The Assumption of Mary

The Assumption of the Virgin Mary by Peter Paul Rubens, 1626. An altarpiece for the high altar of the Cathedral of Our Lady, Antwerp.

Today, August 15, is the date on the Catholic and Orthodox calendars to celebrate the Assumption of Mary, the mother of Jesus. Most Protestants do not know about this date, and the ones that do do not celebrate it in any way. For me, though, the Assumption has become a way to think about God’s grace, the limits of the boundaries Christians draw, and the hope that this life is not all there is.

Growing up in mostly small and medium-sized Southern towns, I had little contact with Catholics. I was taught—not by my parents, family, or church, but by the culture—to be suspicious of them. I was handed many falsehoods about “those people”: “They get their orders from the Pope.” “They do not believe in the Bible.” “They worship Mary instead of Jesus.” “They are not Christians.” I remember a fellow student in one of my first-year religion classes saying that Catholics worshipped Mary. A Catholic student in the class replied, “No, we do not worship her, but we do respect and honor her. How would you treat the mother of Jesus if she walked in the room?”

Most of my Southern Baptist friends do not believe Catholics are Christians. That’s okay; they do not believe that I, a United Methodist, am either. So many people who go by the name Christian are drawing lines to define who is in and who is out. They seem to ignore Psalm 24:1: “The earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it, the world, and all who live in it.” (Emphasis mine.)

Over time, that kind of boundary-drawing began to seem smaller than the gospel itself. If the earth and everyone in it belong to the Lord, then perhaps Mary can help me see not who is excluded, but how God keeps inviting ordinary people to bear grace into the world.

I eventually learned to see Mary as a model for all of us. God sends a messenger and asks whether she will bear Christ into the world. She says yes. She learns that doing so will involve pain and suffering, as well as joy. Still, she is faithful.

To be sure, there are all kinds of doctrines about Mary that I am not sure about—her perpetual virginity, whether she physically died, and exactly how to describe what happened at the end of her earthly life. John Wesley believed in Mary’s perpetual virginity, though Mary’s other children after Jesus present a problem or two for me. Some believe her physical body was taken to heaven without death; others believe she died and was then raised into new life. I do not need to settle those questions to find meaning in the feast.

What matters most to me is the word used to describe the transition from this life to the next: assumption. When Jesus left the earth, according to Christian scripture, he ascended; that is, he went up by his own power. Mary was taken—assumed—into heaven.

This tells me that God is never through with us. By God’s power, we continue to move and grow and live in the realm of God. This life matters: the earth is the Lord’s, and so are the people in it. God created it, loves it, cares for it, renews it, and calls us to care for it—including all creatures—too. But this life is not all there is. There is more yet to come.

And that is what I celebrate today: the joy, wonder, and beauty of this life, along with its pain, anguish, and hardship—and the promise that it does not end here.

SPANGHEW

Spanghew. This word has made me fall in love again with the English language.

As many of you know, I have a complicated relationship with my native tongue. Compared to other languages, it seems so feeble. For instance, consider the word “love.” The ancient Greeks had a whole collection of words that we now interpret simply as love: agape, philia, storge, eros, philautia, and pragma. We have “love.” “I love my wife. I love my children. I also love Pepsi Zero.”

And so many words we have can mean one thing and the opposite. They are called contronyms. For example, “bolt” can mean to secure something so it can’t be moved, or to run away from something very fast. Weather can mean to wear away, or to endure. Refrain can mean not to do something, while a refrain is something you’re expected to do again and again.

Steve Martin said, “Some people have a way with words, while other people…..not have way.” Even though most of my life has been dealing with words, I find I often not have way. 

Eventually I stopped opening the 20-pound Random House Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary my wife gave me a few years ago. Partly because I had given up on English and partly because the thing is a lumbar injury waiting to happen. 

And then spanghew somehow found its way to me. Spanghew, according to that same dictionary, means “to throw violently into the air; especially: to throw (a frog) into the air from the end of a stick.” 

We have a word for that? 

We have a word specifically for using sticks to throw frogs into the air? 

If I were still preaching, I would have to preach on Exodus 8:1-15 just so I could use the sentence “Egyptians and Jews, everyone from Pharaoh to Moses, spent days spanghewing.” 

There are so many words that I have completely overlooked or misused.

Defenestration- the act of throwing someone or something out the window. “You give me the urge to defenestrate.”

Syzygy- an alignment of at least three celestial bodies in a straight line. “Did you see the syzygy last night?”

Kenspeckle- conspicuous. “Mike’s attire of Dockers and a polo shirt made him kenspeckle at the Boy Harsher concert.”

Maybe I have been too hard on English. Any language that has survived long enough to have a word for throwing frogs into the air can’t be entirely feeble. There are probably thousands of wonderful words hiding in that 20-pound dictionary that I have never bothered to meet. 

And then there is the ever-popular floccinaucinihilipilification: the long, absurd act of judging something to be entirely worthless. Which, dear reader, you may be thinking of using now.

That’s okay. I have some spanghewing to do.

St. John the Baptizer Eve

Today, June 23, is the feast day of St. John the Baptizer—or rather, the eve of the feast. Technically, the celebration does not begin until sunset, which is 8:34 p.m. where I am. It is one of only two major saint days in the Christian calendar that commemorate a saint’s birth rather than death. The other celebrates the birth of Mary, the mother of Jesus, on September 8. According to the Gospel of Luke, John was born six months before Jesus, which explains the date.

People observe this day in different ways. In many places, bonfires are lit. Some communities hold parades. Others celebrate baptisms or services for the renewal of baptismal vows. I prefer a quieter observance: reflecting on the saint, considering what I can learn from his life, and finding one practical way to put that lesson into action. Since it is far too hot to build a bonfire here, I took a short walk along nearby Jefferies Creek instead.

John, as you may know, was a fiery prophetic preacher who spoke boldly against the corruption of both the Roman Empire and the religious establishment of his day. He called people away from lives centered on themselves and toward lives centered on God and neighbor. His message can be summarized in five themes.

1. Repent — because the kingdom of heaven is near.

“Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” (Matthew 3:2)

Repentance does not simply mean feeling sorry for something. It literally means to turn around and head in a different direction. For John, genuine repentance required a changed life. Which leads naturally to his second theme.

2. Bear fruit — live a changed life.

“Bear fruits worthy of repentance.” (Luke 3:8)

A changed heart should produce a changed life. Jesus later echoed this teaching when he said that people are known by their fruits (Matthew 7:15–20). John insisted that faithfulness could not be inherited. He challenged those who trusted in their ancestry:

“Do not begin to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our father.'” (Luke 3:8)

Faith requires a personal response. No one can believe for us. Which brings us to theme three.

3. Practice justice and generosity — treat people rightly.

John’s preaching was remarkably practical.

“Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none.” (Luke 3:11)

Compassion and generosity are marks of genuine repentance.

To tax collectors he said:

“Collect no more than the amount prescribed for you.” (Luke 3:13)

Repentance affects how we conduct our work and handle our finances.

To soldiers he said:

“Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation, and be satisfied with your wages.” (Luke 3:14)

Reject abuse of power. Reject greed. Treat people fairly.

4. Prepare for God’s judgment — take God seriously.

John preached both grace and judgment.

“His winnowing fork is in his hand.” (Luke 3:17)

God cares about how we live. John warned that a day of accountability would come when righteousness and wickedness would be separated. His message was urgent because he believed that what we do matters.

5. Look to Jesus — the Messiah, the Lamb of God, the Son of God.

Above all else, John pointed beyond himself.

“One who is more powerful than I is coming.” (Luke 3:16)

True ministry points people to Christ rather than to oneself.

“He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.”

“Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!” (John 1:29)

“I have seen and have testified that this is the Son of God.” (John 1:34)

“Look, here is the Lamb of God!” (John 1:36)

John taught that Jesus is God’s answer to our separation from God, from one another, and from creation itself. He willingly directed his own disciples away from himself and toward Christ.

Perhaps John’s greatest statement was simply this:

“He must increase, but I must decrease.” (John 3:30)

The faithful servant seeks Christ’s glory rather than personal recognition.

John’s final recorded testimony centers on faith:

“Whoever believes in the Son has eternal life.” (John 3:36)

In many ways, John stands as the bridge between the Hebrew prophets and the ministry of Jesus, fulfilling Isaiah’s vision of “a voice crying out in the wilderness: Prepare the way of the Lord” (Isaiah 40:3; Matthew 3:3).

There is no evidence that John continued baptizing after he baptized Jesus. But he never stopped preaching. He continued to speak the truth, refusing to back down, until it ultimately cost him his life.

Mussorgsky’s Night on Bald Mountain was originally titled St. John’s Eve on Bald Mountain. Inspired by a story by Nikolai Gogol, the music captures something of John’s spirit: the fire, intensity, urgency, and thunder of prophetic judgment. Yet the piece concludes with church bells and a sense of peace. The storm passes. A new day dawns.

Perhaps that is fitting. John’s ministry was never the destination. He was preparing the way for One who would bring a new way of living, a new kingdom, and a new hope.

As for me, I think I will spend this St. John’s Eve looking for something worth standing for. Maybe even something worth losing my head over.

Going To War- 2. McDowell County

WARNING: This blog post has lots of facts and figures.

McDowell County is on the southernmost tip of West Virginia, covering an area of 534.899 square miles, all but 1,441 of them mountains. The rest is water. It has a population of 16,900 (2025 est.), down from 19,111 in the 2020 census. It has a population density of about 32 people per square mile (land), compared with 78 for the rest of West Virginia. There are 10 cities and towns-

Welch (County Seat) population 3,413; Gary 687; War 546; Kimball 248; Iaeger 243; Northfork 205; Davy  185; Bradshaw 182; Keystone 153; Anawalt 148.

Additionally, there are unincorporated historic coal camps still in existence (though the coal mining has pretty much disappeared). Among them are

  • Crumpler: ~351 residents
  • Bartley: ~327 residents
  • Maybeury: ~88 residents
  • Cucumber: ~87 residents
  • Vivian: ~79 residents

The average household income is $31,559, and the per capita income is $17,253. The poverty rate is above 30%.

Seventy-five percent of the adults have a high school diploma as their highest degree, while 6 percent have a bachelor’s degree. There are two high schools in the county (Mountain View in Welch and River View in Bradshaw), 3 middle schools, and 6 elementary schools. There are no higher education schools, though there is an adult learning center in Welch.

Major employers in McDowell County are the public schools and the few healthcare facilities. Retail employment is mostly at Walmart, Family Dollar, Dollar Stores, and a few fast-food restaurants. The coal industry, formerly the area’s economic base, still has a few contract jobs available. The unemployment rate is 10.2%, compared with 4.5% for the rest of the state.

Many think that the poverty and terrible conditions are relatively new, that the demise of the coal industry has occurred within the last couple of decades. That is not true. Coal mining in McDowell County peaked in 1942, producing about 29 million tons of coal per year. The population was almost 100,000 at that time. Mechanization and the decline in coal demand began, and by 1959, John Kennedy visited Welch to see the effects of poverty in America. It was while he was there that he saw the need for the Food Stamp program, and when he became president, and the program became law, the first Food Stamps were given two years later. On May 29, 1961, Alderson Muncy, an unemployed coal miner in Welch with a wife and 15 children, purchased $95 worth of food stamps for his family’s first trip to a local grocery store.

JFK & West Virginia” Road to The White House | The Pop History Dig

Kennedy in Welch in 1959.

While there was more money in McDowell County during the coal-mining days, most of it went to the mine owners and supervisors. The majority of the workforce, the miners, lived in just above-poverty conditions. When the mines began to close, those with the money left, while the poorest were basically abandoned.

The county’s infrastructure was never improved. Today, it is not unusual for a person’s tap water to be black with coal dust. Septic systems empty waste into the mountain streams. Things we basically take for granted- clean water, septic systems, trash removal- are few and far between.

Despite it all, there are some bright spots in their history. The first (and so far only) memorial to African-American soldiers from World War 1 is Kimball. It was completed in 1928 when Black soldiers were denied entry into the local American Legion Post. Homer Hickman, a retired NASA engineer and Vietnam War veteran, attended Big Creek High School. He and some fellow students were known as the “Rocket Boys,” and their stories, along with those of Frieda Riley, their teacher, were told in the movie October Sky. Recently, there has been movement making the Hatfield-McCoy Trail, which runs through the county, a popular spot for hikers, mountain bikers, and ATV riders. And, of course, the mountains that are not scarred from the coal mining are beautiful.

African-American World War I Veterans
Rocket Boys
Frieda J. Riley
Hatfield-McCoy Trail
McDowell County

The youth pastor from Northbrook Church, in his Bible studies and devotions for the team getting ready to go, has said that we cannot save them. But, he said, we can bring them hope. I will examine that in my next reflection.

Below are some links to videos that show some of the conditions of McDowell County.

War, What The Hell Happened?

From coal mines to hard times: A West Virginia county braces for new public assistance cuts


McDowell County, WV – Those Who Stayed 

Going To War*

jordannichphoto- Instagram

Why am I going on this mission trip? That question has stayed with me as I have thought about McDowell County and what it means to say yes to this invitation.

I have been on a number of mission trips, some local—South Carolina, North Carolina, Mississippi, Alabama, Florida, Georgia—and some international—Guatemala, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Zambia, and Namibia. Every one of them has taught me something, and the people there, without exception, did more for me than I did for them. My view of God’s world and the grace of Christ has expanded because of them. Those experiences have also made me ask what it means not just to visit a place, but to belong to people over time.

PBS- The Mine Wars

Over time, I have found myself wanting more than a brief encounter with some other place or some other group of people who were not like me. The best of these trips, it seems to me, have been reciprocal. We begin to see ourselves as belonging to a community not defined by geographical, political, economic, or even religious boundaries. Instead, we live together in a mutual love of God and this world. That is why this particular trip has drawn me in a deeper way.

My sister, Paula, and her husband, David, have been joining their church in developing that kind of long-term friendship with the people of McDowell County in West Virginia. She has been going there for the last five years during their summer mission trip, and David has also gone in the fall to help people winterize their homes. It has made a real difference in Paula’s life. Paula and I have become fairly close over the last few years, and I have discovered that I would like to spend time with her and see what this friendship and service have formed in her life. So when the opportunity came to go to McDowell County this year with her and her church, I volunteered.

So, why am I doing this? I am going to be with my sister, to witness what God is doing among the people of that part of West Virginia, and to offer whatever small skills I have in service. But more than that, I am going because I want to make new friends and to be changed by them. If grace allows it, I hope this is not simply a trip, but the beginning of a friendship that lasts for the long run.

“I fought the law and…”

I was on my way to a meeting. An important meeting. In Columbia. I was thinking about the meeting and all the important people in it. And all the important things we would talk about. That’s when it happened.

I saw the blue lights flash behind me—no need to turn on the siren. I pulled over, turned the car off, rolled down the window, and waited. The officer came up to the window and asked for my license, registration, and insurance info. I have learned to wait until they ask before doing anything. Seeing me reach for the glove compartment (do they still call it that?) while walking up makes the officer wonder, “Is he reaching for something or hiding something?” I unbuckled my seat belt to get my wallet out of my back pocket. (Another thing- always wait until they get there to unbuckle. That way, they don’t ask why your seat belt was unbuckled.) After examining my documents, he said, “Mr. Henderson, you were going 46 in a 30 miles per hour zone.” No argument from me. He was right. He told me to wait a minute while he went to his cruiser. He came back with the ticket. “I’ve reduced your ticket down to 39 and 2 points. You can pay ahead of time or go to traffic court.” He told me the date, time, and address. I thanked him for reducing it. The fine was $76. It would not affect my insurance. At least, not yet.

I decided to go to court. Not because I was contesting the ticket. I was guilty as charged. But if, for some reason, the officer didn’t show up in court, they might dismiss the ticket. And besides, what else do I have to do?

The day for the court came. I was scheduled to be there at 8:15 am. Since Columbia is 60 miles away, I got up at 5:30, left the house by 6:30, drove an hour and fifteen minutes (Columbia traffic at the end slowed me down), found a parking spot, and walked to the building.

There must have been 125 people already there! We were all standing outside, waiting for the doors to open. Most were looking at their phones, busy doing important things. I talked with a couple of people, assuming they were there for the same reason I was. (They weren’t.) Then I started singing Folsom Prison Blues, doing my best Johnny Cash. No one joined in. Then I started Workin’ on the Chain Gang. You could hear Sam Cooke turning over in his grave. People turned and looked at their phones from another direction. I may have been the only person there who was born in the 1900s.

An officer came out and said, “Everyone here for jury duty, form a line to the right.” About a hundred people moved to the right. Including the two I had been talking to about speeding and going to jail—the twenty-five of us not-yet-convicted felons lined up on the left. I looked at the people in the jury duty queue. A few were wearing suits, and most were in casual clothes. One woman was in pajamas. Not cute ones. These you would not wear to Walmart. And she was wearing bedroom slippers.  I thought, “Now there’s someone who will hear a lawyer say ‘Your honor, please dismiss this juror.’”

The jury folks went in first. Then the rest of us did our perp walk in and through the security area. We spread out around the courtroom, more sparsely seated than most churches on Sunday morning. A man went around collecting our tickets. An officer asked us to watch a film in which a judge advised us of our rights. Then the officer said anyone who wanted to take the Traffic Education Program (TEP) could do so. It would cost $285, take 7 hours online, and require 4 hours of community service, which we could do at our local church. Then the ticket would go away. It was a good deal if you had a four-point ticket. He said he would answer any questions, but could not give legal advice. But he mouthed, “But take the course.” About half of the people raised their hands asking for the application.

The judge walked in. Then came three police officers. Mine was not there! I unfurrowed my brow. The judge was very good at going through the cases. She was patient with the offenders, always explaining their options, never losing her temper even when they asked the same thing four times in a row. Finally, my name was called. I approached the bench. “Mr. Henderson, your officer (she said his name) is not able to be here this morning.” I knew she was going to say, “So we are dismissing your case.” Instead, she said, “You can plead guilty or no contest, and I will reduce your fine by twenty percent. Or you can plead not guilty and come back in September. What do you wish to do?”

I threw myself upon the mercy of the court. “I’m guilty, your honor.” “Okay. Your fine is $61. Have a good day.”

I left the room, did the perp walk to the place where you pay the fine, and gave the City of Columbia $61. I did some quick math as I was walking out. I saved $15 on the fine, but paid $16 for gas driving to Columbia and back.  And I got up at the butt crack of dawn to do it.

Walking through the folks standing around as I headed back to my car, I started singing with the Bobby Fuller Four. Or The Crickets. Or The Clash. “Breaking rocks in the hot sun…”

Again, no one sang along.

In Defense of College

I’ve noticed that our society seems to be turning against students who choose to attend college after high school. Back in ancient times—when I was a teenager and dinosaurs roamed the earth—college was almost assumed. Some students chose technical schools, but most were headed to a four-year campus.

These days, many young people seem more committed to choosing a college football team than choosing a college education. Allegiance to a university can feel like a matter of religious faith, passed down through generations. Choosing a rival school can cause family shock on par with announcing a change of denomination. Thanksgiving dinners are never quite the same again.

One argument I hear often is that college doesn’t make economic sense. The cost of an in-state four-year degree can range widely—often between $48,000 and $180,000 when tuition, housing, and fees are included. It’s true that not every degree produces the same financial return, and student debt is a real concern. Still, while graduates typically earn more than those with only a high school diploma—and often more than many technical certifications—not all benefits of college can be measured in dollars.

College teaches you how to think.

I’ve heard countless people say something like, “Another day gone and I didn’t use trigonometry,” or substitute any least-favorite class. Maybe that’s true on the surface. But education is not only about specific content; it is about learning how to reason, analyze, question, and argue ideas responsibly. Those habits of mind transfer everywhere. And judging by the state of public discourse, they are in short supply.

In the old television series The Paper Chase, the law professor Charles W. Kingsfield Jr., played memorably by John Houseman, tells his students: “You teach yourselves the law, but I train your minds. You come in here with a skull full of mush; you leave thinking like a lawyer.” The line is harsh, but the point stands. Thinking is difficult work—which is exactly why it matters.

College also teaches you how to live with people who are not like you. When you share a dorm, a classroom, or a late-night study table, you encounter different backgrounds, beliefs, and habits. You learn not just to listen, but to understand why others think and act the way they do. That understanding has no direct price tag, but it has enormous civic value.

You learn discipline and delayed gratification. Getting up for class, managing your time, completing assignments, and caring for yourself without constant supervision build habits that last a lifetime. Learning to do the work now instead of postponing it pays steady dividends long after graduation.

Most of all, you learn that you can stand on your own. You learn that you can adapt, struggle, recover, and succeed without a safety net. That confidence—earned, not given—may be the most valuable lesson of all.

College is not the only good path. But it remains a good one—and worth defending.

Empty Bed

I’ve been thinking about Bruce Campbell lately. No, not the one you’re thinking of. You’re probably thinking of the actor and star of Burn Notice. I’m thinking about another one.

 This one disappeared. Completely.

Bruce and his wife, Mabelita, drove from their hometown of Northampton, Mass., to see their son in Jacksonville, Il.. They stopped for the night at the Sandman Hotel. The next day, Mabelita woke up, and Bruce was gone. His clothes were still there, his wallet, money, keys. Everything but Bruce. That was April 13, 1959. He’s been missing ever since.

I wonder what they said to each other before they went to sleep. I wonder if they had a fight, or if they held each other, or if they just laid down without talking and dozed off. I wonder what those last words were, especially when they didn’t know they would be the last ones.

A lot of people have gone missing in my life over the last few years. Some went quickly, and we weren’t able to say goodbye. Others we knew were leaving, and we discussed it. Still some just drifted out of my life, still here in this world, but not in mine.

And I wonder what my last words were to them. I hope I told them how much they mean to me, how they have helped to shape my life, and how I am better for knowing them. I hope I let them know how precious they are to God, just in case no one else told them.

What will my last words be tonight? I hope they are good, because…well…you just never know.

Companions

I was welcomed as a Companion into the Northumbria Community last Saturday (October 4, 2025). For those unfamiliar with Northumbria, it is a semi-monastic, dispersed Celtic Christian community. It is small, and members are scattered worldwide. Its home is the Northumbria area of Great Britain. The “mother house,” Nether Springs, is situated halfway between Newcastle and Lindisfarne (the Holy Island). You can check out the community online here.

In 2002, I came across the book Celtic Daily Prayer on a bookshelf and decided to purchase it. It had a glowing review by Richard Foster, and you cannot go wrong with him. I took it home, put it on my bookshelf, and it remained unopened for a little over ten years.

For about 40 years, I had been starting each day using readings from one of Reuben Job’s Guide to Prayer books. They served me well for those years, but it was time for something new. I had been interested in Celtic Christianity for a long time, so I pulled CDP down and began to explore it. Soon, I looked up Northumbria, contacted them, and Catherine, one of the resident staff, responded. It turns out that this fine Celtic woman was from East Tennessee and attended college in upstate South Carolina. She invited me to investigate Northumbria and encouraged me in my spiritual walk. I became a “friend” of the community, which meant I was on their email list.

I started practicing their daily devotions (morning, midday, and evening prayer) and was drawn to the community. After attending an online introductory retreat, I became a novitiate, undergoing a series of studies and times of prayer with a mentor to determine if the Spirit was leading me to become a deeper part of this community. Catherine told me not to hurry, to take my time, to listen, pray, and think about it. Most novitiates took between nine months and a year. I took about 4 years.

My mentor, Craig, was incredibly patient with me. He walked beside me at my pace. He did not push or guide me as much as he explored with me. At the very beginning of our time together, since he was my mentor and I was his mentee, I sent him a bag of Mentos as a gift for the journey. Along the way, I made friends with other members of the Community, all of whom were online and living in Europe, Asia, Africa, and America. I now have a group (Ann, Alan, Sarah, Chris, and Ali) who are spiritual traveling companions with me. We are spread out from Madagascar to England, New York, Washington, and down to Florence.

After finishing my novitiate, I was accepted as a Companion in the Community. Companions make a vow to live according to the Rule of the Community.  Rule here does not mean regulations, like the rules of a game, but rather, in the orthodox sense, a way of living. The Rule of Northumbria is Availability and Vulnerability. “We are called to be AVAILABLE to God and to others… We are called to intentional, deliberate VULNERABILITY…”You can check out more about it here.

Although Northumbria is a religious organization, it is not a church. Most of us in the community are members of other churches, various denominations. I am still a member of the United Methodist Church and an ordained elder within it.

The Welcoming Ceremony was a simple online service attended by my mentor Craig, Catherine from the Mother House, my group friends, and a few individuals Craig had invited. Prayers were said, blessings bestowed, testimonies shared, and gifts exchanged. It was a genuinely nice ceremony. I knew I would like it, but I was surprised at the effect it had on me afterwards.

When it was over, I signed off the meeting and stepped outside to do my regular Saturday errands —wash the car, fill it with gas, and buy groceries. As I walked off my front porch, I had a sense I was not alone. These people I had grown to know and love, though all living hundreds and thousands of miles from me, were somehow with me. And not just them, but others who had committed to this Rule of life, to availability and vulnerability. The saints I had been studying —Aiden, Cuthbert, Finan, Boisil, Brigid, Patrick, Brendan, Ita, Samthann, and so many more — surrounded me. They were with me as I washed the car, spoke to the people at the gas station, and chatted with the woman at the grocery checkout. They were reminding me that every step was walking on holy ground and that I was never alone. They were my Companions.

Companion comes from the Latin and Old French words that mean “one who breaks bread with another.” Better translated, one who shares your life, because breaking bread is what we do to live. Companions walk with us, share their experiences, and explore our path. When I was ordained an elder in the UMC, I had a vision of all of us working together, sharing our lives, and being fellow travelers on the Way of Jesus. However, we quickly discover that it is less of a path we walk and more of a job we do. Numbers measure us. All meaningful, but still numbers. The number of new members, people attending worship, people involved in ministries to the community and the world, and dollars given to support ministries around the world—essential numbers, but still numbers. And we are judged and measured by them, by some of the people who were ordained with us. It quickly becomes a formal and informal hierarchy. We are no longer sharing bread; we are earning it.

But in my new community, none of us work for it (or very few do). No One exercises authority over others. We travel together, being available to God and others. We are open to questions and do not have to answer or defend anything. A song from my late teen years says.

“…he walks in quiet solitude, the forests and the streams.
Seeking grace in every step he takes
His sight has turned inside himself to try and understand
The serenity of a clear blue mountain lake.”

Though I am far from the Rocky Mountains, as mentioned in this song, with my Companions, I am seeking grace in every step I take, and my sight has turned inside where Jesus said the realm of God is.

Into My Heart

“You should think about getting a calcium score test.” Don, my general practitioner, was not only my primary physician but also my friend. And his advice had always been good before, although I had not always heeded it, so I said yes. He set up the scheduled test.

A calcium score test utilizes a CT scanner and is a quick and easy procedure. You do not have to undress, remove all metal, or go into a long tube, unlike with other tests. It measures the amount of calcium buildup in your coronary arteries. The information can help you determine what you can do to ward off further heart problems. Mine took about 5 minutes.

Scores from 0-50 are considered good; scores from 51-400 are considered moderately risky; scores over 500 are highly risky. As soon as he got the results, Don called me. “Yours is right at 2600,” he said. “You should see a cardiologist.” He set up the appointment.

A calcium score tells you that calcium buildup is there, but it does not tell you where. For that, they have to go in and look. My cardiologist, the newest addition to my medical team (I now have enough to form a football team), said I needed a heart cath. He would go in through my wrist, but if something kept him from doing that, he would go in through my groin. The procedure date was set.

I arrived at McLeod Medical Center at 6 a.m. and was quickly taken back to what my sister-in-law (who was there with my wife) called “the getting ready room.” Nurses and techs began coming in. An EKG was done, probably the most painful part of the whole day, but only because they had to push the wand hard against my ribs. While it was uncomfortable, it was not very painful. My arm was shaved, along with the area on my groin (in case they needed it). One nurse, Paige, was with me the whole time I was there. She was great in caring for me and very comforting to Cathy, who was worried but trying her best not to show it. About 9:30, they wheeled me back to the procedure room. As I was being wheeled into the room, one of the nurses, Misty, recognized me. “Pastor Mike!” she said. “I saw that name and hoped it was you.” I had been her pastor for 9 years, had baptized her child (now a middle schooler), and gotten to know her and her husband. It was good to have someone you know in the room.

I slid onto the OR table. They strapped my body down, then pulled out arm extensions, and strapped my arms and hands down to keep me from moving. I lay there in cruciform, looking up at the devices over me. They explained that they would put an IV in my left arm and then a catheter in my right. They would give me something to dilate the artery so the cath tube could go easily up to my heart (this was the shortest route), and I might feel some burning for a few seconds as they did that. (I did not.)

I was not worried. I don’t worry about much these days. Somewhere along my spiritual journey, I have become something of a Celtic Buddhist Stoic Christian, accepting each day as it comes. If they found blockages and needed to use stents or a balloon, I would be okay with that. If things were terrible and I needed heart surgery, I would be OK. And if I were one of the sporadic cases where I died, I would still be okay.

As I lay there, strapped down, waiting, praying, another image came to mind. I was in the same position- cruciform and strapped down- that people being executed by lethal injection are put. You are laid out, the needles used for injecting the deadly chemicals are hooked to your IV, and you wait.

This, of course, was the form Jesus was in when he was executed, only he was upright. More people could see him, and it was more torturous.

I remembered years ago when a person was being killed in Texas. There was a group of anti-death penalty folks protesting outside the building. There was also a group of females dressed as cheerleaders holding up a giant syringe and cheering for the procedure.

An old song from my teenage years came to mind. “Lift Jesus higher. Lift Jesus higher. Lift him up for the world to see. He said, ‘If I be lifted up from the earth, I will draw all men unto me.’” We used to sing it as loud as we could, pouring our hearts and souls into it. We thought it meant singing praise songs, telling others about him, wearing crosses, bracelets, and t-shirts with Jesus on them. Eventually, I read the Bible. Jesus did say that. But it wasn’t a praise thing. He was talking about his death, specifically his death on a cross.

Then it dawned on me. Maybe the easiest way for Jesus to “get into our hearts” was when we were like this—strapped down, immobile, unable to do anything. So many of us are raised thinking that we have to get our lives straight, give up our sinful ways, and become something new before Christ can come to us. But maybe it’s when we aren’t able to do anything that the Christ of the cross can get to our hearts. Perhaps that’s when it is easiest.

A couple of weeks after the procedure, I was having coffee with a friend. I told her my thoughts, and she said, “You know, that’s the same position they put you in when you have a child by C-section.” I did not know that. But now I do.

Perhaps it is all connected. When we cannot do anything, when we are without control of even our own life, then death and a new birth can come. Another song from years ago came to mind. “Into my heart. Into my heart. Come into my heart, Lord Jesus. Come in today. Come in to stay. Come into my heart, Lord Jesus.”

So you’ll know, my procedure showed one artery blocked at 50%. They do not need to take any action until it reaches 70%. All the rest were negligible. After the preparation, the procedure took only ten minutes. And all of the people at McLeod were great! My cardiologist said everything was okay and that he would see me in six months. He did tell me I needed to lose some weight. He agreed with my other nine physicians. “Ten out of ten doctors agree, Mike needs to lose weight.” I’m working on it. Since the procedure, I find myself singing more during my daily times of meditation and devotion. The songs vary, but always a verse of Into My Heart sneaks in.