tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78730492020041731722024-03-06T02:56:32.143-05:00Pastoral Ponderings on Periwinkle WayJohn H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.comBlogger599125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-68895037321632940492022-04-20T08:46:00.003-04:002022-04-20T08:48:13.183-04:00Pondering in Other Places<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5M7FFCI4uS18Q5s7ydCHydtLn2G2UfBOGzqcXdWJkgggO-47fnTviq3ofRhWIXaiAexTmzYdcGWbf_vzy1Q9mhO1bmom1mwioBDzfje_8Fqcl2sxRcR5hvtyVxiycuztDULHhxDJlQmMf5c6ylo-PUnNJb3cxcT44J-K1NAoIMACRS7QBuI4DAQRKmA/s640/SCUCC.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5M7FFCI4uS18Q5s7ydCHydtLn2G2UfBOGzqcXdWJkgggO-47fnTviq3ofRhWIXaiAexTmzYdcGWbf_vzy1Q9mhO1bmom1mwioBDzfje_8Fqcl2sxRcR5hvtyVxiycuztDULHhxDJlQmMf5c6ylo-PUnNJb3cxcT44J-K1NAoIMACRS7QBuI4DAQRKmA/s320/SCUCC.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Ever since July of 2010 I have been making posts on this blog. Almost <b>six hundred</b> since then. Usually once a week. Prompted initially by environmental concerns after the massive BP<br /> oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, this blog has gone on to address very personal concerns, as well as issues impacting the wider world. Racism, sexism, homophobia, war and peace, gun violence, climate change, and so many other issues. All the result of this pastor's ponderings on Periwinkle Way. And other places as well--California, Israel, Trinidad, all over New England, Chicago and during the pandemic lockdown, at home!<p></p><p>But this coming Sunday, April 24, I will conduct my last service as Senior Pastor of the Sanibel Congregational United Church of Christ, which has its facilities on Periwinkle Way. 2050 Periwinkle Way to be specific. And then I will retire. While my wife Linda and I will remain here in Southwest Florida, my ponderings will not be taking place on Periwinkle Way. So this blog, will come to an end with this post. </p><p>They say once on the internet, always on the internet. So the blog will remain on line. But there will be no new entries. I do anticipate starting a new blog once the dust of retirement settles. There will be ponderings in other places. And if you want to be notified when that happens, please feel free to leave a contact e-mail in the comments section of this blog, or e-mail me at the church over the next few days.</p><p>I have been very grateful for the continued interest in these writings and your loyalty as readers. As you continue in your own ponderings, might you be blessed with insight and clarity. </p><p>(And if you are in the area, I'd love to greet you in person at that final service which will be held at 10:30 AM, Sunday, April 24, at the church.)</p>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-48661985360374520362022-04-11T10:00:00.001-04:002022-04-11T10:00:34.785-04:00A Lesson from DaVinci<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJkdGJxLByRkmzOesq6l9oS9OiKALepaU-RkNXNPTtM3NMuDcCmJ0_7yvu7-aH_vdqnoE2eiwRXZ9j0yJeyoF55ubNMxXaLB2oCM5FugmV6ih9yXD4EtvG9NrAPgwzaxiSsXPwTLvZ7fxR4bskvLKsAXrLZkzenZiTjMy6sgieFBzv32ECW4tLM9GZQg/s250/DaVinci.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="250" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJkdGJxLByRkmzOesq6l9oS9OiKALepaU-RkNXNPTtM3NMuDcCmJ0_7yvu7-aH_vdqnoE2eiwRXZ9j0yJeyoF55ubNMxXaLB2oCM5FugmV6ih9yXD4EtvG9NrAPgwzaxiSsXPwTLvZ7fxR4bskvLKsAXrLZkzenZiTjMy6sgieFBzv32ECW4tLM9GZQg/s1600/DaVinci.jpg" width="250" /></a></div>This coming Good Friday my congregation will be presenting a dramatization of Leonardo DaVinci’s famous
painting, of the Last Supper. It is a series of costumed monologues, interspersed with music, and all against a projection of the painting in the background. I've been cast as Judas. Go wonder!<p></p><p>A story is told about DaVinci and that painting that illustrates
how forgiveness works. The great artist had a falling out with a man and decides to exact
revenge by depicting Judas with his enemy’s face. After he painted Judas, he went on to
paint the face of Christ. But try as he might, he just couldn’t come up with the image he
needed. And in the midst of this great mural Jesus’ face was blank. </p><p>Shortly after that, though, DaVinci had a change of heart and forgave his enemy. And then he
changed the painting so that Judas no longer resembled the man who had hurt him. That
night he had a dream, and in that dream, he saw the face of Christ. He painted it the very
next day. Only when he had forgiven his enemy, was he himself able to see the loving,
forgiving face of Christ.
</p><p>As we move through these final days of Lent, as we prepare for the joy of Easter, let us not take shortcuts. Rather, let us be as willing to forgive and to be forgiven as DaVinci. Let us clear our hearts and minds for an infilling of the Spirit which brings all things to life!</p><p>Have a meaningful Holy Weeks, and a Blessed Easter!</p><p>(And, if you are in Southwest Florida the presentation is Friday, April 15 at 7:30 PM. The church is located at 2050 Periwinkle Way on Sanibel.)</p>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-50036005511291026722022-04-04T15:15:00.003-04:002022-04-04T15:15:41.483-04:00Retirement Ahead: Will I Sleep In?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCZMk4MxCprDyaONP8kPM9s2qylKwI712o8hScNdHLTqMM26Fsbfh1B3OCDehlGm5RS5nUM3Rfkto-H6NW_fSrnVdI8G4YrLbn77D5XlARj_1UA0DtmOEuWB-uITfP7JaY3fKzwzlydzV7ZJCFc_b-ZxzYMa7iGa5TGdbbuiUk7V4n2oBDa_ffEJr2Ew/s287/Retirement%20Ahead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="217" data-original-width="287" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCZMk4MxCprDyaONP8kPM9s2qylKwI712o8hScNdHLTqMM26Fsbfh1B3OCDehlGm5RS5nUM3Rfkto-H6NW_fSrnVdI8G4YrLbn77D5XlARj_1UA0DtmOEuWB-uITfP7JaY3fKzwzlydzV7ZJCFc_b-ZxzYMa7iGa5TGdbbuiUk7V4n2oBDa_ffEJr2Ew/s1600/Retirement%20Ahead.jpg" width="287" /></a></div>Three weeks from today I will be able to sleep in if I so choose. I will be retired. (My last Sunday here at Sanibel Congregational UCC will be April 24.)<br /> Knowing myself, I don't really anticipate sleeping in (which in my case means anything after 6:00 AM) but who knows? I will have that choice and can exercise it if I so desire.<p></p><p>Preparing for retirement has been a long process, one in which I am still engaged. I read a couple of books, spoken at length with my spiritual director and therapist about the implications of retirement for my spiritual and psychological health and wellbeing. I am part of a support group (a community of practice in church speak) for those preparing for retirement or newly retired. I've prayed about it, spoken with friends who are already retired. Consulted with my financial advisors. And of course, have had long conversations with my wife Linda.</p><p>Frankly I have mixed emotions going into this next phase of my life. I have been in parish minsitry now for forty-five years. More than two-thirds of my life! And while at times it has been frustrating, for the most part it has been a very satisfying experience and a career well-lived. Frankly, I will miss having a regular pulpit. But I also anticipate having more discretion in how I spend my time and being free of many of the administrative aspects of my work.</p><p>I realize my experience is far from unique. But it is my only experience of this transition, and so it feels unique. I am not overly concerned, nor am I overly excited. When people say "Congratulations!" I am not sure what I am being congratulated for. Enduring? Having a good career? Being able to retire? But mostly I am grateful. Grateful for my career, grateful for the people i have served with, and grateful for the resources that allow this transition to happen.</p><p>Will I sleep in? Check with me in three weeks!</p>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-60046440213390887842022-03-28T14:55:00.002-04:002022-03-28T14:55:54.328-04:00Worry Warts All!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHDVQznBx-Fc9mF0aH0q1sTQQlInnAF50sTBdhVvR9B0sxYXAFEpIdtN5Dt45yyfdWCA3KK1J5hcyXd9SQpAav24D9jO3d2gcdocmnbKdSq67AeDMiIAR1sCBbi9mcnUHt1tKrNaJGm5UWGFqHZ1VFPqiqGPoKrwCLEKgEbi5lkpo8sl93l-nyG-Fe8A/s201/Worry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="188" data-original-width="201" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHDVQznBx-Fc9mF0aH0q1sTQQlInnAF50sTBdhVvR9B0sxYXAFEpIdtN5Dt45yyfdWCA3KK1J5hcyXd9SQpAav24D9jO3d2gcdocmnbKdSq67AeDMiIAR1sCBbi9mcnUHt1tKrNaJGm5UWGFqHZ1VFPqiqGPoKrwCLEKgEbi5lkpo8sl93l-nyG-Fe8A/s1600/Worry.jpg" width="201" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I am convinced we are a nation of worry warts. Everywhere you turn somebody is worried about something. We are so stressed out by our anxieties that whole industries have been developed to help manage our stress and deal with our worries. It doesn't matter who you are, everyone seems to worry.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As preoccupied with worry as our culture is today, its not a new problem. Human beings have always had a tendency to worry. Our unique ability to think about the future, to dream and plan, to visualize that which lies before us, is a wonderful gift. But its downside is that we can also imagine the worst. And out of our ability to conceptualize future mishaps and disasters, grow our worries.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Jesus knew this. Jesus knew what it meant to worry. And he also know how debilitating it could be. In a lot of stress management courses and books today, one reads or hears about prioritizing. But Jesus knew it all along. If you want to minimize worry in your life, the first thing you must do, he said, is get your priorities straight. And your first priority must be what Jesus calls, "striving for the kingdom of God." In other words we must put God's way of love and concern for others first in our lives. Our first concern should be seeking to live as God would have us live.. Love God, love neighbor. It won't eliminate all our problems, but it will minimize our worries.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /> <p></p>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-44009016721165396212022-03-21T14:01:00.002-04:002022-03-21T14:01:15.871-04:00Love Still Makes a Family<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi6oWoNCMXeXrYv52-afP9lvPuYPKkkfgarjB00r0Y0DG65XjdyevTFCam244eYDKxMXSLa793u65xI4k2JSGPeSI-OpxWQGOtO7-uIN4IZb5dmylA_qpAvOTrFYG6UjQ4ujc2mpAKyYb5oDtPrStF06RWuLqlRfPRhrRBQiAhG4ua3NtOmn2H3oh54SQ=s300" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="255" data-original-width="300" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi6oWoNCMXeXrYv52-afP9lvPuYPKkkfgarjB00r0Y0DG65XjdyevTFCam244eYDKxMXSLa793u65xI4k2JSGPeSI-OpxWQGOtO7-uIN4IZb5dmylA_qpAvOTrFYG6UjQ4ujc2mpAKyYb5oDtPrStF06RWuLqlRfPRhrRBQiAhG4ua3NtOmn2H3oh54SQ" width="300" /></a></div><br />This past week the Florida Legislature passed the Parental Rights in Education Bill. Often referred to as the Don't Say Gay Bill, it is full of legal language and in sections very detailed. But the section of the bill which has raised the most concern and the most conversation is Section 1001.42, Subsection 8, Paragraph C which is labeled STUDENT WELFARE. It reads: "Classroom instruction by school personnel or third parties on sexual orientation or gender identity may not occur in kindergarten through grade 3 or in a manner that is not age-appropriate or developmentally appropriate for students in accordance with state standards."<div><br /></div><div>Nowhere does the bill say you "can't say gay"--but it does raise the question of what you <i>can </i>say. What you may say. If, for instance, a little boy in second grade has two lesbian mothers, and another child asks why he has two mommies and no daddy, what is a teacher supposed to say? Is saying something as simple as, sometimes two women love each other and want to have a family, classroom instruction? What if the teacher responds, you'll have to ask your parents, isn't that a form of instruction as well? Doesn't it convey an unspoken message that somehow the little bay's family is so different we can't even talk about it? Doesn't it convey to that child that his family is somehow subpar? If I were a second-grade teacher with a child whose parent or parents is or are LGBTQ I would be at a loss as to how to make certain that child was made to feel fully welcomed in my classroom. Just as they are. </div><div><br /></div><div>Public schools are supposed to be just that. Schools open to the public. The whole public. Everyone is supposed to be welcome, regardless of who they or their parents are in terms of race, gender, sexual orientation, religion, ethnic background, and so on. Perhaps the real, underlying debate here is over the purpose of public education. Yes, part of the expectation is that students will learn how to read, write, work with numbers, and so on. A democratic society relies on its citizens being literate. But it also relies on their ability to work with others. And to do that you must first be willing to accept the ways in which human beings can be and are different. And that acceptance doesn't happen overnight, it begins in childhood. Kindergarten doesn't need to feature full on biological discussions of sexual differences, but teachers do need to feel free to simply say love makes a family.<br /></div>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-72033853444304268842022-03-14T12:58:00.004-04:002022-03-14T12:58:57.234-04:00Ukraine: Nuclear Fears, Biblical Hope<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1GnEJm0kiX1H0RocOIj3VLJ6kurWlijUtAUPP7Kx-eg5_S06ujv3vtDMvvSIKkvdt4qPrijGxnHhheIrJ6qHVhOQQhND9CwRzWUA_CHuapz6lr1TGjqD_wpBSqgjdI-57yXyQBHLgoxCi2hbdnCTjy4oT2_N76r7DvDWSUQ6p3fjZgIgyqBdVE70BsA=s180" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="175" height="361" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1GnEJm0kiX1H0RocOIj3VLJ6kurWlijUtAUPP7Kx-eg5_S06ujv3vtDMvvSIKkvdt4qPrijGxnHhheIrJ6qHVhOQQhND9CwRzWUA_CHuapz6lr1TGjqD_wpBSqgjdI-57yXyQBHLgoxCi2hbdnCTjy4oT2_N76r7DvDWSUQ6p3fjZgIgyqBdVE70BsA=w272-h361" width="272" /></a></div> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">One of the most concerning
aspects of the war in Ukraine has been the assault on nuclear power plants by
the Russian military. Memories of Chernobyl
and Three Mile Island come readily to mind as we consider the danger this creates. Such moves really up the ante. All that notwithstanding, we must not give up
hope that the situation can be bettered.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Over the years I’ve
come to believe there are three components to hope. First, it means honestly assessing a
situation—what’s right here, and what’s wrong.
What can be left untouched, and what needs to be changed, corrected,
transformed? Second, hope means committing
oneself to doing all within one’s own power to bring about the necessary
changes. How can I contribute to the
change that is necessary in this situation?
And third, hope means recognizing we may not be able to do it all ourselves
and will need to trust that God is truly at work in the world. Hope, you see, is not a feeling or an idea,
it is a conscious decision. To be a person
of hope, then, one must be honest, committed and filled with trust. Eliminate any of these factors, and hope
disappears more quickly than bedbugs in the presence of an exterminator.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">No one knows for sure
where the war in Ukraine will lead. It is
a situation fraught with danger. We must
encourage our leaders to be cautious yet firm in their responses to these
challenges. As a nation we must honestly
assess the dangers and be committed to
doing all in their power to bringing about a change for the better, trusting
that good can be accomplished. We can
bow to the culture of fear, or we can live as people of hope.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;">P</span></o:p><span style="font-family: arial;">erhaps it would help
for me tell you about a gutted out old industrial facility, this one not in Ukraine,
but rather in Massachusetts. I was there
a few summers ago. It used to house a
company that manufactured trigger devices for our nuclear arsenal. But the facility closed down in the
mid-eighties. Today it houses the Massachusetts
Museum of Contemporary Art. Instead of
creating weaponry that can kill thousands, even millions, those who work within
its walls create life-giving art and music. Swords beaten into plowshares.<br /> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;">Let us live as a
people of hope, rather than fear. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-50398570205259239002022-03-07T13:32:00.000-05:002022-03-07T13:32:01.804-05:00Mud Season, Sanibel and Lent<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgr871WIj3wofX_dIhSYGCfqLk9lnxYYQK3FuPMALYYaijBYrh_XTypg5imy3IO-3JUo1jJ0eYODCbtR_b3Jv3IoTb16fOiKmHUE4mUNWSMaseCIzUStHJ9JgdVxj1dkFtAwq2R-F9qf3JOh-O1Df6kkq3vFfd3pVcOYooEBY77d0GAWbqLi4e-ohMbSw=s640" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgr871WIj3wofX_dIhSYGCfqLk9lnxYYQK3FuPMALYYaijBYrh_XTypg5imy3IO-3JUo1jJ0eYODCbtR_b3Jv3IoTb16fOiKmHUE4mUNWSMaseCIzUStHJ9JgdVxj1dkFtAwq2R-F9qf3JOh-O1Df6kkq3vFfd3pVcOYooEBY77d0GAWbqLi4e-ohMbSw=s320" width="240" /></a></div> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal">So this is Lent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
always seems a little odd here on Sanibel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Growing up—and indeed for most of my adulthood--Lent began in the midst
of snow and cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a dank and
dreary time as we waded through the final throes of winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The slow dirge-like hymns of Lent seemed to
fit perfectly our weather-weary hearts!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
as March drifted into mud season, as it was called in northern <st1:place w:st="on">New England</st1:place>, we eagerly looked forward to longer days,
warmer temperatures and the early flowers of spring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Easter, with its bright colored clothing and
vibrantly hued flowers provided the perfect antidote to our mud season
doldrums.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not only was Christ raised
from the dead, but our spirits were raised up as well.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>But it’s different here on Sanibel. Winter is, very arguably, the loveliest
season of the year! The crowds on the
beaches, the cars on <st1:address w:st="on"><st1:street w:st="on">Periwinkle
Way</st1:street></st1:address>, and the visitors in our pews all bear
testimony to the fact that this is the place to be in March. Easter will come in all its glory—but the
contrast will not be the bit of drama that it was up North. So it is that if Lent is to have its impact
here where it is unaided by the world of nature, we must take on the
responsibility for examining the dank and dreary spots ourselves. We must be willing to stop and consider how
drab our lives would be without the love of God made known in the
Resurrection. Not that we should pull
ourselves into some sort of emotional or spiritual hole, but rather that we
should be honest in our appraisal of life.
Then, and only then, will we be able to fully appreciate the wonder of
that great and special day we call Easter. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> <br /></o:p>That, of course, is how it should be anywhere that
Christians live—<st1:city w:st="on">New England</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Minnesota</st1:state>
or <st1:place w:st="on">Southwest Florida</st1:place>. But stripped of the external reminders
brought about by winters up north, we must be especially alert to the
importance of internal reflection and preparation in Lent.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-74387584026500897132022-02-28T11:52:00.004-05:002022-02-28T12:06:28.598-05:00Wanderlost: A Review<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjftnoemlwMDw5KWp3XeLtkZP7u-p5INOpy0OmiqbcdTyCdQo_5cSzN2M8msCcYymk-AwvuxV0_Eak5Gn2iARaIf_v5ImbmqRV7o8lz9QFaV35PV9t8OLcsurhGTQN7upjNQTfbVpP6ONnDcqXMBnskZP2QQeANAGrkqWAFZCGudZynQhJWSgbsAvqqhQ=s1200" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjftnoemlwMDw5KWp3XeLtkZP7u-p5INOpy0OmiqbcdTyCdQo_5cSzN2M8msCcYymk-AwvuxV0_Eak5Gn2iARaIf_v5ImbmqRV7o8lz9QFaV35PV9t8OLcsurhGTQN7upjNQTfbVpP6ONnDcqXMBnskZP2QQeANAGrkqWAFZCGudZynQhJWSgbsAvqqhQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div>Leafing through the March 9, 2022, edition of <i>The Christian Century </i>I came across an article written by Jack Jenkins of the Religion New Service title "Immigration reform no longer united faith groups." In the article, utilizing results from a February poll conducted by the Public Religion Research Institute, Jenkins describes how over the past decade or so support for things like a pathway to citizenship has moved from being uniformly supported by various faith groups and traditions, to something that adds to the numerous differences that they hold.<p></p><p>I was struck that I came across this just as a was finishing up Natalie Toon Patton's book <i>Wanderlost: Falling from Grace and Finding Mercy in All the Wrong Places. </i>I note that because this volume, which traces her faith journey and her literal journeys after she is ex-communicated from an evangelical megachurch upon the occasion of her divorce, is at its best in the final chapters as she describes her own experiences with a family of Somalian refugees.</p><p>After a friend is detained with her family in a detention center in Bangkok, where the author lived with her husband and children, she describes in detail the injustices she experiences. She wrestles with the theological implications of immigration policy and asks hard questions. Many of which she doesn't pretend to be able to answer. She also speaks of how from a perspective of privilege, we can often distance ourselves from the angst of such difficult situations by what some have called Band-Aid charity. "We like to do good," she writes, "as long as we can keep suffering at arms' length." (253)</p><p>While I found myself thinking some of the sections of the volume were less than fully inspiring, but her writing is always honest and clear. And the last chapters, with their honest view of immigration issues, is worth the wait and makes most sense when seen in the larger context of the book.</p><p>Patton was not, and is not, a refugee in the literal sense of the word, but in many ways,<br /> she was a refugee in terms of her faith journey. She does find safe harbor in the end, partly due to the fact that she learns how to embrace the questions.</p><p><i>Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from the author and/or publisher through the Speakeasy blogging book review network. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255.</i></p>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-51362319060356115482022-02-22T12:53:00.004-05:002022-02-28T11:53:41.992-05:00Times of Feasting, Times of Fasting<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhmJks1LMbIr-vI0R56wxuGFR3Wm9IBTriVR-Mf33lhpw0bKYLmkhaGpYDR367a2l-mkLPVAbG3t9V2trVZ13DRm8Lcj-bXvTGlED76XpEJPUEU6QhADQ6odvT3Js6a6KKdNqH8uyUCAsJ34COQBEfJFWcUuj4q5taWaRIP2yRRKaDCbH4MgwO0CoFFNA=s1500" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="1500" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhmJks1LMbIr-vI0R56wxuGFR3Wm9IBTriVR-Mf33lhpw0bKYLmkhaGpYDR367a2l-mkLPVAbG3t9V2trVZ13DRm8Lcj-bXvTGlED76XpEJPUEU6QhADQ6odvT3Js6a6KKdNqH8uyUCAsJ34COQBEfJFWcUuj4q5taWaRIP2yRRKaDCbH4MgwO0CoFFNA=s320" width="320" /></a></div> <br /><br />The rhythm of fasting and feasting is largely lost in much of Western society. But there is a certain wisdom to it. The contrast between times of plenty, even excess, is better appreciated when we also have times when we intentionally restrain our appetites. Lent is just such a time. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal">One of the benefits of fasting, of course, is that it allows us to more closely identify with those who have little. Some who fast during Lent put aside what they might normally spend of a meal each day, or special treats, and then give the money to those in need. Some use the time normally spent at meals to observe times of prayer, meditation and study. One needn't be a Christian, or a person of any particular faith, to engage in times of fasting.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Perhaps this is the year to consider engaging in fasting. Perhaps this us the year to learn from the contrast between feasting and fasting. In many parts of the world, the days or weeks before Ash Wednesday, the start of Lent, are observed as festive times, most notably in New Orleans where Mardi Gras (Fat Tuesday) is marked by parades and parties. a time for cleaning out all the fats before the Lenten time of fasting. Hence the name, Fat Tuesday. This year Ash Wednesday falls on March 2. My congregation marks that important day with a worship service complete with ashes. But before the days of fasting, the feasting and celebration of Mardi Gras! So each year we hold Mardi Gras Sunday, complete with beads and a Dixieland Jazz Combo. It is a grand time of celebration, followed only three days later by a time of somber reflection. Such is life!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1T40lL0pkx2XCeB-zbFP_Emq4rJLnmbif-0TilqHNx8pC1yT_h4uVpXybUNuTuXUZP5h1__kFOZJVfUQtlpx16_JcY9o1rhr6EFvFginywJDvpeMipn3DoLsyfsEuYt3jLlBz6UQiXUH3RtUrUHDVXnONJ_zNroK5LHs2NykUfl4IxM7z9pJd3ICV4Q=s283" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="215" data-original-width="283" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1T40lL0pkx2XCeB-zbFP_Emq4rJLnmbif-0TilqHNx8pC1yT_h4uVpXybUNuTuXUZP5h1__kFOZJVfUQtlpx16_JcY9o1rhr6EFvFginywJDvpeMipn3DoLsyfsEuYt3jLlBz6UQiXUH3RtUrUHDVXnONJ_zNroK5LHs2NykUfl4IxM7z9pJd3ICV4Q" width="283" /></a></div><p></p>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-7758283919912480342022-02-14T13:33:00.005-05:002022-02-15T06:15:35.184-05:00The Love of a Grandfather<p> <b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhukWjQZuDfEcB2G3TRRJH10tzvJKy_KxCHJPnydBaVMVyB2EsDYI9W3CQ271JgeyhfpX3gQWmaCgnuYQi4tmBDxzMi1YlbYq_aHk7fVuY52DmoB3LR6wiur0qbVml4gPLr211zIbvoW7VbiBVfCEUTjhJ43DM9JOA2u9Q_6uAtWH2gAr3iwnDb78qSCw=s414" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="414" data-original-width="373" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhukWjQZuDfEcB2G3TRRJH10tzvJKy_KxCHJPnydBaVMVyB2EsDYI9W3CQ271JgeyhfpX3gQWmaCgnuYQi4tmBDxzMi1YlbYq_aHk7fVuY52DmoB3LR6wiur0qbVml4gPLr211zIbvoW7VbiBVfCEUTjhJ43DM9JOA2u9Q_6uAtWH2gAr3iwnDb78qSCw=s320" width="288" /></a></b></div><b>I love being a
grandfather. And I have pictures on my
cell phone and in my wallet to prove it!
But sometimes, for me at least, it is a bit confusing. Let me explain.</b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>When my oldest grandson
Zachary, who is now in his twenties, started to talk, he had a very hard time
pronouncing certain words, as do most children.
He had no trouble with Mom and Dad, and he managed to spit out his
grandmother’s name, Oma, with ease. But
when it came to Grandpa, he just couldn’t wrap his little tongue around
it. But he could say Pepa. And so it stuck. To Zachary, and his brother Christopher, I am
not Grandpa, I am Pepa.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b> That was well and
good, and seemed to work, that is until our other son’s oldest daughter was
born. As she started to talk, she decided
that I should be called Pop Pop. You’d
think I was a wad of bubble gum or a glass of champagne. But that too stuck. And so my two granddaughters both call me Pop
Pop.</b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>Our third child, our daughter Elizabeth, and her partner Erica later adopted a pair of sisters. I decreed that to keep things straight they should also call me Pop Pop. That way, if I was interacting with a grandson, I'd remember I was Pepa, and if it was a granddaughter, I was assured I was known as Pop Pop.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Usually that’s OK as
well, but when all six of them are together, they sometimes argue about what
my real name is! “No,” Megan used to say to her boy cousins, “he’s my Pop Pop!”
I’ve signed more than one birthday card with the wrong name—and you
better believe I hear about it!</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b> </b><b>You can see why I get
confused!</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b> </b><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b>The truth is, however, I love both names—and
I’ll love a third if that’s my fate! For
you see both of them remind me that </b></span><b>these guys</b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b> love me—and that I love
them more than I would have ever imagined possible! And in the end, loving and being loved is far
more important to our identity than whatever else we may conjure up!</b></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b>(Photo: Five of six grandchildren, taken four years ago.)</b></p>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-73031073223339514882022-02-07T15:36:00.003-05:002022-02-07T15:36:57.987-05:00Light Through the Window, Light Through Your Life<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgd_IYoxZs3x8FGbq-my39Lpc_zoKsaRhv_vwn6LbpZXTGQfFNtmUkIN8l28qBVOQiZo1nVKrCMFpj7Ae_QRJEgEWZWrB3U7ZnuaPVNKNsSkUd5sc5mcL2RJzTEJcGRWSQaANedDQmJfoi6RZnI2BDC7uDlUGAKBdB9WrYEbVsjIh8bU6sj1sBNDwAHDA=s362" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="361" data-original-width="362" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgd_IYoxZs3x8FGbq-my39Lpc_zoKsaRhv_vwn6LbpZXTGQfFNtmUkIN8l28qBVOQiZo1nVKrCMFpj7Ae_QRJEgEWZWrB3U7ZnuaPVNKNsSkUd5sc5mcL2RJzTEJcGRWSQaANedDQmJfoi6RZnI2BDC7uDlUGAKBdB9WrYEbVsjIh8bU6sj1sBNDwAHDA=w286-h285" width="286" /></a></div> It starts as a pile of broken glass. Sharp edges. Odd shapes. Not much different than what you might see in the colored glass bin at a recycling facility. Then, using classic techniques developed through the centuries, the glass is arranged and bonded together, piece by piece, until an image begins to emerge. One which capture's the designer's original intent. Still, when it's completed and sitting on the shop bench, beautiful as it is, something is missing. Its full glory is yet to be revealed.<p></p><p>But then the newly created stained glass window is taken and put in its frame and placed where it was intended to be all along. A church door. A balcony window. A transom over an office entrance. At the top of a stairway.</p><p>Years ago,<br /><br /> the church I was serving was installing some brand-new stained-glass windows. As the installers of the new windows were putting on the finishing touches, I stepped into the narthex, the church entryway, to check on their progress. It was late afternoon.</p><p>"They look great," I said to one of the installers.</p><p>"They do," he said, "they look so much better here than in the shop. They need to be in context."</p><p>I nodded.</p><p>He then pointed to the cross design, surrounded by rays of yellow, orange and red.</p><p>"When the light hits that one," he said, "It will be on fire!"</p><p>And so it was! For what was missing on the shop bench was light. It changed from a pretty but dull picture into an amazing image of beauty and hope! Its full glory was truly revealed.</p><p>And as it is with stained glass, so it is with us. When we are in the right place--and that will be different for each of us--when we our broken pieces are assemble and exposed to the light of God's love, then we too become amazing images of beauty and hope!</p><p>(Photo: Rose window at the Sanibel Congregational United Church of Christ)</p><p><br /></p>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-4237153700851758412022-01-31T11:22:00.003-05:002022-01-31T12:35:54.215-05:00I Read Banned Books<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgN-cKD8oWZ9QelYcRZOkxVqUrpUbWeKe7BhIvxvzAz735kXBO1wcChtSk4fOToqKRv-YE1VoVpKtLnX91-NutnlG-g3Wo9p2TyCNsusutjgVvZjWjeyY_ePomKlTgNIsafH-d7bloN7cLkEQvkXXU_o2rtz9Hsg76XYx4WWA_GaQjhQzrlvoaCBpgxPQ=s238" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="238" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgN-cKD8oWZ9QelYcRZOkxVqUrpUbWeKe7BhIvxvzAz735kXBO1wcChtSk4fOToqKRv-YE1VoVpKtLnX91-NutnlG-g3Wo9p2TyCNsusutjgVvZjWjeyY_ePomKlTgNIsafH-d7bloN7cLkEQvkXXU_o2rtz9Hsg76XYx4WWA_GaQjhQzrlvoaCBpgxPQ" width="238" /></a></div> As a subscriber to the <i>New York Time</i>s, I get an e-mail each morning with the top stories in the news. This morning, one of those stories was headlined: "Book Ban Efforts Spread Across the US." Frankly, it sent a chill up my spine. It's nothing new, of course. Banning books, especially in schools, has been going on for decades--centuries even! In recent times, banned books have often been books about race, LGBTQ issues and stories about the Holocaust (as is the recent effort to ban <i>Maus</i>). <p></p><p>When I was in what we called back in the sixties Junior High, I developed a taste for romance novels. You know, the Harlequin-type stories about love lost and gained. The ones with muscled men and voluptuous women on the covers. Not porn--at least not technically--but hardly good literature. But our local library had several shelve of them, and I started checking them out and devouring them.</p><p>One morning my mother got a phone call from our local librarian. She was appalled that a thirteen-year-old boy was reading such things. Did my mother know I was into such material? Didn't she think it important that I restrict my reading to those volumes found in the children's room?</p><p>Much to her credit, my mother said, "No." And in no uncertain terms told the librarian I was free to check out and read anything I might find in the library. Even if it was rather lousy literature. I, ultimately, wasn't going to harm me. And probably, she said, I'd grow out of it. Which I did. In just a year or two I was reading Graham Green, John Steinbeck, Willa Cather, and more controversial writers like J. D. Salinger and Herman Hesse. </p><p>I sometimes wonder if Mom had restricted my reading if I would have turned away from it altogether? I don't know. But I do know her permission allowing me to "read at will" resulted in a greatly expanded worldview. </p><p>Banning books is not the answer--and Mom knew that fifty plus years ago. <br /> It's a lesson I'll never forget--and I hope others will soon learn.</p><p>I have a pin at home that says, "I Read Banned Book"--I guess (sadly) it's time to dig it out again.</p>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-8600532246829346082022-01-24T14:01:00.003-05:002022-01-24T14:01:40.936-05:00A Matter of the Heart: A Word about Antisemitism<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiH9hS4FSzUTIQcQhkfe9vYUHUeo3knlmxxZeeu7RLFVC40L_7vysCDxFIZr9vfS6Ra9k4U4Cb1F5DrTc6OmI3ol8_FJazn4HEqk4qgGqwc7LCr4WY-hS2fZaYL8W0lS-IVOYUfhrtKwVkQSeu8CM4f3BaD1TROvC3McyQY6e-kjJInDfolI9HBONvNeg=s200" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="101" data-original-width="200" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiH9hS4FSzUTIQcQhkfe9vYUHUeo3knlmxxZeeu7RLFVC40L_7vysCDxFIZr9vfS6Ra9k4U4Cb1F5DrTc6OmI3ol8_FJazn4HEqk4qgGqwc7LCr4WY-hS2fZaYL8W0lS-IVOYUfhrtKwVkQSeu8CM4f3BaD1TROvC3McyQY6e-kjJInDfolI9HBONvNeg=w400-h203" width="400" /></a></div> <p></p><p>The recent incident in Texas points up yet again the importance of relations such as ours with Bat Yam. For those who think antisemitism is a thing of the past, something confined to Nazi Germany, it was a frightening reminder that it still haunts our world. I know it has proven very unsettling to my Jewish friends and neighbors. And it is unsettling to me as well.</p><p>Annually our congregation is part of a pulpit exchange with our sister congregation Bat Yam--Temple of the Islands. Bat Yam is a Reform Jewish congregation that shares our space. We share a number of activities over the course of each year, some of which have been highlighted in previous posts on this blog. And in many ways the highlight of our shared life was a trip we took to Israel which featured daily posts while we were traveling. Many of our respective members have gotten to really know one another--and we all are better educated about the lives and faith of our counterparts.</p><p>I am not so naive as to think a relationship such as the one my congregation has with Bat Yam is the sole answer to antisemitism. Certainly, tough laws and the faithful enforcement of them are important. Being prepared to respond when there are life threatening circumstances is vital. And speaking up whenever antisemitism or any other ugly bias surfaces is essential. But long term the fear and hatred that lies at the root of antisemitism is a matter of the heart. And hearts are truly changed only when we get to know each other at more than a mere surface level. When I am able to see that you are at core a human being with many of the same concerns, interests, hopes and dreams as those that I have, then I can begin to treat you with respect, or at least with a sense of tolerance.</p><p>The reality is this: my life is greatly enriched and expanded by the shared journey I am on with Bat Yam. And so too the lives of my congregants. For when we open our hearts to one another, we can be joined together in a powerful way. Joined together as human beings, joined together with the Holy One.<br /></p>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-55391281679590297662022-01-17T16:40:00.003-05:002022-01-17T16:40:43.825-05:00Thoughts about God and a Close Call<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkqYESDLIio7NsE3Z7QewO0T5BgwwY5AiM7-nS8kHEPTU4c-XMMYRhClwvo1k20BCcIYcJv_EpGjRsP0I7PG3NbGrIhFcb9QRGUH80LPfNf6O4vM7y6kMCTziiCRhew0T5jqqy9DmfPc6n13tnUbbFrUa56MdKb_FAgQ03v-nmWKDSxi-kyki13kjtTQ=s768" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="768" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkqYESDLIio7NsE3Z7QewO0T5BgwwY5AiM7-nS8kHEPTU4c-XMMYRhClwvo1k20BCcIYcJv_EpGjRsP0I7PG3NbGrIhFcb9QRGUH80LPfNf6O4vM7y6kMCTziiCRhew0T5jqqy9DmfPc6n13tnUbbFrUa56MdKb_FAgQ03v-nmWKDSxi-kyki13kjtTQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div>This past Sunday an EF-2 Tornado ripped through our part of Fort Myers clocking winds up to 118 <br />miles per hour. It was a stormy morning throughout Southwest Florida, and the tornado here was not the only one registered. But it missed out neighborhood, our community. Not 200 yards from our home trees were felled, siding on buildings ripped off, even a roadside building with an icemaker in it was lifted off its foundation and dropped back down fifty feet away. As I sit in my living room writing this I can hear the chainsaws clearing away fallen trees. But though our community lost electricity due to damage to lines down the road, it was untouched.<p></p><p>I wasn't home. I was on Sanibel, conducting worship. It was stormy out there--lots of wind and rain and some thunder and lightning. But no tornadoes. Just the inconvenience of the internet going down in the middle of our livestream. But Sanibel is well-known for its less than fully reliable internet. My wife, though, was caring for my mother here in Fort Myers, and they took to the laundry room for shelter at one point. But as I said, in the end the community was unscathed.</p><p>No doubt there are some within our neighborhood saying God spared us, God protected us, or something like that. But that always bothers me. Did God abandon, or worse yet punish, the hundreds of folks whose homes were damaged? Did God look the other way as some thirty or so mobile or manufactured homes were totally destroyed? I think not. But that is the logical corollary to suggesting God spared us.</p><p>This is not a new conundrum. Folks have pondered it for centuries. And I'm not sure how to unravel it. But for the moment, I am satisfied with suggesting that while God doesn't direct tornadoes or any other natural disaster, God does stand ready to support us when they occur. And often that support comes in and through other people.</p>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-91532130934872646262022-01-10T13:37:00.002-05:002022-01-10T13:37:43.450-05:00Just What Is Normal?<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh_aUwrV405Ut-yTmyMYwQCO-JYQPujAShRoEHnCWfn66VWiOAUQnZU76fCRdlZu5lPYEtJzzUhHzV0BAEEhAKhfJEG2sVKIqGfpNWCeJgUPVK0J70ODztmLoR9MyseJ3t-aMN3XngHGRuZz_NCS243cIDH8G2dxBG-IoVbuolBMIc_FErQQKfvii6PIw=s215" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="110" data-original-width="215" height="110" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh_aUwrV405Ut-yTmyMYwQCO-JYQPujAShRoEHnCWfn66VWiOAUQnZU76fCRdlZu5lPYEtJzzUhHzV0BAEEhAKhfJEG2sVKIqGfpNWCeJgUPVK0J70ODztmLoR9MyseJ3t-aMN3XngHGRuZz_NCS243cIDH8G2dxBG-IoVbuolBMIc_FErQQKfvii6PIw=w215-h110" width="215" /></a></div>Here's a phrase I am hearing quite often these days . . . "When things get back to normal . . ." It's usually said with a sigh, or a light chuckle. But it expresses, more often than not, a bit of weariness, or impatience, or even, once in a whle, anger. But what is normal?</div><div><br /></div><div>I have a therapist friend who used to say, "Normal is just<br /> a setting on a washing machine." I'm not sure even that's true anymore, what with all the computerization one finds in appliances these days. (My wife and I were looking at a new stove the other day with a very helpful appliance salesman. Linda asked him if it had the old-fashioned kind of self-cleaning feature, or the new steam kind. The new er ones, he told us, are mostly all steam, because the old style, where you turned it up to 600 degrees for three hours, gets too hot for the computer-based parts.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Whatever, my friend's point was that there really is no such thing as normal. That the world changes all the time, and so do we. Assuming we finally get past the pandemic, the world will be different than it used to be. And while we will speak of that as "the new normal," it will quickly change into something different yet again.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think we are wise to not be waiting for "normal" to return, whatever that was, but rather, doing our best to live here and now as fully (and as safely) as we can. One day at a time.</div>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-41448926685132728912022-01-03T14:08:00.003-05:002022-01-04T13:15:05.043-05:00Tired of Decision-making--Version 2022Have you noticed? It's a new year, but we seem to be faced with a lot of the same old challenges, and decisions we need to make. Do I wear a mask? Do I eat indoors at restaurants? Do I watch church on my phone or laptop, or do I attend services in person? Do I cancel a trip, or still try to navigate airports and ever-changing airline schedules? And the list goes on.<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjoPUlkT6gFVledSNfXLNYXRg5da4f5heTzlIAZKZgl1a35F_WB9tOwXvpkoRAO00ZL7nl2CBr8a6IIPzXo5tMQBQTm60rssePxKcn48ztetvcMCagjDvfgWmx-bawdn61sXxlGX4OnUgEEK_urRqc9r8Dy7RQLJnCOtPxTAsr5BcpoSRLrwP3sMSARpw=s266" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="204" data-original-width="266" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjoPUlkT6gFVledSNfXLNYXRg5da4f5heTzlIAZKZgl1a35F_WB9tOwXvpkoRAO00ZL7nl2CBr8a6IIPzXo5tMQBQTm60rssePxKcn48ztetvcMCagjDvfgWmx-bawdn61sXxlGX4OnUgEEK_urRqc9r8Dy7RQLJnCOtPxTAsr5BcpoSRLrwP3sMSARpw" width="266" /></a></div><br /></div><div>For some of us it means making decisions about scheduled events. Do we cancel or plunge ahead? Do we go virtual or hybrid or all in person? For others it means facing choices around surgery--having it or not? Holding a wedding or memorial service? Should my kid go to school or stay home and attend virtually?</div><div><br /></div><div>There can be little question that it is all very wearing. And as a result, we are having more difficulty dealing with other people. Tempers are shorter. Words are less kind. Some communication cues are missing altogether.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't like making all the decisions required these days any more than the next person. I get weary of them. And I get short at times. But I can do better. We can do better, if we put our minds to it, and remember that key teaching in Judaism, Christianity and virtually (no pun intended) every other major religious tradition. Love your neighbor as yourself.</div><div><br /></div><div>Let's recommit in this new and challenging year, to do just that.</div><div><br /></div><div>We'll all be better for it. </div>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-54798287611627635792021-12-27T10:12:00.001-05:002021-12-27T10:14:35.418-05:00Attic Treasures<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjI4UZBiLdNXYGPIVjF5q-XrPgeg-ZZ_jGQC5UUDwNdszyjGRJidU9r1__Ysg7wvBFvnZenn_Me3ZDpa0uvQoANS6midASbbAEVL2tC7y9IqZj8b_YBe5vBXW_r8WJ1k60pMozzOXcHu1WT4PaSMpPq4UaodK5vDh6Uuqr27mSS5ZQNQvoknc7jlouHvg=s900" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="692" data-original-width="900" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjI4UZBiLdNXYGPIVjF5q-XrPgeg-ZZ_jGQC5UUDwNdszyjGRJidU9r1__Ysg7wvBFvnZenn_Me3ZDpa0uvQoANS6midASbbAEVL2tC7y9IqZj8b_YBe5vBXW_r8WJ1k60pMozzOXcHu1WT4PaSMpPq4UaodK5vDh6Uuqr27mSS5ZQNQvoknc7jlouHvg=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I grew up
in New England where old colonial and Cape Cod style homes dominated the
landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And a feature of such homes
often was, and is, a full attic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In our
house, you walked up to the attic on a full flight of stairs, and except for
the spaces by the eaves you could actually stand up without banging your
head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was one of our favorite spots
when we played hide n’ seek--big boxes and a free-standing mirror made for
excellent places to hide!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if you
wanted solitude and quiet for an
afternoon of reading you could find it there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was spooky at night and where my father would take us on Halloween to
tell ghost stories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My grandfather’s sea
chest full of memorabilia from World War I was kept in the attic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it was, of course, where all the Christmas
decorations were stored between seasons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Our attic, like many, was filled with treasures:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>treasured items, and treasured memories as
well.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Earlier
this month a parishioner shared a lovely story with me about an attic
treasure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How one day in what had been his parents’ attic, a rather dusty box was discovered that contained the American Flyer train he’d received one Christmas many decades
ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t just any Christmas,
though, because he had contracted measles in a time before the measles vaccine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before getting sick he had seen the train, and desperately wanted it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But he was so sick, he was confined to bed, and was sure he’d miss out
on all the wonders Christmas had to offer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Christmas Day came, and while the rest of the family was downstairs,
enjoying the festivities, he lay alone in his bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then, he heard his<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>footsteps on the stairs, and suddenly appeared
in his doorway, crossed over to his bed, and scooped
him up into his arms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then, carried
him down the stair to the living room, where under the tree, where the train
was set up in all its glory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The very
train he had dreamed of having.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in
the end, what for a sick young boy, what seemed destined to be a very blue
Christmas, turned into one remembered to
this day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Christmas when love was made
known in such a wondrous way.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I’ve
pondered things this second Covid Christmas and reflected on the past two years
of struggles and challenges, I have been so incredibly grateful for the many Christmas
treasures stored in the attic of my memory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Often thoughts of a special moment from a Christmas past have lifted my
spirits as I’ve had to make decisions about masks and social distancing and sanitizers
and all the other concerns we’ve had to address.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been buoyed up by those memories,
buoyed up by those treasures.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am also
reminded that chief of those attic treasures, is the story we remember each
Christmas, pandemic or not, of a time so long ago when God chose to be revealed
to us in the birth of a tiny child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
is a story both simple and profound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
story populated by angels and shepherds, an innkeeper, a tired teenaged mother,
and her travel weary husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A story
rich with detail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A stable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A manger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A donkey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And cooing doves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a story told round the world on this
very night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And even as we hear it
again, even as we witness once more the beauty of the tale, even as we imagine
the child being<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <br /></span>scooped up in Joseph’s
arms and being handed to Mary, we are touched by the love made known on this
night. <o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe on this Christmas you need to be
scooped up and carried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe you need
to be cradled and held.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe you long
to be treasured and loved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If so, there is incredibly good news.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For in this birth that we celebrate each December, God appeared in human flesh and chose to remind us
that human beings have inherent worth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That you and I are indeed treasured.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Treasured and loved by the Creator of all that is, all that was, all
that ever will be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And God stands ready
to scoop you up and carry you through the trials of life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here in
Florida we don’t usually have literal attics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No stairs leading up to a space filled with treasures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we do have the attics of heart and
mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there, if we are only willing
to look, we will find again the greatest treasure Christmas has to offer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not a box of decorations, not even a
brand-new train set, but rather the love made known on a night so long ago in
Bethlehem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A love that can hold you throughout
time and beyond.<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><br /></p>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-85368709601571729562021-12-20T17:18:00.003-05:002021-12-20T17:18:47.027-05:00So, This Is Christmas <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6rU-mOd_8sxMIDEPwmI8FhUqNJul2Ql1_-jRT8-L41KCCBaGbUfZFjPCuWfTZXkwDNo7CGCUoOrVvgYbtwcpNjGBU6aE_EaUQztGqu3wLQpiAk2-VKbDqbFvnBVuAG67wv-WTFPhntNA2AYJ4SS7Xy6s_h_Uins8sMAGq2Ra8EWz_r7UmX3zlmseKbg=s640" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6rU-mOd_8sxMIDEPwmI8FhUqNJul2Ql1_-jRT8-L41KCCBaGbUfZFjPCuWfTZXkwDNo7CGCUoOrVvgYbtwcpNjGBU6aE_EaUQztGqu3wLQpiAk2-VKbDqbFvnBVuAG67wv-WTFPhntNA2AYJ4SS7Xy6s_h_Uins8sMAGq2Ra8EWz_r7UmX3zlmseKbg=s320" width="320" /></a></div>This past Sunday two of our younger church members sang "Happy Xmas--War Is Over" by John Lennon and Yoko Ono as our special music at one of our church services. The older of the two, Henry, is in college and home on his Christmas break. His younger sister, Anabelle, is in high school locally. Neither of them, of course, were alive when that song first hit the airwaves in 1971--I'm not even sure their parents were! But their simple presentation, just a guitar and their two lovely voices, was heartfelt and well done.<p></p><p>I, of course, was alive, and in my first year at college. It was the year I got my draft card and was subject to the draft, and part of the draft lottery. The war in Viet Nam was still in full swing, and back then the song spoke directly to me and my life. I was opposed to the war and concerned about being drafted. But in the end my number in the lottery was well above the cut off that year, and so I was not at risk of being drafted.</p><p>All of that came flooding back as I listened to them sing and reflected on it later. I am glad that neither of them face the prospect of being drafted. I am glad we are out of Viet Name, Iraq and Afghanistan. But the truth is war is not over. There is literal war in various corners of the world. There is the ongoing war against Covid in this time of our Second Covid Christmas. There is the ongoing war with racism. And the list goes on. War is not over. But it could be. That's what the song says, "War is over, if you want it." As we prepare to celebrate the birth of the One we call the Prince of Peace, perhaps we do well to ask ourselves, as individuals, as a nation, indeed as a global community, do we really want it? Do we really want war to be over? Do we really want peace? I hope so.</p><p>(Photo Credit: Dana Crater)</p>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-37046557379678781582021-12-13T16:14:00.002-05:002021-12-13T16:14:16.711-05:00Tornados and Church<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjuDTbqy914NTT8H_yvU7fhoRc019DZjgqIOa6OZMGodZ2sMYU761UbziNDOcuR0FbkGTz_EPwRmTZpzIr7Jo4IjsFk4zMyjawKRHDli2AxYUA0r6xf_QJOesZxrarxpoLxZTpQllI5pMY7hBlJVbhZgQPgAY5AQqCTcQmsSs2ePCOggYtL4q7Zvulu8Q=s1050" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="1050" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjuDTbqy914NTT8H_yvU7fhoRc019DZjgqIOa6OZMGodZ2sMYU761UbziNDOcuR0FbkGTz_EPwRmTZpzIr7Jo4IjsFk4zMyjawKRHDli2AxYUA0r6xf_QJOesZxrarxpoLxZTpQllI5pMY7hBlJVbhZgQPgAY5AQqCTcQmsSs2ePCOggYtL4q7Zvulu8Q=s320" width="320" /></a></div>Yesterday, in the aftermath of the horrendous, tornado that ripped through Kentucky, the evening news featured a story about one of the churches in Mayfield that had gathered that morning outside the remains of their church building. The story included video of maybe two or three dozen folks sitting in folding chairs, all bundled up against the cold, all singing a familiar Christmas carol. <p></p><p>In an interview with the pastor, we were reminded of a powerful truth. The church, he said, is not a building, it is the people. We love our building and are very saddened by the destruction it has suffered. But the church is the people.</p><p>This, of course, is a truth that transcends Christianity. While our buildings can be extremely important, it is the people who gather in them--whether the building is a church, a mosque, a temple or a synagogue--that are the most significant. </p><p>We will, of course, remember all those who have suffered the damages brought about by the tornado, and especially those who have lost loved ones. And we can and will find ways to support them with monies, and volunteer hours, and supplies. We must. But first and foremost, as people of faith, any faith and all faiths, we must support them with our prayers. It's what the mayor of Mayfield asked for. It is what the Governor of Kentucky asked for. For it is in and through prayer that we are reminded of God's great love for all those impacted, bundled up and singing carols, or not. And our responsibility to reach out to help as we can.</p>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-47457427536712653822021-12-06T15:38:00.001-05:002021-12-06T15:38:33.540-05:00Guns and Children: All I Can Say Is Amen<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg36T-j9r7LFpW4CiFcnSQ6kq4fTAp1--48HhtE5TAZiTneA-liurcs5z_X826dFHp3bJTE0IVZB7deUazyzAnvxouCB0AizDmRJDFRS3zzU2ULLQ-fW-ajDbzeBBDm-I1dSKYk4xggicDsh9AVVNO8md-dwoGH6q6xPOGyxMsrAO-1PBUVWiLq4afLLQ=s180" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="172" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg36T-j9r7LFpW4CiFcnSQ6kq4fTAp1--48HhtE5TAZiTneA-liurcs5z_X826dFHp3bJTE0IVZB7deUazyzAnvxouCB0AizDmRJDFRS3zzU2ULLQ-fW-ajDbzeBBDm-I1dSKYk4xggicDsh9AVVNO8md-dwoGH6q6xPOGyxMsrAO-1PBUVWiLq4afLLQ" width="172" /></a></div> Last Tuesday, November 30, a 15 year old boy entered a school in Michigan with a weapon. A semi-automatic pistol. After firing over thirty rounds, three students were left dead, eight others were injured. The following day, one of them died as well from injuries sustained in the attack. The shooter was apprehended on the scene by police, but his parents eventually fled the area, only to be hunted down and later caught. The boy's father had purchased the gun for him just a few days earlier. And both parents appeared to be cavalier when there were signs he might use it as he did.<p></p><p>The parents have now been charged with four counts each of involuntary manslaughter. School officials may also face charges. All of which is largely unprecedented. </p><p>Of course, I am rehearsing details here that most of my readers already know. But what may create more interest and therefore more press coverage, is the seeming facts about the parents and their actions. The boy is just that. At fifteen, just a boy. Should he bear responsibility for his actions, of course. But were those actions made possible by parental actions or inaction? That will be decided in the courts. But perhaps the fact that such questions will be asked in court is an indicator that we've turned a corner in terms of our attitudes and approach to gun ownership and use.</p><p>The day of the shooting a friend of mine, a fellow clergyperson from New England, posted a prayer online. He posts a benediction many nights on social media. Benedictions that often reflect the day's news. That night he wrote: "Good night all. I pray for a day when this country loves and values its children more than its guns. The Lord bless you and keep you."</p><p>All I can say to that is Amen, Brother Rick, Amen.</p>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-2834203319024184032021-11-29T12:58:00.000-05:002021-11-29T12:58:00.556-05:00It's Not Jewish Christmas . . .<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6DWT8QuiamzN407lzQW_-vJnbatnPr-6WnArlooTVglCWQ69J0MKGpvt9feu5H-hxGw1IoYFg5BRHv0hrbI4TyXL9W2ib2RCLJAFq1vvGmQsgAmwwrOfDaO-lihpu50CNUW-Jo4lgzdqS/s274/Hanukkah.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="274" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6DWT8QuiamzN407lzQW_-vJnbatnPr-6WnArlooTVglCWQ69J0MKGpvt9feu5H-hxGw1IoYFg5BRHv0hrbI4TyXL9W2ib2RCLJAFq1vvGmQsgAmwwrOfDaO-lihpu50CNUW-Jo4lgzdqS/s0/Hanukkah.jpg" width="274" /></a></div>Many Christians think Hanukkah is the Jewish version of Christmas. Which of course is not the case. It is a uniquely Jewish celebration rooted in the story of the Maccabees and their success in regaining the Temple after it had been desecrated by Antiochus Epiphanes and his troops in the second century BCE. The observance of the eight-<br />day festival includes the well-known lighting of eight candles, one for each night of the festivities, and the recounting of the lovely story of lamp oil that lasted just long enough. <p></p><p>At root, though Hanukkah is all about religious freedom, and the importance of preserving it. A value to which any person of faith can ascribe. And, for that matter, so long as religious freedom includes the right to practice no religion, any person period.</p><p>The great diversity of religious practices and traditions in our country is especially dear, and part of what makes America what it is today. Still, the lessons of Hanukkah are often missed, and there are those who insist all should believe as they do.</p><p>One of the things I most treasure about serving here at Sanibel Congregational United Church of Christ is the fact that we share our building, and various aspects of our life including at various time educational events, worship, travel and community outreach, with Bat Yam, Temple of the Islands. While we all openly acknowledge the ways in which we are different in beliefs and practices, we also strive to celebrate our commonalities. And because of religious liberty, we are free to do so.</p><p>Sunday, December 5, we will be joining together for a joint celebration, exploring together both Hanukkah and Christmas traditions with special music, readings by my colleague Rabbi Stephen Fuchs and myself, as well a the lighting of the Second Advent Candle and the Eighth Candle of Hanukkah. </p><p>Any who read this who are on Sanibel or nearby are welcome to join with us, Sunday, December 5, at 5:00 PM at our shared address: 2050 Periwinkle Way, Sanibel Florida. </p>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-80074050704675226072021-11-22T09:59:00.001-05:002021-11-22T09:59:10.957-05:00Why Did He Take a Gun Downtown?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKuzal0twmFZ0vmFiBkCTztKSgmh2-ilqqETaUgrE681G96VPVsaFnTI72bEOE116z6sW3BUc5yE1ZmgclqxRx1vCuLb6iEKlaFFVQhL8nVzC_ZUUbvkkJgYhvXRygqhXpAgc0WXvT4qCc/s300/Kenosha.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKuzal0twmFZ0vmFiBkCTztKSgmh2-ilqqETaUgrE681G96VPVsaFnTI72bEOE116z6sW3BUc5yE1ZmgclqxRx1vCuLb6iEKlaFFVQhL8nVzC_ZUUbvkkJgYhvXRygqhXpAgc0WXvT4qCc/s0/Kenosha.png" width="300" /></a></div><br />But why did he take an AR-15 style weapon downtown in the first place? That's my primary question as I reflect on the verdict in the Kyle Rittenhouse trial. When I was a kid my parents would say of certain actions on my part, "You're just asking for trouble." That seems to me to be the case here. Carrying such a weapon into the middle of a protest heavily monitored by the police was just asking for trouble. The defense argued he was being a good citizen, and was there to protect private property. But isn't that what we pay law enforcement to do? The last I knew Kenosha wasn't part of the Old West.<p></p><p>We are told it is very hard to argue against self-defense. And that may indeed be the case. And maybe his actions were in defense of his own safety. But if he was worried about staying safe, why was he there? Why didn't he stay home, out of harm's way?</p><p>Yes, we need to respect the jury's decision, though I can't help but think it might have gone differently had he been a 17-year-old black man. To their credit, the jury did appear to take their work seriously. There was no snap judgement. But still . . . why did he take a rifle downtown?</p><p>I continue to support the right to bear arms, but within limits. I do so in the hope that gun owners will use them wisely and well. Which is the case with many gunowners I know and respect. But I imagine most of them would have stayed home that fated day. Or gone to work, or school. But not downtown. After all, if Kyle Rittenhouse had done that--stayed home--or at least left his gun behind, Joseph Rosenbaum and Anthony Huber might still be alive, and Gaige Grosskreutz would have his whole arm.</p><p>Really, in the end, this isn't about gun rights. It's about commonsense. Which brings me back to my original question . . . why did he take an AR-15 style weapon downtown in the first place? Why?</p><p><br /></p>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-16224365410410521912021-11-15T16:53:00.003-05:002021-11-15T16:53:38.755-05:00Dad and Dancing Angels<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL9_1UXUkgp2e-L9zsa3MrrgQETfyYUvjwJH9KzfDfE6SdXHTD1EUVd3VlLBJQ9l5ximSzbrVXmbLqMI5FETYzRDSJBnkKqhxDdLKjLLQvS2epgPEFRSE5vXfbqOu3u0jAToomFDG5fkvn/s218/Angels+Dancing+on+the+Roof.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="218" data-original-width="145" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL9_1UXUkgp2e-L9zsa3MrrgQETfyYUvjwJH9KzfDfE6SdXHTD1EUVd3VlLBJQ9l5ximSzbrVXmbLqMI5FETYzRDSJBnkKqhxDdLKjLLQvS2epgPEFRSE5vXfbqOu3u0jAToomFDG5fkvn/s0/Angels+Dancing+on+the+Roof.jpg" width="145" /></a></div> A collection of my short stories has just come out. It's called <i>Angels Dancing on the Roof </i> and includes seasonal stories that I've written over several years. Most are Christmas stories, but I have included a Chanukah story as well.<p></p><p>I must say, seeing them is print is a bit of a thrill. I have had other things, liturgical materials and essays, published, but a whole book! Cool! </p><p>I will be doing some/readings/signings over the next month. Being seasonal literature there is a rather specific time frame for promoting it. But the spirit of the season, which I hope these varied tales reflect, can and should last throughout the year. I know that's a tad cliched, but who among us doesn't wish that, hope that? Only the most ardent misanthropes. I won't say Grinches or Scrooges because (spoiler alert) they both go through a dramatic conversion experience!</p><p>The book is dedicated to my Dad, one of the most ardent fans of the Dickens story about old Ebenezer and Tiny Tim. He would read it to us every Christmas, one stave (chapter) a week through Advent, culminating on Christmas Day with the fifth and final stave. The epigram on my dedication page, in fact, comes from Dickens. "It was always said of him, that he knew well how to keep Christmas, if any man possessed the knowledge."</p><p>I don't pretend to be in the same league as Charles Dickens. Not even in the same fictional universe! But I do hope I have captured some of that same sense of wonder and hope that he did. </p><p>If you'd like to check out the book for yourself, you can find it on Amazon, or locally, at McIntosh Books.</p><p><br /></p>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-84672558060592099272021-11-08T09:37:00.002-05:002021-11-08T09:37:33.747-05:00Why I Will Pray on Veterans Day<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEZQk3O3Fv2GF7BvRMxd-AM6hCJbmk7LGtmCJSGFVNUCrwD-Njksqw9rbTrNMs0Qdq8ZBh6YfaaSs6BCrHEp5VP1qJVVl7Lenu_ZLfPDquONwTzqqNXDD4KreLTrto4BqYJGjOS7lV7Dvk/s191/Poppies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="191" data-original-width="191" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEZQk3O3Fv2GF7BvRMxd-AM6hCJbmk7LGtmCJSGFVNUCrwD-Njksqw9rbTrNMs0Qdq8ZBh6YfaaSs6BCrHEp5VP1qJVVl7Lenu_ZLfPDquONwTzqqNXDD4KreLTrto4BqYJGjOS7lV7Dvk/s0/Poppies.jpg" width="191" /></a></div>I've been asked to pray at Sanibel's official Veteran's Day ceremony this year. I have done it before and have agreed to do it again. Not because I am a supporter of armed interventions or war. But rather because I am a supporter of veterans., which to some may seem an odd thing for a pacifist like myself to say. So let me explain.<p></p><p>First and foremost I respect the fact that veterans have sacrificed their individual interests in support of the larger good. To be willing to rise above one's own particular needs or interests in support of something greater than oneself is admirable. Would that more of us were willing to do that. So many of today's problems, ranging from pandemics to climate change, could be more effectively dealt with if we approached them in a selfless and united manner. Veterans have shown us how that can be done.</p><p>Secondly, I find it appalling that we have asked men and women to sacrifice a portion of their lives, to even risk their lives, and then have left them without the support they need to reintegrate into society and recover from their physical, emotional and spiritual injuries. That so many vets are homeless, struggling with PSTD, coping with various addictions, is just plain unacceptable. We have asked them to serve on our behalf and come to our aid--we must come to their aid when they need our help.</p><p>So it is that I will pray. I will offer words of gratitude for the selflessness of veterans. I will pray for those who are sick and injured that we might help bring them healing and hope. I will pray for those who grieve the losses war inflicts. I will pray in the hopes that a day will come when there will be no <br />more need for people to become veterans. And I will pray for peace.</p><p> </p>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7873049202004173172.post-25292809324046260292021-11-01T13:15:00.000-04:002021-11-01T13:15:36.966-04:00Wheels for Wheels, 2021--Part II<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdjxTd8auSq6cKrvE-wRbGgciAqSr7YtAAT5-qBHx7wI_6_zQ-yueQe_boRH-APM5lUQMFaHe-eTTDAht4aU0jjgL77RYe1-pmBY0cA9o5YnwomS7PLjFEYmlhG24w1l8dCLoEz-VrkDry/s640/Wheels+for+Wheels+Logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="543" data-original-width="640" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdjxTd8auSq6cKrvE-wRbGgciAqSr7YtAAT5-qBHx7wI_6_zQ-yueQe_boRH-APM5lUQMFaHe-eTTDAht4aU0jjgL77RYe1-pmBY0cA9o5YnwomS7PLjFEYmlhG24w1l8dCLoEz-VrkDry/s320/Wheels+for+Wheels+Logo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Saturday, as I rode sixty-eight miles on my bike as part of the Howards S. Danner Jr., Wheels for Wheels Cycling Challenge (raising funds for wheelchairs) I was joined by two friends for most of the ride. And, near the end of the ride, gathered with many fellow Rotarians and others, to celebrate their rides and their support of the effort which led to our success our success (we have raised as of this writing over $25,000 dollars!)<p></p><p>It was a good day. It felt good to get some serious exercise. It felt good to spend time with people whose company I enjoy. It felt good to be working for a great cause. And there were also lessons to be learned along the way!</p><p>We started the ride before dawn. We had a lot of miles to cover, and we hoped to make the gathering at 11:00 AM. That meant we rode in the dark, for over an hour. And to do so safely, we had to take special precautions: lights on our bikes, reflective clothing, and so on. It was important for us to see the road, and it was important for drivers to see us! How often we forget that on any journey having light to show us where to go is vital!</p><p>A good portion of the ride we were heading into the wind--which slowed us down quite a bit. But then on the return, we had a tailwind and though rather tuckered out at that point (we were already firty-five miles or so into the ride) we were able to make up some lost time! I was reminded that whenever you face into the wind someone else is being carried along by it. Sometimes literally, but more often metaphorically. I was also reminded that often in life, the headwinds come first, and then the tailwinds. The work precedes the reward.</p><p>We also had to deal with rain. In fact early in the ride, we got caught in a heavy downpour. It didn't last long, and when it abated there was a lovely rainbow. And towels. We were very near one of my friends homes, and so we stopped, and took a few minutes to dry off (a bit--my shoes remained soggy for the rest of the ride!) Have you ever noticed despite all the rainbow clichés, they never grow old? Such a persistent symbol of hope! And friend with a fresh towel? Priceless!</p><p>When we were all done, the shoulders and necks and legs were all sore, but the good kind of sore that says, you did something today that was worth doing. And so it was. Along with the other riders, our bicycle wheels will make it possible for two-hundred<br /> and fifty folks to get wheelchair wheels, seats and all!</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>John H. Dannerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17493740912042960521noreply@blogger.com0