Yesterday I was one of several parent chaperones for a field trip with my oldest son’s second grade class. We went to the Houston Museum of Natural Science and spent the morning in the Hall of Ancient Egypt. These are canopic jars that held the mummified and wrapped internal organs of a person who had died. But I was most interested in the winged scarab and the heart scarab in the middle. Those amulets are inscribed on the back with a spell that commands the heart not to betray itself during the judgement of the dead person on his or her journey to the afterlife.

That’s an important insight into our human nature. The problem of being human is equally distributed, even across millennia. Here’s how I put it in a recent sermon:

“If our heart condemn us, God is greater than our heart, and knoweth all things.” That is good news for those of us who are a tangled mess of the holy and the profane, which is to say all of us, no exceptions.

When our hearts condemn us, as they inevitably do, God is greater than our sin and our self-righteousness. Through the waters of baptism, we have been clothed in the righteousness of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. As my favorite Moravian chorale puts it: “Thus well arrayed I need not fear, when in his presence I appear.”

Traditional liturgies from the Book of Common Prayer conclude with a blessing that also speaks to the idea of shielding our hearts and is introduced with these words:

The peace of God, which passeth all understanding, keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of God . . .

The New Revised Standard Version of Philippians 4:7, which is the source of those words, says that the peace of God “will guard your hearts and your minds.” What a wonderful image that is: God, who is greater than our heart, will also guard it. So let’s write haiku about our hearts — how they break, how they love, how they hold our secrets, how they make themselves vulnerable, how they need to be protected, etc. Describe something about those experiences in a verse with five syllables in the first line, seven syllables in the second line, and five syllables in the third line:

Nebseny, a priest,
was given this heart scarab
to live without fear.

The Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo is in full swing, and one of the events there is called Mutton Bustin’. An announcer gives the name of a kid between the ages of 5 and 6 and tells the audience what that kid wants to be when she or he grows up. We heard about cowboys and fire fighters and, interestingly, Secretary of the Treasury. Then a gate is opened, and that same kid tries to hold on tight to a sheep that bolts to the other end of the arena. It only lasts for a few seconds, but — wow — what a ride!

I would image that Mutton Bustin’ is both thrilling and terrifying at the same time. There are all kinds of wild rides — race cars, roller coasters, a ship rolling with the waves, driving 30 miles per hour on an endlessly curvy road in the mountains, riding in a helicopter across the edge of the Grand Canyon as the ground below suddenly drops away from view, etc. Write a haiku about your experience with five syllables in the first line, seven syllables in the second line, and five syllables in the third line.

Saw bucking broncos
at the Houston Rodeo.
That’s not for me, y’all!

It’s Go Texan Day in the City of Houston, which means that the Willard boys got to wear cowboy hats and boots to school today. And the youngest one sang this song over and over and over again in the car this morning on the way there:

Today’s edition of the Houston Chronicle includes an essay entitled “Going Texan: My life with boots.” It’s worth taking a few minutes to read in its entirety. As my wife Carrie said, “This sums up so much about what I love about Texas, and Houston, and the high holy day that is Go Texan Day.” Here’s the conclusion of that essay:

Over time . . . it’s dawned on me: Go Texan Day isn’t about being Texan. It’s about becoming Texan.

Here in Houston, most of us weren’t born here. And even the natives rarely grew up roping and riding. Most days of the year, we don’t look the way that Texans are supposed to look.

But once a year, just before Rodeo, we do. We dress up in what, for most of us, are costumes.

We turn ourselves into Texans. No matter where we started out — no matter which state, which country — we are here now. We swagger and play-act and refuse to be dull. Outsiders don’t realize how new most of us are to the role.

And that, you realize, is how Texans have always become Texans. We don’t just settle in this state; we enact it. Like I did.

The boots make us Texans. And Texans make Texas.

Let’s write haiku about Go Texan Day or whatever else it is that gives you roots in the place that is home to you now. All you need is a single verse with five syllables in the first line, seven syllables in the second line, and five syllables in the third line:

These two Willard boys
were born in Minnesota,
but now they’re Texans.