A comment about Irish roads by one writer has proven accurate as Nancy and I have worked our way around the west coast of the country and back to Dublin. That comment is that Ireland has two kinds of roads—busy and deserted. I would add to that another word—bumpy. Having just completed a ring from Dublin to Clifden (far west point or the country) and back, I would agree. Driving on the left (some say the wrong) side of the road takes just a little getting used to, but the curves and bumps on the small roads or traffic on the larger are a continual adventure. And sometimes there is even traffic of a farming kind on the smallest roads...


After hunting down ancestral places, rocks and names, we headed towards the southwest of Ireland. That part of the country is dominated by three peninsulas, each of which has its own unique personality. Having already experienced the middle of the three and its main road, commonly called the Ring of Kerry, both by bicycle and car, Nancy and I agreed that we would not make a repeat visit. That route is one of the prime tourist routes on the island, and for good reason. Its beauty is legendary, but the crowds are also, and we decided that we could bypass both.



So we headed for the southernmost peninsula, Baera—and we were not disappointed. The roads out of Glengarriff, the gateway to this peninsula, were small and winding, but spectacular. The mountains that form the spine of the peninsula loomed on one side, while the glistening sea lay on the other. We passed through forests, rock-covered hillscapes, and small villages, with brightly painted houses

in general enjoying every minute. As the day moved towards late afternoon we rounded a curve and saw in front of us a small hotel nestled next to a small pier and facing the bay and the sea beyond. Bunaw looked like a perfect place to stop for the night, and we did and it was. The room rate was less than half of what we were accustomed to paying, but what we were given in site and experience was much more than we had received before.


The only activities were walking and cycling, and, although the weather was threatening, Nancy and I did both. I cycled up Healy Pass, the high point on the peninsula, finding the panorama from the top amazingly beautiful. The wind from the sea was strong, and walking on the pier exhilarating. And to top it off, as we were having late afternoon tea in the hotel bar, we met a delightful couple who were cycling in the area. The husband was writing a book about life in a village in Mayo County, Ireland, and we carried on quite a conversation—one joined in on by a local taxi driver who was eager to tell us about both the area we were staying in and his recent commitment to Christ.

At the suggestion of the couple we had met, Nancy and I drove around the corner to a lakeside pub/restaurant for dinner. The food was good, but the highlight was the owner who was more than happy to tell us anything we wanted to know. On the wall was a photograph of an elderly gentleman carrying long oars, and we asked about him. Seems that he was a boatsman when boats could be hired (rented) on the adjoining lake, and he was carrying the oars for his boat to his house. He could have left them with the pub owner, but would not trust anyone to properly care for his precious cargo. We asked if boats were still for hire, and the pub owner answered no. He said the boats were there but that some time ago the pay for boatsmen had sunk so low (25 pounds for half a day, plus lunch and drink) that no one would do take the jobs. He also added that tourism itself had been sinking over the past several years, primarily due to increased accessibility of other (and sunny) places thanks to the proliferation of low-fare airlines.


The next morning we left our find behind and, with a stop at a nearby glorious waterfall and park, with ancient standing stones, headed towards the northernmost peninsula, a place with a conflict about name that is a story in itself. Next time I will fill you in on that story. But the lesson for this time is simple, Psalm 102:25, In the beginning you laid the foundations of the earth, and the heavens are the work of your hands.

On Monday Nancy and I began a week-plus tour of Ireland. My agreement with Adelaide Road Presbyterian Church was to preach 8 out of the 9 Sundays between July 1 and September 2, and the 29th of July is the one I will not be filling—so we have taken the time to see the country. At first we were thinking of flying to some exotic (and probably sunny) location outside of Ireland, as air fares in Europe are sometimes incredibly cheap, but we changed our minds. We decided to rent a car and drive to Irish places we have never seen, and with ten days there is time to do much of that on this relatively small island.

Our general route has been south from Dublin and then west—we will finish the trip by an eastward return to Dublin. The first day we traveled over small roads and ended up in a place called Clonmel, which is on the Suir River several miles west of the south coastal town of Waterford. We had never heard of the place, but found it to be delightful. Our hotel faced the river and the mountains, which meant both a beautiful sunset and a cheerful morning. The predicted rains did not materialize, so in the late afternoon I was even able to enjoy several miles of quiet country lanes from the seat of my bicycle.

The next day was a day of surprises. Early on in our time in Ireland Nancy had received two emails from one of her sisters reminding her that the ancestral homeland of one of their most prestigious relatives, Thomas Condon, was in Ireland and near where we were now traveling. Thomas was born in a small stonecutter’s home in Ireland but emigrated to the United States. He went west as a pioneer Congregational missionary, became a noted geologist and discovered of the famous John Day Fossil Beds. He was a founding faculty member of the University of Oregon, father of the first woman graduate of that university, and today buildings at both the University of Oregon and Oregon State University bear his name.

The information provided about the location of the Condons’ ancestral home by Nancy’s sister was somewhat contradictory, but it also reminded us that while reduced to poverty over the centuries by the vagaries of Irish political and religious history, the Condons had entered the country as part of the extended Norman invasion and for hundreds of years had been important and wealthy landowners in the area. This meant that physical remains of their holdings could still be around. So—the hunt was on.
First we went to an angler’s shop in Fermoy where we inquired about the whereabouts of a town that we knew no longer existed. The proprietor’s curiosity was raised and after two phone calls to relatives the general location of the homelands of the Condons and Roches (maiden name of Thomas Condon’s mother) was located. We next drove to that town and learned that the Condons and Roches had indeed lived in the area, and in fact the castle at the foot of the hill was probably one of the many built and owned centuries ago by the Roche family. We also learned that we could get more information from the Information Center of a town just 8 miles away.


So, after lunch in the café at the foot of the above mentioned castle we headed off for the next town, arriving at the Center we had been told to find just as a man was entering it. This particular gentleman actually knew little, but he did direct us to the local pharmacy with instructions to talk to Eileen, who he said knew more about the history of the area than anyone else in town. That we did, and it was true. Eileen was able to fill in some family details and give us a short history of the general events that would have led to Thomas’ emigration. She also directed us to the owner of a small shop in another village, one near a castle which was now only a ruin but that had certainly been built by the Condons as their family center centuries ago.


With that information, and duly noting that the local convenience store bore the name Roche and the local drapery/toy store the name Condon, our journey continued to


Mr. O’Sullivan at the small shop in Kilworth. There we learned from him that we had found what we were looking for—the ancestral Condon castle. It was not accessible as it was in the middle of a private gated field, but it was there—a new name but the right assemblage of stones. So off we drove, down the lane and into the field—not close enough to touch but close enough to photograph the single remaining tower of what 800 years before had been a grand edifice.


At the end of the day we had been at the homelands of the Condons and the Roches. We had seen castles owned by each of them. We had seen physical evidence that the lines still went on in the place Thomas had left behind 160 years ago. An interesting saga, and one which not only connected us with our roots, something the ancient Hebrews knew was significant, but which also reinforced the wisdom of our choice to stay on the island of Ireland for these few days…

But that is just the start. More about this journey to come.

Today marks the fourth Sunday I have had the privilege of preaching at Adelaide Road Presbyterian Church in Dublin Ireland. I have chosen to share messages from one of my favorite books while here, the letter of Paul to the Philippians, and the study guides for these messages are being posted on the web site of the church, www.adelaideroadchurch.org. If you are interested, feel free to log on and take a look.
The past week began with a visit to some interesting sites around Dublin, in the company of friends from Lisburn who had shown up for worship at Adelaide Road. It was great to see them, and to spend the next day with them in the Wicklow Mountains, just south of Dublin proper. The word mountains is a little deceptive from the point of view of the mountains we knew in the Seattle area, but when I ascend the winding road through them on my bicycle I know why they bear that name. In the space of only a few miles the road rises above the tree line to Highland-like countryside and vast panoramas of the world below open up beneath.



Our most interesting stop on this trip was at Glendalough, a place of both natural and historical beauty. Glendalough gets its name from the Irish phrase Gleann dá locha, which literally means the ‘Glen of the two lakes’. Situated in the heart of the Wicklow Mountains, and designated as a National Park, it is one of the most visited locations in Ireland. People like us go there to enjoy the lakes and surrounding forests, and also to visit one of the most important sites of monastic ruins in Ireland, an ecclesiastical village known as The City of the Seven Churches.


The story behind this city centers around a 6th century monk named St. Kevin who, in a desire to get away from worldly distractions made his way to the Glendalough Valley, at the time a desolate and remote site. The saint’s piety and devotion attracted others and soon a monastic community grew up around him. St. Kevin died in 617 AD (supposedly at the age of 120), but the community continued for the next 500 years (Ireland's Golden Age) as one of the country’s greatest ecclesiastical foundations and places of learning. The Danes who were based in Dublin regularly attacked and burned the city, but it continued to prosper until the 13th century when the Normans destroyed the monastery and placed the area under the jurisdiction of Dublin. The buildings fell into decay and more than 600 years elapsed before a reconstruction program was started in 1878. Further work was carried out in the 20th century.


At Glendalough several ecclesiastical buildings from the 6th century survive, including one of the oldest high towers in the country. These uniquely Irish architectural features puzzle current scholars, who are not certain what they were used for. Some say they were for storage, others for a place of safety during a raid, and others to lead the pilgrims’ way to the holy place. In any case the whole site is impressive, and the glimpse into an important part of religious history is fascinating. If you want to know more about this history I recommend reading How the Irish Saved Civilization, by Thomas Cahill. It is not only interesting and informative, but also very readable.
On Thursday Nancy and I went north to Northern Island (part of the UK) and visited several friends who we knew from our time in Lisburn, including the Bruce clan. Years ago a number of us from Calvin combined cycling and missions and helped in a seaside youth club at Cranfield, south of Dublin on the border with the Republic. David Bruce was the speaker for the morning this past Friday at the same camp, so Nancy and I went there. It was good to see the work continuing, and to reconnect with some of the team I knew from our time years ago. On the way to the camp, just outside Cranfield and up the road a few miles, we passed the place where CS Lewis spent many childhood summers, and the hill which he immortalized as the site of the castle from which the kings and queens of Narnia ruled, Cair Paravel.


So, all in all it was a very full and interesting week. And it was bookended by a Sunday the 15th visit to a summer mission at Greystone (a town on the coast south of Dublin) which has been held there for the past 111 years…And a Sunday the 22nd Irish picnic—complete with a barbeque sheltered by umbrellas to keep the driving rain away.


Living here is a privilege and a gift, and Nancy and I thank God for it. We are in a position to learn from the people here today, and from those who were here over a thousand years before our nation was begun. And those two forces—the present and the legacy—are important for us to know and learn from. And I guess such is the case wherever we are and whoever we are.

I can’t remember when I saw the Aran Islands on a map for the first time, but I do remember that their draw was magnetic. Maybe it is because I like the far-distant places, the corners, the edges—for no explicable reason except perhaps because they are there. And the Aran Islands are that kind of place. Only a few miles from the mainland of Ireland, but unconnected to it, they jut out into the Atlantic, leaving nothing but water between their western shores and North America. That position makes them susceptible to the harshness of winds, surf and rain, and the barren rock that they are made of leaves no place for forests or fields—but that just makes them attractive to me.

Several times, on various trips to Europe, I had planned on visiting these islands, but not until yesterday did it happen. Every other time something came up or another destination took precedence or whatever—I never made it. But this time Nancy and I did, and it was wonderful. Some times when you look forward to something you are disappointed with the thing itself when you finally get it, but not this time for me. The years of waiting proved worthwhile, and the visit, short as it was, satisfied.
To describe the Aran Islands as remote and hard to reach was the case for centuries, but it is no longer true. There are three Aran islands (the big island—Inishmore; the smaller island—Inishmaan; the smallest/most easterly island—Inisheer) and all are reached by ferries that shuttle people and goods from the mainland several times a day. There is even regular air service to the two largest islands—by a very local airline. But that did not detract from the experience. Being there was the goal, not suffering to arrive.
Nancy and I took the train from Dublin to Galway, a trip that took just three hours and covered the entire width of the island of Ireland, from east coast to west coast. We arrived in Galway in the afternoon, immediately found our way to the tourist ticket office for the Aran Islands, and booked the bus/ferry plus a Bed and Breakfast on the island. We had a couple hours to wander Galway, but the pouring rain made that less than positively memorable. The bus trip to the ferry lasted about an hour, and the rain continued, but as we went west I could still see that the signage was increasingly Gaelic and decreasingly English. That is because this part of Ireland is the Gaeltacht, that is the land where Gaelic is spoken, and the more remote the location the more dominant the Gaelic seems to be. After a wet and choppy hour long ferry crossing we arrived at the pier in the largest town on the largest island, Kilronan/Cill Ronain. The way to our lodgings was well marked, but while only a short walk it was a very wet one.

After settling in we headed out for dinner and music at a local restaurant/pub. The atmosphere of the place was fitting for its location, and the music, slated to begin at 9 but finally starting in earnest after 10, was local and enjoyable. Whether the Irish reputation for music is currently accurate or something for the tourists to enjoy I do not know, but the evening was just what one would imagine in a somewhat out-of-the-way Irish pub.
The morning greeted us with something we have not seen much of since arriving on the Emerald Isle—sunshine. We wanted to see the island, which since it is only 9 miles long and 2 ½ miles wide is not that hard to do. The choices offered for such discovery were: walking, cycling, horse-cart tours or mini-bus tours, and we chose the latter, knowing that the explanations of a local would give us the history, geography and traditions of the island better than traveling alone. The tour operators are all local, probably all family, and cooperate with one another, so we had no problem asking one for a ride and being shuttled to another to share the experience with a second family.
On the tour we learned about the harsh life on the island, the ancient inhabitants, how all the soil had been human-made by carting sand and seaweed up from the beach and depositing it on the solid limestone surface of the island.

We visited Dun Aonghusa, an impressive ancient stone fort built on a high cliff, the ruins of churches dating back to 800 AD, looked for seals and had tea and scone. The tour was so complete, we covered almost all the roads on the island, that all that was left to do was walk the coastal path, which we did—then we departed, taking the ferry then the bus back to Dublin.

The time on Inishmore/Inis Mor was not long, but the experience was all I had thought it might be. It was satisfying and it was informative. While in Ireland we may return , particularly to visit the other two smaller islands, but returning is not as important as having been there once. They say that in the winter there may be only 25 visitors on the big island, whereas in the July-August time the number can swell to 2,500. They also say that in the winter the weather may cut the island off from the mainland for as long as two weeks. I can imagine what that must be like. But the time and the crowd, and even the weather, was not the issue for me. It was just getting there. I could say finally getting there, but looking at it now I guess the time was just right. Ecclesiastes 3 tells us that there is a time and a season for everything, and yesterday was my time for the Aran Islands…And when the right time is filled with the right activity, something special happens…
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I arrived in Dublin around 9:00 Wednesday morning, following an uneventful, though two hours late, flight from Greensboro via Newark. The Clerk of the Session of Adelaide Road Presbyterian Church met me, and he and another man, Stuart Ferguson (the Treasurer-Guardian of the church) treated me to my first Irish Breakfast. After sitting on a plane for so many hours I can’t say I was hungry, but the fried eggs, sausage, bacon, fried tomato, beans, toast and jam tasted good and the company was gracious and informative.
After breakfast I was taken around the corner from the restaurant to the church itself, then escorted up three flights of stairs to The Attic, one of four apartments in the church and what will be Nancy and my home for the next two months. The apartment is wonderfully light and airy, with a fully equipped kitchen, a living area, a bedroom and a bath. The Youth Worker of the church and his family (wife and twins), who had been living in the apartment, had vacated it on Monday and moved out to the larger empty manse, and in the short span between their move and my arrival the apartment had been completely painted, cleaned and the kitchen stocked with new dishes, pots and pans, cutlery, etc. The apartment has an internet connection, and two days ago Stuart rolled a television and satellite connector in—what more could you ask for!


Wednesday night, after dinner at the Clerk of Session’s home, I went to the mid-week prayer meeting where I was introduced to about ten members of the church for the first time. I also toured the church building and saw not only the worship center but the crèche (child-care area) where a full-time day care program operates and the area where the DoleBusters, a government sponsored program to help people become emotionally and financially independent, operates. Both of these programs are seen as outreach ministries of the church.


Saturday morning Nancy arrived and joined me in the apartment—so our Dublin life has begun. Sunday morning at 11:00 I led the first of nine worship services I will be leading, with a focus on the book of Philippians. Then Wednesday evening I began a mid-week series on the Parables of Jesus, a series that will also go on for two months.
Dublin is a very cosmopolitan city, and the church and apartment are in the center of it all. Just two blocks away from St. Stephen’s Green, the central park of the city, and just a few blocks farther along from the Liffey River, the church has defined its mission as ministering to the city and committed to that definition by a radical renovation of the entire facility. The pastor who completed that renovation left the church for a call in Belfast just last month, and in the Irish Presbyterian Church the call of a new pastor will take nine months to a year. I am here for the summer, taking his place, as part of that transitional period.
In the months ahead I will try to communicate some of the impressions I get of Ireland and some of the experiences Nancy and I are having. I will also try to reflect on the ministry of this church and the church of Christ in this part of the world. For today, however, I will just give this introduction plus post a couple pictures of this, now our, part of the world…


The first two photos above are photos of St. Stephen’s Green, the central park of Dublin. Given as a gift to the city by the Guiness family in the 1850’s…

The next ones are of a typical Dublin day on Grafton, the walking street on the south side of the Liffey…Note the umbrellas...

In just a few days Nancy and I leave for Dublin. I will be going straight from Greensboro and Nancy will go there via Washington DC, after the annual Fulbright Orientation. For two months this blog will be coming from the Emerald Isle and introduce people and places from Adelaide Presbyterian Church to the Aran Islands (a place I have wanted to visit for years). After that, God willing, it will come from the cycle road as a couple of us hit the trail from Barcelona to Brussels and, possibly, on to Berlin. Then a return to Albania and friends and ministry in Tirana and Erseke. It will be hard to be away from family (especially granddaughter) for four months, but it is a privilege to have an opportunity to experience and minister in so many places.



Before leaving Greensboro, though, I should share a few photos of cycling places right around our home. In Seattle cycling is wonderful: the Burke Gillman trail along the shores of Lake Washington, the ferry ride over to the Peninsula and the quiet roads there, the snow-capped peaks east and west and the beauty of the Sound. I knew I would miss these and sure enough, there is none of that here and I do miss it. But there is a beauty and tranquility about this place, and cycling is a wonderful way to experience it—and many people do just that. It is not uncommon to see individuals, groups or families cycling on the roads around our home. And just behind us is a long and beautiful cycle/jogging path through the woods, past ponds and a lake, and over roads. Every day I see more people wearing cycling clothes, or just recreational clothes, on their bikes going out for a ride, than I would see on an average day in Seattle.


From our front door there are various rides, all different and most with both historical sites along the way. So, this is a cycling city—and I am glad!...Now let’s see about Dublin next….

When we first moved to Greensboro I wondered what kind of a city it was. I soon learned that it was a city with a long history, one dating back to revolutionary days and before. It was a place of battle in the Revolutionary War, as I noted last week. It was a city with a history of the Civil War—there is a monument indicating the place where Jefferson Davis twice met with his cabinet. It was a city with a history of the Civil Rights movement—the Woolworth still stands where four young black men sat down at the counter and refused to leave until served, thus beginning the sit-in movement that changed the face of America in the ‘60s.
But I was curious about one phenomenon which seemed out of place—trash. As I drove along city streets I could not help noticing household furnishings piled along the way. Sofas, mattresses, microwaves, cabinets, doors, lamps—all sorts of used and abused furnishings were a common sight on the side of many of the streets. And the same was true in every neighborhood. I was curious.
Then I learned the rest of the story, a story that has interesting counterparts in every place we have lived. It is the story of trash and how it is dealt with. I was used to the custom in Seattle and became used to the custom in Albania—now it is Greensboro’s turn.



What I learned was this—that there are five clearly understood ways of getting rid of household waste, and that together they work very well. First there is the scavenger. That explained the furnishings by the side of the road. People put out things they do not want or need any longer, and anybody passing by is free to take it. And they do. Most of the things put out disappear within a day or two—the old adage one person’s trash is another person’s treasure.

Then there is the garbage truck. It comes around predictably every week and empties the bins that every person has and every person puts out on the street every week on the appointed day. Then there is the recycle truck, another truck that comes by weekly and empties the recycle bins that every person puts out on the appointed day. Then after that comes the yard waste truck. This truck picks up limbs and leaves and whatever that is left ou the side of the street by gardeners, pruners or whomever. Finally, after these have passed, comes the buck truck. This truck picks up anything and everything that is left. If a mattress has not been spoken for, it is thrown on the buck truck. If debris from a remodel has not been claimed, that goes into the buck truck. When I asked Roy, the fellow helping with some home changes for us, whether he would haul away the debris from our work, he looked at me somewhat strangely and told me about the buck truck. That is its forte—everything else…
So, I guess that the periodic trip to the dump is no longer part of my world, here in Greensboro. Here there is a different system, and it seems like a good one. Useable things are re-used, and the rest disappear. An elaborate system, with five different parts to it, and it works. What a deal!

And as I write this it has made me start thinking about two ways the theme of trash could be applied to our lives. The first is that each of us has something or things in our lives that we need to get rid of—I mean sins. There are things we keep hold of but need to get rid of. And I wonder what mechanisms or systems we have accessed that can help in the removal process… God has provided several ways of dealing with our failures and temptations, the things we ought to discard—but do we utilize them or do hold tightly to the things that ought to be left on the side of the street to be picked up.

The second is very different, it is the wonder of grace. That is grace that picks up the pieces of our broken lives and redeems them, and us. Grace means that God discards no one. All people, no matter how broken or used are invited into his presence and can be transformed by his grace. Maybe, following through with the thought, God is the scavenger…or maybe the buck truck—picking us up when no one else wants to… Who knows. Just a thought…

The skies looked dark to the revolutionary troops the morning of the Battle of the Guilford Courthouse. The 1900 British troops under General Lord Cornwallis were well trained and successful—and they were on the march north. A victorious conclusion to Cornwallis’ campaign, a prelude to an invasion of Virginia, would end the uprising and the colonies in the Americas would remain within the British fold.

The colonists’ troops, regulars and militia, were commanded by Major General Nathaniel Greene, a leader who was held in the highest respect by General George Washington. Greene’s army consisted of 4400 men, a superior number to the British but not nearly as well seasoned or equipped as the enemy.

Cornwallis had been pursuing Greene and his army for some time, and Greene had managed to stay ahead of his adversary, but on March 14, 1781 Greene halted his troops at the Guilford Courthouse, formed them into three lines and waited for dawn. On March 15 Cornwallis saw his chance to rid himself of Greene and went on the attack. His troops, though tired and hungry, marched on in lines, up the road which is today New Garden Road. The first line of American militia did its damage against the British wave, then disappeared into the forest. The same happened with the second line so that when the British faced the strongest and most professional enemy, General Greene’s Continental Infantry, they had already suffered serious losses. But the British were still stronger than the colonists, and while the third encounter deteriorated into such a fierce melee of hand to hand combat that at one point General Cornwallis ordered his canon to fire grapeshot into the mass of humanity, cutting down both American and British alike, in the end Greene’s army retreated.

Cornwallis did not follow, however, as while the battle was technically his victory the cost had been too great. Five hundred and fifty British troops had been killed or wounded, including some of the finest leaders, and the remaining troops were exhausted. Following the battle at Guilford Courthouse, after a short pause, Cornwallis did continue north into Virginia, but now discouraged and with his ranks depleted, instead of victory he marched to Yorktown and his surrender. Some historians would say that Cornwallis’ surrender really was a consequence of what happened at Guilford Courthouse, where an American victory was for the first time in sight.

We now live about one mile from where that important battle took place, a site now preserved as the Guilford Courthouse National Military Park. Every March 15 weekend there is a reenactment of the battle, and on certain other occasions history buffs come to relive and reenact some of the elements of life in that area at the time of the battle. Last weekend was one of those weekends, and Nancy and I took advantage of the opportunity to learn and experience this bit of history.

Living in this part of the country, where the nation was birthed, is fascinating. It shines a new light on the miracle that our country is and on the price that was paid to make it possible for us to have what we now have. Perhaps we all have something to learn from that bit of history, and perhaps we should ask ourselves whether we sometimes take for granted what is ours only because over 200 years ago some people chose to risk their lives. Perhaps we should be more grateful to them, and to those who continue to take the risks and make the sacrifice for us all...

Moving to a new state, in fact to what seems like a whole new part of the world, means leaving behind many loved ones, regular routines, important responsibilities, and familiar places. That is hard to do... But it also means searching for God's call in the new place and with new people--something that can be both hard and rewarding.

For us this has meant a call to spend time with a daughter, son-in-law and grandhild--a gift and a joy that we are making the most of! But there is almost always more than family to God's call, and we continue to seek the other parts. So this past week has been spent on one that we know is part of this new stage in life, the mundane but important task of making a house into a home.

The home we bought is just right for us: small, functional, near the kids, and in an extremely pleasant setting. But it looks like it had been used as a short-term rental and was prepared to sell by a surface treatment. The result is a house with plenty of cretive possibilities--and because it is not a large house those possibilities are not onerous but an achievable challenge. Beides that, we have moved to the furniture capital of the world (near us is Furnitureland South, the world's largest furniture store), so furnishing our home (we brought nothing with us except pieces of furniture that fit well in Emily's house) should be interesting.



Through our real estate agent we made contact with a retired engineer who drives a school bus and does home repair projects. So all last week Roy and Will attacked several small projects and one semi-major one, one of the two bathrooms. When I was a kid my weekend gardening job sometimes expanded into working alongside the homeowner on various tasks. Later as a homeowner myself out of necessity I gradually learned many of the skills necessary for keeping a house going and even improving it. So many of the tasks Roy and I are doing are not new to me, but this time there are two differences: when we left Shoreline I got rid of almost all my tools and I am committed to not collecting them all over again and I have time... Instead of squeezing in the tasks a bit at a time, late at night or on my one day off a week, I can start a task and keep at it until it is finished. That feels like a luxury--and it is.

Now I know that the physical condition of a house does not make it a home in the sense that God defines a home. Sadly, I have known many people whose houses are in excellent condition, outfitted with the newest furnishings and assembled with the finest of taste--but which are more like museums than homes. For these people a house is a fortress, reserved for the pleasure of the owner and, perhaps, a few select others. But to God a house is a tool for ministry, and for most people the most valuable tool they have. Part of that ministry is for the owner--it is a place of security and comfort. But that is not the whole. If a house is a gift from God, then it is given to be used in ministry to others as well as for the one to whom it is given. And I believe that a house truly becomes a home not when the owners feel most satisfied with it, but when God feels most satisfied with the way in which it is being used for him.

What this means to me is that while this time for me is a time to work on the physical aspects of the house God has given us, that work needs to be done with a thought to what the house can be used for in the totality of God's call to Nancy and me. The sophistication and fineness of a house is not the issue, after all a stable once was a house for the most important birth ever to take place. The issue is the availability of the resource called house to the work of God, that is what makes it a home. The work for those blessed enough to own it, and the work through them to others.

In the end, the accountability that God will hold us to includes the use of the gifts he has given us. For most of us one of those gifts is a house, so the question before each of us is the same as that for any gift, how was my house a home? That is, how did I use it not only for myself but for fulfilling the unique call to serve that God gave me?

Today is a rainy day. It was in the 90’s two days ago, and will be again in a couple days. But in the time between it feels a little like Seattle—only there are no mountains to be clouded in the mist. The little lake in our back yard takes on a particular beauty in the rain, and the geese who inhabit the area, often greeting us when we drive in, take to the pond. We are going to have to become somewhat familiar with the birds around this place. Sometimes the red of a cardinal is obvious, but then there is the bright orange beaked little bird and the small brilliant blue one. And there is some beaver-like kind of animal inhabiting the woods behind us. It may be a muskrat or a marmot, both are found in the area and I will have to get a better view or photo to be sure. Or maybe Russ Quackenbush can come visit and take us on a tour…



Most of our time is spent in two activities—getting our new-to-us house inhabitable and spending time with granddaughter and family. The former is a particular challenge as when we left Shoreline we divested ourselves of almost all our furniture, and the things we kept fit well in Emily and Steve’s house. But it is kind of fun to start over…And besides Home Depot and Lowes are only minutes away. The latter, family time, is an absolute joy.

Once again I am reminded of the words of The Preacher, There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven: (Ecclesiastes 3:1)

Today it is warm in Greensboro. I was greeted by spring-like weather when I returned from my pastors’ conference at Mt. Hermon, but today is more summer-like than spring-like. I suspect there will be some hot days ahead, but that is just fine with me…


Sunday was a special day in the Ackles and Content families. Our granddaughter Colette was baptized. The non-denominational church that Steve and Emily have become a part of both dedicates and baptizes children, doing one at the first service and another at the second. It goes without saying that for all of us it was a meaningful time, with Nancy and I and Steve’s mom there. I was asked to participate by offering a prayer at the end of the baptism, and there were tears of joy as the ceremony went forward and as slides of Colette and the family passed by on the PowerPoint behind us. A party at the Content home afterwards capped off the day with good friends sharing food and laughter.

The understanding of Emily and Steve’s church regarding baptism is not exactly the same as the Presbyterian way, but I know God hears our hearts and that such little differences only make the whole body of Christ richer. After all it is true that together we are one body—not despite but because of our differences… The only problem differences create is when we believe our way is the only true way, and others are on the wrong path. While there certainly are parameters of truth, points of faith and life that define what a Christian is and outside of which the very word Christian does not apply. But too often the arguing between churches takes place in areas of unclarity and uncertainty, areas where more people ought to be heeding Augustine’s maxim, In essentials unity, in non-essentials liberty, in all things love.

Monday was another day of celebration in the Content family, but this time for a very different reason. The house in Miami that Emily and Steve had been trying for nearly a year to sell finally closed on Friday, which meant they had enough cash to buy a second car which with his work and their baby they need. Only the car they bought was not just a car, but was the car Steve had wanted for years, a 1991 BMW M5. Now to me travel and cycling mean a great deal, while I am content with driving my 1973 Dodge Van, but I know that cars mean a great deal to some people, and Steve is one of these people. And they say that the M5 is a safe car, a reliable car, and a good car for a growing family… At least that is how it seems or what they say…


So, now Nancy and I are in Greensboro sharing life with a daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter. At this point I guess it ought to begin to settle into my spirit that life is really changed for us and 37 years of pastoral/parish ministry has come to an end. There is sadness in that for me, and wondering. But at the same time this new place with its tasks: turning a new-to-us house into our home, sharing in raising a child, finding a place in a local church and community, building new relationships, and whatever God has in store for us is an adventure. It is different and it is a challenge and a joy at the same time—and most of all it is God’s call for this season of life… At least until the end of June when Nancy and I head off to Dublin, Ireland, while I serve the Adelaide Street Presbyterian Church as pastoral supply for two months.

For years they have called them the Three H’s. They are a forest, a lake and a mountain. They are three large independent Christian conference centers in California—Forest Home, Lake Hume and Mt. Hermon.

This week I am at the mountain—Mt. Hermon. It is a special place, filled with the history of countless camps and conferences with the best speakers and the most moving programs. I am here to attend the 35th annual gathering of Presbyterian pastors called the West Coast Presbyterian Pastors’ Conference. This conference is one that I helped organize as the Young Presbyterian Pastors’ Conference many years ago, but as time passed and reality dawned, the Young was dropped out of the name of the conference. I have attended many years since the first conference—in fact I am considered one of the old timers.

I go to this conference because the place is so beautiful. Located in the redwood hills above Santa Cruz, one could hardly think of a more wonderful place to come and get away for a while. Very near San Jose, with its international airport and the hustle of Silicon Valley, it is in a world all of its own. Over the years the conference facilities have been developed into first-class accommodations, and nestled as they are in the middle of towering redwoods, with a creek flowing through, they compare with any facilities anywhere. Walking in the woods or along the creek, enjoying the beauty of God’s creation, is truly an awesome experience.

I also attend this conference because of the excellent program that has characterized the conference. Part of the program is the inspiring worship, where we sing and pray and present ourselves to God with hearty enthusiasm. Another part of the program is the consistently inspiring presentations by the leaders who are invited to address the group. Each year two people share the speaking times, one in the mornings and one in the evenings. One is usually a pastor who emphasizes the pastoral role that attendees bear, while the other is usually a theologian who brings some particular facet of his or her particular scholarship to the group. This year’s speakers are outstanding—challenging, engaging and thoughtful—which is usually the way it is.


But the main reason I attend this conference is because of the relationships which I rekindle each year. Some of the people who attend this conference, like me, have been coming since their ministries began—since they were young Presbyterian pastors. That means that some of us have shared lives and stories for forty years. We have gone together through deep waters of trials and troubles, and celebrated together the victories of the faith. New people come every year, are greeted and soon become part of the community, so that the conference is today as well attended as it ever has been. But the older relationships have a special significance to me, a special power to encourage, and a special ability to refresh.


The conference has its unusual traditions—the most well known of which is a night of unabashed foolishness and laughter that rings out every Thursday at our dinner and “talent show”. Regulars give variations on expected performances, new people bring the group to tears of laughter, and speakers are routinely humbled as they are made the brunt of skits and jokes. All is good fun and the camaraderie is unexcelled.
As far as anyone knows, this conference is unique. Tonight’s speaker says he knows of nothing like it in the Christian world. That may or may not be true, but most agree that there is nothing like it in the Presbyterian world. For some it is the glue that holds them together in their ministry, and for others it is the glue that holds them in the Presbyterian fold. For all who attend this conference is a microcosm of what the church is supposed to be, and even of what heaven will be—a place of sharing, of encouraging, of listening, of learning and of laughing as the people of God…The week is a reminder of what a privilege it is to be a part of the family of God, a family that is created to sing, share, praise and laugh in the light and love of the Holy One! GK Chesterton said, Joy is the business of heaven. That makes this conference a little bit of heaven--as Isaiah also said 12:6 “Shout aloud and sing for joy, people of Zion, for great is the Holy One of Israel among you."

Our new home in Greensboro--just the right size








and a forest and a lake in the back yard...


I am currently on a plane from Seattle to San Jose, leaving a week of renewing relationships with family and friends from Shoreline and heading towards the 36th annual renewal of relationships at the West Coast Presbyterian Pastors’ Conference. I helped begin this conference all those years ago, although then it was called the West Coast Young Presbyterian Pastors’ Conference. But times do change…
They say you can’t go back. And I guess that is true. In fact I guess it is true about every day and every moment and every place and every relationship. The obvious reason for this is that in a sense we are new every moment—at least every day. Every day is its own new gift, its own new challenge, its own new door to walk through and opportunity or peril to face. And every day we bring the past into the present and make decisions and act on those decisions, and no matter what has happened before or who we have been up until that point, the new decisions and actions have their own profound impact on creating who we are at that new moment and who we will be in the new future. It is that intermixing of the past and the present that creates the now and the future. In the whole thing the only constant is God himself, and I assume that was what the author of Lamentations had in mind when he reminded himself, and us, of this: Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. (Lamentations 3:21-23)

So, going back to Shoreline for the first time since leaving almost a year ago was not going back—it was going forward. It was going forward and building on what had been for twenty years—and on what has been during the last year. It was a time of celebrating and remembering and renewing and catching up and appreciating afresh what twenty years of life together had been, and also of what through the time apart it was becoming. It was a happy time of seeing good friends, of catching up on where God had led them, and at the same time it had sober moments of sharing grief over the losses that some had experienced in the time apart.

One of the great truths of the Christian faith is that when Paul talks about being one body in Christ he is describing an eternal and present reality: we are one. No matter what time or distance separates us, as believers we are together in life and ministry. Even though we are miles or perhaps even continents apart, as each of us continues to follow God’s leading and serve him, we are doing it together. In success and failure, in joy and sorrow, in exhilaration and in fear, we are one. And the work we did when together is continued just as it was when we were “together” when we are apart.

I have always felt that the true measure of the work of a minister is not what happens when that person is “on the job” but rather what is “left behind”, what goes on and grows on. And I celebrate the life and growth that I see in and through the people Nancy and I “left behind” when we left Calvin. I thank God for the faithfulness of his people, the interjection of new life and new ideas by new people, the love, laughter and tears that we can share, and the faithfulness of God.
In short, I thank God for the chance to go back and visit good friends and co-workers in God’s vineyard. I thank God for the chance to celebrate what was. I thank God for the chance to learn about and celebrate what has been since we left. And I thank God for his ongoing work that leads us into the future, a new future that is built on the past but that is truly new every morning… And above all I thank God for his faithfulness—every day, his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.

The Lord is risen!
He is risen indeed!

Today’s Easter message at the church Emily and Steve attend was a very good message. The pastor talked about our deep affinity with rescuers, and our desire to see someone come and liberate those who are oppressed. He illustrated his message with video clips from The Gladiator and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. And he invited all to see and acknowledge Christ as the ultimate rescuer—through the power of the resurrection. The service was challenging and uplifting—and it was made even better for me as throughout the whole service I was the official holder of Colette, our granddaughter, who spent most of the time asleep in my lap.

But I confess that I did miss certain things that have been part of my life and Easter celebrations for many years. The Sunday before I had missed the children marching down the aisle with palm branches, and I had missed the special services of Holy Week. Today I missed the people with whom I have shared many Easters. I missed the Easter flowers at Calvin. I missed sharing a message myself. I missed singing the Hallelujah Chorus. And I missed starting the service with The Lord is risen! He is risen indeed! Somehow Happy Easter is just not the same…

I guess what it all says is that my roots in a more traditional and liturgical setting, although not as strong as many I know, are a part of me that have value and carry meaning to me. There is something to be said for contemporary worship and new forms, but without the roots in the traditions of the church there is a thin-ness to them that does not do justice to the historical nature of our faith. We did not invent the gospel in this generation, nor should we forget the history which the gospel brings with it…

In any case I am now back in the USA, having finished six weeks in Mexico. My teaching went well, and five days in wonderful Cozumel have ended. I will be leaving tomorrow for the west coast for two weeks, but my life has changed—-I am officially no longer a westerner but am an easterner (south-east) as, after a year of being homeless, Nancy and I are now homeowners once again. We have purchased a small home in Greensboro, North Carolina, just four minutes from Emily, Steve and Colette. Our car even has North Carolina plates now. We feel a bit traitorous, as both our ancestors made the arduous trek west well over a hundred and fifty years ago--seeking a better life. But such is the adventure God has given us today.

But—before I leave Mexico entirely, I said I would make comments on a hacienda visit I took, so I should. The Yucatan Peninsula was one of the wealthiest places on earth from the mid 19th century through the first of the 20th century. The reason was that this era was the heyday of the great sailing ships, when they plied the oceans carrying the world’s cargo. And the ships needed hemp for their riggings—and the Yucatan supplied the hemp. When steamships replaced the sailing ships, and when nylon replaced hemp, everything changed, but for a period the Yucatan produced what the world needed—and it got rich.


At least a few people got rich—that was the landed aristocracy, the hacienda owners, the most direct descendents of the Spanish conquerors. The pattern was standard, and it made money for a few on the sweat of many. A hacienda consisted of a great home for the landowner, the factory necessary to spin the raw hemp into twine or rope, and thousands of very poor, very hardworking commoners living in primitive conditions. It was a kind of slavery, with the workers forced to purchase all they needed from the only local store, a store owned by the hacienda owner. People were not bought and sold, but forever in debt, being paid little or nothing, the effect was the same. And the work was hard. The henequen plant is rough and pointed. The temperatures regularly rose beyond 100 degrees, and the land is dry.

Today the Yucatan is dotted with decaying haciendas. Most of them are abandoned, although a few are being turned into tourist destinations. Around almost all, no matter how decayed, is a small village, a village that houses those who used to labor in the field or their children. The villages are very poor and the people live in them in ways not unlike how they lived when the hacienda was in its glory.

The hacienda I visited kept producing hemp on a very small scale until the 1950’s. Today it is fascinating to see, to learn about, or to stay on site as a Bed and Breakfast guest. One marvels at the ingenuity needed to keep such an operation going, but that emotion is mixed with sadness about the whole system which it represented as well. A part of history.