The importance of dignity

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When my well of ideas threatens to run empty, and there’s no creativity within reach, I remind myself that life is a continuous story, broken into chunks that are good, and sometimes even fun to consider.

Such is the story of a dead cat.

I came home from the harvest field around 10p.m. Holly was still up, a little unusual. With somewhat widened eyes she informed me that she had discovered a dead cat against the foundation, dead long enough that the windows on that side couldn’t be opened. The smell was that bad.

I grew up on a farm. When an animal succumbs, you grieve to the extent that feels right, but the carcass is simply disposed of. I assured Holly that I would take that carcass with me when I headed back out to the field the next day.

It wasn’t that simple. Our granddaughter, Maeve, who lives with us and works in a nearby town, had also discovered said cat. Maeve had already put the word out on the village Facebook page that this deceased cat had been discovered. She had pictures, should someone think the cat found was theirs. There were several messages exchanged.

The next day, the cat remained behind as I headed for the field. I began to note the body language of Maeve as she talked about her responsibility to this beast. This mattered. This caused her pain. Some of my big gloves were called into service as she removed a collar. It held a phone number, which she called. Then she placed a box over the by now flattening feline corpse, an offering of dignity. A man showed up to claim the cat, and he told me a few stories of who this animal had been in his family. His granddaughter had attached the collar.

As I trucked harvest grain up and down country roads in the days that followed, I decided that an important lesson was being offered, particularly by Maeve, through this little drama. It was a lesson about the importance, the dignity, of simply being.

Maeve has what her mother suggests is a preternatural connection to animals. She feels animals in her soul. In this case, I was shown that, though this cat had died before we were aware of it, it mattered. It mattered to the folks from whose home it originated, but beyond that, it simply mattered because it existed. That meant that a measure of respect be extended, even when life had ended, even when windows needed to remain sealed.

When Maeve is attending to her own felines, of which there are currently two, (#2 is a matter of contention for Grandma) you certainly sense that strong connection at a soul level. Her long-time companion, Louise, knows when Maeve will be home from work, and there’s a ritual of welcome that needs to happen when she arrives. When Maeve comes home after connecting with horses at a number of farms where she is welcome, we learn how those horses are doing, how they reacted to her, what those reactions were about.

I am blessed having this girl in my house, my family.

The saga of the dead cat reminds me that all created beings have worth. I tend to slip into Christian ways of considering that but Maeve is not so inclined. There is simply a strong and natural connection that defies description, defies definition, defies language. I can only sink to my knees and learn.

A being that is birthed has value. It may have been somebody’s pet, somebody who placed a collar with a phone number on it’s neck. Or it may be a feral animal, with no human connection whatsoever. It has value, It’s time to die is worthy of note, dignity, a pause in the workaday world of harvest.

I’m not sure what this has to do with the mosquitos that I swat from my arm. But as I rumble down the harvest road in the ancient Mack truck, it’s worth considering. It’s worth being thankful that my life includes someone who challenges quick assumptions from many decades ago. It’s worth reminding myself that lessons of life came from all directions and all ages and all realities. Even that of a smelly dead cat.

The hope of healing

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There is something about the human body’s determination to heal itself that points to the best of spirituality.  Believe me when I say that I’ve explored this. For over seven decades I’ve explored this.

My first memory of needing physical healing occurred when I was around three or four. My mother was washing clothes with a wringer washer and I spotted a face cloth stuck to the rollers, circulating round and round. Of course I tried to yank it out. By the time my mom sprang to open the rollers, I was pulled in beyond my elbow. I can’t remember the pain, but my mother said that my young bones actually flattened for a time. They healed completely. For the rest of my mom’s life I accused her of deliberately causing that machine to discourage my left handedness, while she insisted in turn that it was my right arm that went into the wringer. It could be.

A much more recent example points to my inability to learn, to become smarter. I was welding on my driveway, building a stair railing. Shorts, Dawgs, ratty t-shirt, it was a warm day. The work piece shifted when I wasn’t expecting, and I grabbed it. Right in the spot where I had just finished welding.

Now, I have all the appropriate safety gear, Leather jacket, apron, gloves, heavy boots. In fact, gloves were on the table while I worked. They’re so hot, so restrictive…

For these recurring emergencies, I have on hand a tube of Aloe Vera gel, which does wonders for burn pains. In this case, I needed a new application every fifteen seconds. Huge blisters formed between my thumb and my fingers. The first night was sleepless.

The body heals. After several days, those blisters drained, and peeled off. A fresh layer of skin underneath was preparing to form the new covering on my palm. It was pink and clean. Somehow, it represented the incredible ability of this vessel I call my body to repair, to renew.

I mentioned that I’ve tested this ability thoroughly. When I check in at the blood donor clinic, and the attendant checks my arms for needle tracks, eyebrows are sometimes raised at my scars, until I explain, “Uhh, welding burns.”

Something that speaks to the incredible ongoing activity of creation is occurring when blisters repair themselves, when bones heal, when gashes stich themselves closed, when a broken mind discovers a little hope. Since the saga was told about my eye bleed and the temporary blindness that followed, that story has been repeated several more times, and each time, my eye has returned to vision. While medical professionals explore and guess at what the cause might be, my eye is doing its part to set things right.

It strikes me that the body’s determination to repair itself is both a metaphor and the actual activity of creation. A healthy spirituality reminds us that we are worthy, that we are unique, that we carry beauty. We are reminded that we will experience grief, hardship, loss. That is part of our journey. If we deny that pain, our walk will become skewed. It we live with the pain, if we walk toward and through pain, we discover new strength, new vulnerability, new hope. We will become stronger. We will change. And if I direct you back to the clean and pink new skin that peeped out from the messy and burned parchment on my palm, we might even gain some beauty.

In my life, I have needed to acknowledge that my mental health is an issue that needs to be named and addressed. In earlier years, awareness and supports were not much available. In the past few decades, as I and professional folks have worked on my anxiety and depression issues, fragile mental health has been buttressed, and hopefully the new skin beneath the mental wounds has appeared somewhat pink.

Often, healing is a community event, with lots of participants involved. It is an event that is hugely impacted by the determination of the players.

The next time you experience healing, healing of any kind, offer thankfulness to the good creation that surrounds us. Experience the hope of seeing that creation move on to new places. Look for pink new skin.

Ed Olfert is a retired clergy person who continues to find glimpses of holiness in every step. These days, his steps wander further into the world.

Looking at MAID

A sister is a retired nurse who spent much of her career working with palliative patients. In the last few years of her working life, she encountered Medical Assistance in Dying, or MAID. Though it was a steep learning curve for everyone on the floor, and was seen by some as being very much at odds with what palliative care is about, Helen counted on her sense of curiosity to lead her into the process, and was able to be present when several of her patients carried out their final wish to die, aided by supporting professionals.

In the years that followed, Helen was aware of resistance to the concept of MAID, of fear and highly charged reactions. A chaplain at a senior’s home was reported to have told folks that MAID is simply about “children wanting to get at their parent’s money sooner.”

Helen’s passion was engaged. She did some research, and soon let it be known that she was willing to speak to groups of folks about MAID. Her presentation would be information based, what are the regulations, what are the criteria used as decisions are made as to whether patients will indeed meet the criteria. Also, Helen told stories of people she has encountered in the process, people who request MAID, their support givers, and the folks who administer the drugs that are used. All of the involved people are treated gently in her stories.

There is nothing in Helen’s presentation that is morals based, nothing that points to the “right” response or the “Biblical” response. Angry reactions to the concept of assisted dying are respected, as are all comments.

Helen has presented her MAID topic about half a dozen times, and interestingly, each of them has been to a faith based audience. She does not approach her topic as a faith based conviction, but is totally fine if others do. I have been present at about half of those, both as support for Helen, and because I too carry that family curiosity for things that are seen as “out there.”

In my extended family, choices have been made to end lives through MAID. Others are firmly opposed. It’s all good. One of the beliefs that Helen brings to her conversations is a passion for patient autonomy. Ultimately, the one looking at ending their lives should be the decision maker, not so much a professional care giver. That being said, certainly there is an extensive screen through which a person requesting this process must pass. There are many questions, hard questions, crucial questions. Helen and I have often talked about feeling assured that the decision to use this service should always be difficult. As the conversation grows to wonder how people with mental health issues might fit the screen, again, there needs to be slow and thoughtful discernment about how those screens be designed, if indeed they can.

Not surprisingly, the topic of MAID is often used by folks for political gain, inciting fear and inaccuracies. Equally unsurprisingly, there are many special interest groups that have legitimate concerns, that need to have their voices heard. I’m reminded again and again that this isn’t something that can be rushed.

But I feel good about a health care system, including the political component, that is showing leadership in this complicated topic.  I’m not sure if I would ever choose to die by intentional choice, but I appreciate the choice. I have loved ones around me who deal with quality of life issues far harder than my own. I find satisfaction that they have this option, without being held captive by a notion of what God decrees.

The bottom line, given all the filters that are in place, the bottom line is that the decision be left to the person who is considering MAID. It isn’t for a spouse, children, siblings, parents, loved ones to hold controlling opinions. That’s when it gets messy, that’s when the outcome will be unhappy.

We sell ourselves, and our spirituality short, when we are swayed by another’s insistence that God opposes MAID. Our insistence ignores the quality of life that is someone’s reality, and we fail to respect the spirituality of the one on that journey.

Our God is about compassion and love. Let’s live that.

Stories over coffee

At coffee, a man sat across from me that I didn’t know well.

He was a visitor to Laird, here to spend time with family. He was a tall man, well along in his years, in fact probably in his early nineties.

I’ll call my friend “Walter,” a pseudonym, because he has left our community and I didn’t ask permission to tell his story. I knew that in a former life he was a church minister, and so I asked how long he had been a preacher. “Forty-five years” came the answer promptly.

I was struck by Walter’s response. His clerical life had tripled my own fifteen. Then he added that he had been in business for a decade or so after that. His positive and congenial demeanour suggested that his entire life was, and continued to be, a blessing.

My next question was connected to my own ministry experience. I am curious how someone with such a long clerical history speaks of those years. I asked Walter, “How was it, to be in ministry for forty-five years?”

Walter offered another grin and answered simply, “It was good, those were all good years.”

As I probed further, I learned that good years didn’t equate to easy years. Churches have times of struggle, and Walter’s experience reflected that. He spoke of one of his churches, where “they weren’t quite ready to come to where I was calling from.” Then the grin again, as he mentioned that he had recently visited that church, and had been warmly received.

I sensed a healthy and healed spirit.

Walter talked further about the reading, and thinking, and relationships that he explores as he works to keep his spirituality connected to reality.

“News media, in whatever form, will always project mostly bad news, depressing news, painful news. What is there in the spirituality that we develop that can lead to hopeful living? How can our spirituality be relevant to that hard news, how can our view of God make a difference in those stories, how can we offer hope to the world?”

The hour and a half coffee buzzed by quickly as our conversation flowed. Some of those gathered around us leaned in close to hear and participate. Others leaned, obviously not so comfortable with this God talk, but I hardly noticed. That a person entering his tenth decade could speak so comfortably, so accurately, about the current reality was mind boggling. There was none of “fifty years ago we did church like this and then we went modern and everything flew apart.” Walter’s mind at ninety was still gentle and curious, was interested in my thoughts and stories, wanted to know who I was reading, to tell me of his favourite authors.

Walter talked about a family member who works with offenders, the worst of the worst. Music instruction was part of that story, and Water described the joy of a man who learned to play a new instrument. I added that in my experience, that new found joy correlates directly to greater safety for the vulnerable ones in the world.

We tend to stick our version of a Deity into a box, the better to understand and to control that entity. Let’s not have any surprises! And then, when those discouraging or frightening news stories threaten to impact us, that Deity is grasped, held out in front like a weapon, and used to threaten, or cudgel, those who differ, those perceived as “them,” or “the worst of the worst.””

Can we release our death grip on said Deity and instead invite “them” to conversation? What is their experience of spirituality? What language, what images, what stories are central to their understanding? How can our common understandings lead us to approach that which is difficult within our society? How can our differences be held up as opportunity, how can we engage with “them” without threat?

Two words that I heard, and certainly sensed, from Walter, were “respect” and “curiosity.” His eyes still shone as he talked about his hope for the future, the excitement of the things yet to learn, his pleasure in the pursuit of that wisdom. Thank you, Walter. You encourage me to hold up my version of Deity in an open and relaxed palm.

What makes a good day?

As I swing my legs out of bed every morning, along with a loud grumble from a sciatic nerve from hip to heel, I experience a moment of curiosity. What new thing will the day bring, what will be the blessing?

Saturday, June 17th was such a day. It began a little sooner than most. By shortly after 6am, I was in my son-in-laws farmyard. Later that day he was flying to Vancouver, where a sibling is dealing with critical illness. A sprayer operator was on site to spray his crops, and I received a quick lesson in hauling water from the farm dugout, to minimize delays. It was also a time to share the stress, to offer hope in the reality of grave sickness. It was a moment that blest the day.

Shortly, I was home, briefly. Holly and I headed south to Regina, three and a half hours away to attend a funeral. A cousin’s daughter in law, someone we had never met, had died at the age of twenty-four. Cancer doesn’t care much. It seemed good to show our support for extended family members that we know and love. As we sat waiting for the service to begin, in a large and very full church, the curiosity gene raised its head again. What would be learned here? In this denomination, different from my own, what would offer the picture that could be mulled over on the trip home, in the days ahead. What would be the blessing?

The most striking moment for me was the moment at which the deceased’s parents rose and moved to the front. In the reading of scripture, in the telling of stories, in moments of laughter and in the pauses for tears, these parents gave thanks for the daughter they had claimed for twenty-four years. They extended that thanks to all who gathered with them, to their son-in-law and his family, to the church who had stood with their daughter through her years of struggle. They shared their appreciation with the medical professionals, some of whom were present, for the expertise and compassion they had brought to their daughter’s life. The friend groups, the prayer groups, all were eloquently held up and given thanks for their presence in the hard journey of this family.

This was again a moment that blest the day. I imagined myself in the hard story that this family was enduring, and asked myself, would I be able to stand before hundreds and hundreds, and publically give thanks? Would I be prepared to share amusing stories, would I be able to allow tears their time and then move on to gratitude? Here were folks who embraced the spirituality that their faith community offered, and turned that spirituality into strength, into thankfulness, into celebration. I was in awe.

June 17th was not yet done. On the way home, we stopped in Saskatoon for a farewell that was somewhat less emotionally charged. Dave Feick, an old friend, was resigning from his director role with Micah Mission, a restorative justice organization based in Saskatoon. For over a decade, Dave and Micah Mission have worked to create relationships between offenders, almost exclusively sex offenders, and support communities. A striking initiative that Dave had begun was an annual one-day fishing trip to a Saskatchewan lake, which included both released offenders and volunteers. I’ve been privileged to be on a number of those excursions. And on this evening, as both released offenders and volunteers gathered to express thanks to Dave, the day received one final blessing. Watching the relationships, the caring that was extended, offender to offender, offender to volunteer, and both groups toward Dave, was moving to the point of tears.

Even though this a familiar world to me, I can never quite understand the freedom that the guys have felt on those fishing days, where they can lay down their fears of being accosted, recognized, hated. Everyone knows something of their story, why they are involved in this group, and yet they are accepted. Yet they are loved. Yet they are equals.

I have not yet discovered another path that leads to peace, safety, integrity, more effectively.

June 17 was a pretty good day.

Notes from my father

In the Image

My hands hold a booklet. It is entitled the Farmer’s Pocket Ledger, 73rd Edition. Further down it informs that the booklet is compliments of August Zirk, Agent for John Deere Plow Co., Ltd. at Luseland, Sask. The back cover displays calendars for 1939 and 1940, indicating its vintage.

Opening the cover, I note that this book is the property of George A Olfert of Luseland. That’s my father. In 1940, George turned 19.

The first third of the pages are covered with John Deere advertising. We are reminded that for heavier farm jobs, one should turn to the JD model D, which saves money because it burns fuels that are much cheaper than gasoline. It is available with steel or rubber tires. It is designed for modern high speed farming, with a high gear that attains 4 miles per hour.

Interspersed with the enthusiastic ads are charts that I find equally charming. To find the bushels of shelled corn in a wagon box, multiply cubic feet times .8. I can calculate board feet in a log, tons of hay in a stack, the value of articles sold by the ton. Did you ever wonder at the amount of paint required for a given surface? The Farmer’s Pocket Ledger knows the answer, as well as how much time it takes to double your money at various interest rates, at both simple and compound interest.

There’s a reason why this quaint little book has survived these sixty plus years, why my mother passed it on to me after my father’s death in 1994. The lined blank pages begin with a few pages of scribbling dated 1941, an accounting of money earned from a job, money still owed. The largest number entered is $12.

Then, a line is drawn across the page. A new entry, a new date. “In 1945 send Xmas cards to the following:” Sixteen names are listed. These were the young people that obviously made up his friend group. I grew up among these. I attended the funeral of one yesterday in Calgary. Only one still lives.

My mom’s name heads the list. They will not be married for a few more years. I suspect that she helped him compile the list.

Then I turn the page over. A longer list begins in earnest, a list that goes on for five pages.

I am looking at, I decide, my father’s record keeping for a time of alternative service, something arranged to get value from the men who chose not to take part in World War 2 for religious reasons. My father was Mennonite. One of my significant regrets are that we were never able to have the conversation that I needed to understand that period of his life. Like many veterans, it was not a time that was much discussed. The closest I came was when I invited him to talk about how that decision was made that he and most of the other Mennonite young men would not bear arms. He responded simply that he still was angry that the decision was made by a church official. I get that. George was a fiercely independent man. Even as a boy, I can’t picture another making that choice for him.

On November 17, 1945, George arrived in Fort William, a former name for Thunder Bay. He spent two days “helping” on a crawler tractor. After that, his job description is listed, proudly, as “driving.” His days were mostly 10 hours, sometimes longer, one stretched to 23 hours. He skidded logs out of the bush, sometimes repaired roads, sometimes did something called “tanking.” A touching personal glimpse appears on a day when he scribbles “on sick list” and then adds “lovesick.” No hours are added that day.

By the end of February, 1946, the total comes to 1001 hours. There it stops. The remaining pages of the Farmer’s Pocket Ledger are blank, more JD advertising. George returned to Saskatchewan and picked up his life that resulted in marriage, a farm, seven children, and a number of generations that followed. To the end of his life, George had a passion for heavy machinery.

What was owed was paid. Ed Olfert is a retired clergy person who continues to find glimpses of holiness in every step. These days, his steps wander further into the world.

Where can you find wisdom?

In the Image

An acquaintance who served in my denomination as a lay preacher once offered an observation that was, I assume, mostly tongue in cheek. “If you’re good at this preaching thing, you can find your lesson in a chapter in the Bible, or in a few verses. And if you’re really good, you only need one word to build a sermon around! Me, I’ve got to use the whole book!”

We preachers chuckle at such observations. Yet the pressure to offer meditations that are authentic and engaging and relevant to the reality of the hearers is a real pressure. Passion and wisdom are used up by Sunday noon, and then there’s a service the following week, and again after that…

As one who functions in this ecclesial world, I sometimes feel dishonest. I have next to no seminary training, and lay claim to the knowledge of a Luddite. Yet, spirituality is and has always seemed like a central part of my existence. And as I began to grow comfortable exploring that world, it came to me that every person is an equally spiritual being, with layers and gifts and holiness to offer.

I visit an old friend in a care home. “James” is appreciative of my time with him, and is soon quoting scripture passages to me, describing how those words inject hope into his often lonely existence. James’ vision is compromised, and reading holy words is a struggle. But he has a vast remembrance of passages throughout the Bible that he shares with me, and we explore the words together to sift through their application. James also has an inventory of television ministry programs that he enjoys, cranked up in volume to accommodate his hearing deficiencies.

I acknowledge that James’ knowledge of the Bible, the words he quotes, the references that come to his lips, those abilities are far beyond mine. I am not that detail kind of guy. I admire those who can quote chapters, perhaps books of scripture from memory. But I’m not envious. There has always seemed to be too many important things to do, rather then force myself into memory work, into remembering words on a page.

Also, my spiritual growth is tied to every facet of my life, and so that energy needs to be apportioned carefully, gently. Certainly, the places that I go for that growth, besides Christian faith supports, has taken me into areas that are perhaps unconventional.  I note in my conversations with James that we sometimes approach life issues from different directions. I see that as a wholesome thing.

I was in conversation with a person who works as a financial advisor. Most of the words and concepts in that world are incomprehensible to me, and I’m reduced to nodding and smiling at (hopefully) the right time.  This advisor made the observation that it is his determination to be aware of global politics, shifting power struggles, which jurisdiction is growing in strength and prosperity, which is receding. Then he expressed annoyance with the media options which are available here in North America. If you listen to CNN, he suggested, you’ll get only a left wing slant. And if you turn to Fox News, you are fed only the most extreme right wing perspectives.

I asked him whether he has found access to a more balanced global view. He told me that much of his news gathering was now through Al Jazeera, based in Qatar. I went home and loaded Al Jazeera onto my phone. I read those headlines and sometimes stories daily. I am reminded that the world is a larger community then we in our blindered North American viewpoints ever realized. There are different ways of interpreting, different ways of reporting, different realities explored. Certainly, as my time with Al Jazeera grows, I see that they too are not politically pure. That’s okay, I am not politically without agenda either. Like my conversations with James where we bring different assumptions to the same conversations, it’s all good. Similarly, it has been fruitful to expand the world where spiritual knowledge is gathered, examined, processed. It has been good to listen to stories of lives being changed, of growth, of humility, of vulnerability. When respect is offered, the stories are released. While wisdom may well come from the prophet Joel, from the tales of Jonah, from the letters of Paul’s journeys, it also comes from the next person you encounter. Offer humility, vulnerability, and you will be blessed.

A time for urgency and a time for patience

An impassioned rant by a grandchild included these words. “Opa, why are you not dead yet?”

Why indeed.

The comment regarding my deserved death connects to a story, a recent event in my life.

I had been asked to do some welding on a large metal frame at the local ball diamond. When fully completed, this structure will become a batter’s cage, a place where ball players can practice hitting balls inside a meshed space that will limit the distance the ball can travel. The frame needed some repair high up, about four meters off the ground. A local contractor offered me the use of his telescopic loader, colloquially known as a “zoom boom” to lift me to that height.

The day that my portable welder and I scheduled for the job was a Monday. Joe the contractor and his zoom boom were not going to be available on a Monday, I decided. It was the beginning of the work week. Yet, I was ready and eager. “I can do this off my tall step ladder,” I told my wife. “How hard can it be?”

Holly seemed concerned that it could be at least a little hard. “Okay, but I’ll come along to steady the ladder. It’s very windy out there!” So it was that we found ourselves setting up, windy indeed, on ground where the snow had only recently disappeared. Besides the wind, the ground was also pretty soft. One more thing, there was a mat of dead dry grass covering that mushy ground.

Up I climbed. A little wobbly, perhaps, but there was welding to be done. I was feeling pretty good about my progress, but then Holly shouted at me that she could no longer steady my ladder because she was fighting fire in the grass below me with a shovel. I glanced down long enough to be assured that she was doing that efficiently, that great danger to the town was being mitigated, and went back to work. At that point, there was suddenly no more step ladder under me, only two meters of air.

I went down hard. I was, I thought, uninjured, and within a few minutes, was on the ladder again, finishing my project.

Three days later, my single functioning eye developed an internal bleed. For close to a week, I was mostly unseeing, driven and led to specialist appointments, lying on my couch, cared for and scolded by most everyone in my life.

I have little doubt that the tumble and the eye issue are related. I have little doubt that if I was in fact more patient, more careful, more cautious, that my eyes and my ears would have had a fair chance of serving me well till the end of my days. When I try to deny that, some become short with me.

There’s a story in the Gospel of Luke about Jesus teaching a group of folks on the edge of the Sea of Galilee. The crowd surges, and Jesus is squeezed toward the water. He asks that a fishing boat be brought alongside, and he finishes his preaching from on deck. The episode ends with a great fishing episode as well.

As I picture that story, I tell myself that it wouldn’t have played out so well if Jesus had decided to wait for the weekend for Joe to bring the zoom boom. There is a time for urgency, there is a time for simply getting it done.

As I consider my decades, I acknowledge that I have a unique gifting of qualities, as we all do. That quality of urgency, sometimes defined more as impatience, has often been derided as harmful, negative, as opposed to a patient approach. But I challenge that assumption. Every quality that you or I embody, every one, have both a bright side and a shadow side. Every quality, as it is acknowledged in our makeup, every quality needs to be carefully portioned out in the right moment. Every quality must be continually evaluated, was this the most effective approach, the most useful, the most faithful? Do we create blessings, or do we create harm?

You can argue, with some validity, that climbing that ladder in the ball park was decidedly not effective, useful, faithful. Yet sometimes, the determination to simply charge forward and “get ‘er done” can embody holy qualities.

In the end, I’ve got a great story to tell. Plus, most of my vision has come back.

Ed Olfert is a retired clergy person who continues to find glimpses of holiness in every step. These days, his steps wander further into the world.

Plain, practical faith

Recently, another of my old aunts died. Aunt Anne was the oldest of my dad’s sister, but younger then my father, who was the eldest. The Olfert family was a large one, with six boys and six girls. Three sisters and a brother remain.

Aunt Anne was a grand old lady, who carried the Olfert trait of great determination. Her life was often not an easy one. A long time widow, she had also buried two of her children. In an age when farm women usually found enough to do with parenting and raising a large family, Aunt Anne chose to find full time work off the farm, in addition to managing family affairs. She did it all well.

My strongest memories of Anne are of her determination (there’s that word again) to create family. That included the myriad nieces and nephews that filled her home on the weekends that she was free of her town work, and could host extended family on Sunday afternoons. If you shared genes with her, you had a fierce ally.

At Aunt Anne’s funeral service, the large contingency of Olfert cousins, my generation, offered a testimony to her importance in the family. This group, about thirty in number, aged about 50 to 75, are somewhat loud and indecorous, and we enjoy our times together, At the reception, cousin Terry, who has no need of a sound system, suddenly shouted loudly. When attention was turned his way, Terry pointed out that we seem to have the biggest and best reunions at either weddings or funerals. He then asked the hall full of people who was going to volunteer to be next!

The crowd chuckled appropriately, as appropriately as Olferts are able. Then, in the moment that followed, Aunt Tina, Anne’s sister, slowly made it to her feet. Another aged sister, Margaret, joined her. These two grand old ladies stood, with twinkles in their eyes.

I giggled for an hour or so. That’s a testimony to who these sisters are, solid, strong, peaceful women, who take just a little delight in outrageousness.

On the drive home, another reality occurred to me, one that brought comfort. These two old mentors, aside from providing this quirky offer to their family, these two old ladies are living and sharing a spirituality that is strong and good. They are ready to die, when the future goes that way. They have lived well, have loved well, and are simply at peace with whatever lies down the road. Their view of God, of the afterlife, is simply one of confidence and peace. It will be good.

Years ago, I sat at the bedside of a dying man. I didn’t know him well, and had been asked to make a pastoral visit. These are visits that I typically appreciate, offering assurance and hope, listening to important final stories. But this man was not in that space. With great spiritual agony, he recounted to me the children, grandchildren in his family who had not yet made a profession of faith. His guilt was insurmountable; he had failed in his life’s task.

I don’t know if my words of comfort resonated in any way with that anxiety laden soul. I do know that as I left his room, I felt a surge of anger at whatever institution, whatever individual, had filled this haggard man with this bizarre and guilt ridden notion of God.

I’ll go with the plain and practical faith of the old aunts. Aunt Tina was my Sunday School teacher in childhood days. Her understanding of the holy, her version of the Biblical stories, were filled with a theology of “yes.” Yes, God loves you, yes, God loves all people, and living that is what it means to live well, to live faithfully. Tina is loved because her energy is directed to building up, not tearing down.

And Margaret. Her husband told a story of driving down a highway, encountering road construction. Soon he was fuming, why don’t they work differently so they don’t have to disrupt traffic so much! And he recalls Aunt Marg making the gentle observation, “oh, they probably have their reasons for doing it like that.”

Give me gentle. Give me patient. Give me wise. Hopefully. I will approach death with confidence, and maybe with a little twinkle. The ones who come after can party!

Raging against the machine

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Recent thoughts in the dark and quiet hours of insomnia led me to consider the phrase, “Rage against the machine.” I have no idea why those were the words that entered my brain, what was the portent to which they pointed, but I wrapped myself around that phrase for the hours of my sleeplessness with some enthusiasm. “Rage against the machine” is such a delightfully over the top expression that it must surely be useful in considering realities that surround us.

Came morning and daylight, I fed those words into Google and discovered that a California band called themselves “Rage Against The Machine” in the early nineties, no idea if they are still a unit, possibly they’re still touring as haggard grey beards. I learned that they were a group that was largely against everything, particularly capitalistic evils that they saw around them. I’m not familiar with their music, but while doing my exhaustive thirty second research, I accidentally hit a play button and my hearing aids were suddenly piping a delightful piano melody into my head. Perhaps I’m a fan.

But that’s doubtful. Rock and roll was powerful and emotional enough for me in the late sixties (think Woodstock) that I was sure that salvation could only be found there. That passion died as the seventies wore on and adult things needed addressing.

Rage against the machine. I suggest that once we’ve completed the necessary reaction to those words, be they outrage, or giggles, discomfort with the “stick it to the man” politics suggested, once that’s done, that we consider how that strong phrase might be useful.

In my circles, often faith based but not exclusively so, a somewhat similar phrase is sometimes employed. The words, “speaking truth to power,” engenders images of fearless folks, standing courageously before powerful structures, and pointing out to those “with” folks that the “withouts” have access to wisdom that they alone hold.

I’m not a big fan of “speaking truth to power.” If I picture myself in that “without” role, it feels somewhat arrogant to assume that I hold the most important facts that need to be at the center of a decision or action that someone else will make. I’m reminded of the Biblical image of Jesus, standing in the house of power, being grilled sarcastically about his identity, his role. The response was quiet humility.

“Rage against the machine” can speak in a useful way about realities that touch us, if we are up to that task of humble consideration. What if we define those raucous words, for the purpose of this essay, as simply “challenging what is.”

I am involved in a number of volunteer organizations, people based, mostly faith based, that live with a mandate to support people to live well, be that physically, emotionally, spiritually. These mandates feel important, and I bring my energy eagerly.

Each of these organizations functions within a structure, a constitution, a listing of goals and how we will move toward those goals. Officers are identified, expectations are set out front.

Perhaps, as this process is carried out, that organization becomes a little “machine-like.” Perhaps there comes a point when the smooth running of the machine becomes a little more important than the messy business of actually improving peoples lives. Perhaps dissenting voices get gently pushed aside, perhaps more paper work will slow down those with too much zeal, perhaps barriers can be introduced to gently but firmly hold “them” over there.

In every structure which I am part of, there are glimpses of this reality. Well meaning folks, unchecked, begin the slide toward easy, toward smooth, toward order. They begin the slide toward creating a machine. Sometimes, perhaps always, this impacts the original mandate, lessens it. At best, mandates are mudified, at worst, harm is done.

As I consider that process, possibly in every place where humans organize themselves, I’m taken back to the “90’s band, “Rage Against the Machine.” I surmise that the rage they expressed, whether real or as an shock generating act, that their “rage” probably had it’s roots in pretty much the same place. I remind myself that if I allow myself to be challenged, prodded, raged against, perhaps we can keep moving toward the holy goals of restoration. Can I be open to the raging?