dad | Elaine Olsen

In the Olive Press with Jesus {part four: Healing in the Desert}

February 29, 2012

“Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the desert, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil.” –Luke 4:1-2

The Lenten journey begins in the desert. It is the undiscovered country that invites us to participate in the desert experience of our Lord. A desert and a wilderness, we are told. That doesn’t carry much hope. Its very mention conjures up images of aloneness and aloofness—with austerity, abstinence, and self affliction. Why would one want to visit that place or take that journey?

Well, let me suggest a reason why we’d better take the trip! Gifts are waiting there that will not come easily; but those who are interested in the ‘healing gifts of the desert’ will discover that the desert is rich and verdant in its promise of healing and transformation.

Healing and transformation in Lent? Aren’t those spiritual realities more appropriate to the Easter Season, when all the world is turning to Spring…when alleluias are sounding from everyone’s lips and a crucified Jewish carpenter comes leaping and dancing from his tomb? Certainly Easter is the season of new life as epitomized in the resurrection. But this new life begins long before the Paschal celebrations. It begins back in the wilderness desert of Lent where it is known by another name—conversion.

Could it be that we frequently fail to appropriate and appreciate the healing gifts of Lent because we are so blissfully unaware that we need them? Lent is about giving up of something, yes—giving up our false gods, our false selves, and our false notion that we can make it on our own. And the ‘desert’ is just the place for that to happen.

Change me in this desert, Lord. Let this be a journey of personal decrease and spiritual increase. May the healing work of your cross be the healing, transformational work of my heart as we travel this road together. Amen.

Join me each week on Wednesdays throughout the Lenten season to hear a few thoughts from my dad, Dr. Charles Killian (a.k.a. “Chuck”).

In the Olive Press with Jesus {part two: Lent is a Four-Letter Word}

February 22, 2012

My father tells me that his earliest days of preaching were spent out in a cow pasture, admonishing the uncooperative beasts to produce more milk or else face the threat of eternal punishment. His technique was a bit rough around the edges, his message all the more, but it was his beginning. A cow pasture is a good place to start with Jesus and the Word—the preaching of it, even more so the understanding of it. Sometimes faith is best worked out in the pasture—those wide-open spaces in our lives that allow for roaming, grazing, and thinking. Sometimes, we need that space in our lives to work it out. To walk and eat and ponder with God.

My father has taken that time with God, seven decades’ worth of heart investments. The pulpit in the cow pasture moved forward to include numerous pulpits over the years. Some conventional; some off the beaten path. Regardless of the venue, my daddy has always been a preacher, always been willing to tell the Story, to live the grace, and to serve as an extension of God’s love in this world.

I’d listen to him anywhere—a church, a classroom, in the car, at the dinner table, or even in a cow pasture. He’s just that authentic and wonderful and “holy” connected to the deep things of God. Graciously, he’s agreed to share some of his Lenten ponderings with us. He’ll be here each Wednesday, perhaps even more. He can be trusted with the truth. Children who work out God’s message in the cow pasture are those who have something to say. I trust my daddy’s heart, because my daddy has never backed away from doing the hard work of faith. So, let’s go with God as we travel with Chuck to the Easter cross over these next six weeks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Loneliness is a Four-Letter Word

The pivotal story for Lent is the one at the beginning: the story of Jesus’ forty day loneliness. It is the season of vacancy and vacuum, privacy and pause; of solitude and great subtraction. The Tempter tried to fill the loneliness with bread, with power, and with glory—all good things. The temptation is always to fill, to furnish, to fertilize the emptiness of the forty days.

We, all of us, are drawn to six weeks where we try to be profoundly religious. We will attend worship, participate in adult education, consider mission activities and mission giving, engage in renewed spiritual disciplines that range from some sort of fasting practice, to prayer, to meditation, journaling. We are hungry, longing, and hopeful.

We preachers come along and are tempted to fill that hunger, that longing, that hope. In one community Lent means a revival…another, a labyrinth workshop. One preaches repentance and another goes to a retreat; still others work in a shelter for the homeless or in a letter-writing campaign for social justice. All are good; all are valuable; but when we are waiting to discover the gift in the loneliness, all are distracting.

How about this bizarre thought: a four-letter word, Lent, is a time for preachers to let people alone. If we all make our way to the desert, the place of our loneliness, we will discover in the uncharted part of Lent, the best part of all is receiving gifts—knowing who we are and that we are not alone. Blessed be God who every year gives us forty days to rediscover these healing and transforming gifts for ourselves and one another!

I guess you could say this is my introduction to the desert journey I’m taking as Lent begins: to be more open to silence and listening; to be more intentional in taking better care of my soul and my body; to envision more fully who God wants me to be; and to discern with clarity the difference between what is ‘central’ and what is peripheral.

Lent is a trip I must take for myself. It is a journey into the parched desert of my soul, languishing for water. No one can do that for me. It will be lonely. Yes, loneliness is a four-letter word—LENT! It should never fit too easily into the natural rhythms of our lives.

Prayer: Lord, free me from the distractions that keep me comfortably anesthetized. Amen.

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coming home to daddy’s arms…

December 6, 2011

My dad is the funniest man I know. Not the stand-up comedic kind of funny, but the everyday conversation kind of funny. As the man walketh, so does his humor. Those of you who know him well, know this to be true. Those of you who know me well, know this also to be true of me. I know this shocks some of you. I’ve even heard it from some of you upon meeting me for the first time.

Elaine, I thought you’d be this serious, contemplative type of person who sits around all day thinking profound thoughts about God. Instead, you’re funny.

I’ve never been offended by the conclusion. After all, I write about some fairly heavy stuff here at “peace for the journey.” But I like knowing that I can be both—contemplative and humorous. I have my father to thank for this genetic DNA. My daddy makes me think and makes me laugh, sometimes within the span of a few minutes. He’s the most generous man I know, giving the best of himself away to all who cross his path. He’s not impressed with things, more importantly, not impressed with himself. He is, however, impressed by the story. Your story; my story; God’s story.

My daddy sees God everywhere, because my daddy is connected to life. To joys and pains equally. To highs and lows. Griefs and graces. Sorrows and celebrations. Regardless of the occasion, my dad has discovered how to live with a balanced perspective. My father lives contentedly and always tempers the tough times with large doses of humor.

I’m so glad I still have him around. He was the first man to ever hold me, to ever love me. The first man to wipe my tears, to tell me bedtime stories, to pray the prayers that all good parents should be praying with their children. He was the only man who loved me when others would not … could not. And his were the arms that stretched wide-open for me and welcomed me home after a long season of loveless wandering in the wilderness. In doing so, my daddy told me the story of Jesus all over again. That one moment in my personal history did more to script the eternal witness of God into my life than any other.

And so, today, I tell you again this story I’ve told you before via this video that I posted on my one-year blogging anniversary, nearly three years ago. It’s a bit painful for me to watch it, considering the many miles that have been walked in the time since first posting it. But one thing, one thread remains the same to this day.

My daddy is still stretching his arms wide-open to welcome me home. He’s still making me laugh, still telling me stories. Still connected to the world, and still making sure that I know the way back to Jesus. Today, I honor my father by sharing this witness again. He’d want you to know that, even if you’ve never had an earthly daddy to love you, you have a heavenly Father who loves you perfectly and whose arms are stretched wide on your behalf.

I love you, daddy, for so many reasons, but none more so than for telling me … showing me God. You tell him well!

~Lansey

A Pulpit on the Pamlico River

June 30, 2009

“In the presence of God and of Christ Jesus, who will judge the living and the dead, and in view of his appearing and his kingdom, I give you this charge: Preach the Word; be prepared in season and out of season; correct, rebuke and encourage–with great patience and careful instruction” (2 Timothy 4:1-2).

I spent last evening on the Pamlico River, sharing my heart with a group of women about Moses’ “walkabout” of faith. It was a night of pleasure for me—a time of fellowship with friends, both old and new, all the while in the company of our Father who spoke to us through his Word.

I don’t think I’ll ever get over the fact that God has allowed me any type of platform for sharing his truth. Like the apostle Paul, I bring little eloquence and even less knowledge than him to the table. Like Paul, I feel unworthy of the calling; still and yet, God bestows the privilege upon me—upon us all as partakers in the kingdom that is now and is to come.

Today I called my dad to talk about my experience; we talked about preaching—about his experience behind the pulpit, his nerves regarding the pulpit, and his preparation for the pulpit. He told me something important as it pertains to the “handling” of God’s Word. He’s been a professor of preaching for nearly forty years. I think, perhaps, he holds some wisdom in the matter.

“I tell my students, Elaine, that they should write their sermon outlines, write out their entire thoughts word for word if they like, early in the week. They should get their sermons down on paper by Thursday noontime and then spend the rest of the weekend reading them, pondering them, praying over them. And then, when Sunday morning comes, they should walk away from their notes (not needing them) and preach the story with all the confidence of heaven to back them up.”

A sermon well-preached is a story well-lived. My dad’s been preaching that story for fifty years now … living it a bit longer. This past Sunday marked his golden anniversary in the pulpit. It is my privilege to share with you a few words he shared with his readers regarding this treasured milestone.

A seasoned minister, upon hearing that I was going into pastoral work, asked me this question, “Chuck, when you get up to preach, where will you be standing?” My first thought was “What a strange question.” Was there no better question to ask than that—the geography of where sermons will be preached?

I responded, “Behind the pulpit, of course.” He paused and, slightly shaking his head, replied, “No, no, they tell me when one stands to preach, they do so between heaven and hell.”

That was a stopper! Karl Barth, noted theologian said to the preaching students in his class, “Upon what grounds do you assume the role of mediator between heaven and earth? You will be standing between God’s grace and human need.” I have to admit, this business of ‘standing’ in that location has haunted me every step of the way. On the other hand, I have discovered inexorable delight and joy, knowing full well that I would have been missing ‘the mark’ had I done otherwise. My only boast was that I stood on “a Rock that was higher than I.” That made the difference!

This past Sunday, I preached at the ACTS United Methodist Church, which marked the anniversary of a fifty-year journey that started off at a little country church in Darke County, Ohio. It was during my senior year at Marion College (now Indiana Wesleyan), that I commuted to that unincorporated little village called Longtown. My congregation was African American, and those people loved, supported, and challenged me to stand up and “do it.”

My ministry has been ‘bookended’ by Longtown Wesleyan Church and ACTS United Methodist. The in-between years, all fifty of them, have fled swiftly by, like a weaver’s shuttle. And on this Golden Anniversary I can say without exaggeration or embarrassment, that it has been a ‘good stand’. And for the rest of the trip, I have several more corners to turn until I get home.

~Chuck

I suppose the “fruit” of my father’s “good stand” is the living witness of the countless lives he’s touched along the way. He’s touched mine. He’s taught me what it is to stand between heaven and hell as a mouthpiece for the truth of Jesus Christ. I stood there last evening, and by God’s grace and only his grace, I’ll stand there again.

So for you, dad, here are a few words of living witness to let you know just how wide and long and high and deep your reach has extended for the kingdom of God. It reached to the Pamlico River last night; I imagine there are several more corners it will turn before we all get home. This I do know … we’ll get there together. I love you.

(This portion of my talk last evening came at the end. It is a bit blurry and the sound not high quality. Please forgive. Remember…we’re a low budget operation over here.) Copyright © June 2009 – Elaine Olsen

Early Memories (part two): the find and the fear

November 3, 2008

Please take time to read the previous post for context. This is my follow up response.

“‘The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field. When a man found it, he hid it again, and then in his joy went and sold all he had and bought that field. Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it.’” (Matthew 13:44-46).

Hartsville, Indiana.

The soil of my beginnings. The landscape that houses my earliest memories.

My mind traveled to Hartsville this past weekend. My father’s words always have a way of taking me to places—to new levels of understanding often tucked away in the old and in the unseen, yet, when scratched, become the itch that cannot be ignored. I’ve thought a lot about my early memories and Sam Keen’s words…

“Tell me your three earliest memories and I will tell you what you are working on right now.”

I’ve plumbed the depths of my remembrances; some have yielded pleasant. Some not so much. And as it pertains to my now, I’ve come to two conclusions about those early imprints—those firmly rooted memories and about how they, perhaps, continue their shaping of my current.

1. The find.

One of my earliest memories can be traced back to this picture–an Easter egg hunt at the ripe age of nearly three. Some would argue me too young to remember, but the images in my mind from that day are real and vivid. I can still feel the heat of the sun and the squirm of my hand inside of my mother’s grip. The decorations of the Easter basket were held together with straight pins, pricking my tiny fingers with just enough annoyance to relegate my attention away from the task at hand.

The find. The candy and the eggs. The hidden treasure that required my participation.

My anticipation was heightened by the flock of other children intent on doing the same. Even at my young age, there was a deep sense of urgency for the find. I was disturbed by the waiting for the horn to sound, signaling the beginning of the hunt. I was even more disturbed by the possibility of not being able to get my hands on the prize.

The memory holds little else for me beyond these initial moments of waiting, but once the signal sounded, my heart and my feet raced forward for the find. I don’t remember the prize that I took away from that event. Perhaps the memory in and of itself, is the prize.

The find. The urgency for the hunt. The concern that somehow I would be overlooked and unable to get my hands on the promised treasure of Easter.

Could it be that I’ve never quite escaped my need for the search?

2. The fear.

Hartsville also housed the beginnings of my fear.

In that season, my father was in graduate school and my mother worked part-time; thus, my sister and I were sometimes left in the care of babysitters. One of our favorites was Beulah. I liked going to Beulah’s house, but going to Beulah’s meant being away from my parents. I remember standing on her front porch, furiously waving to my father as he drove away. Because of his absence, tears filled my eyes as an unhealthy sense of fear filled my heart.

For all of the reasons that I loved Beulah, they weren’t enough to warrant any joy at being left in her care. I’m not sure as to the reasons why, but the insecurities secured in me during that season were the beginnings of a deeply rooted fear that has followed me for nearly four decades.

Could it be that I’ve never quite escaped from my fear of being left behind—forgotten about and deemed as the “lesser priority” of well-intentioned goals?

The find and the fear. Two urgent and pressing memories that surfaced for me this past weekend as I contemplated what I might, perhaps, “…be working on now.”

One replaces the other. The more I find the treasure of Easter, the less I fear being left behind. The hunt for Jesus—the digging and the intentional search for the kingdom of heaven—always yields a peace that surpasses any fear that surfaces to the contrary. I know this to be true, for I am an Easter person.

I’ve walked the road to Calvary and found the greatest treasure of eternal Truth seeded in its soil and harvested in his resurrection. Jesus didn’t walk the road home to his Father so that I could stand on earth’s porch in fear of his never returning. No, he walked home so that I could follow accordingly, with a faith that replaces fear and with a joy that comes from being trusted with the sacred find.

When we find forever, friends, and when we cherish it as the greatest holding of our hearts, we need not fear his return on our behalf. He’s coming, and it won’t be long. Fear tells us that it will be, but faith reassures us that our waiting is but a breath—a single pause between our flawed memories and our sure and soon-to-be, eternal realities.

Now we see dimly. Live dimly, and remember dimly. But soon, we shall fully see. Fully live and fully understand how our beginnings—our early remembrances—have shaped us and equipped us for the kingdom find that has always been our Father’s intention. Thus I pray,

For memories and their shaping, Father, I thank you. Never let the “truth” of my past replace the truth of who you are. The former is flawed, whereas you are perfect. When I am tempted to be shackled by the restraints of imperfect remembrances, increase my vision for my perfected end. As I live my life in process, I ask for your guiding hand and divine wisdom to be my teacher. Where there is fear, replace it with faith. And when I cry tears, wipe them away with the truth of your return. Today, I cast my eyes to the Eastward sky, knowing that you soon will break my stare with the glorious revelation of your return. Even so, come quickly, Lord Jesus. Amen.

PS: For any of you who would like to be put on my father’s weekly email list, please email me separately with your address. I will pass it on to him. Shalom.

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