Writings
A week ago Saturday night, I told several tables worth of turkey eaters that what I knew about nature (as a kid) would have fit inside a baseball glove….which is where I would have carried such knowledge, had I had it, given that baseball was all I cared about or wanted to do in my free time. True, there was the occasional Scouting outing in the woods.
You tell me. How ironic is this? On Friday night I stayed home for a change, the better to research this text about a manager-in-residence who takes a few accounting liberties, commonly known as “cooking the books.” Then I awakened at 4:00 in the morning with all of this swirling in my head, leading Kris (who was also awake, given my tossing and turning) to say: “Why don’t you go downstairs and outline your sermon? Maybe then you can go back to sleep.”
It seemed odd when she said it, but (as I was soon to learn) there was much more to it. She was bright, vivacious, talented, attractive and young. He was bright, vivacious, talented, handsome and less young. Color her, mid-twenties. Color him, pushing forty….not as in nudging forty, so much as in shoving forty. He was my friend. My divorced friend. She was his friend. His new friend. His new, never-before-married friend.
This sermon was preached in response to the 300th anniversary of John Wesley’s birth on June 28, 1703. Its only connection with Father’s Day was the observation that John Wesley represents our denominational father in the faith. Birthday celebrations were somewhat big in the Detroit area in mid-June, given the four-day bash in honor of the Ford Motor Company’s 100th birthday. All things considered, the timing seemed appropriate.
