Me, musing about the mystical, while a school buddy drew my picture in New Orleans.

From the Schoolhouse

She caught me staring.
I apologized.
She said it was ok.

I glanced at the machine wistfully.  “I always wanted to learn, but well, it wasn’t a manly thing, you know.”

She understood. “I could teach you.,” she said.  “It’s not that hard.”

I doubted her.  She saw it in my nervous expression.  “How long would it take?” I asked.

“Not long.”  Her ebullience was mildly contagious.

She led me by the hand to the machine.  It glistened with an ivory luster, its hard shell waiting for me.  She paused and asked me if I was a musician.  I blinked not seeing the connection.  “Yes.”

“Great,” she said as she fluttered over to a cabinet sequestered in the shadows behind the other machines. She rummaged a little and then with a satisfied sigh pulled out a little zip lock bag.  The pillow slip, still freshly folded and untouched by human hands, swarmed with miniature guitars.  She studied it carefully and then smiled.  “This will do.  This will do fine.  We’ll start tomorrow.”

“The pillow slip…swarmed with miniature guitars.”

From the Pulpit

This week we traveled further north up the Aegean coast of Turkey to one of the most renown ancient cities.  Pergamos, according to Pliny, was one of the most illustrious cities of that time.  It had a library of over 200,000 books.  It had a church hero in Antipas who stood his ground and died a heroic martyr at the end of the first century.  Our text was found in Revelation 2:12-17 and in these words we see God dropping white stones into our hands.  The white stone was a voting pebble used in courts to grant freedom to the victim.  And His promise to us is that if we hold true to  Him He will grant us daily white stones, daily encouragements, daily confirmations of hope.

From the Pew

I hadn’t seen Beverly Watson in 25 years.  And yet there she was standing in front of the computer lab at the Eastern Shore Community College.  In fact, I hadn’t even recognized her as I passed the entrance desk on my way to the morning seminar on Coastal Resilience.  The college hosted this event so anyone interested in sea level rise and its impact on the Shore could come and explore the nuances of its latest app (see www.coastalresilience.org).  I joined about 25 other professionals, scientists, retirees, city planners etc who likewise wanted to gain additional knowledge about the impact of rising water on the fragile coastline.

It was only after Beverly came in and spoke to me at the break that I recognized my former member of the Cheriton Baptist Church.  So much time had passed.  And yet she was looking almost the same as the day I left Cheriton.  I recalled how many times she had selflessly left the pew of the old sanctuary to attend to the Sunday morning nursery.  And here she was volunteering at an event at the college.  It was such a pleasure to refresh memories and catch up the latest news of friends I had lost contact with in all these interim years.

From the Schoolhouse

There was one empty seat.

I went ahead and marked Cheryl absent, but that was puzzling since I had just seen her outside the class door an hour earlier.  It wasn’t until the block was nearly over an hour and a half later that the knock on the door came.  It was an ominous sound, something like Edgar Allan Poe’s raven rapping at his chamber door.  I moved methodically toward the intrusion, and after cracking the portal, the security guard groaned these words:  “She’s been hiding in the girl’s bathroom.”

   Not entirely grasping this verbal shorthand, I queried the guard.

   “Who’s been hiding where?”

   “Cheryl.  She locked herself in the girl’s bathroom with Amanda!”

   I paused for what seemed like an extended lunation and then waited for the other shoe to fall.

   “So write her up,” she said.  “That’ll teach her.”  The guard marched away triumphantly leaving me stuck in a bathroom visual I couldn’t quite shake.

   I talked to the girl later.  She had been soothing a friend whose world had just splintered apart over some boyfriend triviality.  Just hiding in the dark, chatting.  Girl stuff.

   The more I thought about it, the more I realized how simple the middle school mind is.  When a crisis comes along, just head for the nearest escape, even if it is a bathroom stall, and take care of business (regardless of the penalty to come).

From the Pulpit

This Sunday we moved up the Aegean Road 35 miles from Ephesus to Smyrna, home of Homer.  Polycarp was the pastor of this church, a saintly man who died a martyr in the year 155 A.D.

In our text (Revelation 2:8-11) we heard a whisper and promise.  Do you remember?  The whisper was in the phrase “…, but you are rich.”  That countered the reality of poverty and tribulation that plague saints in the metropolis.  And the promise was that those who labored in Smyrna would one day receive the crown of life.

So as you go through your days, listen for the whispers of hope that God gives you each day, and cling to His promises.

From the Pew

She spoke to me from the pew in an unknown syntax, the grammar a little muddled and the words clip-clopping along making music only she understood.  I didn’t let her know I was lost.  Her eyes were pretty, striving to tell me something that her tongue couldn’t decipher.  I didn’t understand.  I tried, but I couldn’t translate her attempt at language.

But I understood the rose.  It was a lavender beauty with tightly spun petals that beckoned above a long stem wrapped in shiny Reynolds.   She extended it arm’s length and smiled.  I understood it perfectly.  Suddenly I saw through the veil and knew she meant it to please me.  She was just a little woman holding a rose gathered from some unknown garden hideaway.  How much time had she consumed planning this surprise?  How long on bended knee had she spent prodding among a thorny bush to find just the right one?

I accepted the gift and thanked her.  Again she spoke in a flurry of letters–all twisted and free floating in the space between us like a little starburst without form.  I didn’t understand.

 But I understood the rose.

Desk photo courtesy: Greenpoint Vintage Furniture

Here is the entrance to my neighborhood in Chesapeake.  A beautiful winter wonderland.  Photo by Dr. Denny

From the Schoolhouse
We were locked in mortal combat.
He was just a wisp of a boy, and he did not know I was unbeaten.  Unbeaten in 15 years.
We sat opposite each other on the edge of a lunch room table.  A covey of kids had gathered leering over our shoulders like they were staring at a barnyard cock fight.  I was confident when he hurled the challenge.  I rolled up my sleeve and waited for him to do the same.  His hair was slicked back, and his eyes sparkled as if he knew something I didn’t.  I ignored it and remembered all the challengers I had stiffed over the years.  I was ready.
Someone in the crowd yelled go and our arms charged.  I was used to this first shock when the muscles in the forearms stiffened and screamed.  He met my early thrust with a quiet vengeance; his smile puckered and proud.  I squirmed a little and tried not to show concern.  My arm was going down in slow motion, a surrender I resisted uncomfortably.  Within seven seconds it was over.  We stared at each other.  The crowd hushed…
And then we all laughed, rose, and trotted out of the cafeteria.  I was beaten but comforted by all my students as we strolled back to class and another lesson on the Executive Branch.

From the Pulpit

Beginning this Sunday, I will assume the mantle of tour guide.  I remember many years ago in 1993 leading a group of history lovers to the ancient city of Ephesus.  Paul labored there for three years and became intimately acquainted with its foibles and possibilities.  He knew of the renown library of Celsus and of the arena that still stands today mentioned in Acts 19.  During the New Testament period, Ephesus was the second largest metropolis with a residency of 250,000.
So, get your walking boots on and let’s travel to Ephesus and walk in the shadow of Paul down Marble Street.

From the Pew

The pews were silent today.  The expressions of joy when singing a hymn, the thirst for a sip from Heaven’s cup, the warm handshakes with friends not seen for a week–all muffled beneath the snow.  The pews were silent today.

But wait, for I do hear voices from the past barely heard but strangely still present.  They speak from the pages of the church’s history.  Mrs. Annie Taylor, a resident of Drummondtown, smiles with satisfaction at the success of her original gift of $1500 (worth $48,000 today).  Her only guiding stipulation when she gave it on December 3, 1849, was to use the money to build a Baptist church in Drummondtown.   And though the pews are silent today, somehow if you listen carefully you will hear her expressions of thankfulness for congregations that have come and gone through the decades.

Sixty-three years later the church waited with high expectations as Dr. R. H. Pitt, the senior editor of the Religious Herald rose to the pulpit to dedicate the new sanctuary.  He and Dr. F. W. Boatwright, President of Richmond College both challenged the congregation to pursue the work of the Lord in this new and impressive edifice.

Yes, the pews were silent today, but even in silence voices can be heard.

I hope everybody stays warm and safe.  I’ll see you all soon at church.
Dr. Denny

Bayly’s Neck Rd, Accomac, Va 23301–Photo by Dr. Denny

From the Schoolroom
The teachers on my hall were invited to decorate their doors for Christmas.  Each door would have a theme based on the twelve days of Christmas.  My door would be the two turtle doves.  So I did as all harried teachers do when time is short–I delegated.
“Kate!  Evan!  Come here.”  My two privates approached me warily.
“Yea,” said Katie wondering what I wanted.
“I need a two-turtledove door pronto,” I said imperiously.
They both just stared at me like I had lost it.  I could see they weren’t absorbing the seriousness of this covert mission.
“You need what?” asked Evan.
“You know, two turtle doves on my door.  It’s for Christmas.”
After a bit of arm-twisting and bribery, they got to work.  The kids spread out in the hallway in front of the door and pulled out piles of paper and scissors and tape and began sketching out their masterpiece–little MIchaelangelos prepping for a Sistine Chapel fresco.
I didn’t win the best artwork, but I did have the joy of watching the turtle-doves soar on the door for the week of Christmas.

From the Pulpit
    I thought it would be fun to use the modern folk tune by the Byrds (Turn, Turn, Turn),  to express the 30 ideas of Solomon in Ecclesiastes 3:1-8.  After all, the words to the tune were almost verbatim from the Scripture with the exception of the phrase, “Turn, Turn, Turn.”  In other words, the new year will challenge us all with a multitude of scenarios and we ought to prepare for them all.  I only focused on three (to keep the sermon from getting too long):  there is a time to laugh, a time to weep and a time to be silent.  (See the full sermon at my website www.BlaktiePress.com).

From the Pew
    We needed some help for the closing hymn of the service.  It’s my fault.  I got a little devious and thought we ought to sing the actual folk song for our benediction.  I’ve never seen such a valiant effort by everyone trying to locate the tune.  Jo’s brilliant organ playing helped, but it wasn’t until I played the actual Byrd’s song through the speaker system that everyone really got it.  But by then, alas, we had dismissed, and people were slowly leaving.  Still, I got a real kick out of watching everyone’s faces as they struggled demurely for the melody.

Farewell until next week.  I hope everyone has a momentous New Year full of wonderful surprises.  I love you all.

Dr. Denny

From the Schoolhouse

Hamid strolled into my Civic’s class at the end of the bell as if time was a foreign word.  I stopped what I was doing.  “Hamid, you’re late again.  Really? How are you going to pass this class if you’re never here?”  He just shrugged, all 250 pounds of him, his hair mussed, his dirty tee shirt torn and draped over thin jeans with several patches covering past sins.

He looked like an Appalachian mountain man out for a Saturday stroll through the foggy hollows.  In reality, Hamid was from Iran.  He had arrived in this country a few years ago but still seemed like he was in culture shock.  He had a budding beard and an infectious smile.  Nothing bothered him too much.  He told me again why he was late.  “My mother was sick and I had to watch my little brother and then I had to walk all the way to school.”  He spoke several Iranian dialects and was clearly quite smart, but he didn’t know sentences needed periods or that time schedules meant something.

“It’s all right, Hamid.  I’ll help you catch up,” I said scratching my head.

He smiled.  As he sauntered off down the hall climbing some unknown ridge to somewhere I couldn’t see, I hollered at him.  “Nice beard, Hamid.”

He just grinned and sashayed off to his Algebra class already thirty minutes late.

(Photo courtesy of:http://asianhistory.about.com/od/iran/fl/The-Great-Persian-Famine-1870-71.htm)

 From the Pulpit

As I stood in the pulpit gazing out at the congregation last Sunday, I noticed a strange stirring in the back.  It seemed at first as if a quiet wind was blowing through a weeping willow.  Wisps of greenery were swaying and dipping just below the pew tops.   I rubbed my eyes wondering if this vision was heaven sent or just my imagination. Then a little elbow wiggled followed by the soft footsteps of Revel rounding the corner at the back of the church hoisting a portion of some garlands that decorated the sanctuary for this Hanging of the Greens service.

He was a miniature pied-piper marching forward into a story he was living leading his followers with gusto and frivolity.  I couldn’t help but chuckle and imagine what the heavenly hosts thought as they peered over heaven’s banner watching.

From the Pew
The pipes almost hypnotized me.  I sat motionless, just staring and feeling a sense of awe.  There’s something inspiring about organ pipes.  They set a mood, they summon us to a high and lifted place where our hearts can gather and commune with the Divine.  It’s not often I get to sit in the back pew, but during an interlude in a recent service, I was there in the back just gazing at the choir loft and listening to the immense, golden pipes breathe.

I have a genuine appreciation for the architecture of our sanctuary.  Few churches have these treasures that adorn our worship space.  The pipes, the stained glass windows, the arched ceiling–all of these icons of modern worship lead all genuine searchers forward to the throne where those seek truth can commune with God and find respite from a corybantic world.

Farewell

I bid you farewell until next time.  If you like this newsletter let me challenge to forward it to a friend so he or she can sign up for this weekly, inspirational missive.  Just paste this signup link  http://eepurl.com/csTu5T  into your email and your friend can click it and subscribe to the newsletter.

(p.s.  Follow this link to my website (www.Blaktiepress.com) for more items of interest).

David R. Denny  Ph.D.
Pastor of the Drummondtown Baptist Church
Accomack VA.

Visions501@verizon.net

From the Schoolhouse
My Virginia Beach City Public School class was full as usual. There were 36 kids fresh from the weekend with little interest in academia. I stood and listened to their idle conversations that played like spindrift on an ocean beach. Just as I was about to get them quiet and started on the fundamentals of the Legislative Branch, a school guidance teacher knocked on my door. Oh great, I thought, another interruption. Standing beside her was a smallish boy with troubled, battle-hardened eyes. I learned that he was fresh from the inner city of Chicago where he had witnessed the brutal murder of several of his family members. As I listened to the counselor whisper to me a litany of horrors that overshadowed this little 8th grader, I wondered how such cruelties could befall one so young. Eventually, his guardian left, and I ushered the boy to his seat. He was so far behind. I didn’t know where to start. He didn’t know his password. He couldn’t open his computer. He glared at me. And another day of teaching began…

From the Pulpit
         I preached Sunday on the short text, “For nothing will be impossible with God” (Luke 1:37). I wanted to show you what this looks like in Greek.

Ready? v. 37 ὅτι  οὐκ  ἀδυνατήσει  παρὰ  τοῦ  Θεοῦ  πᾶν  ῥῆμα.

       There is a certain quiet beauty to the Greek text. It whispers in subtle shades that often get overlooked in the rush of the sermon. Let me slow it down and translate this for you:

When you stand very close to God–right up next to him like he’s your closest friend–every word He speaks to you will not be burdened with hints of impossibility.

I just thought you might like to hear some of the Greek music I hear when I read the Greek of this verse. In other words, all of God’s words to us are possible–never impossible.

From the Pew

After the service two weeks ago, I stepped down from my lofty perch and began talking to Danielle, an older woman who always sits closest to the front. As we talked, she told me something I could hardly believe. She said she used to be a teacher in Virginia Beach and that she had taught for one year in my very school–Lynnhaven Middle School.

“What did you teach?” I asked her a bit nonplussed.

She replied, “I taught Latin.” And that’s when I realized just how small this world really is. Thanks, Danielle. Latina est gaudium.

Farewell until next time:

Don’t forget to listen to the latest sermon in a nutshell at my site:

www.Blaktiepress.com.   Just click a blog link on the right (or left) and leave me a message.

With love,
Dr. David R. Denny
visions501@verizon.net

 Please copy this link and paste it into your browser to join the mailing list for “Observations.”    http://eepurl.com/csTu5T