Gentle Among You

Gentle Among You

(“As apostles of Christ we certainly had a right to make some demands of you, but instead we were like children among you. Or we were like a mother feeding and caring for her own children. 1 Thessalonians 2:7 NLT)

Paul shares the model of his leadership among the Christians in Thessalonica. As an apostle, he had authority given to him directly from Christ, and he says he could have used that authority to make demands on them. But, in fact, he did not.

He says that he and his team were “like children among you.” A few manuscripts read “we were gentle among you.” I’m not sure it changes the sense a great deal. Paul is contrasting his style with those who were trying to lead the Thessalonians astray. Instead of being know-it-alls, we were like little children. Instead of being harsh and demanding, we were gentle among you.

We desperately need leadership like this today. We have evangelical leaders making harsh and even misleading statements about those with whom they disagree. The majority of white evangelicals zealously support a president who is constantly vulgar, abusive and self-centered. Recently the president of a well-known evangelical college tweeted that a pastor with whom he disagreed should “grow a pair.”

When a fellow Christian commented that this was unbecoming for a “minister of the gospel”, the university president said, “I have never been a minister. I am an educator.” I’m not sure I understand the difference. For me, it is not the crass language, but the attitude that causes me to wince. “Grow a pair” is an appropriate way for a Christian leader to deal with brother in the faith, so long as that leader is not a “minister”? What have we become?

When we lived in North Dakota our family was invited to a farm for the afternoon. Our boys, Michael and Jonathan, had befriended the family’s sons and we looked forward to getting to know all of them better. We loaded up our 1986 Isuzu Trooper and drove the 10 miles to the farm.

It was a beautiful summer day, which was fortunate, because summer only comes one day a year in North Dakota. That year it happened to arrive on June 15.

When we pulled up to the house Michael and Jon, who were 9 and 5 at the time, scurried out to meet their new friends. We stood outside with their mom and dad enjoying the sunshine and getting to know each other. Jay, the father, talked about cloud-seeding to bring more rain to the area that was experiencing drought. It was captivating to hear both his theories on cloud-seeding and how he loaded and flew his Cessna up and over the possible fluffy targets.

The boys had scampered to one of the outbuildings where they mounted four-wheelers and were riding around the property. We watched them circle another building and could tell they were having the time of their life. A few minutes after they disappeared behind the building we heard a loud yell.

At first we thought nothing of it; perhaps a yelp of delight. But we heard it again, and then saw Jonathan running toward us on his little legs as fast as he could. Michael was hurt and he needed our help. We ran to the building to find Michael on the ground with the four-wheeler overturned next to him. Arriving, I knelt down to see what had happened and saw a gash in his calf; a deep and open wound. Making the turn around the corner he lost control and the building’s metal siding sliced into his leg.

We hurried to do what we could. Jay and his wife went inside to get some clean rags and bandages, I ran back to the Trooper and drove it to the spot of the accident. Inspecting the wound closer we could see he was not bleeding out, so we decided to drive into town and take him directly to the doctor. Jay would call ahead for us.

But we also knew how important it was to keep pressure on the wound. We backed the Trooper up next to Michael, lowered the middle seat to make room for him in the back, and we lifted him gently inside. There was not room for Patti in back, so Jonathan got nurse duties. He climbed in the back with his brother.

We told him, “Jon, you have a very important job. You need to keep pressure on that wound using the rags. Don’t be afraid to be firm.” We weren’t sure how Jon would respond, the gash was ugly, cutting all the way through the flesh and revealing the white ligaments beneath. But he bravely kept his little hands firmly on bandage covering the wound for the quick and sometimes bouncy ride to the doctor. Too firm, Michael would wince, and Jon would ease up a bit. Other times Mike would tell him, “You can hold it tighter.”

Arriving at the doctor’s office the staff unloaded our son and took him into an examining room. The doctor was surprised at our little EMT who had held put pressure on the wound so bravely. Michael required two sets of stitches; one beneath the skin, and one set to close the wound entirely.

In some ways, this illustrates what Paul is expressing. We were “gentle”. Gentle does not mean “dainty”, but it does express loving care that is willing to apply just the right amount of pressure and no more. Indeed, Paul describes his attitude when he says, “we were like a mother feeding and caring for her own children.”

Why would Christians ever use anything other than gentleness and nurturing care when dealing with each other? Even more important, why do we think that using crass and harsh methods with non-Christians is appropriate or even effective?

In fact, the only other time this word for “gentle” is used in the New Testament, Paul says, “A servant of the Lord must not quarrel but must be kind to everyone.” (2 Timothy 2:24 NLT) “Kind to everyone” translates the same word rendered “gentle.

Dear friends, let’s be like Christ. Let’s not settle for leadership that looks like the worst the world has to offer. May the Holy Spirit transform our hearts to exercise gentle love because we are all wounded in one way or another.

My Silent Repertoire

My Silent Repertoire

(“And the Lord’s servant mustn’t be a fighter, but must be gentle to all people, able to teach, able to bear evil without resentment.” 2 Timothy 2:24)

It’s been quite murky for a while. Some call it grace,
some just see the space I put between myself and the pain. My
guts would tell you that the fire is tired of burning, the lamps are
turning to evening and the embers to dirty gray.

I need to be tucked in between a lake and metropolis,
a forest with a couch and a café with first friends who don’t mind
that my eyes glaze when the gravity tightens around my face.

I sat on city councils, I advised state projects, I met CEOs and
had alcoholics in my home. Now my visits are silent, my years
are ringing like the foghorns on the river. All my energy has been
sold to the clouds as they pass by.

“Stir it up” they might say, “the gift, the fire, the holyghost desire”.
And that’s what I dream every evening before I wake with the
knife slicing my head again. And I can barely write again.

Doubt is my agent, tears are nearly absent. I’ve spent them on the
clouds that pass by.

Hold my hand again. Bring me a drink again. Touch my brow again
with a towel of mercy. Follow the wrinkles with your fingers, the furrows
caused by cringing that meet the smile lines of ages ago.

It is too slow now to organize. Too murky to plagiarize. The mask is
pulled far too tight across the fog my forehead feels. And so

I only ask forgiveness, and offer the same. My repertoire is limited,

But unashamed. 

One Sunday on a February Morning

One Sunday on a February Morning

(“But you are merciful and gentle, Lord, slow in getting angry, full of constant loving-kindness and of truth.” Psalm 86:15)

I heard the sound of Your people rustling,
I heard the talking, the prayer and listening.
I heard the babies high above the others and,
for a moment their squeals held the floor.

I saw the old men asking, the young men grasping
their ladies by the hand. I saw the old women planning,
the young women juggling their children and their man.

I felt gentle flurries, foglet drizzle that dampened our shoulders
and hands with the first greetings of the morning. The grass
glistened from asphalt to sidewalk, left too long after summer’s
last trim. Some mud in the entry, more children with their pennies
to drop with laughter in the willow baskets with dollars and numbers
back, forth, up and down. If mom let them, they bombed the
offering plate with their tiny ammo.

One of the littlest, black hair, round face, believes he owns the place,
wandered to the holy steps where the man who always shakes everyone’s
hands stands. The old blonde table was absent its juice and crackers,
but he still was slow to touch it. The pews are for playing, but this table
is always where people are praying so solemn.

I saw the burdened, I saw the tangles of lives lived backwards
and forwards, and beginning and again. I saw the love (I
cannot lie)
when, for one hour it did not matter why children disobey,
spouses walk away, jobs are scarce, darkness scares our
little ones awake. We did not need to make up for
our mistakes or wear our usual daytime masks. Our
thrift store faces are just fine when

We enter the meeting one more time to
touch the gentle spring of Eternal love,
with breath coming easy in this dancing insanity,
the divine and humanity seriously at play.

On the Edges

On the Edges

(“The Lamb will overcome them, because He is Lord of lords and King of kings, and those who are with Him are the called and chosen and faithful.” Revelation 17:14)

You gave me a headache choosing things out of turn,
you made me mistake to miniscule for the might,
and I turned on the edges of my anxiety for half a day
and another day more
over the uncooperative world which never calls for
my opinion
before leaving questions in my path that no one
can answer.

They leave partial interpretations between dead-certain
pages
of books whipped together without a clue about
heaven’s final intentions. They set my teeth on edge
the way their riches pile up and their fictional believers
take aim with military weapons to satisfy their yearning
for a world without opposition. My bones ache
at their fakery.

But He, the Mighty Gentle One, is and has,
will and still overcomes the notions we spew
about Him. The Lamb is a warrior only when
warriors overcome hatred, war and deception.

Let the earth-formed by Him speak beneath your feet,
Let the sky-framed like Him whisper odium’s defeat,
Let the moon echo earth’s cry, the stars spin in the polished sky,
and may the meek, the speakers of Love’s constant theme,
never fail the message of mercy, the song of the redeemed.