In the candles’ glow of Christmas Eve, or the celebration of Easter worship-in the midst of an anthem, or a familiar hymn, or the sermon, or when a person is baptized-then, in one or several of these moments, the Presence of God is felt or seen.
It may spill over into a sunset-a prayer from one’s own sickbed, or by the bed of someone you love-a burst of joy from a child, or the beauty of a first snowfall. In these events the Presence of God is often easily experienced.
It is a bit more difficult to see God in the midst of a church or family squabble-to feel God when a plan is defeated-or to find God in the midst of the common, ordinary events of life.
Perhaps one of the reasons a congregation has some difficulty with this is because we pastors are ambivalent in communicating the Presence of God, or even seeing it ourselves.
When the children gather at the bedside of a dying parent, we really cannot burst in and proclaim, “Say, are you aware God is here!?” About the most we can do is demonstrate that Presence through waiting with them, by taking the hand of the dying person, or perhaps by singing a hymn-then, those who have ears will hear. Those whose eyes have been opened will see.
We cannot assign the ears; we cannot force light into the eyes. We can only model the Presence, and then accept that we are not so wonderful or powerful that everyone will grasp and suddenly experience it.
I must confess right off that most of the time I do not see God’s Presence. It is only after I reflect on a situation that I suddenly realize how in that place, at that time, I encountered God. And more often than not, I find God is in the midst of that very moment of reflection and understanding as well as in the situation upon which I am reflecting.
The following stories I share as occasions in my own ministry when the Presence was experienced in the midst of seemingly common, ordinary events of life.
The Red Flower
I was walking along Montgomery Road early one Sunday last summer when I noticed a red flower on the sidewalk. Apparently, it had been pulled from the earth by an animal or human being and left on the sidewalk to die. Although the sun was barely up, the leaves were already beginning to wilt, and the dirt around the few strands of roots was rapidly drying. In a short time, the red flower would be dead, and perhaps even now it was beyond help.
I picked up the red flower, carried it to the sanctuary, and laid it on the altar. During Children’s Moments in the worship service, I explained where I had found the red flower and that it would die unless together we did something.
So there in the worship service, we took some good earth, put it around the roots, propped up the flower with a good stick, and watered it well. I warned the children that even with this effort, the flower still might not make it; but even if it should die, together we would know we had made an effort to save its life, even if someone else had tried to harm it.
Of course, the red flower fell off, and the plant had to be trimmed back considerably. Even at that, more leaves continued to die and fall.
From time to time, the plant would be brought back into the sanctuary and the children would be given a progress report. When more of the leaves died and fell, none of them said, “Let’s give up.” There seemed always to be hope that the red flower would make it and new life would show.
All winter it was watered and cared for, and then new leaves appeared and grew.
Not long ago, Lela Farmer came into my office and said, “Guess what, Grayson! There’s a new red flower. It’s blooming.”
The next Sunday, that red flower was on the altar, and the children joined in the celebration that this plant, which had been left for dead, had been brought back to life through their efforts and care.
Why does the church exist? To grow red flowers.
At its best, it never looks at other human beings and says they are too far gone. It picks them up and does what it can to restore life and hope. And sometimes, an almost dead red flower blooms again.
In Trabert’s Woods
I was with my father in Trabert’s woods last week. In the springtime when the sun is warm and the light rain has been falling, I must at some time get to Trabert’s woods, to stand there and, with luck, to find some mushrooms.
My father started taking me to Trabert’s woods when I was five years old. My hunt would last for five or ten minutes-while my father and grandfather could hunt for what seemed all the hours in the day. I would entertain myself breaking sticks, knocking down rotten trees, playing in the creek, and sometimes spying a deer.
I recall that one day after pestering my father quite a bit to go home, suddenly I saw this gigantic spongetop mushroom. Undoubtedly, it was bigger than any they had found.
My grandfather had walked right over it. My father had walked by it. My mother walked right by. But not me!
“Hey, look here! Look what you all missed. You walked right by this big mushroom-are you blind? Are you paying any attention?”
They all praised me for my good eye for mushrooms, and I continued to chide them for missing such an obvious super specimen.
Over the years, my father could have refused to take me because of my lack of interest-my noise and messing around in the woods-but he did not. Instead, by example he taught me the value of the woods, the subtle joys. Now forty years later, when the spring rain comes and the sun shines warm, I take a day and go to Trabert’s woods with my father-and I shall go with him as long as he lives, and then I shall still go there.
My dad and grandfather had a great ability to instill appreciation in a child for the woods and the hidden places of mushrooms. It didn’t sink in until years later that they had seen that giant spongetop-they had just left it there for me to find.
What a way to teach-in the woods, at church, or at home.
Why the Plum Trees Had Plums
An article in the church paper a couple of weeks ago noted that plum trees in the churchyard had an abundance of fruit. When we called the landscaping people, they told us the plum trees used for landscaping seldom produce fruit. We noted at the time that apparently no one had informed those trees of that fact; and being without that wisdom, they went ahead and produced plums. That, of course, was said with tongue in cheek. Now comes a more logical explanation of why the church plum trees had fruit.
With the wisdom available to us lately about the effect of tender, loving care (and even conversation) upon plants, it follows that our plum trees are in an extremely good position to catch a variety of life experiences.
The yard and the parking lot are places where children play, and the church has the welcome mat out for the children of the area. The plum trees experience the laughter and happy spirit of the children. Occasionally, groups of them sit under the trees for a picnic or to enjoy a Popsicle.
If this were not enough, the trees have witnessed a number of weddings and celebrations-a bride and groom coming happily out of the church, or a festive party for the work of a neighborhood youth director with free ice-cream cones for all the children. The trees were in on that, too.
They have heard a bell choir from Haiti. They have witnessed a Communion service on the front lawn of the church along with evening vespers. Senior citizens who meet in the fellowship hall every Tuesday walk by the trees
Many families pass by as they come to worship; and the trees watch the joy that comes as these folks leave to face another week after spending an hour in the worship of God. They have heard the singing of hundreds of hymns from the open windows of the sanctuary.
They saw one of their number carefully cut down after it had died. It was carried away tenderly by some thirty-five children during Children’s Moments in a worship service. The choir anthems have reached their leaves Sunday after Sunday, and those who practice on the church organ during the week have provided additional enjoyment.
They have watched the Christmas story recreated each year on Christmas Eve, right under their branches-the shepherds, the donkey, the wise men, Mary and Joseph and the Babe, and, of course, a street full of people who sing carols.
Any tree that has been a part of all this could not help but respond with a whole chorus of plums.
Dorothy
“I’m right here, Dorothy; right here in the room.” It’s Saturday evening, and the lights of the city are beginning to come on, and the new snow has made most everything white.
“I’ll be staying close by.”
Her breathing was shallow and there was evidence of considerable struggle, not pain-just the physical struggle that comes when the body is slowly shutting down.
It was about three months ago on a Sunday evening that Dorothy said she was afraid.
“Afraid of what?” I asked.
“Afraid I am going to die.”
“And how long do you want to live?”
“Just enough time to get some things done,” she said.
So a plan was made there in the room. Dorothy would make a list of all she wanted to get done. She would have it ready by the following day, and then together we would work on the list.
At the very top of the page was her desire to attend the Wesley Circle Christmas Party. Dorothy did not make it, but her friends sent a poster full of pictures taken at the party.
Ten of her friends at the church gathered at the hospital for a surprise birthday party December 21. Several purchased gowns and delivered them to her. Someone did her laundry. Many sent cards and called on her.
“I am ready to die,” she told me one day. “I am ready for my heavenly home. I am tired of this body and the illness.” She had decided she was not going to get well and therefore she was ready to die. “I don’t want you to tell anyone else just now,” she said, “because people say, ‘Oh, don’t talk like that; that’s nonsense.’ It’s OK if I want to die, isn’t it, Grayson?”
“Sure, it’s OK.”
Now, on this Saturday evening, in the hospital room, it was clear that Dorothy had made her message and desire clear. For in this room, there were no bottles for intravenous feeding, no tubes, no machines to sustain life. But there was dignity. The gowns from her brother and friends, a card delivered yesterday from her friends in the Wesley Circle, the people of the church, and a woman we called Dorothy-one who had decided that her time to die had come.
The nurses were in and out of the room to check, to help make her comfortable. They offered coffee and juice, and we told her stories and read to her, and she did not close her eyes throughout the night. Her response was to follow us with her eyes across the room, to squeeze our hands; and when we looked closely at her face, a faint smile would outline her lips from time to time.
All through the night someone was with her and then, as she had wanted, just in a moment, the breathing stopped.
It was Sunday morning. The lights of the city were beginning to fade into morning.
And from the oval-shaped hospital radio hanging on the back of the bed came the music, “Morning has broken. … “
… O, death, where is thy sting?
Copyright © 1984 by the author or Christianity Today/Leadership Journal. Click here for reprint information on Leadership Journal.
