Talk About Theology and Spirituality ...

Theology and talk of spirituality have always seemed to stand aside from where my Christian walk takes me. I kind of look at it as the difference between studying God, and "Doing God." Perhaps I should be more specific and call it "Doing Christ."

In my Senior year of Seminary, I had the deep joy and privilege of being a Sunday Chaplain at the Methodist Medical Center in South Bend, IN. There, as in my CPE in the summer just preceding, and following that year I found thought of deep theological study to be un-meaningful. The sick and dying to whom I ministered didn't need to know what I "knew." They needed to feel my love and concern. They needed me to be Christ in their moments of  need.

After my CPE came to a close and there was no work for me at the time in the church, I took the opportunity to learn carpentry from a company owned by Amish Mennonite men. Toward the end of my first year in that field, I met a local retired pastor's wife who was running the local "Mother to Mother" ministry; who had tried to start a housing rehab agency with little success. When she learned that I had the M Div and carpentry experience, she said, "You are an answer to prayer. Here, take this (housing rehab) and make it go."

I had never done anything like that before, and I felt a bit out of my league, but I have always believed that God doesn’t bring things to our attention without expecting us to take action. So, I did what I was accustomed to do.

I stepped up, recruited people to join me, and then I did what I had to do.

I went to work finding a way to serve God’s children at the crisis points of their lives.

Like my earlier hospital unit patients, my clients didn’t need to know my theology; not even my church. They didn’t’ need esoteric terms to explain why I was doing it. They just needed me to do what they desperately needed. They didn’t need to even be “Christian” themselves. They just needed me to do what I could to care for their needs. Christian or not, they were cross-cultural children of God in abject poverty of some sort or another.

I remember one house in terrible disrepair. We had been called to “fix a hole” by a window in the bathroom. When I opened the wall before I could get my people focused in on this dwelling, I started taking out the window and ended up totally demolishing that room bare-handed; literally without tools. Inside the house, I remember a nice-looking “table cloth” that seemed to be in motion. On second look it turned out to be a table top so covered with cockroaches that there was hardly one square inch without a roach on it. 

That aged African-American couple didn’t need to know that this white man loved God. They just needed me to “DO Christ,” whether or not they believed in Christ.

That was just one of many in the following few years before I left the company (which is still in existence and growing 25 years later); including a house that was so bad that welfare authorities had taken a 14-year-old daughter away pending fixing the house. The man I had hired in and helped to promote into the presidency of that organization (so that I could concentrate on the people) once saw me sitting on a pile of materials next to the parents and commented to others how I was there engaged in “Pastoral Counseling” (my specialty with my MDiv.).

Excuse me! I was just being their friend. I was using my talents and skills to do what I had to do for them.

I was DOING CHRIST.

Now, at age 72, I have taken on co-leadership with a mental healthcare consumer for leading a local affiliate of NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness – www.nami.com). My co-leader, John, is a 43-year-old paranoid schizophrenia patent in abject poverty; poverty so deep and so exacerbated by his smoking habit that by the end of each month he is down to a loaf of white bread and cold-cuts for at least a week.

John doesn’t need me to be involved in teaching and praying, although I am a strong on including those in my work with all who need me. He doesn’t need high-sounding theology or spirituality.

He just needs me to DO CHRIST.

I do what I can; that is, I step up and do what I have to do.

Last Thursday to combat his severe malnutrition, I brought a gallon of whole milk, some cheese and a pound of hamburger to him early in the afternoon. I couldn’t believe the mood difference from then to 6:30 PM when I picked him up for a NAMI meeting. Again, he didn’t need theology or preaching about the things hindering his financial well-being.

He just needed someone who would DO CHRIST for him.

Well, I suppose that is enough for now. Thank you for your patience, and please pray for me as I continue to find ways to DO CHRIST.

In closing, I want to share the most beautiful word picture I know.

A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling.
God sets the lonely in families.
(PS 68:5-6a NIV)

The Leader by Jack L. Mace, Chapter 1

    Chapter 1. Along the Way

    Walking rapidly, The Young One demanded, “Do they still follow?”
    “Pardon me?” The Old One brought his attention back from the surrounding environs.
    The Young One and The Old One had walked many miles. The Young One was so intent on this Journey to Somewhere that he had said little either before the journey or in its progress. All The Old One had heard of it was when The Young One knocked on his door and said, “Come travel with me.”
    The Old One cared much for The Young One, and saw much potential and future for him. Thus it was that he left straightway with no question. These two; unlikely pair that they were; had spent many hours and many days together. Many a long journey had they traveled in each other’s company. Oft had they engaged each other in leisure – The Young One ever working at it, The Old One ever relaxing at it.
    “Do they still follow?” repeated The Young One.
    “Who? Are who still where?”
    “The Company Of Wayfarers following: Do they still follow?” The Young One’s tone was both demanding and impatient.
    Turning, The Old One peered back. In the distance he saw The Company of Hurried Travelers, following on the same road.
    “Yes, they still follow.”
    He had noticed That Entourage in the distance when he opened his door to The Young One’s knock, and a few times along the way. He had determined to question them if ever they came alongside. Ever interested in others, particularly intrigued was The Old One in their journeys. Even more was he ever curious regarding the confluence of paths which unrelated companies might travel.
    Through the practiced experience of his years, The Old One knew such confluence was seldom accidental. There are truly few coincidents. He had long ago learned that almost inextricably the unrelated is indeed related.
    “Wherein,” he mused aloud, “lies the true confluence of the path of Yon Entourage and ours?”
    The Young One, so busily absorbed in his journey, barely responded. Perhaps he managed a grunt as The Old One turned again to gaze back.
    “I believe they close the gap. Perhaps we shall journey together.”
    Again, with little discernible response from The Young One, The Old One resumed his study of the environment along the way.
    The Way they traveled that day was a varied one. The Path was smooth, and rough –  and level, and pitched. It was straight, and it would curve thither and yon. It would ascend the heights, to descend into the depths beyond. The way was arid, and it passed by gentle streams.
    Always, The Young One strove forth to the next obstacle. Always The Old One reveled in the present challenge, then strode calmly forth to the new.
    Again and again, The Old One turned as if to span the distance to The Company behind. When the way was easy, their stamina waxed bold, and they would close the gap. At this The Young One seemed impatient. As the way waxed hard, The Distant Company would wane in perseverance; and The Young One would be the more impatient. Seldom did he turn to look back, but when he did it was in disdain.
    The Old One mused at his Young Friend’s responses, thinking, “Does His attitude regard the confluence of paths this day, or is there more; much more?”
    Indeed, what would be at The Journey’s End? For what purpose had The Young One summoned him forth from his abode. The Old One knew not The Young One’s ways upon This Journey. He knew only he was with His Friend, and old as he was, he still enjoyed an adventure. He had taught The Young One many lessons of patience. Surely, he could now wait a while to learn This Journey’s purpose.
    At length, This Unlikely Pair paused for respite. Now given opportunity, The Old One prevailed upon The Young One to tell of his response to The Travelers following.
    “They impinge upon my success!” The Young One spat his response.
    “They impinge upon your success? But how? They are there behind, and we here in the lead.”
    “Precisely! They are to be with me!”
    “They . . . are to be . . . with you?” The Old One was obviously puzzled. “How  . . . ? Why  . . . ?”
    The Young One’s reply was most emphatic.
    “It is mine to lead. It is theirs to follow. That is why I go before them.”
    “But My Young Friend,” The Old One responded in surprise, “do you not know –  have I not taught you? Leadership fares not before the follower. It travels alongside.”
    The Young One erupted, “They should be alongside! Precisely in that centers my vexation with them!”
    “Your vexation with them . . .?”
    The Old One’s question was more an echo.
    “Yes! If they were of worth as followers, then they should be alongside this moment. They should not lag so.”
    “Your notion of leadership seems quite self-indulgent. Please acquaint me with your thoughts on Leadership - and Followership.”
    “I know only what I am told to do, but I can tell you this. Those guided forth must keep the pace; else They pose no following at all. How shall any Leader affect the way and the will of those who lag so?” The Young One snorted. “Search high. Search low. Search thither and yon. To find one with requisite vigor for The Following, is a task well nigh impossible.”
    “You speak with high disdain for those with whom you share your fate. Have you no accountability to those following? Have you no greater tie to That Company of Wayfarers, as you call them?”
    The Young One bristled that The Old One should suggest he might be more attentive to That Company of Wayfarers. His manner of speech was arrogant and angry.
    “If I am able to attain to success, then so are They able. I fare before them in demonstration of what to do – and how. Is it to my account if they falter in the learning?
    “ ... That Company of Wayfarers! Aye! In that lies the matter! Scant more are they than a Company of Wayfarers! They require leading by the hand. Would not a nursemaid do them well? Let them not look thus to me! Perhaps among the dainty they may yet find such a one. As for me, I shall continue in my duties whether or not they continue in theirs.”
    With that The Young One arose to continue forth, but The Old One moved not. He had resolved to remain for The Followers to close the distance. He would continue in their company. Perhaps he could influence His Young Friend so to remain as well.
    “Shall it be thus, then?” asked The Young One.
    “Only if you continue to fare ahead of those you lead - otherwise, for the remainder of This Journey, I too shall lag behind.”
    With The Old One firm in his resolve, away The Young One paced, leaving His Friend silently awaiting The Followers.

I can never again call ...

I can never again call to say Hi!

(Not that I was ever really good at that.)

My brother, Ron, died in the wee hours of April 23, 2015. He was ill for two-plus years, so it was no surprise. From our words, we siblings accepted, even blessed his death. His battle with ALS was done. Regardless of our love, we could not and would not hold him back, because; well, we do love him.

Still, acceptance does not wipe out sorrow. Our brother is no longer with us.

Through the following five days I wondered how the finality of Ron’s death would over-take me. Things went fairly well, but I knew more would come. As a 70-year-old A.D.D. adult I had learned to manage my emotions relatively well, but was I really doing so well then? I generally “manage” to check my emotions so as not to vent on others. Of course, that’s not a hard-and-fast rule.

Monday, April 27 at 5:04 PM was the final stop on our journey to Ron’s funeral the next day. We checked into our hotel, and as usual Deanna, my wife, wanted to take the stairs to our room. I impatiently insisted that she get on the elevator with me. I didn’t want to climb stairs and I didn’t want to take that elevator ride alone. Even in my impatience, I questioned myself on why I was treating her so. I knew she deserves better.

When we got to our room she wanted to go back to the car for something. I was OK with that. I wanted to sit in the quiet for a bit. Immediately, I was overwhelmed and wept bitterly. I couldn’t explain it then, but since, I’ve put a name on that finality.

I was in Ron’s town, and I couldn’t pick up the phone to say, “Hi! We’re here.” I suspect that as each of the family arrived something similar occurred, but for me it’s a bit more complicated.

I’ve said that I am an Adult A.D.D. That’s not a disease; not even a “disorder” as the final word in “Attention Deficit Disorder” puts it. Neither is it deficient “Attention.” It’s more like I’m over attentive to stimuli, and it’s genetic. A.D.D. people are hard-wired that way. Perhaps the “deficit” for us is in how our “condition” is handled by others. Until recently, we were seen as flawed. Most people, including therapists, believe in medications to alter our moods and help us learn to manage life. It comes across that we needed to be “fixed;”something that cannot happen. For me, meds never worked, and early-on most professionals categorically denied that A.D.D. could exist in adults.

What does that have to do with my grief at Ron’s death? Please stay with me as I set the scene.

I started Kindergarten in September, 1949, when the so-called “Humane Mental Health Movement” was barely underway, and graduated High School in 1962. Few professionals ever heard of A.D.D. until well into the 60’s. Teachers knew good kids, bad kids and kids who wouldn’t apply themselves. I was in the Fifth Grade when I first heard of mental retardation. I wasn’t one of that group. I was a bright kid, but with my volatile temper I was in trouble a lot. If there was a black eye on campus, it seemed that I was either wearing it, or I had administered it.

You may rightly deduce that I wasn’t treated well by other kids. I felt unaccepted and on the outside of everything. With few exceptions, even with most teachers I stood alone. As time passed, even as an adult I came to expect and wait for “the other shoe to drop.”

I protected myself by pulling ever further away. As a result, at my 50-Year High School Reunion, one of my classmates commented, “Jack, I remember you as a quiet boy.” Little did he know that despite being quite talkative I had no one to talk to.

I told him, “The only reason I kept quiet was, if I didn’t someone would be there to knock me down.”

A few years later other classmates would comment to the effect that, “I’m afraid we didn’t treat you very nicely in school.”

Even in my family of origin, I seldom felt secure. I remember little beyond conflict. If it wasn’t my dad getting into it with me or one of my older brothers, it was two older brothers fighting. It matters little where the onus for that conflict may have lain. That is just how I experienced life, despite the fact that as a toddler I was doted on by my older brothers and sisters. I just didn’t feel unconditionally loved, and I pulled away even from family. I decided that some of my family really didn’t like me; especially Ron. I “saw signs that proved” my belief.

With time I came to avoid contact with him. If I was traveling on business, passing within a mile of his house, I made a point not to “disturb” him. It hurt at first, but since I reasoned that was the way he wanted things I began to “reconcile” myself to what I thought was reality.

Well, wouldn’t you know it? Just when I think I’ve “set the scene,” it starts to break down.

When our High School in Bethany, Oklahoma, held a special 100 year celebration, I avoided checking to see if Ron was going. Since I was “reconciled” to my old classmates I thought it didn’t matter if he went or not. Someone did say they saw him there, and I was struggling with my response. Should I just maintain the status quo and not try to find him? To my surprise he looked me up in the crowd and gave me a warm, loving hug.

My inner response? “I didn’t know!”

From that time, I began to be “reconciled” to Ron. I would make special arrangements to stop for lunch with him as I drove past, and I hoped that in time, and without fanfare, I would be able to put things such as I’ve written here well into the past.

Then, a couple of weeks before Ron died, I had a visit with his best friend, Glen; whom I consider a part of our family.

He told me of when they first met in the Eighth Grade (paraphrased for brevity).

“Jack, I don’t know if you know this, but when Ron and I were becoming friends he knew you were treated badly at school. He made a point to tell me, ‘We’re going to be friends, Glen, but you need to know that Jack’s a part of the package, and that’s the way it will stay.’”

Glen told me he had seen many times when someone had treated me badly and Ron followed up later, confronting the offenders and telling them to stop.

He finished, “You may not know it, Jack, but Ron always had your back.”

I never knew, and that’s “the rest of the story.”

I began planning a stop at Junction City on May 2, a planned visit to the State Capitol. I wanted to find a way to say, “Thank you for looking out for me even though I never understood.”

That’s my real sense of finality in our relationship.

I can never again call my brother.

I can never again visit him; or write him.

I can never say, “Thanks, Ron.”

The Gift of Philanthropy

The Gift of Philanthropy: Join Us

See below.

June 13, 2014
Deanna and I were married on June 14, 1964. Due to family scheduling conflicts, we’ll celebrate our anniversary a week later, on June 22 with our church, family and close friends. It’ll be quite a time, especially for me. Back in High School girls didn’t talk much with me; let alone date me. Finally, I married the prettiest girl around, and she stuck it out through thick and thin.

50 years later we have neither the need nor the room for more things, but some folks like special ways to commemorate the day. Instead of gifts for us, we would rather make a gift to you.

We like the Native American birthday giving custom. Their celebrants give to others; rather than receive; as a gesture of gratitude for another year. 

However, like us I’m sure you have more than you need, so how can we adapt that custom and honor you with a gift?

I know; THE GIFT OF PHILANTHROPY!

Our tiny “philanthropic” endeavors go in various ways. There’s Kansas Mennonite Men’s Chorus (KMMC), Interfaith Housing Services (IHS) and NAMI; to name the top three outside of our church. IHS is a local non-profit which I led in its establishment 24 years ago; and NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) is an information and education provider regarding mental illness. NAMI advocates with government on behalf mental health consumers; teaches consumers and families on self-advocacy and other topics unique to their crises; and they do support groups. KMMC is a Christian Men’s Chorus with nearly 300 members. We have two or three free concerts each year at which we receive free-will offering donations, all of which goes to worldwide poverty and hunger relief. Our mission statement is “We sing that others may live.”

Right now, I’m pushing hardest for NAMI, where goals were only 80% met in a recent fundraiser.

Our gift to you works like this. Everyone can do small philanthropy, and “small” adds up to “large” if you enlist others. For our anniversary, we will make contributions to NAMI, and IHS, and we invite others to join in with small gifts of any amount to “our” charities ($1, $10, $100; whatever), or to their own charities. 

Deep Government cuts aggravate the need, and charities desperately need help; great or small. Mental health providers have lost hundreds of thousands each and some services have been lost. Home rehab funding has also become elusive, so that IHS can’t do as much. They now provide low-income rentals, as well as weatherization across SW Kansas. I help through occasional “in-kind” giving; handling a project or working with others.

The need won’t go away. At least 1 in 4 people in the USA still suffer mental health crises each year and need professional intervention. Many low income elderly still deplete their savings and watch their homes fall to disrepair. 

So please, join us in philanthropy. Remember, "small" can quickly become "big." 

As “our day” approaches do something extra for someone or some cause in your own area. If you wish to join us by contributing to one of our charities, look below to find the details.

Naturally, you aren't obligated, and we won’t shun you. You may just want to pray. God will bless you, for that as well.

Serving in faith,

Jack and Deanna Mace

________________________________________

 

To join our philanthropy FOR IHS  (https://www.facebook.com/InterfaithHousingServices)

• Take/send your philanthropy directly, IHS, 1326 E Ave A, Hutchinson, KS 67501. Be sure to reference your gift to “Jack & Deanna Mace philanthropy.”

• Alternatively, you can just send in a check. We don’t really need the recognition.

To join our philanthropy for KMMC (https://ksmenschorus.org/)

• Send it directly to Kansas Mennonite Men’s Chorus (KMMC), 15800 W Dutch Ave, Moundridge, KS 67107. Write “Jack & Deanna Mace philanthropy” on the memo line.

He's Still There

He’s still there;

                the kid with history

                good times and bad

                success and failure

                hard times and triumph.

He’s still there;

                who he is because of who he was

                proud he overcame

                glad in who he is

                glad in what he’s done.

Yes, he’s still there;

                in isolation and crowds

                in isolation IN the crowds

                with friends – or not

                in confidence – or fear.

Yes, he’s still there;

                the kid who’s quite afraid

                who fears accusations of wrong

                who oft feels guilt even absent wrong

                who isolates himself by that fear

That frightened kid; yes, he’s still there.

Funds for Mental Health

I make no apologies. I’ll tell you right up front. In this blog entry I’m going to ask you to make a commitment to support mental health funding. It is too critical an issue to leave alone.

Quoting from the 2014 NAMIWalks brochure:

“From coast to coast and around the globe, mental illness affects everyone. Every year, regardless of race, age, religion or economic status, mental illness impacts the lives of at least one in four adults, and one in ten children across the United States – that is nearly 60 million Americans.”

“NAMI, National Alliance on Mental Illness, is the nation’s largest grassroots mental health organization dedicated to building better lives for the millions of Americans Affected with Mental illness. NAMI advocates for access to services, treatment supports and research.”

 As a concerned community member, I have been involved “in the trenches” as a volunteer friend of a man severely disabled with mental illness for some 18 years now. My college degree is a B.A. in Psychology (1972, Bethel College, North Newton, KS). I was Seminary-trained in chaplaincy/counseling and for a time I worked in that role. I am also an Adult “with” A.D.D. Attention Deficit Disorder.

I prefer to think of myself as “an Adult A.D.D.;” something I AM and not what I have. I’ve come to view it as almost a personality type in and of itself, and I’ve made friends with myself as such a person. It’s far easier to manage my moods, etc. when I think in that way; when I accept myself as worthy of my own care. 

A.D.H.D. (“H” for hyperactive), is listed high on NAMI’s list of mental illnesses. A.D.D. and A.D.H.D. are genetic issues and aren’t “curable.”

I have had only a brief time in my life when I was involved in a professional intervention for my “condition,” and I do no meds for the so-called disorder. Thus, I generally think of myself in my concerned community member role rather than as a Mental Health Consumer. A year ago, I joined NAMI Reno, the local NAMI affiliate and became NAMIWalks Captain for Reno County, KS. I continue in that role this year, and I am under full steam in seeking sponsorship for our team, HutchInStride.

If you are inclined to join me in my concern for mental health consumers, please visit http://namiwalks.nami.org/HutchInStride2014 – my own NAMIWalks website – and sign on to support my efforts. Your response has never been more important, with a Kansas Governor in an election year who believes that taking money from one part of the overall mental health budget and applying it to another, less needed area, represents increased funding with which he can make political hay. The net effect is that Mental Health Consumers are actually losing services. NAMI stands in the gap, working to rectify that problem.