Pharaohs Who Know Not Joseph

The Bible tells us that at some point Egypt got a “new Pharaoh who did not know Joseph”. He forgot the history of how Joseph had saved the Egyptians from starvation. So…

This forgetful Pharaoh made the Jews his slaves and in the end he lost them all and even lost his own son. All because he failed to remember Joseph.

The story is repeated straight up to this morning. It is called "loss of institutional memory". Others call it forgetting one’s roots. Still others find it demeaning to admit that they stand on another’s shoulders. Some talk blithely about that was then, this is now and it is time to move on - now!

I just returned from my annual family reunion. My niece and her family orchestrated it wonderfully. She was determined to be a female Pharaoh who remembered Joseph and Joseph’s queen and so our parents were recalled in gratitude and appreciation.

On the other hand, I have seen schools and congregations currently led by Pharaohs who do not remember anyone named Joseph. There is no acknowledgment of those who have gone before. That is why (even before I was in my 80”s) I believed in celebrating the anniversaries of institutions. The early Josephs and their female counterparts not only deserve to be remembered but also they are forgotten at the peril of the current power wielders.

Citizens can all too easily enjoy the freedoms, life style and opportunities of the present while all too off-handedly dismissing those who whose efforts, sacrifice and even life blood makes it possible for them to have the blessings currently enjoyed. Of course I read Kibrahn’s “The Prophet” and agree with him that “life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday”. However, I cringe at the all too true joke that the most commonly passed resolution at the annual meeting of the congregation at which I grew up was the one that ended with “therefore be it resolved that we stick with the old!” Of course we move on. But we also remember Joseph and if he is around we consult with him and his sisters, we stand on those shoulders and then see new vistas and dream new dreams and even celebrate new paradigms.

Now I must run and have a long talk with an elderly friend names Joseph!

Energy

I am screaming my lungs out, all caught up in the frenzy of the crowd. I’m at Shea Stadium. It’s the bottom of the tenth in the 1986 World Series. The slow grounder off the bat of Mookie Wilson has just gone through the legs of Red Sox first baseman Allan Buchner and we win! Mets win! Mets win! We don’t want to leave the stadium. We are all friends. We are all exultant. It doesn’t get any better than this.

I am walking as fast as I can, being jostled, pushed, propelled out of the mouth of the tunnel from the subway. I am being carried on the motion of the crowd of thousands right into the heart of Tian An Men Square in Beijing, China. It is June 4, 1989. Everyone is hopeful, ecstatic, that reform is coming to Communist China. People talk to me in Mandarin whether I understand them or not. Music blares. Flags fly. Arms hug. Youths exult. Elderly contemplate. I am part of a sea, the crest of a wave, moving in concert with a sea of humanity toward the shore of freedom.

The city swoops me up into her arms and carries me from midtown to downtown. It’s the Centennial Celebration of the Statue of Liberty and we are all celebrating it in the pulsating heart of Manhattan. People are everywhere. They are eating, singing, brake-dancing. There is reggae and salsa and military marches. Kids wear Statue of Liberty head decorations. Adults wave American flags. Even dogs are attired in red, white and blue. The people sweep me along, all the way across from Manhattan to Brooklyn on the Brooklyn Bridge. Later in the darkness sirens howl, spectacular fireworks explode, laser beams shoot up into the sky. There is massive motion and no violence. There is brotherhood and sisterhood among people of every color, multiple dress styles, uncountable different languages. All are celebrating and I am part of it. This is the celebration of the open arms of America, land that I love!

Hang on, little Peggy. Let’s hold hands tightly so we don’t get separated. We are once again a part of that happy company of crowd-loving Chinese going down the ramp of the Star Ferry to cross from Kowloon to Hong Kong Island. The signs warn, “Watch out for pick-pockets” so we are careful, but not so careful as to detract from the pure exhilaration of being a part of the crowd, a connected piece of humanity, a couple of cells in the body of all God’s people.

Crowds can do this to me! They give me energy, synergy, life!

Praying

It was on a quiet hill called Tao Fung Shan (the mountain of the wind of the way). Behind me Hong Kong swarmed with tens of thousands of desperately poor street-dwelling refugees. In front of me lay Mao’s China where as many as 3 million were starving because of his misguided Great Leap Forward. Around me were the young restless teenagers facing a most uncertain future. We sat under a naked white cross inscribed with only two black Chinese characters pronounced, “sing leo” meaning “It is finished.” I prayed for the terrible past to be finished, the unsettling present to be handled, and that the future to be open. The voiced ‘Ah-moon” of us all, the end of the prayer, came from deep within and floated heavenward in doubt, faith and hope.

The auditorium in Disney Land was still tense. Among the 2000 there, some were anxious. Some rejoiced. Others feared. Some threatened. Some cursed. It was the end of an exceedingly stormy session of a large churchwide convention. All day in the name of God people had fought like the devil. I had been asked to lead the closing prayer at the end of the day. So I began, “Dear God, those of your children called the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod have kept you very busy today...”

The other passengers were already off the plane at the Lincoln Nebraska airport. Only my seatmate whom I had met an hour earlier and I remained. She was not sure she had the courage to get off the plane to face her father. She planned to inform him, a Lutheran pastor, that she had filed for divorce. She feared her father would be angry, disown her, damn her to hell; or maybe ... understand, forgive, support. While the flight attendant waited I held her folded hands in mine and we prayed.

Only two of us stood before the simple altar in the chapel at Maxwell Air Force Base where I was conducting a weeklong workshop for military chaplains. The Jewish chaplain and I were the only ones in the room. He had invited me to come with him as he prayed. Yesterday I had been in the much larger Catholic Chapel where the Catholic chaplains had violated official policy and had invited me (a non-Catholic) to share with them the sacred elements of the holy mass. And just two days previous some 20 of us had held hands surrounding the altar of the Protestant Chapel where together we prayed saying, “Our Father in heaven”.

The eyes of all wait upon you, oh Lord.

Church Picnic Softball

Last Sunday my church once again sponsored Sunday Church Picnic in the Park. It was wonderful. Lots of hamburgers, hot dogs, potato salads, homemade cakes and cookies. The fellowship was great. Persons of all ages milled around together enjoying a gorgeous day.

After the meal there was the usual: putting contest, hula hoops, water balloon toss. The works. Then came the announcement,”Time for the softball game. Get you glove, bat and balls and let’s head for the ball field.”

It was at that point that I hesitated. Should I join in? I remembered our last church picnic softball game, now some ten years ago. Of course I was younger then, only 71 and anxious to get into the game. First came the matter of choosing teams. One chooser was a middle aged softballer, the other an eager teen-ager. By turn they made their selection. Almost all had been selected when it hit me. ”Hey, I haven’t been picked “. This was a pretty new experience for me. I used to be always among the first ones picked. I felt a tinge of rejection.

Finally all had been chosen, all except me, that is. Then to add injury to insult the middle aged guy said to the kid, “Why don’t you just take Mel?” The reply, “No, that’s okay. You take him” So I joined my team in the field. Naturally I was assigned short right field.

When it came my turn at bat I was ready. I rejoiced as I belted a single through the infield. I admit it was not a screamer, but I was safely on base. The next batter hit a slow roller. I was not about to be doubled off at second. I took off with every ounce of energy my legs could generate. About half way between first and second it happened. I felt my hamstring snap. I fell to the ground. I was assisted off the field. I watched the rest of the game in silence trying not to show any pain. It was the first time in all of my life that I declared a church picnic a disaster.

That was why I hesitated last Sunday about joining in the game. I made the right decision. I wished my fellow congregants well. I went home and watched the Padres lose on television.

Trying to Teach a Pig to Fly

In the late 1940’s the national Lutheran body of which I was a member had an unshakable conviction (which had nothing to do with theology). It believed that every person whom it certified as a recognized rostered member of the teaching ministry could be taught to play a keyboard instrument, if not a pipe organ, at least a piano.

I was brought into that system when I entered the ministerial preparatory school at the age of 13. I was assigned a piano teacher. Mr. Bentrup was his name. He showed me how to curve my wrists over the keyboard. He assigned music with no sharps or flats. He reserved for me specific practice pianos at designated practice times. He encouraged me. He threatened me. He praised me. Once he even slapped my hand. Finally, he gave up. He thought the solution was to get me a different teacher, a woman.

Ms. Schneider was wonderful. She seemed especially young and attractive as one of only 2 female teachers on an otherwise all-male faculty for the all-boys prep school. She was wonderful to me, supportive, kind, affirming, appropriately confrontive, patient. And when, after 3 years I graduated from that prep school she was at the ceremonies thanking God, I am sure, that she no longer had me as a student.

Post-prep school meant university in the Midwest. The doctrine was still believed, “All certified teaching ministers will be able to play a keyboard.” The elderly piano teacher assigned me had been at it for some 40 years. After a few months of disastrous piano lessons, she came up with the brilliant solution. She recommended that I try to qualify for pipe organ lessons. For weeks she had me do one simple piano piece in preparation for the placement test. I actually got through it. But at the placement test I was asked to sight-read a piano number. It could have been written in Sanskrit instead of music notes and it wouldn’t have made any difference.
The results of the placement tests were announced: Promoted and qualified for pipe organ instruction: Melvin Kieschnick.

I’ll spare the details. I was assigned to an outstanding organist whose compositions are still being played in church services all over the world. We came to an accommodation. The student who had her lesson just before mine would get 50 minutes instruction instead of 30 and so there were only 10 minutes left for me. I learned how to turn on the organ, clumsily move my feet across the foot pedals, and push the stops to get a trumpet effect - and all of this in only 3 academic years. It was conveniently agreed that no grade on instrumental music would ever appear on my transcript and I was graduated and certified for the teaching ministry of the Lutheran church.

I really do love music. I married a woman who was outstanding on the pipe organ and still plays marvelously on the piano. But as for me, the closest I’ve come to being an accompanist was a surprise tribute from a wonderful Christian couple. They donated a marvelous grand piano to our congregation. The inscription says simply, “Donated by an anonymous couple in recognition of the ministries of Mel and Jane Kieschnick.” And that’s as close to a keyboard as anyone will ever permit me to go,

Farewell

I am in the hospital in San Antonio visiting my ill father for the last time before my wife and I return to our home in California - and for the last time before he returned home to the arms of God who first gave him life. My siblings who saw him daily had told me that the cancer seemed to be “in its final stages.” Yet I was shocked at his gaunt appearance. It was hard to see my father so weak. He had always been for me the very epitome of strength: of body, spirit, faith, integrity.
While his body was weak, his mind was sharp. So we spoke of love, of family, of the church, of God, of hope. In the last minutes before our final visit we recalled together the many years during which our family had what we called “evening devotions.” They were simple: a reading from the Bible, Martin Luther’s Evening Prayer, the Lord’s Prayer and the singing of an ancient hymn titled “Abide with Me.”

We agreed to repeat the ritual there in his hospital room. However, instead of just singing the first stanza of the hymn we sang the last stanza also. Dad’s voice was not only audible, it was strong and he sang not the melody line, but the strong tenor part. My wife Jane sang alto and together we ended our time together:

“Hold thou, thy cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies;
Heaven’s morning breaks and earth’s vain shadows flee;
In life (long pause), In death (another long pause)
Oh Lord, abide with me.”

It was my farewell and my intimation of when we’ll again say to each other, “Good Morning.”

Hospitality To Strangers

I find it interesting (and have been greatly blessed) by the commandment central to all the great faiths of the world, “to show hospitality to strangers.” But last week I found myself railing against inhospitality. Jane and I had just taken a young student from China to her first trip to the university at which she had been accepted for study. We arrived at the appointed time and place only to find no one there. After finally solving that problem we discovered that when her classmates arrived at the airport their promised university escort who was to have met them there arrived about an hour late, had inadequate space for their luggage and had no apparent understanding of what it felt like to be stranded in a new country and get only recorded telephone messages when pleading for help. As an educator I railed, “Why can‘t universities ever learn the art of hospitality!” I have too often had assignments on university campuses only to find that no one knew where my materials for the workshop were stored, or where I was to stay or who could find me a key to my assigned guest suite that more than once had no bedding in place. Then a couple days ago all of that despair was disproved from being universally true of institutions of higher learning. I went to a board meeting for the Van Lunen Fellows program at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan. A driver was waiting for me at the airport. My beautiful room in the Prince Center was waiting, complete with welcome basket and a full agenda of activities was on the desk. Ah! Hospitality!

On further reflection I got in touch with the reality that my life has been one succession after another or people showing me hospitality. Even though I was part of a large family of nine children the people of my home congregation in rural Texas always opened their home to our entire family for Sunday dinners, wedding receptions, birthday parties and golden wedding observance Once when I was hitchhiking from Illinois to Texas a couple of young women from Mena Arkansas picked me up late in the day. In genuine purity of heart they expressed concern that I would be thumbing a ride in the dark. They offered to have me come to their home for dinner and a night’s sleep. When I was in an automobile accident in Oklahoma a complete stranger took a couple sibs and me in for medical care and got away before I even got his full name and address. Later on in that same trip (now continued by train) a stranger was concerned when it appeared I had no money (He was right.) and offered to buy us dinner in the train diner. When my family was home on leave from missionary service in Hong Kong families in 17 states took us in and housed, fed and welcomed us.

Hospitality around the world has consistently enveloped me. Once I was overtaken by a local gentleman in Peshawar Pakistan. He followed me down the street and asked me anxiously about a pakol (Arab cap) I had just bought. H e wanted to know where I had gotten it and what I had paid for it. Slowly he made it clear to me that he wanted to make sure that I had not been overcharged. He even told me that hospitality was essential to his belief system. Another gentleman in Brazil discovered late one night that one of my travel companions was having a birthday the next day. At ten o’clock at night he found a bakery that would have a nicely decorated birthday cake waiting for me in the morning. In Calcutta a total stranger learned of my interest in the arts of India and found a member of the India National Dance Troop to come to me and show me around. In Cairo I was nearly in trouble because I had been accidentally seated at a hotel table exclusively reserved for a very wealthy sheik. When the sheik’s personal aide (an Egyptian Coptic Christian) discovered me at his boss’s table he worked through his fear and I ended up sharing a delightful meal with the sheik!

The Bible says that by showing hospitality people have been found to be “ entertaining angels unaware”. In my case I have found myself as the one being entertained by angels unaware!