Remembering Robert Dean Day

Most of the time our full Christian names are used in ceremonies and legal work.

You were first known to me as Bobby Day. And I probably first met you in first grade. Sure, you were in Kindergarten class, but in those ancient early 1980s, there was still Morning Kindergarten and Afternoon Kindergarten at Bement School District No. 5. Morning was for "townies" and Afternoon was for "country." I was one of those "townies" and you were one of those "country."

I'm sure if I could track down all of the class group photographs through our Elementary and Middle School years I would remember when we had the same grade school or middle school teachers. I know we shared many field trips.

Even in those early years, I can recall you being between our emerging class athletes and our emerging scholars. Sure, there was a little scholarship among the athletes as there was a little athletic prowess among the scholars. You didn't shun either, and seem to move freely between both worlds, often laughing and sharing those invaluable tokens of friendship that seem to radiate from your positive, if a little shy, developing personality.

Whatever you seem to focus upon, you did well. No, some academic subjects were not your best, but no one would doubt your tenacity in trying. Some excelled while others struggled. You may have barely crossed it, but you finished all the same.

As those children of the eighties became the awkward young adults of the early nineties, you changed from Bobby to Bob. The event that I will always recall involving you and I in those early adulthood days was both of us struggling a bit in Mr. Hensley's biology class Freshman year. And so we agreed to cheat. I would allow just enough of my test answers to show and you would somehow arrive at the same answers.

But having the exact same answers gave away our cheating conspiracy. We were both summoned into Mr. Hensley's office in the Chemistry lab and were informed that the next time we planned to do that, one of us should at least change one of our answers so they would not be exactly the same.

And we never cheated in science classes again.

Our 1994 Bement High School yearbook makes a good gateway back to those memories long forgotten. Of course my high school activities centered around music; your activities were athletics. But if Bement High School had a Future Farmers of America chapter in the early 1990s, there would be no doubt in anyone's mind who would be involved. You. That calling into agriculture was present early and impossible for you to resist.

Being fellow classmates in a small town school forms unbreakable bonds of friendship. We completed our studies together, and each moved into other chapters, other places to start new life, form new relationships, find loving partners, and raise our own children. Many of those small town values of faith, community service, and helping others remain as markers of our identity. Your legacy is a rich tapestry of those values loved and lived.

In the busyness of life, we often believe that we will always have time to reconnect, to reminisce, and perhaps naively, live long into our healthy, seeming invincible lives.

But mortality has already brushed near to our 1994 class. Strokes and heart attacks have touched a few of our classmates, me included

And then came the tragic news of you passing from us. Suddenly the fragile nature of life came into our everyday, seemingly invincible middle ages.We knew someday the common fate of all living things would begin its painful harvest. We did not know that you would be the first to cross the threshold of eternity.

We were all given a special person to share our lives with in just forty-one years.

We are shocked, upset, angry, and grieving at your passing from our lives.

We will feel your absence every time we gather again as the Bement High School Class of 1994.

There will be that empty chair, that silence where there used to be the sounds of your contagious laughter and gregarious personality.

We will keep vigil and share our stories of you and our love with your grieving widow Kristina and your beloved son Lukus Dean.

Bobby, Bob, Robert Dean Day, you will be carried in our hearts, in our thoughts, until each of us cross the threshold.

And when we do, I know the first sound we will each hear.

The sound of your laugh.

Twenty-five Years Later

Richard Wayne Butterick, graduation 1963

"You left, just as you were becoming interesting."
Sunday, May 12, 1991, my own personal day of infamy. My childhood was suddenly, and in a sense deliberately attacked, by a combination of forces and powers that have had a long history in my family tree. Your heart, from birth given a murmur, and unknown to us at the time, already suffering from previous cardiovascular "incidents," stopped its work. You apparently suffered very little in the end, but those who have survived these last twenty-five years have suffered the unreachable separation created in a moment one early Sunday morning.

You were only 46 years old.
Mom was 35.
Brian was 23.
I was 15.
Nathan was 12, turning 13 in just 3 days.
Our lives had only just begun their journey from childhood into adulthood. And now my adulthood has its own birthday: May 12, 1991.

Standing shell-shocked in the sanctuary of First Christian Church of Bement as both Nathan's and my own classmates visited. Emotionally numb sitting next to Mom at your graveside. Forever altering how I respond to the Mother's Day holiday, since it was on Sunday, May 12, 1991. Casting a long shadow on Nathan's birthday, even though Mom was careful to not have any of your funeral or graveside service on the day.

Each significant event to come into our lives had a felt absence. Learning to drive your beloved 1991 Ford Ranger truck with its stick shift. Graduating high school. You would probably be happy to see the son who wanted to be an attorney on May 11, 1991 transformed his career path towards music instead, keeping up the talent you were so proud to watch and grow. And then into ministry, which at an early age you also explored as a possible career, but hesitated when you thought about the necessity of speaking in public and at funerals.

You loved each of your sons as the individuals they were, and never had a favorite one. Each one of us were your favorite in our own way. Since your high school prophecy predicted a career in automobile repair, you would be delighted that Nathan has his own business doing something he loves; fixing automobiles. But he probably wouldn't be able to finish any jobs with you sitting or standing next to him while he worked! Brian acquired your love-hate talents in home repair and remodeling.

And you always desired a bit of the country as a place to live. Mom and Nathan live into that dream.

But these twenty five years without you have not been without unexpected blessings. Mom met a remarkable man to be another companion for her and a fatherly figure for your teenage and twenty-something sons. Norman Harpster was the best fit we could have asked for in a step father. He never put himself into your shoes, because he knew he could never fill them anyway. He believed what you believed: each of your sons were a unique bundle of talent and skills, and he encouraged us to be whatever our talents and skills took us. I hope you two have already met and traded stories.

Richard Wayne Butterick, around 13 years old

Your fondness for redheads probably unduly influenced my preferences and I married one.
Both of your grandsons carry parts of your name as part of theirs.
Our musical tastes were greatly influenced by the massive record collection you took such joy in setting upon the turntable. And yes, we all have Roy Orbison in our own collections.

The same icy finger which stilled your heart at last has touched one of your son's hearts. It now has a lifetime injury upon it, but it still beats. There are much better outcomes in cardiovascular health and treatment than in 1991. And I benefited from these improvements.

Each of us catches a glimpse of you in our bathroom mirrors every day. There are certain behaviors, both good and bad, that are clearly drawn from you as their source. Sometimes we are consciously aware of your presence, other times we subconsciously respond.

And as long as each one of your survivors live, share your stories, share our memories of you, in a sense, you never leave us. We still talk to you from time to time. There are times when I find myself repeating my first written sentence to you: IMADATYOUDAD. Our day of mortality is yet concealed from us, when we will also separate our life from living on this blessed earthly home. I only hope that my custody of your rich legacy has been adequate, and passes into the third, fourth, fifth generation of those who will forever claim you as their common ancestor.

And you are still proud of your widow and your sons.

Building Site - 1 Corinthians 3:10-23

We move to another metaphor this week: God’s building. Not only God’s building, but God’s temple. From babies, to field, and now to the holiest of places. Paul places his work at Corinth as a wise master builder, setting a foundation based on the cross of Christ. The foundation was crafted by Christ crucified, the edifice built above the foundation will be crafted by the giftedness of leadership and the shared life of the community, bringing both wood and precious stone, straw and gold, hay and silver. Some parts of the structure will be refined by the cleansing fire of Judgment Day. Some parts will stand tall in the midst of those very fires.

A temple in those days was more than a building. It was a place where whatever god it was dedicated for was thought to live. It was a place where those who wanted to declare their trust and offer their best gifts shared in the rituals and life of the god.

We may think of ourselves as more advanced in our knowledge of the physical world than our ancient ancestors. Yet, we still love beautiful and pleasing buildings, spending energy and resources into all kinds of institutions. We are also turf conscious. The structures we build also include fences, storage and space. Oftentimes structures can divide and separate. Fences cordon off our land from our neighbors, and often are called “good neighbors.” We build larger barns and bigger bedrooms to give us a sense of security. The size of our city lots has become larger in order to keep strangers at a distance.

All of these fences, large residences, and acres of open space between neighbors prohibit us from venturing out, taking risks, or breaking away from our self-built mausoleums of self-interest better known as comfort zones. Rather than build relationships, we build empires. Instead of living in faith, we find more reasons and arguments to live in fear; afraid to meet new people, resisting opportunities that stretch us, and living in our own little worlds that we have created, thus forgetting the source of everything.

To truly be the church where the Spirit of God is in our midst we have to take some risks and not be consumed with being successful. Paul wanted his listeners to realize that everyone has talent and their talents need to be included in the building of the church.

It should come to us as comforting words that Paul draws Corinth from babies, these fighting members within the church that are yet still the very place where the Spirit of God lives, God’s temple.

I sometimes wish that all the you’s in the Bible would be clearer in meaning. Sometimes you means you only, as in not me. Other times you means you all, or you plural. When Paul writes “Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in you?,” he is referring to you-all, the people of God, the community of faith, the congregation of Corinth. Paul uses this again in chapter 6, and often it is that later passage that is quoted to talk about taking care of your physical body by avoiding alcohol, tobacco, and other “sins.” In the shared life of the community, God lives.

Think about it. In the shared life of our community here at Prairie Avenue, God lives. Whenever we treat each other poorly, God lives. Whenever we share with our neighbors, God lives. In whatever we do, in whatever circumstances we confront, God lives, moves, and reside in our shared life. Our community is more than the building surrounding us, protecting us from real physical threats, whether heat, cold, wind, or water. Our building is not the temple of God; we are. And if the temple of God is found wherever there are a faithful people, God’s presence can be found anywhere. It is that presence alone that gives life to the church.

We are building a temple of God at this place. We bring both perishable and imperishable materials. We can only offer ourselves, both good and bad.  Often we also bring our own barriers and obstructions to the building site, gating off our time, talents, and treasure from being used, or, allowing usage only according to our preferences. For Corinth, their divisions over preferred leaders was actually tearing God’s temple down, halting the construction work of any leader and prohibiting their materials from being used.  Is the construction work of God’s temple at Prairie Avenue suffering from the same work stoppage? Are you stopping God’s work in your life, barricading certain aspects of your lifestyle and living for your own selfish desires? How many fences, storage units, and wide spaces are you using to separate yourself from the will of God?

There are some things we do today that will not stand the test of time, or the fires of judgment. Hopefully we come to realize what things do not ultimately matter nor help spread the good news of God’s grace to everyone and remove it.  

Too often we revere furnishings in a church parlor more than our own members needs.

Too often we are more concerned about our fragile reputations and egos than sharing the good news with someone with a checkered past.

Too often we look longingly into a misremembered past instead of responding to the present needs around us.

Too often we are already pre-approving of God’s disapproval of others not like ourselves, and pre-approving God’s approval with our own flawed character and sinful nature.

The building materials of judgment, intolerance, holier-than-thou, us against them, reputation and bloated self-importance cannot be build on a foundation placed on the truth of Christ crucified.

Let us gather instead the ability to respect and value all persons, regardless of reputation and status, and love them as much as Jesus Christ already has loved them.

Let us not be the probation officers of God’s laws and rules, but rather see any sin as forces opposing God’s will and intent and do all things possible to lift someone out of the living hell they may already experience each and every day.

If we commit ourselves to building our lives on the foundation of Jesus Christ, we cannot fail. If we refuse to provide the necessary time, talents, and treasure to build ourselves and others on this foundation, we will fail. Whatever fences, secured storage, or measured space we withhold from God will ultimately be taken from us and given to another in God’s realm of justice and righteousness.

The building site is ready for construction. Are you ready to build lives for God? Bring the best materials you can to the construction site. Stop halting the work of God in self-serving ways. Let us build together a community of faith in Jesus Christ in such a way that all who look upon our lives and living may declare, “I was glad when they said to me let us go to the house of the Lord.”

Requiem & Epilogue for a Home

On the morning of January 13, 2015, my childhood home was destroyed by fire. The aftermath was pretty shocking. Rooms full of memories reduced to burnt timber and open sky. Loving shelter now open to the elements of nature. For 23 years, this was the memorized address, phone number, and identity of "home" I would have. From learning to bicycle on the back yard sidewalk, to venturing around the "hometown" as a growing teenager, to finally commuting to college mostly from my still vibrant revolutionary war soldier wallpapered bedroom with star curtains gradually changing to blinds and solid valances, my life revolved around a small speck in a Central Illinois village until I moved out as an adult.

It is an odd coincidence that in the midst of hearing my childhood home being destroyed, that I also heard my Grandmother's (and even my Great-Grandparents) home had been demolished in the little village in southern Illinois where generations of my family were born, nurtured, died, and buried. Again, it was not something destined to be a landmark to tourists. But it was a landmark to our family story.

Funny how such places can, in a sense, live with you even after your daily life has settled elsewhere. In my mind's eye, I can recall the various pieces of furniture my parents bought and sold and their locations within walls now damaged, probably irrevocably, by fire. I can recall the black telephone that sat on an end table in my grandparent's house, the staircase in their dining room, and the way the curtains flapped against the cabinets in the kitchen when caught by a warm Southern Illinois breeze.

Physically, they have vanished. The timbers, plaster, vinyl floors, and berber carpets are gone.

I said goodbye to both houses years ago. My grandmother left her house for a nursing home not long after I began college. My mother sold the fondly remembered Butterick Homestead in 2004, but I had already moved into my own home in 1999.

But now I cannot go back "home" ever again. My grandparent's town, with its stores, even a bank, gas station, was already fading away in the 1950s, as better opportunities grew in larger towns a few more miles away. My hometown seems to change a little slower, but still changes nonetheless. I can still stand in the high school, walk the elementary school hallways. But I know the school district has fewer students than when I attended. Nostalgia is casting its polish over the cherished childhood memories and story.

Many of my friends will recall fondly the neighborhood parties my parents hosted at their home. Many of my cousins will recall visiting our home and wandering the streets and parks of Bement. I knew that my family had arrived in the pantheon of small town citizens when someone referred to the fire location as "the old Butterick house."

Cast a set of good memories, stories, struggles, and celebrations where you live. Take them with you whenever you leave. Let nostalgia tickle your soul a little. It is in those things that one can truly always find a way to home, again.

Developing Healthy Hearts

Create in me a clean heart, O God. Psalm 51:10
Not surprisingly, I have sustaining interest in heart health. Healthy eating, lifestyle changes, and medications have become a lasting part of my daily routine. As we turn our 2014 calendar to the month of February, there is always a resumption of cultural interest involving hearts.

Marcus Borg, in his book The Heart of Christianity: Rediscovering A Life of Faith, explores the many metaphors associated with the heart, especially “closed” versus “open” in the Bible. The
Bible also describes the heart as “fat,” “proud,” and “made of stone.” Each metaphor seems to describe a condition, or a way of being that you may have noticed in yourself or in others.

When our hearts are closed, other senses suffer, like sight and hearing. Self-centered hearts neither see nor hear very well.

Closed hearts also can affect the mind. We tend to believe our own deceptions. This is always easier
to recognize in others than in ourselves. But our lack of understanding and a darkened mind result
quickly from a closed heart.
Remember the story of the Exodus? What did God do to Pharaoh’s heart? It was hardened and
Pharaoh refused to set the Hebrews free. Many times Pharaoh can live very well within us, enslaving us to seek only the desires of our own hearts.

Closed hearts lack gratitude. When blessed by success, closed heart persons often feel self-made and entitled; when life seems to be tragic, feelings of bitterness and “being cheated” reign.

Wonder and awe seems to disappear from the world when our hearts are closed.

Closed hearts forget God easily. We lose connection with the source of life and being.

A closed heart almost always seeks exile. Already self-preoccupied and turned inward, it
disconnects from a larger reality.

Closed hearts lack compassion. Often in the Bible, compassion is seen as the ability to feel the
feelings of another at a level lower than one’s head. It is a gut reaction to act in empathy and
respond. A closed heart can be charitable, but it does not feel the suffering of others.

Without compassion, the closed heart is insensitive to injustice.
There is not just one measure of hardness in a heart. Much like the examination of arteries for
blockages, there can be a spectrum of hardness. Severely hard hearts are likely to associated with
violence, brutality, arrogance, and a rapacious, world-devouring greed. The milder forms of these
conditions are judgmentalism, insensitivity, self-centeredness, and even ordinary (and seemingly benign) self-interest.

Throughout a given day, I know I have experienced both open and closed and in between
conditions of the heart. Life can throw so many curve balls and unexpected grief or joy in just a
single afternoon on a random Tuesday.

Perhaps some time of self-examination is needed to evaluate the condition of your spiritual
heart. It may not be as advanced as modern medical cardiology, but in this month of hearts,
maybe a review would help diagnose a spiritual illness from a closed heart condition.

Review your senses. Are you truly seeing and hearing? Do you take the self-talk of yourself at
face value, like an endless feedback loop?

Do you lack gratitude, but excel in entitlement?

Is life just ordinary, with no wonder or awe?

Do you remember God daily?

Have you withdrawn from much of your life?

Do you have trouble seeing the suffering of others around you?

It will take more than Aspirin, beta-blockers, or statins to cure a closed spiritual heart. Some may find relief and treatment in a community of faith like a church, synagogue, or other religious affiliation. Others may find it a study or accountability group.

The Cosmic Significance or Amazing Coincidence of May 17 in My Life

"It could mean that that point in time inherently contains some sort of cosmic significance. Almost as if it were the temporal junction point for the entire space-time continuum. On the other hand, it could just be an amazing coincidence."- Dr. Emmett Brown, Back to the Future II

May 17 comes and goes every year. But for me, it seems to have either cosmic significance or amazing coincidence in turning points in my life.

My first kiss was delivered by someone whose birthday is May 17.
My first college graduation was held on May 17.
My Masters of Divinity Degree from Christian Theological Seminary was presented to me on May 17, ten years after my first college degree, almost to the exact hour!
Our family friend contractor also has a birthday on... you guess it, May 17.
Several of my dear friends celebrate their birthday with my family friend contractor... May 17.

I take a wary eye towards May 17, 2018... is an unknown doctorate to be presented on that future date?  It happens to be a Thursday...

For me, the jury is out on my temporal junction point for the entire space-time continuum or an amazing coincidence...

God, Churches, and Nash Metropolitans

Many of you are aware of my love affair with a piece of Anglo-American engineering from the

1950s. In our single car garage rests our 1959 Nash Metropolitan, a guaranteed head-turner of

automobile history.
 

The Metropolitan was developed by Nash in the post World War II era as the first compact car

to be marketed as a second car for suburban housewives. While father went to work in the
family Nash Ambassador, mother would be able to pick up small children, groceries, etc. during the
day in a second vehicle that would average 35 mpg, literally pennies per gallon (back when fuelcosts were at most 17¢).

Metropolitans remained part of the line-up after the merger between Nash and Hudson to
form American Motors Company (with George Romney as president), and were designed by an
American, William Flajole, built in Longbridge, England (where Austins and MGs were already
made), and imported for the showroom price of $1495. They were built between 1954-1961, before
Romney eliminated the line for the more popular and profitable Rambler.

There is much to love about owning a Metropolitan. It is a guaranteed car show crowd

pleaser. When I picked up our vehicle from a high ridge in Missouri and my brother was towing it
home, he was amazed at the numbers of car horns, women waving and guys giving thumbs up to a car best described as what happens when a Bel-Air and a bathtub get together. Its z stripe division of paint, continental spare tire on the rear, and sparse interior gives major points to its "cute" appeal.

There is much to hate about owning a Metropolitan. It has a British engine, which
guarantees oil leakage. No power steering, so turning is like docking the Titanic. Wiring was by
Lucas, also known as Prince of Darkness for its odd electrical faults. Original wiring system includes a
generator and a positive-ground system. Its braking system is a single cylinder, drum brakes. Metropolitans hate cold weather to start in, and with Illinois winters can be expected to demand winter quarters for several weeks. Early models (before 1959) did not have access to the rear trunk except through the rear bench "seat," which has limited head room to begin with for accommodating more than three passengers.

I wonder if my Nash Metropolitan is like how people outside the church view God and churches.

They think of God and church as relics of a by-gone era. Some concepts of God seem as quaint as a
1950s car: nice to look at but I would not want to live that way. Some concepts of church may feel
that way, as many congregations strain resources in trying to keep a 1950s General Motors style of
governance running. What current industry leader still divides the work among "functional" committees, with chair persons (only recently updated from chairman in the previously mimeographed copies of constitutions and by-laws).

Some people do seem to even attend church as if it was a vintage car show. Come see the

Christmas service for a flashback to nostalgia! Join Grandma, or Grandpa for the Easter Sunday
service, singing the same hymns as you did when you were a child!

I do not believe that either church or God are relics of a by-gone era. Metropolitans may have
had their time on America’s roadways, but it does not mean that transportation is no longer needed. The same is true with the church. In a world hungry for meaning, and purpose, the gospel of Jesus Christ still leads each of us forward. Maybe door-to-door distribution of salvation materials are like tailfins added to a Toyota Prius, but sharing your faith struggles is still a powerful stimulus to others.

Maybe the church is guilty of “selling” Nash Metropolitans versions of God and church in a

Toyota Prius world. We are answering questions that no one even asks anymore. We are
questioning things that no one even questions now. In this season of Easter, may we be reminded
that God is living with, for, and calling us ahead to be not relics but living examples of God's love for all