Friday, February 14, 2014

High E Flat

So… An odd thing happened in church a couple of Sundays ago.  Jan, organist extradinaire, was lustily playing the closing song on the pipe organ.  It was a jaunty melody, as far as hymns go, and as she was finishing with a flourish, one of the pipes didn't.

One pipe kept going!

It was stuck in 'on.'  Air continued to rush through it, causing it to keep sounding.  A high E flat.

My own high pitched cackling giggle joined it…  As did several others.

What to do… What to do…

Jan quickly hit the switch to shut down the entire organ - pronto.  And with a downward wailing sound, the high E flat became silent.

Grinning, the pastor graciously commented and benedicted us out of the service.  

Several of us popped up to the organ bench to see what we could see.  This has happened before.  There's something about all this cold weather that makes pipes stick.  In fact, the entire organ, which is as old as dirt, sort of goes berserk at this time of year, going in and out of tune with each passing Iowa snow storm.

The organ technician from some other world (an elderly gentleman with an odd case of odd tools) will need to be called and perhaps a prehistoric pipe part will need to be ordered and installed.  This could take 6 months or so.

Until then, high E flat will be turned off… unhooked… shut down.

Yesterday, the wall surrounding the pipes was removed and Gary, a fellow from our church who knows everything organ, risked his life and crawled up into the dusty pipe gallery.  He gallantly shut down the offending pipe; it was the right thing to do in this case but honestly….

We could all take a lesson from high E flat.

Our praise should continue well after our worship service shuts down. It should stick long after we get home and eat lunch.  It should be in our thoughts as we settle into our comfy chairs and watch the Olympics.  It should be the first thing we think of as we wake the next morning (or several times during the night.) 

In fact, every single minute of our life should offer worship and glory to our mighty God.  We should not shut down nor should we shut anyone else down.

Psalm 34:1:
                I will extol the Lord at all times; His praise will always be on my lips.

Psalm 63:4:
                I will praise You as long as I live, and in Your Name I will lift up my hands.

There may be times when you don't feel like offering praise to God.  In this case, a sacrifice of praise is appropriate according to Hebrews 13:15:
               Through Jesus, therefore, let us continually offer to God a sacrifice of praise - 
                                    the fruit of lips that confess His Name.

In Dialogues with God by Frances J. Roberts, she pens this ode entitled "Praise of the Infinite:"
             O My child, the heavens are filled with songs of praise, and above the tumult of a decadent world, I hear the sweet music of the prayers and hymns of My people.
             Before the world began.. before the creation of human life, the morning stars sang together in a great paean of praise  As a mighty organ, the planets were as an instrument in the hands of the Almighty Creator God, expressing the very joy of His heart.  Selah!

So… continue praising.  Continue thanking.  Continue to bless the Name of our Almighty Creator God.

Be that high E flat pipe that gets stuck 'on' in your praise of our mighty God.

God hears.

God knows.

God blesses.


ok… so this is not really part of the blog but I couldn't resist.  I found some organ/organist jokes that I simply MUST post here.  Don't even think about reading these if you are easily offended or if you are an easily offended organist… or if you even know one…

Here goes:


Pardon?:  The standard answer when someone asks you why you play the organ so loudly.


The minister was preoccupied with thoughts of how he was going to ask the congregation to come up with more money than they were expecting for repairs to the church building.

He gave the organist a copy of the service and asked her if she could come up with some kind of inspirational music to play, after he made the announcement about the finances, to help put the congregation in a giving mood.

"Don't worry, I'll come up with something," she said.

During the service, the minister paused and said, "Brothers and sisters, we find ourselves in great difficulty.  The cost of the roof repairs is twice as much as we expected, and we need $4000 more.  Any of you who are able to pledge $100 or more, please stand up."

At that moment, the organist began playing "The Star Spangled Banner."


What do you call 101 organs at the bottom of a lake?  A good start!


What do you get if you drop an organ on an army base?  A flat major!


Why are an organist's fingers like lightning?  Because they rarely strike the same place twice!


Why doesn't heaven have a pipe organ?  Because they needed the keys in hell to make accordions.


The organ is the instrument of worship for in its sounding we sense the Majesty of God and in its ending we know the Grace of God.


When he was the organist-choirmaster at Saint Paul's Cathedral, London, he was to meet Noel Mander to get a tour of Mander's shop.  This is housed in what used to be the parochial school of Saint Peter's Church.  Consequently, the building is now called Saint Peter's Organ Works. While driving to this meeting,  Barry was having a little trouble finding the address, although he thought he was in the general neighborhood.  So he rolled down the window and called to man standing at the side of the street, "Do you know St. Peter's Organ Works?" The bystander, doubtless rather puzzled at such a question, said, "So does mine!"

Miss Beatrice, the church organist, was in her eighties.  She was admired for her sweetness and kindness to all.  One afternoon the pastor came to call on her and she showed him into her quaint sitting room.  She invited him to have a seat while she prepared tea.

As he sat facing her old Hammond organ, the young minister noticed a cut-glass bowl sitting on top of it.  The bowl was filled with water, and in the water floated, of all things, a condom!  When she returned with tea and scones, they began to chat.

The pastor tried to stifle his curiosity about the bowl of water and its strange floater, but soon it got the better of him and he could no longer resist.  "Miss Beatrice, " he said, "I wonder if you would tell me about this?" pointing to the bowl.

"Oh yes," she replied, "Isn't it wonderful?  I was walking through the park a few months ago and I found this little package on the ground.  The directions said to place it on the organ, keep it wet and that it would prevent the spread of disease."


…and of course, this is my husband's favorite:

Did you hear about the man who went streaking though the church?

They caught him by the organ...

Thursday, February 6, 2014

The Old Man on the Beach

So… a friend of mine found this story by Max Lucado and shared it with me.  Now, I share it with you.  As with all Lucado writings, this touched my heart and helped me understand.  It came from the book In The Eye of the Storm, pages 221-226:

"An old man walks down a Florida beach.  The sun sets like an orange ball at the horizon.  The waves slap the sand.  The smell of saltwater stings the air.  The beach is vacant.  No sun to entice the sunbathers.  Not enough light for the fishermen.  So, aside from a few joggers and strollers, the gentleman is alone.

He carries a bucket in his bony hand.  A bucket of shrimp.  It's not for him.  It's not for the fish.  It's for the sea gulls.  He walks to an isolated pier cast in gold by the setting sun.  He steps out to the end of the pier.  The time has come for the weekly ritual.  He stands and waits.

Soon the sky becomes a mass of dancing dots.  The evening silence gives way to the screeching of birds.  They fill the sky and then cover the moorings.  They are on a pilgrimage to meet the old man.

For a half hour or so, the bush-browed, shoulder-bent gentleman will stand on the pier, surrounded by the birds of the sea, until the bucket is empty.

But even after the food is gone, his feathered friends still linger.  They linger as if they're attracted to more than just food.  They perch on his hat.  They walk on the pier.  And they all share a moment together.

Got the scene?  Now put it on the back burner for a few minutes.

Matthew 15: 29-32:  Jesus left there and wen along the Sea of Galilee.  Then He went up on a mountainside and sat down.  Great crowds came to Him, bringing the lame, the blind, the crippled, the mute and many others, and laid them at His feet; and He healed them.  The people were amazed when they saw the mute speaking, the crippled made well, the lame walking and the blind seeing.  And they praised the God of Israel.

Jesus called His disciples to Him and said, "I have compassion for these people; they have already been with Me three days and have nothing to eat.  I do not want to send them away hungry, or they may collapse on the way."

For three days Jesus did a most remarkable thing - He healed them.  "The lame, the blind, the crippled, the mute and many others" came to Him, Matthew wrote, "and He healed them."

Many times I wish that the New Testament writers had been a bit more descriptive.  This is one of those times.  "And He healed them" is too short a phrase to describe what must have been an astonishing sight.

Let your imagination go.  Can you see the scene?

Can you see the blind husband seeing his wife for the first time?  His eyes gazing into her tear-filled ones like she was the queen of the morning?

Envision the man wo had never walked, now walking!  Don't you know that he didn't want to sit down?  Don't you know that he ran and jumped and did a dance with the kids?

And what about the mute who could speak?  Can you picture him sitting by the fire late into the night and talking?  Saying and singing everything and anything that he had ever wanted to say and sing.

And the deaf woman who could now hear.  What was it like when she heard her child call her "Mamma" for the first time?

For three days it went on.  Person after person.  Mat after mat.  Crutch after crutch.  Smile after smile.  No record is given of Jesus preaching or teaching or instructing or challenging.  He just healed.

"The people,"  Matthew wrote, "were amazed when they saw the mute speaking, the crippled made well, the lame walking and the blind seeing."  Four thousand amazed people, each telling a story grander than the other.  In the midst of them all is Jesus.  Not complaining.  Not postponing.  Not demanding.  Just enjoying every minute.

Then Matthew, still the great economizer of words, gave us another phrase on which I wish he would have elaborated:

"They praised the God of Israel."

I wonder how they did that?  I feel more certain of what they didn't do than of what they did do.  I feel confident that they didn't form a praise committee.  I feel confident that they didn't make robes.  I feel confident that they didn't sit in rows and stare at the back of each other's heads.  

I doubt seriously if they wrote a creed on how they were to praise this God they had never before worshiped.  I can't picture them getting into an argument over technicalities.  I doubt if they felt it had to be done indoors.

And I know they didn't wait until the Sabbath to do it. 

In all probability, they just did it.  Each one - in his or her own way, with his or her own heart - just praised Jesus.  Perhaps some people came and fell at Jesus' feet.  Perhaps some shouted His Name.  Maybe a few just went up on the hillside, looked into the sky, and smiled.

I can picture a mom and dad standing speechless before the Healer as they held their newly healed baby.

I can envision a leper staring in awe at the One who took away his terror.

I can imagine throngs of people pushing and shoving.  Wanting to get close.  Not to request anything or demand anything, but just to say "thank you."

Perhaps some tried to pay Jesus, but what payment would have been sufficient?

Perhaps some tried to return His gift with another, but what could a person give that would express the gratitude?

All the people could do was exactly what Matthew said they did.  "They praised the God of Israel."

However they did it, they did it.  And Jesus was touched, so touched that He insisted they stay for a meal before they left.

Without using the word worship, this passage defines it.  Worship is when you're aware that what you've been given is far greater than what you can give.  Worship is the awareness that were it not for His touch, you'd still be hobbling and hurting, bitter and broken.  Worship is the half-glazed expression on the parched face of a desert pilgrim as he discovers that the oasis is not a mirage.

Worship is the "thank you" that refuses to be silenced.

We have tried to make a science out of worship.  We can't do that.  We can't do that any more than we can "sell love" or "negotiate peace."

Worship is a voluntary act of gratitude offered by the saved to the Savior, by the healed to the Healer, and by the delivered to the Deliverer.  And if you and I can go days without feeling on urge to say "thank you" to the One Who saved, healed and delivered us, then we'd do well to remember what He did.

The old man on the pier couldn't go a week without saying "thank you."

His name was Eddie Rickenbacker.  If you were alive in October 1942, you probably remember the day that he was reported missing at sea.

He had been sent on a mission to deliver a message to Gen. Douglas MacArthur.  With a handpicked crew in a B-17 known as the "Flying Fortress," he set off across the South Pacific.  Somewhere the crew became lost, the fuel ran out, and the plane went down.

All eight crew members escaped into life rafts.  They battled the weather, the water, the sharks, and the sun.  But most of all, they battled the hunger.  After eight days, their rations were gone.  They ran out of options.  It would take a miracle for them to survive.

And a miracle occurred.

After an afternoon devotional service, the men said a prayer and tried to rest  As Rickenbacker was dozing with his hat over his eyes, something landed on his head.  He would later say that he knew it was a sea gull.  He didn't know how he knew; he just knew.  That gull meant food… if he could catch it.  And he did.

The flesh was eaten.  The intestines were used as fish bait.  And the crew survived.

What was a sea gull doing hundreds of miles away from land?

Only God knows.

But whatever the reason, Rickenbacker was thankful.  As a result, every Friday evening this old captain walked to the pair, his bucket full of shrimp and his heart full of thanks.

We'd be wise to do the same.  We've much in common with Rickenbacker.  We, too, were saved by a Sacrificial Visitor.

We, too, were rescued by One Who journeyed far from only God knows where.

And we, like the captain, have every reason to look into the sky… and worship.