerts– the ‘stuff’ was piling up. It appeared that, contrary to my faith and hope, Mrs. Santa was having nothing to do with
insight into the human frailty of temptation and forgiveness.  My gloomy prediction was: I would be fortunate to be off the naughty list by Christmas 2020. Then came the words: “Oh yes, I almost forgot – here is one final gift for you.”  
 
MORE BACKGROUND:  I have determined that the possibility exists there just might be something in the human
experience worse than exercise: i.e. this Christmas belly-bloat, half dead muscles, and joint and sinew working like rusty, barn-door hinges.  I forced my way to my vehicle and directed it toward the most lonely room in the church building: in the lower regions of the entire building, a fitness/workout room. To moderate the pain and melt away some of the boredom of exercise, I positioned my portable DVD player on the control panel of the treadmill. I was
perfectly situated to walk through my DVD Christmas Concert: Home for the Holidays – Andre Rieu. 

My “feet shod with running shoes” were slapping out a rhythm appropriate to the droning, consistent speed of the revolving track. Physically I did not leave that track for fifty minutes;however my soul seemed to have broken free of the dimensions of the fitness room. It seemed to have outrun my quickly moving feet and out of the confines of the room. It left the treadmill far behind.

The Rieu concert setting was Winter in the outdoor courtyard of his fifteenth century castle in his hometown of Maastricht, The Netherlands. The magical images and sounds swept my soul away and comfortably positioned it in that romantic scene.

THE POINT OF THE BLOG: For an hour and a half, one beautiful Christmas song followed another. Ninety nine percent of the music was familiar, traditional Carols. But “familiar and traditional” become magically new and wonderful when passing through the gift of music-genius that is this man. For sixty three Christmases I have heard these songs of the season. Suddenly I became conscious of the feeling it was as if I was hearing them for the first time. Even if I had the ability to express the wonder, the mystery, the magic, the glory, the absolute genius and emotion of the music as it washed over my consciousness it would require far more time than I have left to write it all down – even if I had three lifetimes. 
 
By now my sweater was soaked not only with perspiration but a mixture of perspiration and streams of tears making their way through a gnarled skin and a gray beard grown to conceal the deepening, lengthening and care-worn wrinkles produced over those sixty-three years.  I strenuously attempted to adjust the focus of my consciousness in an effort to understand this deep emotional response. One voice crying in the wilderness screamed one word: “EXCELLENCE”.
 
Thinking through the meaning and use of that word gave the insight that it was not only the excellence of the presentation and the excellence of the musicians that stirred the soul. It was the attention given to detail; from the winter courtyard of the estate to the Cathedral Rieu attended as a child (the two settings of the concert), there was not a single detail that reflected even a shadow of anything less than excellence. Every light, every candle, every table and chair, every tree, and every window appointment shouted“excellence!” Each musical instrument, long flowing gown and tuxedo, every hair cut and style – all were displayed in a state of excellence! All elements of facial expression, basics of body language, the discipline and mastery of the instruments: the higher and lower string players, the percussion section, the brass section, the wind players, the keyboards, and the angelic harp were robed in excellence! Finally there was the music and the awe and magic of the voices (solos, trios, choirs both children and adults, tenors and baritones presented in performance excellence.

The track of the treadmill continued to engage my feet in this hamster-like activity on a journey to nowhere. My tear ducts continued to pump out fluid. My soul continued to absorb the “excellence of excellence.” This deep consciousness finally produced what, I suppose, was the inevitable question: How is such excellence to be explained or understood?

This brought my musings to the “’D’word” – discipline. This seemed to be a no brainer. Obviously my senses were taking in the delicious musical delights of multiplied years of rigid and uncompromised discipline. The beauty of the arts is created by the fruits of discipline. That is what I love about Andre Rieu and his Johann Straus Orchestra; that stirs my soul so deeply and sweeps it along to dizzying heights. I am also fascinated with figure skating. My emotional response is my celebration of the discipline expressed in the excellence of the art regardless of the form.

But on this post-Christmas day and working hard to keep up with the treadmill’s disciplined movement the internal probe was penetrating deeper still. If discipline explains the excellence of the performance then what explains the discipline? Honestly, this unintended thought almost brought me to a halt despite the consistent spinning of the track, a situation, of course, that can produce severe bruises on one’s chin.

What was it in these musicians that held them to the discipline essential to such excellence? Was this learned behaviour, a mere matter of academics; was it a product of the environment from which they came or worked, or a result of fear and threat? Regardless of the source or motivation, the fact remains that excellence is produced through discipline.

Perhaps in the beginning of our pursuits all of these elements and many more may be part of our experience of discipline, but know this for sure there must come a point in the journey of the discipline when the motivating factor is one thing – love of the art. That difference is always evident. We have all experienced performances that were rigid, cold, sterile, mechanical, robotic, monotonous and lifeless; performances that were mausoleum-like. One could never deny the discipline – perhaps discipline unequalled; however the admired discipline fails to engage and captivate the soul. There is no“WOW” factor and without this the performance is lost.   
 
On my treadmill, with my senses drinking in the glory of this Christmas concert, I made at least three discoveries: the
wonder of excellence, the beauty of discipline, and the role of the love of the art.

Discovery however, was not yet complete on that day of reflection. The totality of discovering the underlying reason and the support of all I was witnessing was passion. Whatever else I was not just witnessing but experiencing in that incredible musical presentation was the passion of performance. Without the passion the discipline would not have been evident. Consequently, without passion the excellence would have been compromised. But how is such passion to be explained or understood?  Perhaps it’s not to be understood or explained; however the foregoing revelation came as my feet kept the relentless cadence of the unchanging beat of the track. 

Passion cannot finally be separated or divorced from the gift itself. I was not just watching 35 or 40 musicians; I was experiencing 35 or 40 different core defining “gifts of music” unique in each individual performer. I understood that passion is not outside those gifts or brought to those gifts. Disciplined passion - or perhaps passioned discipline -is that undeniable energy produced and included in the gift itself. The passion of the gift is what fuelled the discipline
essential to the excellence of the performance I experienced.  

That day on my treadmill I discovered absolute excellence of performance produced by the uncompromising discipline essential to such excellence. I discovered the deep passion that fuels such discipline. And I discovered the gift that produces such passion. The entire recipe was all in view, which brought the thought of how wonderful, profound, refreshing and admirable were the qualities that recipe produced. The sights and sounds kept washing over me. 

Then............another revealing thought....

I thought of the church and I understood the lack of excellence within the body of Christ. And then I understood why any old thing will do, why most services don’t begin on time, why volunteers are few and far between, and the general sloppiness of structure, communication and presentation. And then I understood why most church facilities are cleaned to a substandard than most public buildings. I understood the lack of study and commitment to thoughtful preparation reflected in the pulpit ministry, and why so many things that are unacceptable and intolerable in any other arena of our lives are absolutely acceptable within the church community.  I understood the reasoning behind second-hand and castoff items always finding their way to the church. They are no longer excellent enough to be in the home but they are “riches beyond description” for the church. Excellence be damned!!

My trip on the treadmill finished with a look into my own soul. I discovered in part the truth I was witnessing in the musical performance. I pondered again the core defining gift of my life and being: I AM a teacher. I felt the passion inherent in the gift. It was clear to me that the greatest and easiest discipline in my life relates to the exercise of teaching. I also realised that the closest I approach excellence in anything at all is in the preparation and presentation of what I teach: The revelation of Jesus Christ to a lost and hurting world contained in the Sacred Scriptures.

Gift, passion, discipline, excellence, and relevance; all of the ingredients of significance in life were in place in my head. Reality returns, the treadmill comes to a halt, the cadence of steps cease, the concert is over and this is my blog.  The intent is to stir you, dear reader, (as I have been stired) to know your gifts, to embrace the passion of those gifts, and to accept nothing less than the excellence and significance - the fruit of passioned discipline; the discipline of “Kingdom Thinking.”

 
]]>Tue, 31 Jan 2012 18:00:03 GMThttp://www.kcfellowship.ca/pastor-dales-blog/new-year-resolutionsAt 62 years of age resolution making no longer defines my approach to the New Year. Reflection, however, does.  Going forward is as much about looking backward as it is looking forward. We do not live in the past but certainly we live out of the past by understanding the past.

I have a sermon in my library by G. Campbell Morgan called The Deuteronomy Pause. The last act of leadership Moses would execute, at the age of 120, was to appear in front of an entire generation (all under the age of 40). This generation would do what the first generation –their fathers—had failed to do; they would enter into the promised possession. They were sitting on go. They were eager to move. They were passionate about the future –their New Year. Life for them was all about forward momentum.

God brought all of that to a seven day pause, and what came out of that pause for us is the book of Deuteronomy. The book breaks down quite naturally into three movements.  Morgan describes those movements as: 1) The backward look; 2) The inward look; and 3) The forward look. His point was, I think, that without understanding where you have been you cannot understand where you are or what you have become; and if you do not know where you have been and what you have becomeyou cannot possibly know where you are going.

 

The Deuteronomy pause, then, is about history but not history for the sake of history; it’s about history for the sake of the future—the past pregnant with the present and beyond. I can see no further into the future than my willingness to look into the past. Denial of what has been is the fastest way to compromise what is yet to be.

 

January 2012—a New Year—and I look forward, but this forward look is disciplined, shaped and directed by reflection upon what has been.

For whatever reason, and I think for good reason, the particular aspect of what has been that fills my reflection is a handful of teachers, mentors and fathers who moved across my life and left a part of their life in the process. I am at this moment the collective composite of all they imparted into my very soul. That impartation was not arbitrary, imposed or legalistic. For the most part it was an unconscious happening on both ends of the process. It was not defined by title, office, position or any label. It was the irresistible and inevitable consequence of relationship; that consequence being influence.

I love reading biographies; the stories of significance centred in significant personalities. I noticed early on, however, that these records of significant people were filled with the names of those of whom no biography will ever be written.I cannot help but ponder how the story of the central figure would read if all these other names were removed from the page. It seems to me that both the story and the central figure would be greatly diminished.  

I recall with much affection those who brushed by my life and imparted something in their going. Some of those seasons of relationship lasted many years. Others were much abbreviated; they were like a tiny pebble tossed into a body of water. Only to the most discerning eye were the ripples of their influence noticeable. Only with age have I come to understand the mark they left.

God bless them all. Those who have graduated this sphere of time, I honour their memory. Those who still remain, I rejoice in their remaining.

But should I name them? I think not. To do so would be to list only those few who were dominate in my past. It would require a great deal of time to record all the others who touched me and hurried on their way.  

And so, knowing who they are and God knowing who they are I move on into this New Year. I carry them with me, not like a piece of materialism that one might carry in his pocket or hand—it is so much more than that. It is the soul I have become and am—the soul shaped and fashioned and transformed one impartation at a time within the context of real relationship.

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