Dr. Robert A. Reid - My Friend and Colleague!

(Reprinted below is my eulogy which was read at the "Celebration of Life" in Carthage, Texas for Dr. Robert Addison Reid on Friday, July 30, 2010.)

It is said that the true measure of the magnitude of a tall tree can only be known when it is felled and lies beneath our feet. If that is true, then you and I are discovering that a soaring giant has fallen in our forest. Today, those of us who have lived within the blessed shade of the impact of Robert Addison Reid and who have enjoyed the lyrical sounds of music which happily came to life within him give witness to a personal and spiritual upheaval, even as we honestly acknowledge our loss.

Robert Reid was my friend and colleague for many years. I first knew him when he came to serve on the faculty of Houston Baptist University. At a school where high academic standards were the norm, where faculty were expected to share themselves as whole persons, beyond the classroom, and where the authentic Christian commitment of academic role models was strongly encouraged, Robert’s calling was easily and naturally expressed. As an administrative dean with daily relationships among students, I was pleased to have Robert serving closely with me on a significant committee which routinely called for discernment and wisdom in making critical decisions.

When, in God’s providence, it was time for me to leave the university, to serve as a Pastor in a Houston-area Baptist church, I recall seeing Robert, one day, in the hallway. With that gleam in his eye and his ever-ready grin, he called me aside, looked into my face and, borrowing some syntax from the King James Version of Scripture, said: “Remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.” Both of us knew that Robert was signaling that he would like to serve with me on a church staff at some point in the future. We both laughed at his turn of phrase and happily acknowledged that such a prospect was, indeed, an attractive one.

Several years later, when the Minister of Music resigned at the Memorial Drive Baptist Church, I sought Robert out. I can still recall the joy I felt when I brought Robert’s name and resume to the Personnel Committee of our church, along with my highest recommendation.

From before we began to work together in the church, it was clear that we shared a passion for the priority of corporate worship. Robert understood and firmly agreed with me that acknowledging God in our midst, praising Him and seeking His face in worship were the church family’s first and highest concerns. Further, we covenanted together that we would devote significant energy, creativity and time to the planning and preparing of the worship experiences, each week.

I have worked with and planned worship with many ministers of music over the years. It is rare, indeed, when one finds the equal and authentic combination of both “minister” and “musician” in the same person. It is also rare when one discovers a gifted and creative worship planning partner who brings energy and innovation to the process of worship creation and implementation. Today, I can tell you honestly that Robert Reid, without question, was the best partner that I have ever had in this lofty aspect of my calling.

Robert’s role with me was far more than simply selecting a few hymns to “warm up” the congregation for the Pastor’s sermon. On the contrary, he keenly understood that the entire worship experience was our joint responsibility and that, although our roles were different, as partners in planning, each of us was free to suggest elements and ideas.

It was in this regard that I especially witnessed Robert’s many gifts and his penchant for spiritual curiosity and profound creativity. In those sometimes long and challenging worship planning sessions, where giant Post-it type posters lined the walls of my office, we sought the presence and leadership of the Holy Spirit, desiring to lead our congregation to offer its highest praise to God. We prayed together; we laughed together; we disagreed and agreed; we tried out possible scenarios; Robert often sang or whistled, to help me to catch the impact of a particular musical option; and, we struggled together until we had reached that acceptable and challenging worship plan that we could offer to the congregation. With courage and originality, Robert helped me to lead the congregation, adventurously, to new heights of devotion in their responsibility to honor God.

Robert was a man of impeccably high standards, both for himself and his music. He would settle for nothing but the highest offering of music, when given to God or as an expression of his stewardship to God. He was, of course, especially talented as a composer. So often, his original works served to express his God-given abilities and to advance the cause of Christ. My ministerial colleagues in Houston would marvel when I told them of Robert’s routine contributions to the worship life of our congregation.

Time will not allow me a full exploration of Robert’s many positive characteristics. He read broadly and was capable of and interested in a wide range of profound intellectual topics. He loved the turn of an English phrase. He valued our common Baptist heritage. He loved to pursue ideas and willingly explored many avenues of thought. He was eternally cheerful. Music, like sap in a tree, flowed through him. He whistled, he sang, he laughed and he caused others to do the same. So positive was his ethos, so optimistic was his outlook, so generous was his capacity to give to others.

The last time I saw Robert was last December. Janice and I had been invited, through the influence of Robert and Carolyn, to speak at the Central Baptist Church of Carthage, Texas. They wanted the church to hear about the challenging work to which God has called us in serving among Albanian immigrants in Athens, Greece. We spoke for a lunch meeting, for an evening meeting and enjoyed a quick meal with the pastor at a local restaurant. In between, Robert and Carolyn hosted us in their home. Absent-mindedly, I left my computer laptop at the Reid’s house.

On Thursday morning, just before leaving Henderson, Texas, I realized that I had left the laptop in Carthage. Over the telephone, Robert insisted that he drive to Henderson and bring the laptop. I would not allow it, since, the day earlier, he had driven to Henderson, picked us up and, late at night, returned us to Henderson. So, I drove back to Carthage to pick up the computer.

When I reached the Reid’s home, I knocked on the door at the garage. From the den, Robert shouted to me to “Come on in!” With that hospitality and familiarity characteristic of good friends, I made my way back to the den, where I found Robert sitting in his recliner. Immediately, I could see the weariness on his face. I realized that the previous day of hosting us had taken a toll on his tired body. Since Janice and I had to be in Austin later that day, I quickly retrieved the laptop, said my farewell and was engulfed in one of Robert’s “bear hugs.”

As Robert sat down again and allowed the weight of his body to find its familiar place in that recliner, I remembered another recliner in Houston, where Robert reported that, in the middle of many a sleepless night, he often had tried to rest. It is my last image of Robert on this side of glory. Today, as I remember this good man and grieve his loss, I am, nevertheless comforted by the realization that, at last, he has found a heavenly resting place and that his journey in this life is over.

Rest well, my friend Robert Reid!

Almost Cool Again!

As I write, it’s 7 AM on a Tuesday morning in Athens, Greece. Stepping out on the veranda of our Pangrati apartment, in the still, quiet, earlyness of the morning, it feels almost cool. I know that, even as I type, the blazing sun is rising over the Pentellic marble of the ancient Parthenon on the Acropolis, radiating the heat and generating higher temperatures; I am aware that, soon, the temperature will soar, no matter whether calculated in Celsius or Fahrenheit; but, it’s almost cool.

I am not stupid; I recognize that Athens, Greece in summer is identical to Houston, Texas in summer, without the humidity. I know that sweat is the constant companion of every one of my five million fellow Athenians, at least three million of whom are already in traffic gridlock or on crowded, underground metro cars, cursing each other in contemporary Greek. I know that hot weather is so common in summer that we begin every sentence with “Κάνει ζέστη, alla…” (“It’s hot, but ….”). I am certain that, when August arrives, it will be even hotter. But, at the moment, it’s almost cool!

“Almost” is admittedly “not quite,” but “almost” is far better than “not.” “Almost” is the stuff of which dreams are made. “Almost” is the gift and product of faith, memory, imagination and hope. “Almost” is, sometimes, a deliberate, willful decision to anticipate a better world. Without the capacity to articulate an occasional “almost,” none of us could anticipate an improved future or recall a treasured past.

Sure! I’ll agree! “Almost” is also the repository of disappointment, sometimes yielding to despair. “Almost” carries with it the potential for hope deferred which can so easily become hope denied. But, “almost cool” means that I haven’t entirely forgotten what “cool” is like. “Almost cool” means that, within my sweaty breast there rests a fanciful vision of a more comfortable morning or evening, somewhere in the not too distant days to come.

It’s almost cool because a rain shower visited us yesterday. It’s almost cool because scarce wind has travelled down from the surrounding hillsides and the air is cleaner for a while, this morning. It’s almost cool and, as a result, I can sit on the veranda and watch the little pinwheels spin in the slovenly air currents, even though their movement is more likely the result of the furious flapping of a few thousand dirty pigeon wings.

But, it’s almost cool again in Athens and, in a micro manner, I am celebrating. It’s certainly too hot to jump up and down and the almost coolness surely doesn’t warrant strenuous exercise. But, I am sensing the slightest possibility that the fall is coming and, for this, I am grateful. This morning, I am saying “thank you” for predictability and for routine regularity. While climate change is an undisputed reality and global warming must be acknowledged, sitting in a semi-comfortable chair on my “front porch to the world,” I am here to say that it is almost cool again in Athens!

And, you?

I Have Told You A Thousand Times Not to Exaggerate!

On the budget airline which Janice and I recently used, it was apparent that management was trying to retrieve as much cash as possible from “cheapo” flyers like us. We could have paid extra to check our bags, to board first and to enjoy an in-flight snack.

In addition to the attempt to swell alternate income streams, “product placement” was also evident. As I settled into my tight-quarters seat and tried to ignore the larger-than-average, sweaty guy seated next to me, while simultaneously attending to the overhead announcement encouraging me to fasten my seat belt and locate the emergency escape exits, my travel-weary eyes met the advertisement that had been affixed to the back of the seat in front on me. With recognizable food label logos promoting the presence of several brands which could be purchased mid-flight, the velcro-attached sign said, with a flourish: “Now Available on Board!”(In the small print which followed, the sign then said: “Subject to availability!”

Methinks that this is more than mere marketing. In this age in which language in general and public rhetoric in particular seem to have been severely devalued and their credibility stretched beyond recognition, we have grown to accept such obvious linguistic inconsistencies as the message in front of my seat. Many people trying to communicate a message these days seem to have learned too well the old argumentation device which I was taught years ago in my varsity debate days in college; subliminally, you can get your message across by exaggeration, hyperbole or outright stretching of the truth; just be prepared immediately to take it back. Like an attorney getting his point in the ears of the jury before the opposing lawyer appeals to the judge, many today are willing to say “too much,” followed by a quick retraction.

Almost routinely these days, politicians say outrageous things about their opponents or those in another party and, as soon as public outcry demands, simply take back the statement by saying that they “mis-spoke,” that they were “confused” or that their remarks may have been “taken out of context.” Even religious leaders now seem willing to say horrible things about those with whom they differ, especially those from another religion; only later, with mock sincerity, they issue statements like “I am so sorry if the things that I might have said may have caused others harm” or “I regret that some have seen malice in my innocent remarks” or “It is unfortunate that some have mis-construed my statement.”

Marketeers, politicians, religious leaders and anyone utilizing words to express a grasp of truth must make much better use of language than this. How long will we allow persons, prejudices and platforms to be advanced by the use of this cheap, shoddy perversion of the spoken or written word, at the expense of both truth and clarity? When will the general public reach the maturity to acknowledge such devices for exactly what they are?

Wish I knew!

Playing to the Crowd

I recently read a theory as to why the old Globe Theatre, in London, was likely built “in the round,” with the audience in a circle surrounding a platform for the actors; it was because most of the actors got their start performing on the street. I also learned that, in contrast to Elizabethan life in general, with its many classes and much social distance, the Globe seems to have been a most egalitarian operation, allowing for common folk, as well as nobility, to view the show. For pennies a performance, large numbers of people from all classes could attend the performances of Shakespeare’s works. In addition, with no place “behind the curtain,” the Globe’s actors were required to do their dramas with few props.

In the theatre, the audience is often separated from the actors and the stage by a curtain and much distance. We are allowed to see only that presentation of the drama which the playwright, actors and stage management determine in advance that we should see. Indeed, some of the “magic” and “mystery” of theatre depends on the subtle manipulation of setting, perspective, lighting and sounds. But, reflecting the true life experiences of the “street actors,” the Globe was built very close to the audience, with what we might, today, refer to as a 360 view.

While I am no thespian, nor am I skilled or experienced in the science of staging, I think I much prefer the “in the round” and “up close and personal” approach to both theater construction and life construction. If, as the Bard is reported to have said, “"all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players,” I am drawn toward the more honest and intimate way of “acting” life so that the whole person can be known, up close and whatever “props” are necessary can be seen for what they are.

Admittedly, all of us are attracted to “staging” in life. We like to time our “entrances,” make “dramatic exits.” “stand in the spotlight,” protect our backsides, utilize “props” generously and hide behind certain “screens.” We don’t like being “upstaged” and, quite naturally, we want to present our “best side” to others, controlling our “exposure.” There is, of course, a certain advantage to keeping the “behind the scenes” views obscured from the public, “playing” by a certain “script” and showing only what one wants to be seen.

On the other hand, each one of us needs, also, to “play” our lives before a select “audience” of folks who know us well and who can handle all sides of the presentation of our lives. In the honest commerce of “the street,” there should be little room for pretense and an openness to …, well, openness!

The longer I live, the more comfortable I have become with the “character” that, by God’s grace and my volitional choices, has developed within me; I hope that the characterizations which my life have taken on are an honest reflection of a central, foundational core. There is no doubt that I have been called upon to play a variety of roles, but, I have always wanted my “part” of this drama that we call life to be transparent and an honest reflection of the person on the inside – no masks and no pretend, notwithstanding an occasional touch of “drama.” I have noticed that this is also true of others who have lived a while and have stepped up to “play” a few “roles.” We “veteran actors” have less desire for makeup and little patience for pretense. We certainly don’t want to be “type cast,” preferring, rather, to respond to our “cues” and “speak our piece” with some sort of integrity until the house lights come up and the curtain of our humanity comes down.

“Break a leg!”

Simple, but Loud, Joy!

With Janice in the States, I am spending an exorbitant amount of each day’s early hours alone in the house. Most times, the television is my rattling, prattling, background audio companion, running off at the mouth, reporting in both English and Greek, the pressing problems and acute concerns of our ash-cloud interrupted, deficit-ridden, confidence lacking, globally warmer, much-conflicted world.

This morning, I remembered my often overlooked electronic companion, the CD player and that Celtic CD with the matching rapturous harp melodies and the energetic jigs played on a liberated Irish fiddle. I “juiced” the volume up loud on that thing, the better to hear it while in the shower and afterwards.

A few minutes later, dressed and ready for the day, I left the place for the run to the bank and to pay the bills, inadvertently leaving that machine running at full blast. Standing in the hallway, pondering the critical existential choice between the stairs or the elevator, I surprised myself with the abrupt realization that, from the neighbor’s perspective, the music was, shall we say, a little loud. Knowing that the queue at the bank was already forming, however, I hustled on down the stairs.

After two banks and a wait for my number to be called at the Post Office, I returned to our fourth-floor place that the Greeks and other Europeans, in their wisdom, insist on describing as being on the third floor. By the time I reached the second (or first) floor, I could hear and feel the melodious, mellifluous, yet lively music. Standing on the visitor’s side of my front door, I was greeted by an almost visceral tuneful salutation. Opening the door, the full weight of that otherwise soothing sweetness smacked me in the ears and sinus cavities, welcoming me home.

While I’m trying to be sympathetic to my neighbors (I really am!), I am also enjoying the high-voltage music. Sometimes, it doesn’t take much! Right?

Louiza

A couple of months ago, she came to “our” apartment - the one that she owns and we rent from her – to ensure that the old yucca plants on the veranda were removed safely. We all recognized that the leggy plants should be extracted from their fourth floor flower boxes. Having once provided cool shade and green beauty for the apartment’s residents, over time, they had grown up and out, tall and slender, with their pointed, long leaves now vanished from sight and reaching almost to the neighbor’s veranda on the floor above. While the plants themselves had grown leggy and skinny with age, their roots had become big and bound in their containers, threatening to burst open the concrete boxes. The combined weight of so many bottom-heavy, tall plants was now so great that we genuinely feared that, some day soon, they would threaten the structural integrity of the expansive patio, and break off from their exalted post on its edge.

So, Louiza came over to keep a close watch while the Albanian man carefully unearthed the aging plants. Because her son has a new home, she harbored a hope to recycle the old plants and move them to his new place. It was the last time on earth that we would see Louiza. We actually have seen her precious little in the nearly five years that we have rented the place from her. Through her English-speaking daughter, Maria, she was always responsive to our needs and willing to assist in any way when we called on her. But, the truth of the matter is that we have had very few problems with this great place to live while we are doing our work with Albanian immigrants in Athens. Increasingly, as we have gotten our Greek “legs” beneath us, we have taken care of the repairs that have occasionally been necessary. We usually just call Maria and Louiza, tell them the problem and our proposed solution. They generally agree and we have the work done and reduce our monthly rent check appropriately.

Just two weeks ago, both the refrigerator and the dishwater choose to go “out.” When it was evident that the appliances, purchased thirty years ago, needed to be replaced, Louiza went shopping for us and purchased new ones and arranged to have them delivered and installed – all on her own Euro nickel! In fact, on the very day of her unexpected stroke, Louiza was scheduled to come by the apartment to make certain that the installation was correct and that we were pleased with her new purchases. But, she didn’t come. Only later did we learn that she had suffered a massive stroke from which she would, sadly, never recover.

Last week, we attended the funeral services for this 61 year-old, strong and delightful, hospitable Greek friend. The intricate and somewhat mysterious protocol of Greek Orthodoxy, though strange and different to our American Protestant eyes and ears, could not disguise the genuine pain and powerful grief that generally gathers, like closet dust, around death in any culture. As “strangers” and “foreigners,” we are also fellow human beings and folks who have lost a friend. We grieve far more than the loss of a landlady. We have lost a kind and caring, competent and considerate companion on this journey through life.

Refrigerators and dishwashers and yucca plants eventually come to the end of their service. So, too, human beings, who were never intended to live forever on this planet. Our loss is great; the family’s loss is greater. But, together, we have powerful memories of days gone by. We have character-building relationships and soul-shaping influences that are more potent than life or death. And we also have hopes for eternity. Human beings, who place their trust in Jesus Christ, actually dare to believe that aging yucca plants, unbound from their earthly “boxes,” may prosper and thrive again. So be it with Louiza!

City Welfare

The tragic events of this past week in Athens, Greece have been broadcast all over the world. Only the most myopic, distracted or ADD-afflicted among us could have escaped the report of widespread public demonstrations in this city, in response to the proposed austerity measures which are, in themselves, a response to Greece’s crushing financial woes. As part of a plan which caused the reluctant EU and the IMF to agree to provide “bail out” funds to Greece to the tune of 150 billion Euros in the next three years, Greece’s most recently-elected political leadership, with a Joannis-come-lately sense of righteous frugality, promised to push through legislation intended to reduce significantly the country’s unacceptable, looming deficit-to-GDP. Greek citizens, especially those employed in the public sector who can expect to see their salary checks cut from 14 to 12 each year and can no longer anticipate retiring at age 50, were understandably upset.

Of course, public demonstrations and strikes in this “cradle of democracy” are as regular as pigeon-droppings and usually more easily tolerated. Greeks make an outdoor sport of protests and strikes from workers at all levels of society. Ordinarily, they are peaceful, with resort to violence coming only occasionally and then, from students and others urged on by anarchists and far left groups who seem to have a vested interest in both protest and hostility.

At the height (or was it the depth?) of the protests, however, a home-made incendiary device was thrown into a bank and three innocent civilians (bank workers required to work through the demonstrations outside) were killed as a result. This certainly raises the ante and increases the level of concern.

The Albanian immigrants with whom I work, already at risk, due to powerful discrimination against them, are likely to feel the first effects of Greece’s austerity measures. Reflecting on their situation, my mind went to another group of immigrants. Years ago, Jewish exiles in Babylonia were also forced to live as the underclass among people who found every reason to dislike them. To their dismay, the Jewish exiles learned that they would be required to live as aliens among their former enemies for many years.

The prophet Jeremiah, speaking a word from God, told them to settle-in and expect to live in this adopted country for at least 70 years. They were told to marry, buy land and try to make themselves at home. Underwriting all of this advice, the prophet said: “Seek the welfare of the city into which you have been called, for in its welfare, you will find your own welfare.” (Jeremiah 29:7)

Shalom, that quintessential Jewish word, is used here. While shalom can be translated peace or welfare, it means far more than simply the absence of conflict. It is normally understood to encompass a mutual sense of wholeness and justice.

What a superb idea for all of us in this conflict-ravaged city. Lets work together to seek the welfare of this place! Immigrant or native-born! Public or private worker! Those soon-to-be subject to economic pressures or those who already have been for years! If each of us and all of us could recognize that our best welfare is to be found in working for the good of all concerned, not just a privileged few, things might just change! Hope so!