Fireworks!

It hasn’t been a particularly quiet week in town.  The tourist traffic has been picking up as people from near and far scurry to head up Highway 212 to Yellowstone National Park over the Beartooth Pass.  Charles Kuralt said that the Beartooth Pass was “the most beautiful drive in America”.  I would not argue with Charles.  It is beautiful.  In my estimation it would be more beautiful without all the tourists.  I do not get a say in the matter and besides it is the economic lifeline for some of the communities along the way.  People need to make a living even if it is an inconvenience to others.  Despite the increased noise from all the motorcycles and recreational vehicles burning up the pavement through town . . . it has been a fairly quiet week in town despite the Fourth of July observance lurking down the road. 

Life has been good.  The weather has been cooperative and mild, allowing folks to get out in their yards.  Grass is greening up.  Flowers have been rallying and blooming to create a feast of color.  The birds are singing up a storm.  People are walking their dogs allowing them the opportunity to check out the daily “pee mail” and send return messages.  Vacation Bible School is happening at one of the local churches—a respite for harried parents tired of hearing the chorus, “I’m bored!” from their children.  Life is ambling along in town as summer kicks off and establishes itself for the next couple of months.  The pace is slow and easy.  Life is good.

 

Or at least it was.

 

Small towns thrive on “word of mouth”.  Whether true or not, community members get their information through the grapevine—casual conversations at the post office or bank, while pumping fuel at the gas station, sharing a meal at the senior center, coming out of the grocery store, or talking around coffee during fellowship following church—wherever people gather.  Rarely is it through “official” channels.  Often it is “I heard . . .”  Some might call it “gossip” but around here and other small towns it is the “line of communication”

 

Even though town council meetings are regularly scheduled happenings announced to the community—date, time, location, and agenda—they always seem to come as a surprise to the locals.  That’s what happened this week interrupting the tranquility and quietness with great grumbling and lament—near biblical proportions, I might add.  At its monthly meeting the council met, discussed, and decided that there would be no fireworks within the town limits this Fourth of July.  Zero fireworks.  They made their decision based on an increased fire hazard in the area . . . after all we have entered the “fire season” in Montana.  The resolution was on the public agenda made available and posted in public places two weeks prior to the meeting.  It was there for all to see.  Beyond those obligated to be there—council members and town employees—no one else attended.  The decision was made.  On Wednesday morning it was announced: NO FIREWORKS. 

 

That set the fireworks off—symbolically speaking.

 

Since the news went public the moaning, groaning, and whining have escalated.  The keyboard warriors have been burning up the town’s Facebook page.  Cries of government oppression!  Freedom denied!  Civil rights trampled upon!   Conspiracy abounds!  Those damn liberal Democrats! Which is a weird one when I am fairly certain that the whole town council is Republican.  Forced Communism and Socialism!  Social media has exploded and gone wild with the loudest complaints, not being townspeople or even from the state of Montana.  Accusations of secretly railroading the resolution through were made even though—like clockwork—the council put the agenda out two weeks prior to the meeting.  Apparently, no one reads it.  It hadn’t hit the gossip mill.  The people felt blindsided.

 

Truth be told, I believe that those who lament the loudest are in the minority.  It was a long time coming.  The complaints had been piling up for years.  In town there are several veterans with PTSD who leave the week of Fourth of July to avoid reoccurring trauma.  The noise and constant booming of the fireworks trigger flashbacks to their war experience.  Pet owners complained.  Pets run off and get lost . . . they hide under beds and other furniture . . . their anxiety shoots through the roof.  Owners book their pets into out-of-town kennels, purchase drugs to calm their nerves, or pack them up and head out of town for a few days.  Fireworks are hell on pets.  Parents of small children, especially infants—have spoken up . . . they cannot get their little ones to sleep.  The elderly have joined the chorus.  For years there have been more complaints than support.  The handful of pyromaniacs are outnumbered . . .

 

. . . but they whine the loudest.

 

One of the accusations against those who favor the riddance of fireworks is that they are “unpatriotic”.  I never understood that—unpatriotic?  How is blowing up the neighborhood and town “patriotic”?  Flying the American flag is “patriotic”.  Taking part in a parade celebrating the Fourth of July is “patriotic”.  Singing the National Anthem is “patriotic”.  Saying the Pledge of Allegiance is “patriotic”.  Supporting veterans . . . voting in elections . . . attending town council meeting . . . all “patriotic”.  Blowing up the neighborhood or town is not “patriotic” in my book.  Patriotism has nothing to do with fireworks.

 

But it’s the semiquincentennial of our nation!  Our nation’s 250^th birthday.  Most people cannot even pronounce the work much less spell it.  Big deal!  We are another year older.  It doesn’t mean we need to blow something up.  My high school class is celebrating its 50^th reunion this fall.  We are the Class of 1976.  We are not gathering and blowing up something.  We are too old for that.  Instead, we will gather at some venue, eat dinner, drink and listen to our generation’s music, dance a little, while sitting around reminiscing about the “good old days”.  We won’t be comparing explosives and blowing things up.  When I hit my semicentennial birthday, I did not blow up the house or anything else.  I was just happy that I made it to my 50^th birthday.

 

The semiquincentennial is just a marker along the journey.  A point of reference and remembrance.  As a nation we are still working our way down the road—in the big picture of the world, 250 years is not that remarkable.  The United States of America is a mere infant when it comes to longevity and age.  Iran, Egypt, Vietnam, Armenia, North Korea, China, India, Afghanistan, Israel, Greece, Japan, Ethiopia, France Croatia, Norway, and Bulgaria have thousands of years on us—THOUSANDS!  Even the “teens” of civilization—Denmark, Austria, Hungry, Portugal, Switzerland, Spain, the United Kingdom all have a few hundred years on us.  They are amused at our celebration because we are basically the “new kids on the block” at 250 years old.  They don’t understand this fascination of going around blowing things up to celebrate a birthday.

 

There is a crack in the town’s placidness entering the week of the Fourth of July.  There will be no fireworks this year.  For some it will be a black mark on the town’s history.  For the rest it will be the day the noise died.  I count myself among those who will relish the proposed peaceful quietness of a firework-less holiday.  So do my dogs . . . my neighbors with babies . . . the veterans with PTSD . . . and those attempting to go to bed at a decent time.

 

I am thankful to the representatives on the town council who represent our community for revoking fireworks this year.  Thankful that the human quality of taking the easy way out led to no one reading the announcement of the council’s agenda prior to the meeting.  Surprisingly the majority have spoken and announced that there is no need to blow something up to celebrate our nation’s 250th birthday or whatever it is called. Thankful that I can fly my flag, stand for the national anthem, say the pledge, wear red-white-blue to my heart’s content, watch baseball, eat hot dogs, and ride in my Chevrolet, and still be considered a patriot even without fireworks.  As a nation we have come this far so far, but we still have a long way to go.  I am thankful and I didn’t even have to blow anything up.  Yeah, it’s been a semi-quiet week in town and in a couple of weeks we will be back to normal . . . at least until next year’s celebration.

 

Finding Quiet in the Noise

I had forgotten how noisy the city is . . . forgotten how it seems to hum even in the darkness of the night.  There is constant travel fourteen floors down from my hotel room on the streets . . . horns blaring . . . sirens wailing . . . screeching tires . . .whistles blowing.  The noise is constant like a heartbeat for the city.  Then add to this base line hundreds of thousands of people moving up and down the street . . . talking . . . yelling . . . screaming . . . crying . . . and, singing.  It is kind of like a melody line in music playing over the sound of traffic.  There is noise everywhere . . . constant noise.

Yeah, I had forgotten how noisy the city is; but, what should one expect when they shove a couple of million people into Philadelphia proper . . . more than double the whole population of Montana spread out over the 147,046 square miles that makes it a state. I think it gets noisy whenever two or three people gather . . . imagine the noise when a couple of million are milling around.  It gets noisy.

Since being in Philadelphia I have noticed that I do not hear as well . . . I have a hard time hearing . . . especially when I a outside.  Now, I know it is true that the wife thinks that I have a hearing loss . . . something more than a husband's selective hearing loss . . . especially when I get into crowds.  I know that whenever I am in a group of people I have to lean in close to hear what they are saying . . . but since being in Philadelphia I have turned to lip read (which I am terrible at).  I just don't hear well and I do not think that the noise is helping.

I wonder how the people who live here put up with the noise.

I guess I never realized how quiet Montana is . . . or at least the part where the Keener Homestead is . . . or the parts where I am in the mountains.  In the quiet of where I live I can hear the birds sing . . . I can hear the geese honk and the the Sandhill Cranes cooing as they fly over.  In the night I can hear the cows mooing and the coyotes howling.  I can hear the Rock Creek rushing down its banks.  I can hear the wind rustle through the trees.  I can hear the breeze move through the tall grass.  I can hear the snort of a moose . . . the bounding of deer.  It is amazing how much of God's natural presence one can hear in the quiet . . .

. . . but, here, in Philadelphia, I have not heard the birds sing.  I have not even heard a dog bark.  From the fourteenth floor of the hotel I have barely heard the wind over the traffic from the street below.  This is a noisy place.

I don't know about anyone else, but I know that noise makes me irritable if I am in it for too long.  Makes me grumpy.  I need quiet in my life.  I think the people in the hotel understand the noise of their city.  In my room is a little note on the desk stating: "For added tranquility, please feel free to use the complimentary earplugs located in the nightstand drawer."  Sure enough . . . there are two sets of earplugs in there.  I don't think I need them for sleeping, but I am thinking about using them for walking around the streets of Philadelphia.  Research shows that noise makes children and adults more aggressive . . . Philadelphia has a fairly high rate of crime and violence . . . maybe, they should be passing out earplugs on the street.

Noise changes a person.  I can feel it and I have only been here for a little over twenty-four hours.  I cannot even imagine what living here would do to me . . . I'd become a crazed pastor (well, more crazed than I am now).  I could not live without the quiet.  I feel sad for all of these folks.  Sad that they cannot find the quiet in the noise.

I like to paraphrase the part in the Bible that tells us to be still and know God.  I like to think that in that stillness there is also quietness . . . quietness because we need to hear God . . . in the birds singing, the wind blowing, the breeze moving through the grass.  In all of this noise, where is the quiet?

If I am going to be honest, then I have to admit--like everyone else, that there is noise in my life that drowns the voice of God.  These days in Philadelphia only serve as a reminder of that fact.  The noise may not be caused by traffic or people . . . but it is still there drowning out the needed silence.  The noise of problems in my life . . . the noise of relationships between family, friends, co-workers, and many others . . . the noise of the life happening around me that touches me directly and indirectly . . . the noise of loneliness, sadness, anger, hate . . . there is noise in my life.  At times it gets pretty noisy in that rock garden between my ears . . . and, the reaction is the same.  I get irritable and grumpy . . . I get aggressive . . . and, I get lost.  Lost from who God created me to be . . . and, lost from God.

Yet, I know that there is a quiet place within all of us.  A place where there is no noise.  A place where the presence of God can be heard.  And, I know that it does not matter where I am . . . in the noise of Philadelphia or the quietness of a mountain meadow in Montana . . . that quiet place exists and waits for me.  I know that I just need to be still . . . to be quiet . . . and, listen.  God's voice will find me in the quiet.  I just have to keep reminding myself . . . be still . . . be quiet . . . even in the noise God is there.

With such knowledge I think I can make it.  The crazed preacher is in retreat . . .

Joyful Noise

Ministers are supposed to sing.  At least that is what I have been told by countless individuals and congregations over the years.  I must have missed that requirement in the brochure.  Or, maybe, I slept through that part of the recruitment lecture.  Either way, since I went into the ministry, I have encountered that myth in every congregation that I have served in the past 30–some years.  The joke is . . . I can’t sing!

Let me take that back . . . I can sing, I just sing poorly.  Always have.  Throughout elementary school I was always given speaking parts in school plays and presentations . . . I just thought I was a really good reader . . . that I was special, but the teachers knew.  It was a form of mercy . . . mercy for the audience’s ears.  Once, in our church youth group, we were doing a cantata—Noah’s Ark--for Sunday worship.  The church’s choir director made me the narrator, and told me that if I had to sing to lip sync—no sound, she threatenly said.  In one church the sound people turned my microphone off, others warned me to step away from the microphone.  The fact is, I cannot sing.  No amount of prayer, laying on of hands, or lighting of candles has yet to produce a musical miracle—I still cannot sing.

I take serious the dictum of the psalmist in the scriptures: “Mak a joyful noise unto the Lord . . .”  Though I sing poorly, I love to sing.  I just don’t sing when anyone else can hear me.  I sing while mowing the grass . . . while driving the car by myself and the windows are rolled up . . . when no one else is in the room . . . and, in church every Sunday morning . . . mind you, I stand three feet from the microphone like I have been taught, sing very quietly, and often with great lip syncing.  About the only audience that I have encountered that does not mind my singing are the family dogs . . . at least not yet . . . they howl along with me whenever I sing.  Then again, I might be wrong.  They are either deaf or my singing hurts their ears to the point they howl in pain!

So, there you have it . . . a contradiction . . . a minister who can’t sing, but loves to sing.  Congregations are learning . . . sometimes painfully, but mostly through word of mouth.  It is amazing how quickly a reputation can beat a person to a designation.  But, it is the truth . . . I cannot sing.  Ask any of the congregations I have served in five states and they will vouch for that fact.  They will tell you that I cannot sing, that in my letter of calling I must always stand three feet from the microphone when singing or lip sync—it is a noise pollution thing.  Though congregations are slow to understand this contradiction, I know that God understands.  God digs my joyful noise, while others plug their ears.

“Make a joyful noise unto the Lord . . .”  That is exactly what I do whenever I sing.  God has come to expect this joyful noise from my mouth whether it ever garners me a Grammy Award or not.  Even though the congregations I have served over the years will never publically admit, I think they have come to expect it too.  Worship just doesn’t sound just right when my joyful noise is not included.  It lets everyone know, no matter how poorly or well you sing, you are always welcome in God’s choir.  It is music to God’s ears . . . and, to mine.  Ha!  I might not be able to sing, but I make one heck of a joyful noise . . . and, God loves it!