I'm Tired and So Weary

Coming home today was a bit bitter sweet. Sitting on the sofa in my little study, I picked up the 50th anniversary issue of Christianity Today which had just arrived.

The room was dark. The light from the high intensity lamp was a focused spotlight on the magazine in my lap. I flipped through the pages just taking inventory of the stories. The mind was fuzzy. The day had been hard, filled with pastoral duties either emotionally draining or undesired. Like a carousel the thought wandered round and round up and down going in a circle leading nowhere.

When I retired my dear friend Gary gave me matching DVDs and CDs of the Gaither Homecoming series. It must have cost a small fortune. I had forgotten they were loaded in the CD player when I, without conscious thought, picked up the clicker and pushed “Play”. Candy Christmas, Kim Hopper and Charlotte Ritchie began to sing.

When I’m alone and the light slowly fades
Cold with the night closing in,

I know the shadow of almighty wings.

Lord, won’t you send them again.



Lord, send your angels to watch over me,

I’m so afraid of the dark.

Lord, send your angels to watch over me,

Wrap me in sheltering arms.

I let my head fall behind me until it was caught by the sofa. When my eyes closed the weight of the calling fell heavy upon me pushing me into the depths of fatigue.

Sometimes the child inside of me cries,

With fears of the dangers unknown.

And questions with answers I can’t seem to find;

Then, you send your angels to me.

But they only came in the lyrics of the song. No flutter of wings broke the air of my exhaustion. No sheltering arms encircled me. They sang their prayer, “Lord, send your angels,” but the angels were not mine to behold.

I listened to the music in quiet. The faces of the singers passed before my mind’s eyes. Janet Pascal’s angelic face passed before me; Vestal Goodman clapped with joy making her ever-present hankie wave like a flag of peace; Mama Speer's voice floated from the depths of her faith; J. D. Sumner’s hand was pressed to his right ear as he strove to go deeper than the other bass singers; and Jake Hess stood there singing, "Goodby World, Goodby," in the spotlight, Jake of the wonderfully inappropriate toupee.



My memory went back to a Wednesday afternoon on January 7, 2004. Gary and I drove non-stop to Columbus, Georgia to attend Jake’s funeral. The Homecoming Choir was there, and scores of stories were told of Jake and his happy smile. Gloria Gaither came to the pulpit. One of the things she said has stuck with me. She talked of Jake’s struggles and in that context she said, “You know, sometimes God just calls us to show up at work, and that’s as glorious as it gets.”

It was as glorious as it got as I rested my head on the sofa back, the magazine open to a story of Billy Graham on my lap, and the Gaither choir singing the songs my Mama loved in my earphones. That was as glorious as it got. I was tired. I was drained. I was tired of ministering to and I certainly did not want to be ministered to. I was gloriously alone in my lost ness, my dreariness, my confusion.



In my ear Gloria whispered her narration as part of her and Jake's rendition of Sunday Meetin' Time:

The journeys of my life were country roads.

Important landmarks along that road

were places of worship,

the little white churches

with the pot bellied stoves,

in the middle of the pews

where I first heard of a land called “Beulah”,

the village church where,

as a kid, I listened to the old saints testify

to the faithfulness of God.

The church on the bank where I had my first date,

and the youth group would gather around a campfire

after Sunday night services to sing “Kum ba ya.”

Along the journey is the church

where I promised my sweetheart

I’d be faithful until death do us part,

and the place where we brought our first baby

to be dedicated to God.

And at one church along the road

I said good bye to my precious father

and later my mother.

And because of those who came to share our grief

I knew I would not walk on alone.

So when the church bell rings this Sunday morning,

I’ll hear a chorus of bells in my heart,

And I’ll go to the house of the Lord,

Thankful to be in that meeting house on Sunday morning.

I know the churches of which she is reminiscent. I went to those churches, too. They shaped me; they brought me along; they led me to the altar of my ordination and to the tasks of this day that brought on this fatigue.

I do not doubt my faith. But I am confused by it. I wonder if it is being lost in the turbulence of this world, in the clash of religions, in the corruption of what I learned in Sunday School when mild mannered John Sheeley told me about Jesus loving me. I wonder if the faith I discovered on youth retreats deep in the mountains of North Georgia is sufficient. The world is changing. And I am old.



My faith is leading me to isolation. I am isolated from those who increasingly withdraw from the “fellowship of believers”, disgusted at the judgments, the condemnations and the exclusiveness, and those who desire to compel me to their version of belief. I am experiencing discomfort with Paul and the prophets. I am stuck, stuck on the commandment that is like the greatest. I am commanded to love my neighbor. But right now I just don’t want to do it.



I’m tired. The music is playing in my ear. The words are tugging at my heart. I’m remembering the times more joyful when we joined hands together and danced the “Salty Dog Rag” beside Cane Creek Falls. I want my church to dance again. I want to see folks joining hands, loving each other, being one, acting like the family of God. I wonder if it will happen again in my lifetime.

Sheri Easter is singing in my ear now:

I planted a little rose bush,

I tended it with care,

It’s buds began to blossom

Their fragrance filled the air.

But when winter came it withered,

The pedals drooped and fell to the ground,

My heart sank as it faded,

But I’d forgotten who had made it.



Roses will bloom again,

Just wait and see

Don’t mourn what might have been.

Only God knows how and when that

Roses will bloom again.