They

Wendell Berry has received a lot of my attention in the past two weeks. I listened to three of his novels while driving around the state (A World Lost, A Place on Earth, and Remembering). Last week at the farm I read through two books of his poetry (Farming: A Hand Book and Given Poems. My students in Life & Work of the Pastor will be reading the first of those next fall as we use his metaphor of farming to think about the work of the pastor, but that is material for another post.)

I came across this in Given Poems. He calls it "They."

I see you down there, white-haired
among the green leaves,
picking the ripe raspberries,
and I think, "Forty-two years!"
We are the you and I who were
they whom we remember.

Today Melinda and I have been married 38 years. Her hair is not white, although mine is moving that direction. Just last week I saw her across a row of ripe blackberry's at Jay Pullin's farm outside of Floresville. It is difficult to put into words what it means to remember being younger. Further down the row of berry vines my oldest son and his wife were also picking the fruit, as were their children.

When I imagine that scene, I realize that we were once where those small children are. We were once where that young couple is. And now we are older. We don't return to that younger time except in memory, and frankly, I don't want to. I like being who I am, where I am in life, though it means that the days yet before me are considerably fewer than those that lie behind.

These two people, Melinda and I, are the they whom we remember. We knew of each other as far back as seventh grade, but we were not yet friends. By the time we went to high school we were sharing a lunch table and getting to know each other a bit. Then Melinda joined the forensics team our senior year and we rode a bus to San Antonio for a speech and drama tournament and sat next to each other and talked all the way there and back. Around Christmas a few of us at church decided it would be fun to get dates and go out to eat at Jimmy Walker's Restaurant in Kemah (no boardwalk back in those days -- just Jimmy Walker's). I assumed that Melinda was dating a guy named Chuck, and so was unavailable. I asked someone else to go with me and she said no. I was going to back out. Then I worked up the courage to call Melinda and she said yes. Since December 19, 1970, (Forty-two years!) we've been together.

Three and a half years after that first date, a week out of college, we married. Three months later we moved from Houston to Ft. Worth to begin seminary studies. Melinda taught school and I went to school. We would eventually move ten times. There would be three children, lots of joy, churches to serve, struggles to endure, friends to share, memories to make. She would have to put up with so much. We would nurse our parents through their illness and old age and see them cross over to the other side. We would parent together, travel together, and serve Christ together. Now I'm teaching school and she's a student. Children are out on their own, for the most part. We are learning to grandparent. 

As often as I officiate at a wedding, I think, "These two standing before me have no idea what they are doing, what they are in for. They cannot possibly know the meaning of the words they speak." ' 'til death do us part.' Neither one of them has considered that one of them will someday stand by a grave and walk the journey alone for a while. "For better, for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness as in health, to love and to cherish." Do they, can they, possibly understand what that will require? How difficult that might be? No, they don't. They can't be expected to. But we make those promises and let them orient us toward the way we live out the years together.

I remember those two younger people well. But it is these two, older, wiser (?), less naive about what is necessary to love, that I know.

"We are the you and I who were
they whom we remember."

Cole's Trip to the Farm

[Note: I have invited Cole to post on the blog regarding this week’s trip to the farm, since he seems to have enjoyed it as much as anyone. I have not attempted to edit his work for spelling (although he is a bit more proficient in his use of Word's spell check than he was just a year ago), grammar, or accuracy. The photos are mine. For more detail see Kat’s blog. rrc]

Monday, May 21

Today wuz the bess day ever. Papa and me went to the farm again. I new we wuz going wen I saw Papa packin the truk. We went to auston and saw jenna furst and ate lunch with her. Then we went to the farm. Papa didn't do much work that day. He found about a million sqashes growing in the garden. We jus moved in and he went to the store or sumthin. Then we ate dinner and slep.

Tuesday, May 22

Today wuz the bess day ever. I wok up at the farm. Me and papa ate brekfuss and then papa worked a lot. I don’t like his lawn more so I mosly ran from it all day and got my exersize. Papa cleaned up the plas reel good till he wus tired. I wus tired to.

Wednesday, May 23

Today wuz the bess day ever.  Papa took me out in the field after brekfus and there wus a big pond of water from wher it raned lass week. I ran thru it like crazy over and over and got all muddy. Then I ran thru the hay feeled. Papa laffed at me. But then he made me stan reel steel and washed me with a hose cus I wus so muddy. Then Mimi cam to the farm to. She and papa started getting reddy for more peeple to com to. They went to the stor or sumthin. Then we ate dinner and slep.

Thursday, May 24

Today wuz the bess day ever. Papa and mimi worked for a while and red buks and stuff. Mimi made bread. Then at nite Porter and Pressley cam to play with me and brot Alan and Kat and Auston and Madison also.  We ate dinner and slep. I think I slep some during the day and mite haf missed sumthings that happened.

Friday, May 25

Today wuz the bess day ever. Papa and Alan (mosly Alan) bilt a tree house. I don't no why. They went off in the truk and come bak with a bunch of bords and stuff. I watched and helped some. Porter an Pressley didn’t help none at all. We ate dinner and slep. I think the peeple may have stayed awake longer and talked or sumthing. I got in som trubbel cuss I got mad at Pressley and almos killed him or sumthing. They made me go in the house insted of eeting with them outside. Papa yelled at me some. I’m goin to try and do bedder. I don't like beegulls though.

Saturday, May 26

Today wuz the bess day ever. Papa and Alan finished the tree house and more peeple cam but no new dogs cam and that's good. The peeple went off somewhere to pick blackberries or something and left us dogs here to take care of things and we did. Then they cam bak and left the berries and went off again to see olives or sumthing. Then they cam back. Then they played around here and then they went to San Antonio to eat or sumthing. Porter and Pressly slep while they wus gon but I watched out for things reel good. This is mosly my job when I am here and I do good.

Sunday, May 27

This wus the bess day ever. Peeple ate brekfuss outside. The kids ate in the tree house. Then we went for a walk witch is my favorit thing out in the corn feeled again and I got to run in the mud again and it wus fun and I had to get washed off again tho. Then everybody got in papa’s truk bak and he let me driv with him and we went down the road to another feeled and drived into it and got out and ran to a big tree and everybody had fun climin the tree and takin pitchers and stuff. Then we rod bak in the truk agin. Then everybody played in the tree house and stuff. Then mor peeple cam.  I herd papa say that made seventeen. Then papa put a big tarp in his truk and feeled the bak with water and the little kids played in it. Then they made a fire and cooked their food outside. Then they ate outside and they forgot and left me and Pressley in the house while they ate. Then papa gav the kids rides in the wagon with his John Deere. I haf a John Deere coller.

Tomorrow I think everbody is going home again. I herd papa say it will be the bess day ever.

Grace and Privilege

John Ames, the 77 year old pastor who is the narrator of Marilynne Robinson's Gilead, offers this observation as his life ebbs away: "There are a thousand thousand reasons to live this life -- every one of them sufficient."

I sat on the porch of Laity Lodge's Great Hall Tuesday morning before dawn, waiting for dawn, a mug of hot coffee warming my hands. A gentle, cool breeze brushed my face and arms in the gray darkness. The Rio Frio below -- always an inviting blue-green when I'd seen it before -- flowed murky brown as if disturbed from the run-off of recent rains. And the rain, which had descended in violent fury the night before, had spent its energy and was now calmed to a peaceful drizzle.

When light began to gather behind the hills, drops of water clinging to every tiny leaf on the cedar in front of me appeared suddenly, shining like a thousand miniature lights decorating the tree.

Creation was loud this morning. The mild constant rain on the tin roof applauded the music of the waters leaping over the falls below. Birdsong filled the trees.

A soft, misty cloud made its way, almost imperceptibly, slow-walking across the peak of the hill just across the river. The first real movement of the day drew my attention. A Great Blue Heron alighted with a grace all out of proportion to its size to conduct its morning fishing expedition on the far bank of the Frio. Then, in rapid contrast, a Ruby-throated Hummingbird, like Jedi fighter pilot, buzzed by just over my head.

I sat for half an hour in a light too dim for reading and ran through a familiar liturgy of Morning Prayer in my head. For a while I simply repeated the Jesus Prayer: "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God have mercy on me, a sinner."

There on the porch I became freshly aware of the grace and privilege it is simply to be alive in this world. The word "privilege" has often come to my lips as a way of describing the pursuit of my vocation, the calling I have known. I felt that privilege as a young academic 33 years ago teaching Greek and New Testament at Houston Baptist University. It describes the sense of grace that was mine for 22 years as pastor and partner in the gospel to the people of University Baptist Church -- being invited into their lives, worshiping together, breaking bread and serving Christ.

I use that word often these days when people ask me what it is like to be at Baylor, teaching ministry students at Truett Seminary. This community, these colleagues, these students, this calling, this task, in this place -- it is all grace and privilege.

These past few days have been spent here on the Frio River with 30 Baylor colleagues from all over campus, most of whom I did not know before. Sharing worship, meals, conversations, and stories of vocation have deepened the meaning of "privilege" for me. Along with Creation's beauty and the joy of family and friends, the context in which I am living out my vocation is one of the thousand thousand sufficient reasons for living this life.

Raising My Voice

Several years ago Chris Seay invited me to participate in a project called “The Voice.” It was going to involve a new translation of the Bible, gathering artists, poets, scholars, and pastors into a partnership. I wound up writing a couple of essays for the volume on the book of Acts (The Dust Off Their Feet) in 2006. Last year the NT was released in full by Thomas Nelson Publishers, with little fanfare. This spring the entire Bible has appeared in print. USA Today had an article about the release this week that opened with the provocative words, “The name Jesus Christ doesn't appear in The Voice, a new translation of the Bible.”  CNN followed up with a posted article entitled “New Bible Translation Avoids 'Christ'.”  I’d like to respond to this kind of journalism. It is either intentionally misleading in order to gather readers and listeners or it is ignorantly misleading which is simply sloppy. I suspect it is the former.

First, both CNN and USA Today have misrepresented the translation. The translation does not remove or avoid “Christ.” The English word “Christ” is a transliteration of the Greek word “christos,” which itself is a translation of the Hebrew word “messiah.” Both words mean the same, “the anointed one.” It has been the practice in Bible translation to transliterate (bringing the Greek word directly into English) christos rather than translate it (putting into English the meaning of the Greek word), creating the English word “Christ.”  Christ is a title of Jesus. He is Jesus (the) Christ, or Jesus (the) Messiah. Christ is not his surname. He was not the child of Joseph and Mary Christ. The translators of The Voice chose to translate the title as “the Anointed” or “God’s Anointed,” or “the Anointed One,” depending upon the context of the narratives or the epistles. This choice, while departing from other English Bible translations, is nevertheless both legitimate and honoring to meaning of the original language. They were attempting to restore it as a title rather than treating it as a name.  To say they have taken Christ out of the Bible is misrepresentation.

Second, Jesus is clearly at the enter of the entire project. He is the center of Christian Scriptures and remains so in this translation. I am currently reading through The Voice for my daily Bible reading and worship. I’m finding it to be rich, and it is clear that Jesus, God’s Son, is at the heart of the story.

Because of this kind of publicity, hard working, prayerful, deeply spiritual scholars and their work is inappropriately maligned. All kinds of inaccurate material begins to circulate on the Internet.

I’d like to raise my voice and encourage God’s people to act like God’s people. Let Scripture speak as authoritative rather than the headlines or lead sentences of secular journalists.

No translation is perfect. We will each find details about The Voice that we don’t like. Translation, all translation, is in part interpretation. We will find far more that is helpful. Leveling such accusations against godly men and women who have devoted a significant portion of their lives, gifts, and calling to making God’s word clearer to a new generation readers is just wrong.

Read it for yourself. Read the Introductory materials. Go to the website (http://www.hearthevoice.com) and become familiar with the project. Have some integrity about what you believe and what you pass on. 

Reading as Formation

Last week I received an email from a young woman who graduated from Truett recently.

Dr Creech,

Hello! I hope Easter was wonderful !!! I think about our Truett and Waco community a lot!

I am preparing for ordination this summer and thought i would ask a few people in ministry if there were any books or resources that formative in their journey in ministry.

I appreciate it so much, have a great day.

I gave my reply a bit of thought, but realized that there is more to say. What books and writers have most deeply shaped my thinking, my beliefs, my practices? Maybe I'll work on an official list sometime.  Nevertheless, here's my reply:

Books have been powerful influences on my formation along the way. It is a challenge to think about which ones have had the biggest impact. I should work on doing that intentionally some day -- producing a bibliography of the top 25 or 50. I'll suggest fewer to you. It is difficult to do this entirely by books, so let me do so by writers and mention those of their books that I recall as especially formative. Almost without exception, these are books that are worth reading more than once, in my opinion, and I have done that.

C. S. Lewis -- I began reading him in high school (Screwtape Letters) and never really stopped. The Chronicles of Narnia, the Space Trilogy, Mere Christianity, The Problem of Pain, and A Grief Observed stand out.

Dallas Willard -- I met him much later, but he and Lewis share a common way of  writing and thinking. His work on spiritual disciplines (The Spirit of the Disciplines, Hearing God, Knowing Christ) have been important to me, as is his work on the Christian life (The Divine Conspiracy).

Richard Foster's Celebration of Discipline I have read several times with profit.

I'm no theologian, but have been helped by the writings of Jurgen Moltmann (especially Theology of Hope, The Church in the Power of the Spirit, and The Crucified God). I'm finding now that his thinking is helpful to me in talking about pastoral ministry.

Bonhoeffer's Life Together and The Cost of Discipleship have been important as well

Wendell Berry's essays, poetry, and novels have been inspiring and informative to me. Pick one. His novel Jayber Crow is a great parable of pastoral ministry.

I neglected fiction for a long time, but rediscovered it about ten years or so ago. Wallace Stegner's Crossing to Safety and his Angle of Repose were both quite moving. Hanging out with writers like Stegner must have some effect on the way I learn to use language in speaking and writing. A Zen proverb reads, "If you walk in the mist, you will get wet."

Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek taught me much about carefully observing and appreciating creation. Anne Lamott's writing has entertained me and made me think (and weep a time or two.

Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones (a small book that I buy every time I see it in a Half Price Bookstore so that I can give it away) has encouraged me to write and made writing a spiritual practice.

Henri Nouwen has a way of striking deep in the soul for me. His Wounded Healer was the first one I read and is still one of the best for pastoral ministry. Also In the Name of Jesus and The Return of the Prodigal Son.

Eugene Peterson's "four book trilogy" The Contemplative Pastor, Five Smooth Stones for Pastoral Work, Under the Unpredictable Plant, and Working the Angles are books I have read repeatedly over the years. I usually read one of those every year.

I would add a category of books I have only recently discovered -- books of people writing about the life of the pastor from the inside. Eugene Peterson's The Pastor (his memoirs), David Hansen's The Art of Pastoring, Richard Lischer's Open Secrets (the story of his first pastorate), Reinhold Niebuhr's Leaves from the Diary of a Tamed Cynic (his journal from his first pastorate a hundred years ago), and Lillian Daniels and Martin Copenhaver's This Odd and Wondrous Calling, along with Marilynne Robinson's novel Gilead all fit this genre. Reading these makes me want to be a better pastor. I could add Stanley Hauerwas's memoirs, Hannah's Child, which makes me want to be a better teacher.

I'm sure there are others and I wouldn't expect you to jump in and read all these. But you asked. 

(As I copied and pasted this from my email, I began to realize all the other voices that were not included. I'll have to save that for a future post.)

X-Garden Season 2

We acquired three important lessons about X-Gardening last year: (1) The drip irrigation system, if it stays connected, works great, even during times of massive drought; (2) Mulching the beds with straw kept most weeds in check and helped with retaining moisture; (3) Rabbits love gardens.

The time has arrived for the X-Garden to enter its second season, so this past weekend Melinda and I set about to develop the new, improved version. First, we determined to border the beds with landscaping timbers to give them greater definition. We found the intrusive Bermuda grass blurred the edges of the beds. So for aesthetic purposes at least, the timbers will help. Second, we lined the fence with poultry wire with the hope that the bunnies will not be able to enter the garden. The wire is secured around the bottom to prevent a critter digging its way in as well. Then, I made a dozen trips to the fields with our big Groundwork wagon to bring in additional fresh soil for the beds. That done, we covered them with mulch until we can return in a couple of weeks to transplant some of the squashes, melons, cucumbers, tomatoes, and such that we are sprouting in pots here in Waco. 

 

This morning we packed up to return home. Waiting for some clothes to finish drying, Melinda went outside to sit under the mesquites and read Martin Luther. She called me out in an urgent tone. I ran outside and look up to the sky where she was pointing. Hundreds of sandhill cranes were overhead, making their annual migration from the South Texas coast to Canada. They passed by far overhead in large groups (kettles) that could be heard long before they could be seen. At times the cranes would leave their V-shaped groups and circle, riding thermals higher and higher, and then resume their northward glide. Flights of these beautiful birds continued to make their way directly over our farm for most of an hour. We stood outside with binoculars watching in awe.

Spring is clearly on its way to South Texas. Herb has a beautiful crop of wheat in the south pasture and has prepared the central section for planting hay. He worked all day Saturday to plant the fields behind and beside the house with rows of corn. On our way to Floresville to get gasoline, we passed a flock of wild turkeys, fourteen hens and two toms, near the fence, in the pasture adjoining ours. Wildflowers are beginning to bloom. We found Bluebonnet plants scattered over our yard. Hopefully when we return in a few weeks, they will be announcing the official arrival of a Texas spring.

 

I survived the trip with only a couple of my usual klutzy incidents -- running over a perfectly good garden hose with the lawn tractor and losing my eyeglasses, not once, but twice. Otherwise, we arrived home safely, with a two-hour stop in Austin for coffee with our Longhorn.

Day Eight: Life in Community

Thirty six cups of coffee, two dozen eggs, three dozen tortillas, pico de gallo, hash browns, and fresh squeezed orange juice from Texas fruit from the valley -- that was breakfast for the pizza group this morning. Hershey, the wiener dog, wandered off into the woods, provoking a search -- Debbie in her pink robe and flip-flops leading the way. We sat around picnic tables under the mesquite trees in perfect seventy degree weather to eat and talk. Matt gave his two year old daughter Evie rides in the wagon behind the John Deere and she laughed out loud the whole time. A game of chicken foot got organized on the front porch. Chris' lost earrings necessitated some plumbing work in the guest bath and a trip to the Wilson County Hardware store for a new P-Trap. David replaced two electrical sockets in the kitchen and bath and put a new chute on the lawn mower. Jenna played her guitar on the front porch. David and Diann took a walk around the pasture with two dogs in tow. Half of us walked over to the big sandstone rock where my cousins and I have been carving our initials for forty years. I led another group on a hike on the perimeter of the property, stopping under the huge oak trees for Matt, Jenna, and Julie to climb. Jared and Sarah arrived to join the group and the Henderson's and Mobley's took a trip to San Antonio to walk the river and eat out, celebrating LeAnn's birthday. The Creeches and Haynes' stayed behind to keep the dogs and played round after round of "What's Yours Like?"  Melinda, Jenna, and Chris cleaned up the kitchen and we tuned into the Oklahoma Sooners game, waiting for our Sooner fans to return from the city. The ebb and flow of the day has been simple and rich.