Faded Photographs
While waiting for the first worship hour to begin Sunday morning a woman walked up and sat down beside me. She was a relative who attends Dallas Bay. She opened an envelope full of old photographs and began to hand them to me before I could even protest. She explained that she had collected these pictures for me so that I could see some of my relatives that I had never met. To say that our family isn't close is to understate the obvious. So she was right. I had no clue as to the identity of most of the people in the photos. She began to rattle off names that were unfamiliar and just a little bit strange. It was time to begin the service and I politely handed her the pictures as I began to walk away. She stopped me and said, "Oh no, don't give them back. They're yours to keep." I politely thanked her and quickly looked for a place to stash them since I was about to walk to the platform and begin the worship time.
I almost forgot about them. As a matter of fact, I did. At least for a few hours. I remembered them that evening and was afraid that someone would find them and throw them away. So I picked them up and took them home with the intention of filing them out of the way. I found myself in one of those rare moments when I was alone and had no immediate pressing appointment. I grabbed the envelope full of unfamiliar kinfolk and began to browse. Almost intuitively I began to size each one of them up. Poor country dirt farmer, rough and profane sailor, uneducated and backward housewife began to flash in my subconscience as I surveyed the old photgraphs. I wish I could tell you that I immediately was struck with a profound sense of guilt at my quick and unsubstantiated prejudice. But, that would add lying to the sins I need forgiveness for today and my list is already way too long. Right at the top is the word bigot. I had no reason to judge these people because of their appearance. Especially since they were family and some of their genes were now in my own biological soup spelling out who I am.
I began to look at them again as just that, my roots. These were uncles and cousins who went off to war to fight Nazis and the Japanese Imperial Navy. There were pictures of men working for a non-existent minimum wage on river barges powered by coal engines driving pistons that in turn spun props that dug into muddy Tennesee River sand bars. There were young girls who would become wives and mothers. One of the pictures was my own mother when she was three. There was a picture of my grandmother's first husband. I didn't know she was ever married to anyone except my grandfather. I wondered what ridicule and social penalties she had to pay for divorce in the early 1900's living in rural Tennessee. I know something of the pain divorce brings because my parents were divorced when I was nine. The event was so devestating to me that I have lost all memories of my childhood before that time.
The last picture in the stack was eerily fascinating. It was a sandy blond haired boy of 6 sitting sideways on a motorcycle. He was obviously poor because of his dress. He was wearing cowboy boots with no socks, a tattered shirt and faded jeans. He was smiling. You could tell he was comfortable around a motorcycle even at his young age. I did not know who the boy was. I wondered if he ever did anything worthwhile. Probably not. I was curious so I turned the picture over and read "Ken Duggan, 1963." There I was. The boy I used to be before my childhood memories were erased. Then I began to spiritualize. That's my job you know, I am a preacher after all. Every person in every picture that I so quickly judged was no different than me. They had pains that someone casually glancing at their photographs could never imagine. There they were, smiling if only for a moment. One brief moment in history where some one said "say cheese." The imitation smile hiding all the pain that was going on in their life. I remebered what the prophet Isaiah said when he descibed the Lord Jesus, "He was despised and rejected by men." Most of whom, I'm sure, never really got to know Him. I thought, "that picture doesn't fool God. He knows. I mean He really knows and He really cares." I'm glad for the faded photographs my relative brought me. I'm more thankful for the lesson the Lord taught me.
In His Shadow,
Pastor Ken
I almost forgot about them. As a matter of fact, I did. At least for a few hours. I remembered them that evening and was afraid that someone would find them and throw them away. So I picked them up and took them home with the intention of filing them out of the way. I found myself in one of those rare moments when I was alone and had no immediate pressing appointment. I grabbed the envelope full of unfamiliar kinfolk and began to browse. Almost intuitively I began to size each one of them up. Poor country dirt farmer, rough and profane sailor, uneducated and backward housewife began to flash in my subconscience as I surveyed the old photgraphs. I wish I could tell you that I immediately was struck with a profound sense of guilt at my quick and unsubstantiated prejudice. But, that would add lying to the sins I need forgiveness for today and my list is already way too long. Right at the top is the word bigot. I had no reason to judge these people because of their appearance. Especially since they were family and some of their genes were now in my own biological soup spelling out who I am.
I began to look at them again as just that, my roots. These were uncles and cousins who went off to war to fight Nazis and the Japanese Imperial Navy. There were pictures of men working for a non-existent minimum wage on river barges powered by coal engines driving pistons that in turn spun props that dug into muddy Tennesee River sand bars. There were young girls who would become wives and mothers. One of the pictures was my own mother when she was three. There was a picture of my grandmother's first husband. I didn't know she was ever married to anyone except my grandfather. I wondered what ridicule and social penalties she had to pay for divorce in the early 1900's living in rural Tennessee. I know something of the pain divorce brings because my parents were divorced when I was nine. The event was so devestating to me that I have lost all memories of my childhood before that time.
The last picture in the stack was eerily fascinating. It was a sandy blond haired boy of 6 sitting sideways on a motorcycle. He was obviously poor because of his dress. He was wearing cowboy boots with no socks, a tattered shirt and faded jeans. He was smiling. You could tell he was comfortable around a motorcycle even at his young age. I did not know who the boy was. I wondered if he ever did anything worthwhile. Probably not. I was curious so I turned the picture over and read "Ken Duggan, 1963." There I was. The boy I used to be before my childhood memories were erased. Then I began to spiritualize. That's my job you know, I am a preacher after all. Every person in every picture that I so quickly judged was no different than me. They had pains that someone casually glancing at their photographs could never imagine. There they were, smiling if only for a moment. One brief moment in history where some one said "say cheese." The imitation smile hiding all the pain that was going on in their life. I remebered what the prophet Isaiah said when he descibed the Lord Jesus, "He was despised and rejected by men." Most of whom, I'm sure, never really got to know Him. I thought, "that picture doesn't fool God. He knows. I mean He really knows and He really cares." I'm glad for the faded photographs my relative brought me. I'm more thankful for the lesson the Lord taught me.
In His Shadow,
Pastor Ken
posted by Pastor Ken at 11:20 AM
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