Blow the dandelion

In my time, I’ve made a lot of wishes. I’ve wished on pennies and nickels before tossing them into a fountain or placing the coins on the super-fast, spinny thing one finds at Malls --- you know the thing that goes down into a funnel and the closer the coins come to the bottom, the faster they spin. I’ve wished on a shooting star, birthday candles, my Terrible Towel, my Pirates hat turned inside out rally cap and the Roberto Clemente statue in front of PNC Park.

Like any good wisher, I tell no one my wishes.

That’s why I was so shocked recently by the what and the how of the wishes made by some kids by the shore of the Allegheny River. Two boys and a girl, accompanied by their mother, came waking up, set down their bags and the girl and one of the boys each removed from their bag a baseball. These were the real deal, leather-made, 108 stitches baseballs.

The boy pronounced he was going to make his wish, grabbed the baseball, threw it into the river and exclaimed, “I wish I would die before my sister!”

To be honest, I don’t know what winded me more, the wish from this five or six year old boy, or the fact that he willingly threw a perfectly good baseball into the river. After a minute or two his mother asked, “Why did you wish that?” I was waiting for the follow-up question of why would you throw your baseball into the river? The first question went unanswered and the second was never asked.

At this point, the sister, baseball in hand, threw hers into the river exclaiming, “I want to become rich!”

No profession of care for her brother, she wanted money.

As I watched the baseballs floating up the Allegheny River (they were headed toward PNC Park so maybe there was some good juju there), the boy exclaimed, “I’m going to wish on my shorts because I’m going to throw them into the river!” That was quickly followed by, “I’m going to wish on my underwear because I’m going to throw them into the river!”

NOTE: All parties remained clothed and no further active wishing ensued.

A couple of observations, clearly there was no treasuring of the baseballs that were so quickly and without a second thought tossed into the river. When wishing at a fountain, one throws in pennies, maybe a nickel or dime, the occasional quarter --- one does not toss an Indian-Head nickel into the wish fountain. Were the children just wanting to toss something into the river? Why not a rock or skipping stone? A stick? Did someone tell them that wishing on a baseball granted the wish?

We tend to believe in the power of wishes. There’s a significant amount of coinage in the wish fountains; statues of our heroes and heroines have evidence of folks rubbing said statue’s nose or hand or bat or sword or gun (why are our statues so laden with phallic imagery?) as the case may be; who knows the pleas or hopes shared.

Wishes are serious business. There are certain rules established and followed with precision: toss the coin over your left shoulder, blow out all the candles, tell no one what you wished for.

One of the most supported and positive charitable programs is the “Make A Wish” foundation. It’s a tangible way to do something for someone in need, to bring a little light, some happiness when the illness or the tragedy leave us unmoored in their randomness.

No matter our age, we are a people who make wishes. A wish is a spoken hope beginning to be acted upon. Keep wishing. All I ask is to use coins and candles and save the baseballs.

sj;

Pack one....

We’ve entered the warming season with a touch of humidity and as a woman remarked to me, “It’s hot out here….yet, after the winter we had, I’ll smack anyone who complains that it’s too hot!”

OK.

The warm weather and the sunshine are just more obvious hints that we are in summer and nearing the official start of this glorious season. Other more subtle hints are an abundance of sidewalk chalk art, the chirp of crickets, fresh strawberries waiting to be picked and people populating their porches.

Today, 18 June is National Picnic Day. The picnic as we know it today evolved from the more elegant moveable outdoor feasts enjoyed by society’s wealthy in previous centuries. Whether it’s a blanket and a hot dog in the park or a packed basket at the beach, picnics are for everyone and remain a delight.

My family has a rich picnic tradition. As a small child, I remember my mother filling a thermos with chocolate milk, making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, tossing in two apples placing it all in a brown bag and encouraging my sister to take her baby sister down the path to the pinewoods to share a picnic lunch.

My father loved to eat outdoors. He made a most impressive, large and weighty wooden picnic table, varnished it, set it up perfectly level and from around late May through late September the family ate dinner every day outside on the picnic table. My father even packed the back-pack, gathered the clan and we walked into the October woods on many a Sunday afternoon for a cook-out.

As previously noted in this blog, my mother was an amazing cook and she even excelled at exercising her culinary artistry cooking outside over a campfire. I'm talking a major meal of roast and potatoes and not just weenies on a stick.

On this National Picnic Day, celebrate a meal outside! Pack a lunch and eat it in the park or fire-up the charcoal and plan to grill dinner. In this season try and have at least one meal outside each day --- be it coffee and a donut on the front porch or a sandwich near the river or take-out in the park.

Get out!

sj;

Beggars looking for bread

I've heard someone define a community of faith as "beggars looking for bread and telling others where to find it." The image works for me. We are each looking for that which will nourish us, feed us, sustain us, strengthen us --- seems to me a community of faith is as good a place as any in which to find this.

The image of "beggars" humbles us and puts us on an even footing with our fellow beggars in the search for nourishment. If you've ever visited one of the old churches built circa 17th or 18th centuries one notes how high up is the pulpit. The preachers of the day towered above their trembling congregants as they preached down to them and often told of pending wrath. Not my style. Yet, I've preached in pulpits where I had to climb a few steps to enter and in pulpits where I was enclosed very uncomfortably and felt...well, trapped and caged.

I much prefer the "church in a round" style of design where everyone is on the same level and sits in a circle to be able to see one's neighbor and the pastor moves among the folks or, if going from notes, makes use of a small lectern placed in the center of the congregation. Often when beginning a new appointment a congregant would ask, "So, what do we call you?" "Sally is fine," I replied. More times than not the parishioner was a bit taken aback and stated, "No, I mean do you like Reverend or Pastor?" "I like Sally, that works for me." My favorite reference was from the kids who called me Rev Sal or from one parishioner who took great delight in calling me Padre.

It seems to me when one is part of a group about seeking nourishment and being fed, titles are quickly discarded...as they should be. I must confess, however, when in need of a perk, I do still, on occasion, drop the Reverend Snyder line....sigh.....

Why I like the metaphor is the implication that we are to be invested in one another and are to help one another, to help all the others....no exceptions. I who remain top of the list of persons least-likely to be ordained am in no position to question any one's calling. Yet, I do believe that being involved in ministry must have a prophetic foundation. The ultimate goal must not be about earning (as if we can) enough heaven points to make it in, the goal must be about active help, proactive compassion and shared labor for others. If I know where there is bread and tell only the folks like me or those whom I like and think are good enough and virtuous enough, then I have ceased to be a beggar helping my fellow beggars to be strengthened and have become a "bread baron" controlling and judging and ignoring persons still hungry and still searching.

We need to be asking why so many persons, and many of them in their 20's and 30's, find organized religion irrelevant and inconsequential. Perhaps we've grown complacent or we don't want to put in the work or listen to what they would tell us and then make the necessary...gasp!...change.

I was raised in a home where my grandmother and my mother baked home-made bread. One of the best things is that first slice of warm bread! I was raised in a home where when persons who were lost or hungry or impoverished would knock on our door they were welcomed in and a fresh pot of coffee was brewed and a loaf of bread and strawberry jam was placed on the table and shared.

Happy Pentecost.

sj;