Katelyn Drake

September 30, 2020

2020

Nudging the Heart: I meant What I Said From the Pulpit

Katelyn Drake

September 30, 2020

2020

Sept 30, 2020 marks the publication of the Paperback and Kindle version of my fourth book. A book that I had not intended to ever write. So why spend most of this past year writing another book? I really didn’t plan to. I thought that “On Playing the Back Nine” would close down that part of my life quite nicely. Except, I missed it. Writing, that is.

Like many of my male friends, I could take refuge in my workshop. If I had one. And if I had tools to put in it. But my workshop is my desk, surrounded by bookshelves, and facing outward through a wonderful bay window, the better to survey the world. The only tools at my disposal are words. But wasn’t it Tom Stoppard who wrote, “If you get the right words in the right order, you can nudge the world?”

But why sermons? Why not a memoir? Why not a theological commentary on world events? Why not a textbook for preachers on sermon construction? Good questions, all four. But I keep hearing from readers who say, “We like what you’re doing. So give us another.” As concerns a memoir, I think that my previous books have been sufficiently self-revelatory. As concerns world events, I have never backed away from addressing them, which has been moderately risky, given that my heart has always bled a little to the left. And as concerns a primer for young preachers, what most of my colleagues would rather have is a slew of stories they can steal rather than a textbook of techniques they can employ. So, to them, I say (quoting an old spiritual), “Steal Away,” with or without formal attribution.

These sermons also address the concern expressed by the woman who screamed at one of my colleagues while steaming out the door (as he was trying to get her to say what she wanted him to do differently in his sermon)

“Just take my life seriously.”

And in this latest book, I have tried to do just that.

This could not have happened without Lindsay Hinz who, over the last year, served as editor, marketing consultant and most importantly friend.

Special thanks also to my long-time friend, Brent Slay who wrote the Foreword, Rachel Fast Billups Scott Chrostek whose endorsements can be found on the back cover, and to Bob Hill, Dale Warnke, Wesley Brun, Meredith Wende Mills, and Amy Lee Brun Terhune for their willingness to write endorsements for the book.

Katelyn Drake

May 15, 2020

2020

Illumination for the Long Haul

Katelyn Drake

May 15, 2020

2020

Having spent the last 55 years looking for stories “that’ll preach,” I can’t describe the delight of finding one by Robert Louis Stevenson in an essay by Megan Craig in the May 3, 2020 issue of the New York Times. The story tells of a group of young boys who form a secret club of “Lantern Bearers” who hide small tin lanterns under their heavy coats as a secret emblem of participation. From the outside, they look just like anyone else hurrying by on a cold night. But when they meet one another, they open their coats to reveal a hot burning light hanging from a belt loop. Craig writes, “I have always loved the image of these kids hiding their fire, their faces momentarily illuminated in the lamplight, triumphant in their allegiance to the game.”

Truth be told, I don’t know what the game was. But I am beginning to comprehend what the darkness is. Not seasonal darkness mind you. After all, it’s May. And with Mother’s Day behind us, we’re jogging toward June. Light comes earlier and lingers longer. Morning now breaks on the way to my 6:30 AM study group at the church. Except we do not meet at the church, given that the church is closed … it has been closed for seven weeks … and probably will be closed for several weeks more. So, we meet on Zoom, as many as 30 of us. Which works, but it’s not the same.

No, this is a deeper kind of darkness requiring a different kind of light, one that is carried, not on our belts so much as in our eyes … our minds … our hearts. Call it an “inner light” if you like. We all have some, but most of us wonder whether we have enough.

Which brings to mind another story about a young boy. This lad is considerably younger than the “Lantern Bearers.” I picture him as being eight, maybe nine. It seems that he was visiting his grandparent’s farm during several weeks of his summer vacation. Accustomed to his life in the city, where there were street lights, store lights, headlights, traffic lights, not to mention multicolored, blinking neon lights (their aim being to entice rather than illuminate), he was more than a little fearful of how dark it got when the sun went down in the country. It was darkness deeper than he had ever felt (yes, “felt”) before.

One evening, he wanted to retrieve something that he had left in the barn. But his grandfather was, at that moment, disinclined to make the trek with him. Suggesting that there was no reason the lad couldn’t go on his own, the boy said to his grandfather, “But it’s dark out .”

“All you have to do is stay on the path,” said his grandfather.

“But I can’t see the barn from here,” countered the boy.

So, his grandfather rummaged around in his box of tools until he found a flashlight … an old flashlight … a small, old flashlight … a semi-rusted, small, old flashlight. Which, all appearances to the contrary, still worked (obviously the Energizer Bunny must have been there). Whereupon, he gave the flashlight to his grandson, who turned it on … pointed it down the path … only to turn once more to his grandfather and complain, “But I still can’t see the barn.” Leading to the old man’s wise response, “Just keep walking to the end of your light and you’ll get there.”

*****

I have light. I sang about it in Sunday School. And then I read where Jesus said that I was the light of the world. But he also said that you were too. Walter (Billy) Schurr wrote a beautiful anthem, entitled “You are the Light of the World,” which was commissioned by my friend, Mel Rookus, for the Nardin Park United Methodist Church Choir.

Then concerning our light, Jesus added, “Don’t hide it.” Like under a bushel. Or inside your coat. But will it be enough? That’s what we want to know. How far will it penetrate? How long will it last? We’re talking distance and duration. For it is becoming clearer and clearer to me that the phrase “All Clear” is not one that we will hear any time soon. And in a recent telemedicine appointment with my neurologist, she said, “When you finally do hear an “All Clear” announcement, you need to stay home for at least two or three additional weeks.” In a world where a lot of comfort is being taken by people who note that the greater percentage of the fatalities are folks who are elderly or have preexisting conditions, I am almost 80 and have a preexisting condition. So, it looks as if I will require illumination for the long haul.

•••••

Which I think I have. I can do this. Kris and I can do this together. “One day at a time,” she says. And my good fortune is to be holed up in the house with someone like her. So, I relish family, read books, reach out to others via phone calls and screens, and rejoice that the Forsythia, Cleveland Pears, Viburnum, and Iris are already in bloom in the garden. Better yet, we have solved the matter of food delivery. And last Tuesday, there was even a Cinco de Mayo dinner.

But back to matters of light. Near the end of my career, I told my church that I still had “fire in the belly.” And if it has all gone out, I wouldn’t be writing this. But does “fire in the belly” make one a “Lantern Bearer”?

God, I hope so (that’s a prayer in addition to being a statement). For while there have been circumstances in my life that have nearly doused my flame, I have lived and served among other lamp-lighters … like some of you … who came to my rescue.

•••••

In 1833, a young Church of England priest named John Henry Newman was sick and detained in Italy, unable to travel, and far from home. He penned a prayer that, in time, became a cherished hymn.

Lead kindly light amidst the encircling gloom.

Lead me on.

The night is dark, and I am far from home,

Lead thou me on.

Keep thou my feet, I do not ask to see the distant scene,

One step enough for me.

Among other places, “Lead Kindly Light” was sung in the dining room of the Titanic before it went down, and then in one of the lifeboats after the ship sank. It was also said to be the favorite Christian hymn of Mahatma Gandhi.

I first sang it in a wonderful arrangement by Professor David Strickler, written for the Albion College Choir in 1958.

So, I will go … one step at a time … as far as the light that is in me, takes me. And I will cling to the promise of Verse 3 of the hymn to take me further still.

So long thy power has blessed me, sure it will

Still it will lead me on.

O’er moor and fen and crag and torrent ‘til

The night is gone.

And with the morn, those angel faces smile,

Which I have loved, long since, and lost awhile.

May 15, 2020

Northville, Michigan

Katelyn Drake

April 22, 2020

The Race That is Set Before Us

Katelyn Drake

April 22, 2020

April 22, 2020

A homily for our time.

So where to begin?

How about Cleveland, Ohio. The year: 1990. The date: May 21. Her name was Georgene Johnson. She was 42 years of age. Feeling the effects of impending middle age, she began to jog. Eventually, she decided to try a little competition. The event she chose was a 10K run (6.25 miles). Her point of origin: downtown Cleveland.

Seeing a large crowd at the starting line, she was more than a little surprised that so many were assembling so early. But the gun sounded and, caught up in the surge of the pack, she never gave it another thought. At least, not until she approached the four-mile mark. Which was when she began to wonder why the course hadn’t doubled back on itself … as she was told it would … therefore insuring that there would be a finish line somewhere in the vicinity of the starting line. Slowing her pace to ask an official, it was only then that she discovered she was running the Cleveland Marathon (a distance of 26 miles, 385 yards). Her event, the 10K run, was scheduled to commence from the same starting line, some thirty minutes after the start of the Marathon.

While still running, she tried making her plight known to officials and bystanders lining the roadway. None seemed to understand. And if they did, they seemed disinclined to help. So, Georgene Johnson just kept on running. After all, she reasoned:

• This isn’t the race I trained for.

• This isn’t the race I entered.

• But, for better or worse, this is the race I’m in.

She finished in four hours and four minutes, a most respectable time.

•••••

I can’t identify with that, because I have a hard time believing I could do that. Though I have done a little long-distance running (emphasis on the word “little”).

I was turning fifty years old (and not feeling super good about it). Kris and I had a vacation home just north of Elk Rapids, fronting on Grand Traverse Bay. Every August (as part of Elk Harbor Days), there was a 10K footrace. “I’ll run it,” I said. “You’re kidding,” others said. “How hard can it be?” I countered. Knowing that the turn-around mark was right in front of my house, I figured that if I couldn’t finish, I could quit and collapse into my home. But I was certain I would finish. That’s just who I am.

Well, I barely trained (emphasis on both the words, “barely” and “trained.”). But sign up, I did. Paid my money, I did. Got my t-shirt, I did. Took my place at the starting line, I did.

Where I noticed that all of my competitors were skinny. I mean, I could count their ribs. When I pointed this out to a rare competitor who looked sorta like me, he said, “You and I are in what they call, “The Clydesdale Division.” So I said a little prayer (to myself):

Lord, let me finish.

And if it be even remotely possible,

let there be somebody

behind me when I finish.

Well, I ran. I finished. And there were several people behind me when I finished. Enough, so that I ran the same race twice more in succeeding years (including once with my daughter, to whom I said, a quarter-mile in, “Don’t worry about me. Just go.” Which she did. Because she could, don’t you see. I got two more t-shirts, along with some free fruit at the finish. But I never experienced what people call, “the runner’s high.” Never once. Ever.

•••••

Enough reminiscing. Georgene Johnson is now dead. And I am pushing 80. Meaning that, among other things, I no longer feel the need to prove anything. Except I do need to exhibit endurance in week eight of the COVID-19 Pandemic, while being my most obedient self by staying home and washing my hands.

• This isn’t the race I signed up for.

• This isn’t the race I trained for.

• This isn’t the race I particularly enjoy.

• But this the race I’m in.

Now, you need to know that I am not a patient person. And I am certainly not an introvert. But, in this case, I have been … and will continue to be … compliant. But compliant does mean “without complaint.” For I have learned that my complaining puts me in good company. Biblical company. Just last week, I went to my Bible Concordance to look up the phrase, “How long?” … including the phrase, “How long, O, Lord?” Those phrases are often completed by the words, “Do I have to bear with this … hang in there with this … or even, ‘wilt thou forget me?” Would you believe that the words, “How long, O, Lord?” appear fifty-nine times? Meaning that my co-complainers have been multiple.

So, why am I being compliant? In part, for you. For as much as I don’t want to get it (the virus, I mean), I don’t want to give it. I don’t want to give it to you … to my wife … to my daughter … to my son-in-law … or my two grandchildren. Nor do I want to give it to my church. Which includes thirty guys I meet with on Zoom every Wednesday morning at 6:30 am for study.

I owe so much to so many. But I do not owe you a life-threatening illness. Which means that I will keep in touch. I will reach out (by voice and in print). I will be a cheerleader. And I will be a check-writer.

I have not lost my job. I have not lost my primary source of income. And I may not get a stimulus check. So, Kris and I will dig deep. We will go as far as we can go … for as many as we can go … giving as much as we can give. Quietly.

This is a relational race we are running. And ours is a relational gospel we are practicing. My Alexandria, Virginia colleague, Chris Davis, directed me back to my Concordance in order to discover that there are fifty-nine “one another commands” in the New Testament. Commands like, love one another … forgive one another … weep with one another … rejoice with one another … bear with one another. Then, just to prove things for myself, I hauled out my Concordance and counted. Chris Davis is right. Fifty-nine “one another commands.” Oh my! Who knew? Well, I do. And now you do, too.

•••••

But let me honest with you. I am doing what has been asked for another reason. Not only because I am obedient. Not only because I am virtuous. Not only because I am collegial. And certainly not only because I am patient. I mean, I, too, have some “cabin fever.” But I am doing what I have been asked in a very nice cabin, sharing life with a very nice cabin-mate.

And I am doing it because there is a part of me who is afraid.

• Of getting infected.

• Of becoming sick.

• Of becoming hospitalized.

• Of becoming intubated.

• Of being ventilated.

• And of dying … alone.

How do I know that? Not because I ponder it. Not because I obsess over it. But because I dreamed about it … sort of. Last Sunday, there was an article in the New York Times, which suggested that in the wake of the Coronavirus scare, many of us are having weird dreams.

In my dream, I was piloting a jet ski … over a blue body of water … a big, blue body of water … a big, blue, deep body of water.

I did not turn my jet ski over. No, it just stopped. And at some point in response to its stopping, I just leaned forward. Or maybe I fell forward. So that my upper body was laying across the arms. Which was when it occurred to me that I was dead.

And in my dream, some other people … in some other boat … pulled along side. And, pointing at the jet ski, someone said, “It must have run out of gas.” But as they pulled even closer, another member of the group said, “No, it appears that he ran out of gas.” Whereupon, I was pulled in and brought home.

•••••

This isn’t the race I entered.

This isn’t the race I trained for.

This isn’t the race I’m in.

But out on the waters, I’m still riding the waves … humming … half-singing as I go.

Jesus, Savior, pilot me,

Over life’s tempestuous sea;

Unknown waves before me roll,

Hiding rocks and treacherous shoal.

Chart and compass come from Thee:

Jesus, Savior, pilot me!

•••••