Rim people. That’s what we called them. As we walked from the truck toward the edge, there were folks standing along the North Rim. They had no intent on going over the edge; they were content to stay on the rim, look at the grandeur and snap some photos. That’s where we felt we’d been living for some time, on the metaphorical rim - in our lives as men, in our jobs, marriages, friendships…no real challenge or risk, just a placid existence, marked by the initial twinges of Thoreau’s quiet desperation. Thanks be to God, we had the wherewithal to notice those twinges for what they were…and they scared us. Let enough of that desperation that’s quiet accumulate in your heart and you wake up one morning with clogged arteries of the soul. You can be successful, hardworking, have a great family and drive a Harley on the weekends with your buddies, but beneath that…you’re hollow…nothing inside. Death’s not far behind that, literally or figuratively.
We strode in front of a few men and received nods of affirmation…and envy. In fact, one older man spoke to us with his eyes: “Please, knock me unconscious and put me in your pack…for God’s sake, take we with you.” We quickly noticed his wife and heard her eyes: “Take your pied piper backpacks and keep movin’ boys. I know my husband has wanted to cut the bloody cord for years…but it ain’t gonna’ happen. Life’s just fine…here on the rim.” And then it was as if the man’s eyes hurriedly interrupted her: “Guys, don’t listen to her eyes…”
It reminded me of something I read concerning one Native American tribe’s insistence that after a certain age, the young men must not make eye contact with the mothers or women of that tribe. There’s just too much that can pass between the female and male eyes…there’s the mothering thing, the sexual thing…stuff that can turn a man to salt, or at least, mush. When I pulled out of my driveway to make this trip, I waved to the family, but tried to avoid the eyes of my wife. Look in her eyes too long and you’ll pull the car back in the garage, get out, and say, “Aw, I can make this trip another day.” You’ve got to remind yourself they’re in God’s hands, kiss ‘em and hug ‘em good, and then drive away. You’ll be a better man, husband, and father when you return. And she knows it. She may not like it, but she knows it. If you’re a man, then you know what I mean. If you’re a woman, then you probably don’t like it…but you know it too.
Listen to Bly on this one: "Initiation asks the son to move his love energy away from the attractive mother to the relatively unattractive serpent father. All that is ashes work. When a man enters this stage he regards Descent as a holy thing, he increases his tolerance for ashes...learns to shudder, and follows the voice of the old mole below the ground." I believe, for many men, this "initiation" happens time and again throughout life; at least, the opportunity presents itself. It's a chance to go over the rim. But you have to step away from the "attractive mother"...and that's hard. You have to regard Descent (going over the rim) as a "holy thing." We had heard the old mole calling...and so we began our Descent...
A Difficult Splendor (2)
The forest road had us in the grip of Ponderosa pines. We cranked up Van Halen’s “Jump” to inspire our approach. As we avoided washouts and fallen logs, an almost sexual longing was growing inside us to break from these trees and lay eyes on what we’d come to see. And all of a sudden, we did. The pines just stopped being there. David Lee’s voice was turned down…and then off. And the cab of the pickup might as well have held three seven year olds just walking through the gates at DisneyLand. But the mice and castles here were beyond anything Walt ever had in mind.
We parked the truck beside a line of other offroad vehicles. Their model names and accompanying decals spoke volumes – Four Runner, Cherokee, Wrangler, Black Diamond, La Sportiva, Camelback. We were here. The north rim of the Grand Canyon. A place that for months had only been a line on the map was now the ground beneath our truck. We got out and just stood there, silenced and humbled. I’ve only had a few moments like that in my life - the moment my wife-to-be stepped around the corner and I saw her in her wedding gown for the first time and the moments when I cut the umbilical cords on our three kids and released them into this world. These were liminal moments - from the Latin limin, meaning threshold; something was about to be crossed, don’t proceed too quickly, savor the time, kairos. And like those other moments, this one found me wetting myself - my cheeks, not my pants.
Months earlier the decision had been made – let’s do the Grand Canyon. We applied for the appropriate permits and began doing trail research, befriending the stair-master, and rechecking our life insurance. We had been friends for almost ten years and many of those had been filled with annual backpacking trips. We started off as novices, buying gear we didn’t need (zero degree bags in Arkansas) and living the polar opposite of the go-light principle (packs full of glass jars of Smuckers jelly). Snapshots from some of our first forays into the wild would reveal guys renting tents, not setting them up before the trip, and then learning to set them up during equivalents of the biblical flood; cotton clothes left like breadcrumbs along the trail because they were soaked and five times heavier than usual (forgive us, gods of leave no trace); and crossing mad hatter swollen rivers up to our chests while repeating the 23rd Psalm and whimpering, “Mama.” Golden days, man. Golden days.
On some subconscious level, I’m sure we were aware that our lives were about to change in some dramatic ways and we needed the EPIC trip; the one you tell you kids about at the dinner table and weep over in the wee small hours of the morning. We wanted to be alone, so we chose the north rim as our entrance point. We had no desire to hike the Bright Angel trail alongside folks in flip-flops with plaid shorts. We wanted solitude, risk, challenge; somewhere and something to taunt us with, “So you boys think you can stay on for eight seconds?”
I had been reading Edward Abbey for years and my copy of Desert Solitaire was ragged and torn. I could imagine the Grand Canyon being just the thing ole' Cactus Ed would’ve encouraged me to do, after he’d ExLaxed my beans, pushed me off a cliff or put a rattler in my sleeping bag or something. I can almost hear him preaching the gospel of…
“Cutting the bloody cord…the delirious exhilaration of independence, a rebirth backward in time and into primeval liberty, into freedom in the most simple, literal, primitive meaning of the word, the only meaning that really counts.”
That’s what we needed and wanted; at least it’s what I wanted. Cut the bloody cord.
At the time, I was the senior pastor of a Southern Baptist church. Senior at the age of thirty-three; yeah, I’m afraid I was made a king too soon. You can do it, and some guys do, but the problem is not many people trust you when you’re that age. I betcha’ Jesus had that same frustration. We had television broadcasts, screens, lights, cameras, the show and the crowd. We were the place to be in town. We had stopped wearing suits and ties and brought in drums and Braveheart clips. But Jesus was right; you can gain the whole show, yet lose your soul, not to mention your mind. I had been there almost three years and realized that someone on the chessboard couldn’t move – the king. Checkmate.
In that particular church culture, folks loved for you to talk about being “born again.” In fact, most of ‘em wanted me to talk about it even more than I did. But any talk of being reborn bloodily backwards into liberty and who-hee! there was sure to be a hush in the sanctuary as hose-n-hair ladies blushed and their husbands called an emergency committee meeting immediately after the service. The church fathers would firmly prescribe a pastoral Sabbath: “Look, Pastor, you need to de-stress, take some time off and then come back refreshed. And orthodox. Please.” Now don’t hear bashing in those words; the person who didn’t fit in the picture anymore was me, not them. I hadn’t screamed Abbey’s words aloud from the pulpit, but I’d sure felt them for months in my blood constricting wing tips. And so I figured I'd beat them to the punch; I decided to encourage myself to take a pastoral Sabbath...and I accepted my invitation. Stress, says Sam Keen, is a good indicator you’re living someone else’s life. Dear God, did I need to de-stress. A week in the Grand Canyon? Count me in! When I left I planned on "coming" back, but I knew, even then, I'd never be able to "go" back to the castle. Cut the bloody cord, indeed!
We parked the truck beside a line of other offroad vehicles. Their model names and accompanying decals spoke volumes – Four Runner, Cherokee, Wrangler, Black Diamond, La Sportiva, Camelback. We were here. The north rim of the Grand Canyon. A place that for months had only been a line on the map was now the ground beneath our truck. We got out and just stood there, silenced and humbled. I’ve only had a few moments like that in my life - the moment my wife-to-be stepped around the corner and I saw her in her wedding gown for the first time and the moments when I cut the umbilical cords on our three kids and released them into this world. These were liminal moments - from the Latin limin, meaning threshold; something was about to be crossed, don’t proceed too quickly, savor the time, kairos. And like those other moments, this one found me wetting myself - my cheeks, not my pants.
Months earlier the decision had been made – let’s do the Grand Canyon. We applied for the appropriate permits and began doing trail research, befriending the stair-master, and rechecking our life insurance. We had been friends for almost ten years and many of those had been filled with annual backpacking trips. We started off as novices, buying gear we didn’t need (zero degree bags in Arkansas) and living the polar opposite of the go-light principle (packs full of glass jars of Smuckers jelly). Snapshots from some of our first forays into the wild would reveal guys renting tents, not setting them up before the trip, and then learning to set them up during equivalents of the biblical flood; cotton clothes left like breadcrumbs along the trail because they were soaked and five times heavier than usual (forgive us, gods of leave no trace); and crossing mad hatter swollen rivers up to our chests while repeating the 23rd Psalm and whimpering, “Mama.” Golden days, man. Golden days.
On some subconscious level, I’m sure we were aware that our lives were about to change in some dramatic ways and we needed the EPIC trip; the one you tell you kids about at the dinner table and weep over in the wee small hours of the morning. We wanted to be alone, so we chose the north rim as our entrance point. We had no desire to hike the Bright Angel trail alongside folks in flip-flops with plaid shorts. We wanted solitude, risk, challenge; somewhere and something to taunt us with, “So you boys think you can stay on for eight seconds?”
I had been reading Edward Abbey for years and my copy of Desert Solitaire was ragged and torn. I could imagine the Grand Canyon being just the thing ole' Cactus Ed would’ve encouraged me to do, after he’d ExLaxed my beans, pushed me off a cliff or put a rattler in my sleeping bag or something. I can almost hear him preaching the gospel of…
“Cutting the bloody cord…the delirious exhilaration of independence, a rebirth backward in time and into primeval liberty, into freedom in the most simple, literal, primitive meaning of the word, the only meaning that really counts.”
That’s what we needed and wanted; at least it’s what I wanted. Cut the bloody cord.
At the time, I was the senior pastor of a Southern Baptist church. Senior at the age of thirty-three; yeah, I’m afraid I was made a king too soon. You can do it, and some guys do, but the problem is not many people trust you when you’re that age. I betcha’ Jesus had that same frustration. We had television broadcasts, screens, lights, cameras, the show and the crowd. We were the place to be in town. We had stopped wearing suits and ties and brought in drums and Braveheart clips. But Jesus was right; you can gain the whole show, yet lose your soul, not to mention your mind. I had been there almost three years and realized that someone on the chessboard couldn’t move – the king. Checkmate.
In that particular church culture, folks loved for you to talk about being “born again.” In fact, most of ‘em wanted me to talk about it even more than I did. But any talk of being reborn bloodily backwards into liberty and who-hee! there was sure to be a hush in the sanctuary as hose-n-hair ladies blushed and their husbands called an emergency committee meeting immediately after the service. The church fathers would firmly prescribe a pastoral Sabbath: “Look, Pastor, you need to de-stress, take some time off and then come back refreshed. And orthodox. Please.” Now don’t hear bashing in those words; the person who didn’t fit in the picture anymore was me, not them. I hadn’t screamed Abbey’s words aloud from the pulpit, but I’d sure felt them for months in my blood constricting wing tips. And so I figured I'd beat them to the punch; I decided to encourage myself to take a pastoral Sabbath...and I accepted my invitation. Stress, says Sam Keen, is a good indicator you’re living someone else’s life. Dear God, did I need to de-stress. A week in the Grand Canyon? Count me in! When I left I planned on "coming" back, but I knew, even then, I'd never be able to "go" back to the castle. Cut the bloody cord, indeed!
A Difficult Splendor (1)
Pilgrims take pilgrimages. Mecca. Jerusalem. Rome. These are mythic places that for centuries have been the destination of many a traveler. Their very names evoke something of the sacred. Pilgrims know that the phrase “the journey is as important as the destination” is far more than some New Age mantra; it is truth. It is a chance to be swallowed up by something bigger and more grand than yourself. Somewhat like Jonah experienced in the belly of the whale. And while you’re on it (or in it) profound changes occur. Hopefully you put away some childish things and rediscover some of the childlike. And then all of a sudden, you’re spewed back onto the dry land of normalcy to live the rest of your life with the taste of the sea on your lips and the imprint of the whale on your heart.
What is the American equivalent of Mecca? Jerusalem? Rome? My vote goes to the Grand Canyon. While a few might see it as an oversized hole in the ground, many more view it as a place of breathtaking beauty and grandeur; please remove your hiking boots, you’re on holy ground. I have read of people seeing it for the first time and being moved to tears or even kneeling to kiss the ground. I am blessed to have several best friends in my life. Two of them, and me, took a week in October of 2002 to meet the challenge of intentionally descending into the belly of the whale and having it spit us out four days later. We had tackled trails and hills before, but nothing as daunting as the Grand.
Many things were going on in our individual lives at the time. So, on some level, we knew this was a life pilgrimage; at least we do now. You see, we had to take this journey, an intentional stepping-out-of-time in order to still our hearts to find its rhythm, quiet our minds to decide what we believe and care for our souls because no one else would. We each needed to wrestle with some angels by a river somewhere and not let go until they blessed us. Or wounded us. We needed to be swallowed up by something larger than our lives. Something Grand. Somewhere Grand.
We emerged four days later. To the outside observer, we looked pretty much the same. But to someone who would take the time to pause, smell, and feel, we were radically different men than when we descended. We left some things in the canyon. We also picked some things up. When we stepped back up over the rim, some things had the clarity of the Arizona sky; I've never seen blue like that before. And some things were just beginning to struggle for life; seeds had been planted deep below. We limped back to the pickup with new names.
The title of this beginning-post is “A Difficult Splendor.” If “splendor” is a stumbling word for you, then substitute the word “grace.” There is a splendor to our lives now that did not come easy. No, it’s not some arrogant splendor. Many days it feels more like a burden than a gift. We awoke one day in our thirties and forties in a dark wood and we took the road less traveled, right over the edge. And it’s made all the difference. I may bump into my friends’ stories but I won’t tell them, except where they intersect my own. There’s enough daylight left for them to tell their stories and they’re much better weavers than me anyway. I'll conclude this one with a few words from Buechner; he sums it up well.
When we are on a journey, what is real is not so much the role we play, the mask we wear, in the place that we are leaving, and not even the roles we will soon be called on to play when we get to the place where we are going. Instead, what becomes increasingly real as we travel along is something much closer to the actual face that lies behind all the masks and that gives a kind of relative unity to all the different parts that our life demands that we play. In other words, travel can be a very unmasking experience, bringing us suddenly face to face with ourselves - as when we are gazing out of a train window at the endless line of telegraph poles whipping by, and we find that part of what we are looking at is our own reflection.
And it can be unmasking in another way too, I think, because when we are moving through that no-man’s land, that everyman’s land, between worlds, there is no one around to hold us to any particular form of conduct or even to look to us to behave in a way consistent with the way that we have usually behaved in the past. And the result of this is that to an extraordinary extent we are free to do whatever we like, and the result of this is that what you do is apt to be a more accurate definition than usual of who you really are.
-Frederick Buechner, The Magnificent Defeat
What is the American equivalent of Mecca? Jerusalem? Rome? My vote goes to the Grand Canyon. While a few might see it as an oversized hole in the ground, many more view it as a place of breathtaking beauty and grandeur; please remove your hiking boots, you’re on holy ground. I have read of people seeing it for the first time and being moved to tears or even kneeling to kiss the ground. I am blessed to have several best friends in my life. Two of them, and me, took a week in October of 2002 to meet the challenge of intentionally descending into the belly of the whale and having it spit us out four days later. We had tackled trails and hills before, but nothing as daunting as the Grand.
Many things were going on in our individual lives at the time. So, on some level, we knew this was a life pilgrimage; at least we do now. You see, we had to take this journey, an intentional stepping-out-of-time in order to still our hearts to find its rhythm, quiet our minds to decide what we believe and care for our souls because no one else would. We each needed to wrestle with some angels by a river somewhere and not let go until they blessed us. Or wounded us. We needed to be swallowed up by something larger than our lives. Something Grand. Somewhere Grand.
We emerged four days later. To the outside observer, we looked pretty much the same. But to someone who would take the time to pause, smell, and feel, we were radically different men than when we descended. We left some things in the canyon. We also picked some things up. When we stepped back up over the rim, some things had the clarity of the Arizona sky; I've never seen blue like that before. And some things were just beginning to struggle for life; seeds had been planted deep below. We limped back to the pickup with new names.
The title of this beginning-post is “A Difficult Splendor.” If “splendor” is a stumbling word for you, then substitute the word “grace.” There is a splendor to our lives now that did not come easy. No, it’s not some arrogant splendor. Many days it feels more like a burden than a gift. We awoke one day in our thirties and forties in a dark wood and we took the road less traveled, right over the edge. And it’s made all the difference. I may bump into my friends’ stories but I won’t tell them, except where they intersect my own. There’s enough daylight left for them to tell their stories and they’re much better weavers than me anyway. I'll conclude this one with a few words from Buechner; he sums it up well.
When we are on a journey, what is real is not so much the role we play, the mask we wear, in the place that we are leaving, and not even the roles we will soon be called on to play when we get to the place where we are going. Instead, what becomes increasingly real as we travel along is something much closer to the actual face that lies behind all the masks and that gives a kind of relative unity to all the different parts that our life demands that we play. In other words, travel can be a very unmasking experience, bringing us suddenly face to face with ourselves - as when we are gazing out of a train window at the endless line of telegraph poles whipping by, and we find that part of what we are looking at is our own reflection.
And it can be unmasking in another way too, I think, because when we are moving through that no-man’s land, that everyman’s land, between worlds, there is no one around to hold us to any particular form of conduct or even to look to us to behave in a way consistent with the way that we have usually behaved in the past. And the result of this is that to an extraordinary extent we are free to do whatever we like, and the result of this is that what you do is apt to be a more accurate definition than usual of who you really are.
-Frederick Buechner, The Magnificent Defeat
Some folks...
"That's why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real, you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand." - The Velveteen Rabbit
"There is no greater love than this - that a man would lay down his life for his friends. You are my friends...the world will hate you...They will do all these things to you as my disciples because they do not know the one who sent me." - Jesus
John 15 (Phillips)
There will always be people who just don't understand. That sentence is hard to type because I realize it sounds awfully close to boasting and swaggering. But I type it anyway. I sat with a wise friend yesterday who said, "John, some folks just don't understand...they haven't heard the voice of love...the voice of greater love." I am thankful for this friend.
I've been wrestling with some feelings lately and I've really been trying to listen to what God has for me in those emotions. My friend's words gave some needed clarity to this angst. I've been bumping into people who just don't understand. I've felt ugly in their eyes. My life and faith these days looks, well...shabby. I feel like my hair is being loved off, figuratively speaking. In my case, I've let it grow, literally speaking. And that represents a wildness I feel God has called me to. But some folks don't like it. My eyes are dropping out. God is teaching me, forcing me somedays, to see with the eyes of my heart. And my friends, that's a different kind of seeing...or listening...same thing really. I'm loose in the joints. Kurt Vonnegut said people don't come to church to hear preachments; they come to daydream about God. You gotta be loose to daydream. None of this feels very good, but I realize it's the path of becoming Real. If that sounds boasty and swaggery, it's not meant to. Trust me, I haven't been swaggering around the last week or so; it's felt more like crawling.
The one whose love is greater is beckoning me further and further into Real. He calls me "friend" and "child" and "beloved." He also calls me "John" - which means "beloved" so that works out lovely. This may be the last post of this velveteen thread; maybe, maybe not. I've needed to be reminded by friends who understand and people who don't, that Real is letting JESUS love you for a long, long time. And that it hurts...sometimes. And that there will be days when I'll feel ugly in the eyes of others. And it's o.k. to feel that, but I must return to the truth that "these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly." Boast and Swagger Christianity (BaSC) isn't going anywhere; it's been around for a long, long time. Some folks just don't understand. But maybe, just maybe some of those folks might one day chase a rabbit, a hairy, droopy-eyed, loose-jointed, shabby-as-all-get-out rabbit. And if they do, I pray my tracks will point them to Greater Love...the one who has loved us for a long, long time. The one who makes us REAL.
"There is no greater love than this - that a man would lay down his life for his friends. You are my friends...the world will hate you...They will do all these things to you as my disciples because they do not know the one who sent me." - Jesus
John 15 (Phillips)
There will always be people who just don't understand. That sentence is hard to type because I realize it sounds awfully close to boasting and swaggering. But I type it anyway. I sat with a wise friend yesterday who said, "John, some folks just don't understand...they haven't heard the voice of love...the voice of greater love." I am thankful for this friend.
I've been wrestling with some feelings lately and I've really been trying to listen to what God has for me in those emotions. My friend's words gave some needed clarity to this angst. I've been bumping into people who just don't understand. I've felt ugly in their eyes. My life and faith these days looks, well...shabby. I feel like my hair is being loved off, figuratively speaking. In my case, I've let it grow, literally speaking. And that represents a wildness I feel God has called me to. But some folks don't like it. My eyes are dropping out. God is teaching me, forcing me somedays, to see with the eyes of my heart. And my friends, that's a different kind of seeing...or listening...same thing really. I'm loose in the joints. Kurt Vonnegut said people don't come to church to hear preachments; they come to daydream about God. You gotta be loose to daydream. None of this feels very good, but I realize it's the path of becoming Real. If that sounds boasty and swaggery, it's not meant to. Trust me, I haven't been swaggering around the last week or so; it's felt more like crawling.
The one whose love is greater is beckoning me further and further into Real. He calls me "friend" and "child" and "beloved." He also calls me "John" - which means "beloved" so that works out lovely. This may be the last post of this velveteen thread; maybe, maybe not. I've needed to be reminded by friends who understand and people who don't, that Real is letting JESUS love you for a long, long time. And that it hurts...sometimes. And that there will be days when I'll feel ugly in the eyes of others. And it's o.k. to feel that, but I must return to the truth that "these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly." Boast and Swagger Christianity (BaSC) isn't going anywhere; it's been around for a long, long time. Some folks just don't understand. But maybe, just maybe some of those folks might one day chase a rabbit, a hairy, droopy-eyed, loose-jointed, shabby-as-all-get-out rabbit. And if they do, I pray my tracks will point them to Greater Love...the one who has loved us for a long, long time. The one who makes us REAL.
It takes a long time...
"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"
"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doens't often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby." - The Velveteen Rabbit
"You must go on growing in me and I will grow in you...When a woman gives birth to a child, she certainly knows pain when her time comes. Yet as soon as she has given birth to the child, she no longer remembers her agony for joy that a man has been born into the world. Now you are going through pain, but I shall see you again and your hearts will thrill with joy - the joy that no one can take away from you - and on that day you will not ask me any questions." - Jesus
John 15 and 16 (Phillips)
Becoming Real takes a long time. I read an advertisement in our paper yesterday for a new church start up. A sermon series was being promoted and this was the tagline: Find your life's purpose in 30 days. 30 days? Wow. Now I'm sure that the series was four Sundays worth of scripture and reflections on focusing in on purpose and passion and other "p" words. But the way we frame thoughts like this...30 days? It speaks to our resistance to "a long time."
Boast and Swagger Christianity (BaSC) is wound up. Now there's a statement. It's diametrically opposed to "bit by bit." And I believe this one is subtle.
I was driving home last night from a gathering of friends. I feel at odds with someone who was there and I sat quietly through the entire time, not offering anything; basically, shut down. There is some anger there, but as we know, anger just means you've been hurt. As I drove home, it was amazing how the voices of "John, you should really be past this kind of thinking/behavior by now...I mean, come on, you've been doing this Jesus-thing for thirty-something years...you really should..." I hate that voice.
Allow me to be the poster child for "it takes a long time." BasC is, many times, a reaction to SHAME. That old shame pops us and says, "By now, you really should be..." You know what? I'm becoming. A work in progress. An old chunk of coal that's gonna be a diamond someday. All that stuff that country music has figured out quite well. I think it was Kierkegaard who said, "And now, by the grace of God, I will become what I am." Soren would have made a heck of a country singer. BaSC believes we've got it all figured out and we should be able to get it right and when the apostle Paul says, "I have not arrived," BaSC just smiles and keeps reading.
This Jesus-stuff is going to take a long time. Letting him love me, letting people around me love me, realizing that pain and hurt is a part of this path...that takes a while. Like waiting on a baby. Rilke said, "Gestation...everything is gestation." And Jesus, in John 15/16, says the same thing and equates the end result with the word JOY. Put Jesus and the Skin Horse together and you have JOY being defined as having your hair loved off, droopy eyes, loose joints, and an overall shabbiness to your life.
Bit by bit Christianity in a world full of express check out lines, no wait emergency rooms, instant messaging, lightning fast DSL, drive through dinner in a box...and finding your life's purpose in 30 days. "It doesn't often happen to people who break easily or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept." Following Jesus takes a courage this world knows nothing of...
"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doens't often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby." - The Velveteen Rabbit
"You must go on growing in me and I will grow in you...When a woman gives birth to a child, she certainly knows pain when her time comes. Yet as soon as she has given birth to the child, she no longer remembers her agony for joy that a man has been born into the world. Now you are going through pain, but I shall see you again and your hearts will thrill with joy - the joy that no one can take away from you - and on that day you will not ask me any questions." - Jesus
John 15 and 16 (Phillips)
Becoming Real takes a long time. I read an advertisement in our paper yesterday for a new church start up. A sermon series was being promoted and this was the tagline: Find your life's purpose in 30 days. 30 days? Wow. Now I'm sure that the series was four Sundays worth of scripture and reflections on focusing in on purpose and passion and other "p" words. But the way we frame thoughts like this...30 days? It speaks to our resistance to "a long time."
Boast and Swagger Christianity (BaSC) is wound up. Now there's a statement. It's diametrically opposed to "bit by bit." And I believe this one is subtle.
I was driving home last night from a gathering of friends. I feel at odds with someone who was there and I sat quietly through the entire time, not offering anything; basically, shut down. There is some anger there, but as we know, anger just means you've been hurt. As I drove home, it was amazing how the voices of "John, you should really be past this kind of thinking/behavior by now...I mean, come on, you've been doing this Jesus-thing for thirty-something years...you really should..." I hate that voice.
Allow me to be the poster child for "it takes a long time." BasC is, many times, a reaction to SHAME. That old shame pops us and says, "By now, you really should be..." You know what? I'm becoming. A work in progress. An old chunk of coal that's gonna be a diamond someday. All that stuff that country music has figured out quite well. I think it was Kierkegaard who said, "And now, by the grace of God, I will become what I am." Soren would have made a heck of a country singer. BaSC believes we've got it all figured out and we should be able to get it right and when the apostle Paul says, "I have not arrived," BaSC just smiles and keeps reading.
This Jesus-stuff is going to take a long time. Letting him love me, letting people around me love me, realizing that pain and hurt is a part of this path...that takes a while. Like waiting on a baby. Rilke said, "Gestation...everything is gestation." And Jesus, in John 15/16, says the same thing and equates the end result with the word JOY. Put Jesus and the Skin Horse together and you have JOY being defined as having your hair loved off, droopy eyes, loose joints, and an overall shabbiness to your life.
Bit by bit Christianity in a world full of express check out lines, no wait emergency rooms, instant messaging, lightning fast DSL, drive through dinner in a box...and finding your life's purpose in 30 days. "It doesn't often happen to people who break easily or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept." Following Jesus takes a courage this world knows nothing of...
Does it hurt?
"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.
"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful."
- The Velveteen Rabbit
If you belonged to the world, the world would love its own. But because you do not belong to the world and I have chosen you out of it, the world will hate you...If they have persecuted me, they will persecute you as well...I am telling you this now so that your faith in me may not be shaken. They will excommunicate you from their synagogues. Yes, the time is coming when a man who kills you will think he is thereby serving God! - Jesus
John 15-16 (Phillips)
Boast and Swagger Christianity (BaSC) has a hard time admitting that sometimes...it hurts. This seems to find expression in one of two ways: 1) either it hurts but I'm going to act like it doesn't (denial) or 2) there is a way to avoid the hurt, so if I find that it hurts, then I don't have enough faith, didn't pray adequately over it, or I've stepped outside the anointing or something (some twisted form of sado-triumphalism). Take your pick and you have the same result - someone smiling and swaggering through life, while dying inside.
Jesus, and the Skin Horse, both of whom are always truthful, remind us that sometimes...it's going to hurt. Skin Horse says it in a velveteeny kind of way; Jesus, however, comes right out in his Messiah-self and says, "They're gonna hate you." And not only are they going to hate you, they'll persecute you, excommunicate you, and they might even try and kill you. Not that it's surprising or anything, but the THEY in John's verses refers to...well, who else would throw you out of the synagogue? Yep, you got it - religious, church-going, tithing, moral majority, synagogue-key-holding, fully-devoted-followers BaSC.
We act sometimes like THE WORLD is this big, scary, adulterous booger-bear we've got to watch out for. My friends, I don't think the world cares. The one's who'll hurt you are those with all the trappings of the faith..but alas, they've gotten the course before the heart. Sometimes...following Jesus...hurts. And I mean really hurts. Why can't we accept that? BaSC holds that if I can just keep all my relationships a-tip-toe, follow God's plan for my finances, raise my kids like spiritual champions, keep the needs of my wife in the front of my mind, be in my place on Sunday, give toward the new building or the new charity-for-the-year, and volunteer to bake the communion bread, then surely goodness and mercy, I ought to be able to avoid the pain of life. The rub comes when I've done all those things, kept the letter of the law, if you will, and I still get hurt...or my wife does, or my kids do, or my friend gets cancer or loses his job or loses her marriage or loses his church. Then what do you do? That's right - either "praise the blues away" or ask that million dollar question: Who sinned here, this man or his parents?
Sometimes...following Jesus...HURTS. Instead of Christ calling for the bride one of these days and finding her spotless and varicose-vein free and everything where it should be (like that pomegranated-gal in Song of Songs), I believe that the bride will come dragging down the aisle, breathless, limping, bloodied, bruised, and beaten. She'll (we'll) barely have the strength to stand on our own, but the Father will be waiting at the entry way to let us take his strong, right arm and escort us toward the Son. The bride will have persevered to the end, the bride will have long-suffered, she'll (we'll) have been persecuted because they persecuted him...the bride may look more like those folks walking around after the Battle of Agincourt than the lovely Julia Roberts.
Sometimes...following Jesus...HURTS. Sometimes, you parents will disown you; father will turn against son and mother against daughter. Sometimes, your best friend will betray you. Sometimes, you'll train up your child in the way he or she should go, and when they're old, they won't give a rat's rear about the faith of their fathers or mothers. Sometimes, your pastor will start wondering about your theology and the books you've been reading and he'll tell two friends, who'll tell two friends, and so on, and so on. Sometimes, you'll ask, seek, knock, and then ask, seek, and knock again, only to hear the chirping of crickets, see the blessing on others' lives, and get the door slammed in your face. Sometimes...following Jesus...HURTS. But these are not signs of faithlessness, or fickleness, or a willingness to have your ears tickled, or incorrect prayer-form, or any of the common BaSC responses to pain in our lives. No, these just may be signs of our belovededness...and the reality that we're becoming more and more REAL with each passing day. Why can't we just say it hurts sometimes? What can't we cry with one another and say, "Dammit - this doesn't make a lick of sense"? Why do we prefer porcelain or sterling-silver-plated crosses...to the old rugged one?
"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful."
- The Velveteen Rabbit
If you belonged to the world, the world would love its own. But because you do not belong to the world and I have chosen you out of it, the world will hate you...If they have persecuted me, they will persecute you as well...I am telling you this now so that your faith in me may not be shaken. They will excommunicate you from their synagogues. Yes, the time is coming when a man who kills you will think he is thereby serving God! - Jesus
John 15-16 (Phillips)
Boast and Swagger Christianity (BaSC) has a hard time admitting that sometimes...it hurts. This seems to find expression in one of two ways: 1) either it hurts but I'm going to act like it doesn't (denial) or 2) there is a way to avoid the hurt, so if I find that it hurts, then I don't have enough faith, didn't pray adequately over it, or I've stepped outside the anointing or something (some twisted form of sado-triumphalism). Take your pick and you have the same result - someone smiling and swaggering through life, while dying inside.
Jesus, and the Skin Horse, both of whom are always truthful, remind us that sometimes...it's going to hurt. Skin Horse says it in a velveteeny kind of way; Jesus, however, comes right out in his Messiah-self and says, "They're gonna hate you." And not only are they going to hate you, they'll persecute you, excommunicate you, and they might even try and kill you. Not that it's surprising or anything, but the THEY in John's verses refers to...well, who else would throw you out of the synagogue? Yep, you got it - religious, church-going, tithing, moral majority, synagogue-key-holding, fully-devoted-followers BaSC.
We act sometimes like THE WORLD is this big, scary, adulterous booger-bear we've got to watch out for. My friends, I don't think the world cares. The one's who'll hurt you are those with all the trappings of the faith..but alas, they've gotten the course before the heart. Sometimes...following Jesus...hurts. And I mean really hurts. Why can't we accept that? BaSC holds that if I can just keep all my relationships a-tip-toe, follow God's plan for my finances, raise my kids like spiritual champions, keep the needs of my wife in the front of my mind, be in my place on Sunday, give toward the new building or the new charity-for-the-year, and volunteer to bake the communion bread, then surely goodness and mercy, I ought to be able to avoid the pain of life. The rub comes when I've done all those things, kept the letter of the law, if you will, and I still get hurt...or my wife does, or my kids do, or my friend gets cancer or loses his job or loses her marriage or loses his church. Then what do you do? That's right - either "praise the blues away" or ask that million dollar question: Who sinned here, this man or his parents?
Sometimes...following Jesus...HURTS. Instead of Christ calling for the bride one of these days and finding her spotless and varicose-vein free and everything where it should be (like that pomegranated-gal in Song of Songs), I believe that the bride will come dragging down the aisle, breathless, limping, bloodied, bruised, and beaten. She'll (we'll) barely have the strength to stand on our own, but the Father will be waiting at the entry way to let us take his strong, right arm and escort us toward the Son. The bride will have persevered to the end, the bride will have long-suffered, she'll (we'll) have been persecuted because they persecuted him...the bride may look more like those folks walking around after the Battle of Agincourt than the lovely Julia Roberts.
Sometimes...following Jesus...HURTS. Sometimes, you parents will disown you; father will turn against son and mother against daughter. Sometimes, your best friend will betray you. Sometimes, you'll train up your child in the way he or she should go, and when they're old, they won't give a rat's rear about the faith of their fathers or mothers. Sometimes, your pastor will start wondering about your theology and the books you've been reading and he'll tell two friends, who'll tell two friends, and so on, and so on. Sometimes, you'll ask, seek, knock, and then ask, seek, and knock again, only to hear the chirping of crickets, see the blessing on others' lives, and get the door slammed in your face. Sometimes...following Jesus...HURTS. But these are not signs of faithlessness, or fickleness, or a willingness to have your ears tickled, or incorrect prayer-form, or any of the common BaSC responses to pain in our lives. No, these just may be signs of our belovededness...and the reality that we're becoming more and more REAL with each passing day. Why can't we just say it hurts sometimes? What can't we cry with one another and say, "Dammit - this doesn't make a lick of sense"? Why do we prefer porcelain or sterling-silver-plated crosses...to the old rugged one?
What is REAL?
"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day..."Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real." - The Velveteen Rabbit
"and every man who really loves me will himself be loved by my Father, and I too will love him and make myself known to him." - John 14 (Phillips)
It seems to me that Boast and Swagger Christianity (BaSC) is all about having "things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle." Maybe that's being a part of the next big thing or the next big buzz or being a part of a cutting-edge church plant or leading a group of the new monastics or having your books published by some underground, emergent group or being the leader of a huge denomination or being the up-and-coming voice for the new generation or doing apologetics in the worst sense of the word (using the Word as a sword, instead of a light) or having attended all the conferences put on by "whoever" and now "getting it" or doing house church and sharing common meals or being a liturgical-ancient-future person who loves candles and despises praise choruses or having fish decals on your car or ONLY listening to contemporary Christian radio or being a part of a 24/7 ministry or........the list goes on and on and on. The idea being that there's something about how I'm made or what I'm doing that makes me real, or valid, or Christian, or something.
The wisdom of Skin Horse surfaces here and reminds us that being REAL is a thing that happens to you; you don't make it happen. And this "thing" that happens to you is being loved by a child, or a parent, or a friend, or a spouse, or Jesus, for a long, long time...and then you become Real.
I believe that being REAL is letting Jesus love you for a long, long time. Not because of what you're doing for him, or what you're involved in, or for any other reason. And that, my two-or-three gathered-together readers, is why we prefer BaSc. To think that someone, especially Jesus for that matter, could or would love us just for being us is, well...unbelievable. What if it were true that the only thing Jesus wanted was to love you in this life and the next? What if he didn't want you to start churches, engage in door-to-door witnessing, write books, attend conferences, or go the church on Sundays (and Wednesday nights, for some of you)? All those things are fine and dandy and he wouldn't mind if you did them...but what if you didn't have to?
What if he just wants to love you?
Now let me throw a banana peel on the floor. What if Jesus just wants to love you and he wants to love you through other people? What if being REAL means letting other people love you for a long, long time? Do we really let our spouses love us? Do we really let our children love us? How about our friends? Parents? To really let flesh and blood love us is something we don't do very well...especially us biblely-types. John's gospel tells us that Jesus wants to make himself known to us. How does Jesus usually make himself known to you? So far, in my life, it's been by way of...people. You see, we do pretty well at loving others...but what about letting others love us? That means opening ourselves up, letting people in, allowing them to get close, sharing our hearts with them. Everyone talks about wanting that these days, but that is a narrow way...and few find it.
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real." - The Velveteen Rabbit
"and every man who really loves me will himself be loved by my Father, and I too will love him and make myself known to him." - John 14 (Phillips)
It seems to me that Boast and Swagger Christianity (BaSC) is all about having "things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle." Maybe that's being a part of the next big thing or the next big buzz or being a part of a cutting-edge church plant or leading a group of the new monastics or having your books published by some underground, emergent group or being the leader of a huge denomination or being the up-and-coming voice for the new generation or doing apologetics in the worst sense of the word (using the Word as a sword, instead of a light) or having attended all the conferences put on by "whoever" and now "getting it" or doing house church and sharing common meals or being a liturgical-ancient-future person who loves candles and despises praise choruses or having fish decals on your car or ONLY listening to contemporary Christian radio or being a part of a 24/7 ministry or........the list goes on and on and on. The idea being that there's something about how I'm made or what I'm doing that makes me real, or valid, or Christian, or something.
The wisdom of Skin Horse surfaces here and reminds us that being REAL is a thing that happens to you; you don't make it happen. And this "thing" that happens to you is being loved by a child, or a parent, or a friend, or a spouse, or Jesus, for a long, long time...and then you become Real.
I believe that being REAL is letting Jesus love you for a long, long time. Not because of what you're doing for him, or what you're involved in, or for any other reason. And that, my two-or-three gathered-together readers, is why we prefer BaSc. To think that someone, especially Jesus for that matter, could or would love us just for being us is, well...unbelievable. What if it were true that the only thing Jesus wanted was to love you in this life and the next? What if he didn't want you to start churches, engage in door-to-door witnessing, write books, attend conferences, or go the church on Sundays (and Wednesday nights, for some of you)? All those things are fine and dandy and he wouldn't mind if you did them...but what if you didn't have to?
What if he just wants to love you?
Now let me throw a banana peel on the floor. What if Jesus just wants to love you and he wants to love you through other people? What if being REAL means letting other people love you for a long, long time? Do we really let our spouses love us? Do we really let our children love us? How about our friends? Parents? To really let flesh and blood love us is something we don't do very well...especially us biblely-types. John's gospel tells us that Jesus wants to make himself known to us. How does Jesus usually make himself known to you? So far, in my life, it's been by way of...people. You see, we do pretty well at loving others...but what about letting others love us? That means opening ourselves up, letting people in, allowing them to get close, sharing our hearts with them. Everyone talks about wanting that these days, but that is a narrow way...and few find it.
A Gentle Response to Boast and Swagger Christianity
Alcoholics Anonymous has a saying about getting sick and tired of being sick and tired...I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired. And so I feel I must speak. My comments are specific to what I see as passing for faith these days. I say "passes" because it seems to get by; like getting Cs instead of As.
The prevailing picture of faith nowadays seems to be Boast and Swagger. Now you might immediately think I'm talking about some power-tied, Republican, James Dobsonesque version of following Jesus; I am, but I'm not. I see it just as much in the "left" as in the "right" these days. Just who or what is this snake in the grass I'm trying to draw attention to? I'll start small and hope this post grows.
Boast and Swagger Christianity (BaSC)...makes following Jesus, what I call being REAL, difficult. I fully believe that being a disciple of Jesus, or a follower-of-the-Way, is hard...but it need not be difficult. BaSC says there is something I can do to make myself acceptable in the eyes of God. I know, I know...the BaSC horse has been beaten to death in the recent past...folks desperately running through the streets at night, carrying lanterns, breathlessly screaming no more legalism; we're free in Christ! But what started out as a filled-with-fear-and-wonder sprint has quickly slowed to a...boast and swagger - Hey, look at us...we're free in Christ...sure wish you could 'get it'...maybe you will one day...maybe.
These words from The Velveteen Rabbit - "He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else."
The quote above describes Skin Horse. I'm going to try and be Skin Horse for awhile. I'm not wise, but I have seen a long succession of church folk, faith folk, faithy-church folk, and churchy-faith folk...and I've seen much boasting and swaggering over the years...but I don't and haven't seen much REAL. As this post continues, I'll draw some from John's gospel as well as the story mentioned earlier, The Velveteen Rabbit. Maybe you're sick and tired of being sick and tired too? Or maybe you just want something that's real...really real, not kinda real? Or maybe you know what I'm talking about, that Boast and Swagger stuff? And you know in your gut that it's not why Jesus did his thing, but it just seems so big and pervasive and popular. Well, come along with me and maybe we'll figure some stuff out along the way. But no boasting and swaggering allowed; the plan is to saunter - "to walk about in a leisurely manner."
The prevailing picture of faith nowadays seems to be Boast and Swagger. Now you might immediately think I'm talking about some power-tied, Republican, James Dobsonesque version of following Jesus; I am, but I'm not. I see it just as much in the "left" as in the "right" these days. Just who or what is this snake in the grass I'm trying to draw attention to? I'll start small and hope this post grows.
Boast and Swagger Christianity (BaSC)...makes following Jesus, what I call being REAL, difficult. I fully believe that being a disciple of Jesus, or a follower-of-the-Way, is hard...but it need not be difficult. BaSC says there is something I can do to make myself acceptable in the eyes of God. I know, I know...the BaSC horse has been beaten to death in the recent past...folks desperately running through the streets at night, carrying lanterns, breathlessly screaming no more legalism; we're free in Christ! But what started out as a filled-with-fear-and-wonder sprint has quickly slowed to a...boast and swagger - Hey, look at us...we're free in Christ...sure wish you could 'get it'...maybe you will one day...maybe.
These words from The Velveteen Rabbit - "He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else."
The quote above describes Skin Horse. I'm going to try and be Skin Horse for awhile. I'm not wise, but I have seen a long succession of church folk, faith folk, faithy-church folk, and churchy-faith folk...and I've seen much boasting and swaggering over the years...but I don't and haven't seen much REAL. As this post continues, I'll draw some from John's gospel as well as the story mentioned earlier, The Velveteen Rabbit. Maybe you're sick and tired of being sick and tired too? Or maybe you just want something that's real...really real, not kinda real? Or maybe you know what I'm talking about, that Boast and Swagger stuff? And you know in your gut that it's not why Jesus did his thing, but it just seems so big and pervasive and popular. Well, come along with me and maybe we'll figure some stuff out along the way. But no boasting and swaggering allowed; the plan is to saunter - "to walk about in a leisurely manner."
Gifts of the Magi
I had appointments yesterday with three authors; some brainstorming regarding book ideas. As I drove away from the last meeting, the sensation was strong that the time spent with them was about much more than books. They brought gifts with them from afar...
Wise-man #1 reminded me how important it is to have like-minded people around you. This is not assembling a bunch of folks who think exactly the way you do; rather, it's working with and being with people who hold a certain common ground of soul. We can waste an inordinate amount of time in relationships and projects due to the reality that the like-minded aspect is missing. This was a golden gift.
Wise-man #2 reminded me of the importance of narrative. He works with students and is always watching, especially in group settings, for what keeps their heads up and alert and what causes them to immediately look for something else to do. He said, "If somebody's telling a story...they've got 'em." 'Once upon a time" still has this pied-piper power on us all. This gift had the aroma of frankincense.
Wise-man #3 reminded me that staying true to your own Jesus path will inevitably bring you into conflict with other people. We want to believe that listening to the voice of Christ will bring about a big group of folks, holding hands and humming "we shall overcome"...I'm not so sure. It's amazing how many times the phrase "and a division arose because of him" surfaces in the gospels. Listening to and then following the whispers of Jesus is not for the faint of heart - "men will hate you...and throw you out of the synagogue." A myrrh-like gift, this was.
These older souls, wise-men, postmodern magi, brought these gifts to me. I wasn't the christ-child or anything; however, I did feel like a child while with them. And I watched as "they departed into their own country another way"...
Wise-man #1 reminded me how important it is to have like-minded people around you. This is not assembling a bunch of folks who think exactly the way you do; rather, it's working with and being with people who hold a certain common ground of soul. We can waste an inordinate amount of time in relationships and projects due to the reality that the like-minded aspect is missing. This was a golden gift.
Wise-man #2 reminded me of the importance of narrative. He works with students and is always watching, especially in group settings, for what keeps their heads up and alert and what causes them to immediately look for something else to do. He said, "If somebody's telling a story...they've got 'em." 'Once upon a time" still has this pied-piper power on us all. This gift had the aroma of frankincense.
Wise-man #3 reminded me that staying true to your own Jesus path will inevitably bring you into conflict with other people. We want to believe that listening to the voice of Christ will bring about a big group of folks, holding hands and humming "we shall overcome"...I'm not so sure. It's amazing how many times the phrase "and a division arose because of him" surfaces in the gospels. Listening to and then following the whispers of Jesus is not for the faint of heart - "men will hate you...and throw you out of the synagogue." A myrrh-like gift, this was.
These older souls, wise-men, postmodern magi, brought these gifts to me. I wasn't the christ-child or anything; however, I did feel like a child while with them. And I watched as "they departed into their own country another way"...
A most important work
"For what are men better than sheep or goats that nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer both for themselves and those who call them friend?"
- Tennyson, The Passing of Arthur
Last week was a doozy of a week. We had something every night of the week, I had crazy days at work, one of the girls dropped Meredith's digi-cam and broke it, we paid some bills and don't have much left over...it was a doozy. And while much of it was the regular stuff that many weeks are made of, there were certain aspects of the week that felt like outright opposition. Now I don't know what you think about that kind of talk, but 'round here, we believe there's a crafty, old sonofabitch who wants to steal, kill, and destroy...or if those three don't seem to work, he works hard to get you to lose heart...which may just be about the worst thing to happen to any of us. Anyway, several times last week, we felt like the accuser had us in the crosshairs...and while we didn't lose heart, we definitely felt it slipping through our fingers.
Fast forward to Sunday morning, as in yesterday. We walk through the heavy wooden doors of our church and the lady greeting the multitudes says to us, "I prayed for you this week." I hadn't even kicked the dust off my boots and she says, "I prayed for you this week." I listened to her greet the folks behind us and she didn't tell anybody else that she'd prayed for them...just us. About half an hour later, we're passing the peace at halftime (we're Anglicans) and one of the older ladies in our congregation walks up and says, "I don't know why, but I prayed for you this week." Now the script says you're supposed to say, "Peace be with you" during that time, but I was really glad she decided to punt the script and give me those words: "I prayed for you this week...don't know why, but I did." That was some of the best peace I'd been passed in a while.
God bless old Alfred Lord Tennyson, reminding us that the work of prayer may just be the most important thing we do in this life. Not publishing books. Not preaching participatory sermons. Not cutting a huge check for the homeless shelter to pay their rent. Not coming up with an answer to my neighbor's question about the origins of God. Not getting a spray-on tan or looking good in my butt jeans. Not getting an acceptance letter in the mail in response to my article submission. Not changing the oil in my car, the filter on my AC, and the light bulbs in the closet. Tennyson says that if we don't lift our hands in prayer for ourselves and one another, then we're no better than the sheep or the goats. We bibley-types tend to consider ourselves the sheep, in the sheep/goat division that Jesus talks about in the testament that's new. Tennyson seems to overlook those categories entirely and say, "Hey, call yourself a sheep, a goat, a shoap, or a geep; if you say you know God and you're not praying for one another, then you're really lost...as in "a blind life within the brain." I think Jesus read that in Tennyson and said, "Wow, Alfred Lord...now that's good."
When the fit was hitting the shan last week, I'm so thankful that two old ladies saw fit to lift holy hands in prayer for the Blases. They didn't know what all was going on, but they did faithfully follow a prompt from the one alongside us and remember our names to the Father, the Father who art in heaven. I don't remember what we sang Sunday morning; probably some songs with the word "praise" and "desperate" in them. I don't remember what the sermon was about; I vaguely recall some familiar phrases were repeated loudly several times and people felt compelled to say "amen" and "yes, Lord." What I do remember was a phrase...wonderful words of life spoken to a family of beggars (that's us); a phrase that lifted an ordinary morning above the routine and filled it with grace: "I prayed for you...don't know why, but I did." Those prayers from two lovely old saints may have been just the thing that kept us from losing heart. And living to type another day.
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer both for themselves and those who call them friend?"
- Tennyson, The Passing of Arthur
Last week was a doozy of a week. We had something every night of the week, I had crazy days at work, one of the girls dropped Meredith's digi-cam and broke it, we paid some bills and don't have much left over...it was a doozy. And while much of it was the regular stuff that many weeks are made of, there were certain aspects of the week that felt like outright opposition. Now I don't know what you think about that kind of talk, but 'round here, we believe there's a crafty, old sonofabitch who wants to steal, kill, and destroy...or if those three don't seem to work, he works hard to get you to lose heart...which may just be about the worst thing to happen to any of us. Anyway, several times last week, we felt like the accuser had us in the crosshairs...and while we didn't lose heart, we definitely felt it slipping through our fingers.
Fast forward to Sunday morning, as in yesterday. We walk through the heavy wooden doors of our church and the lady greeting the multitudes says to us, "I prayed for you this week." I hadn't even kicked the dust off my boots and she says, "I prayed for you this week." I listened to her greet the folks behind us and she didn't tell anybody else that she'd prayed for them...just us. About half an hour later, we're passing the peace at halftime (we're Anglicans) and one of the older ladies in our congregation walks up and says, "I don't know why, but I prayed for you this week." Now the script says you're supposed to say, "Peace be with you" during that time, but I was really glad she decided to punt the script and give me those words: "I prayed for you this week...don't know why, but I did." That was some of the best peace I'd been passed in a while.
God bless old Alfred Lord Tennyson, reminding us that the work of prayer may just be the most important thing we do in this life. Not publishing books. Not preaching participatory sermons. Not cutting a huge check for the homeless shelter to pay their rent. Not coming up with an answer to my neighbor's question about the origins of God. Not getting a spray-on tan or looking good in my butt jeans. Not getting an acceptance letter in the mail in response to my article submission. Not changing the oil in my car, the filter on my AC, and the light bulbs in the closet. Tennyson says that if we don't lift our hands in prayer for ourselves and one another, then we're no better than the sheep or the goats. We bibley-types tend to consider ourselves the sheep, in the sheep/goat division that Jesus talks about in the testament that's new. Tennyson seems to overlook those categories entirely and say, "Hey, call yourself a sheep, a goat, a shoap, or a geep; if you say you know God and you're not praying for one another, then you're really lost...as in "a blind life within the brain." I think Jesus read that in Tennyson and said, "Wow, Alfred Lord...now that's good."
When the fit was hitting the shan last week, I'm so thankful that two old ladies saw fit to lift holy hands in prayer for the Blases. They didn't know what all was going on, but they did faithfully follow a prompt from the one alongside us and remember our names to the Father, the Father who art in heaven. I don't remember what we sang Sunday morning; probably some songs with the word "praise" and "desperate" in them. I don't remember what the sermon was about; I vaguely recall some familiar phrases were repeated loudly several times and people felt compelled to say "amen" and "yes, Lord." What I do remember was a phrase...wonderful words of life spoken to a family of beggars (that's us); a phrase that lifted an ordinary morning above the routine and filled it with grace: "I prayed for you...don't know why, but I did." Those prayers from two lovely old saints may have been just the thing that kept us from losing heart. And living to type another day.
Untitled poem
It's been two weeks since Jesus exited the tomb;
did he emerge, only to see his shadow, and then retreat,
leaving us with six more weeks of bad weather?
It sure feels that way.
The sure-footed car slips on the ice and a mother and
her babies find themselves upside down.
The tax forms have even more boxes this year
and one mismarked has the power to tip the audit dominoes.
An angry young man turns college green to red,
graduating those too young way too early.
A pregnant mother of three looks down to find blood on the floor;
the growing life, finally accepted and submitted to, now gone.
Come out, come out, wherever you are, Lord.
Bring the sun with you and thaw this never-ending winter.
The old story says it was no shadow, but really you.
That's supposed to signal an early spring...isn't it?
did he emerge, only to see his shadow, and then retreat,
leaving us with six more weeks of bad weather?
It sure feels that way.
The sure-footed car slips on the ice and a mother and
her babies find themselves upside down.
The tax forms have even more boxes this year
and one mismarked has the power to tip the audit dominoes.
An angry young man turns college green to red,
graduating those too young way too early.
A pregnant mother of three looks down to find blood on the floor;
the growing life, finally accepted and submitted to, now gone.
Come out, come out, wherever you are, Lord.
Bring the sun with you and thaw this never-ending winter.
The old story says it was no shadow, but really you.
That's supposed to signal an early spring...isn't it?
Stay Close
I checked on our girls last night before I went to bed. They had finally fallen asleep after several water runs, a quick check to see who got booted off of Dancing With The Stars, and some last minute giggling. My "check" on them is routine; turn off the radio, make sure they're covered up, and switch off the night light.
Our youngest, Abbey, had crawled over in the bed with Sarah (they have twin beds bumped up against each other) and I was going to pull her back over in her bed. When I hunkered down to lift Abbey over, I noticed the girls' arms were intertwined. I followed the arms to the hands and then on to the fingers. My girls, my princesses, my fathers- be-good-to-your-daughters daughters were asleep, holding hands with their fingers interlaced. I backed-up and just looked at them. I went and got Meredith, saying, "Come see this" and we both stood, arm in arm, at the wonder of our girls.
We spent some time last night watching a little, a little mind you, of the coverage of the Virginia Tech shooting. I asked the kids if their teachers had said anything about that at school and they said, "No." I didn't need a day-long symposium on the event, but I did feel like the teachers owed the kids at least a nod to this tragedy.
We didn't make the kids sit still and watch the news report; they came and went as they pleased. But we did answer any questions they had and made some comments at points in the report. We cried at images of lives cut short, a "cold" shooter who may have just been "sad," and shuddered at the reporters' insatiable quest for the answer to "how did you feel?"
Our son, Will, watched intently, but the girls came and went, playing in their rooms for awhile and then returning to the den for a few and then back to playdough and dolls. I wonder if the girls saw and heard more than I realized? In the beauty of their innocence, they could stand just a little and then had to return to the safety of play? Maybe. I don't know for sure. But it sure felt like the final thing they did before surrendering to sleep last night was to lock arms and hold hands, fingers and all. To shrunch up next to each other, as close as possible, and hang on...for they were entering the night, where things are dark and unseen and alma maters become via dolarosas in the twinkling of an eye.
I don't know much about processing the next few days. I'm sure experts will tell us all how to feel, what to look for, etc., etc. But I'd like to offer this suggestion, per my girls: shrunch up next to one another, lock arms and hold hands, fingers and all. The darkness around us is deep...
Our youngest, Abbey, had crawled over in the bed with Sarah (they have twin beds bumped up against each other) and I was going to pull her back over in her bed. When I hunkered down to lift Abbey over, I noticed the girls' arms were intertwined. I followed the arms to the hands and then on to the fingers. My girls, my princesses, my fathers- be-good-to-your-daughters daughters were asleep, holding hands with their fingers interlaced. I backed-up and just looked at them. I went and got Meredith, saying, "Come see this" and we both stood, arm in arm, at the wonder of our girls.
We spent some time last night watching a little, a little mind you, of the coverage of the Virginia Tech shooting. I asked the kids if their teachers had said anything about that at school and they said, "No." I didn't need a day-long symposium on the event, but I did feel like the teachers owed the kids at least a nod to this tragedy.
We didn't make the kids sit still and watch the news report; they came and went as they pleased. But we did answer any questions they had and made some comments at points in the report. We cried at images of lives cut short, a "cold" shooter who may have just been "sad," and shuddered at the reporters' insatiable quest for the answer to "how did you feel?"
Our son, Will, watched intently, but the girls came and went, playing in their rooms for awhile and then returning to the den for a few and then back to playdough and dolls. I wonder if the girls saw and heard more than I realized? In the beauty of their innocence, they could stand just a little and then had to return to the safety of play? Maybe. I don't know for sure. But it sure felt like the final thing they did before surrendering to sleep last night was to lock arms and hold hands, fingers and all. To shrunch up next to each other, as close as possible, and hang on...for they were entering the night, where things are dark and unseen and alma maters become via dolarosas in the twinkling of an eye.
I don't know much about processing the next few days. I'm sure experts will tell us all how to feel, what to look for, etc., etc. But I'd like to offer this suggestion, per my girls: shrunch up next to one another, lock arms and hold hands, fingers and all. The darkness around us is deep...
Communion
Seconds before getting up to join the communion line, my son coughs and draws in a big stream of phlegm. I immediately think about the fact that I always let my family go before me in the line; therefore, I will momentarily drink from the same cup as my coughing, phlegm-drawing son. However, that one-ness in the cup is the unsettling aspect of communion that draws me back week after week; God’s in the cup and so are you and I. I have always maintained a strong stance of open communion; whosoever will, come and jump in the cup.
The scene is from the film Little Children. Please hear me – this film earned its “R.” The neighborhood swimming pool is full of summertime children and their parents. Kids are splashing around, parents are leisurely keeping an eye out from their pool-side tables, and lifeguards are scanning the surface for any problems. And then he walks in. “He” is a pedophile who has just been released from his prison time. His gaunt frame and shifty eyes make you immediately squirm. He puts on a snorkel and fins and enters the water, as summertime children and their parents enjoy the moment. The camera then assumes the man’s view as he eyes lithe, young bodies swimming innocently in the pool. It is a harrowing scene. As an over-protective father-hen of three, it was almost too much to watch. Suddenly, one of the mothers recognizes him from news reports and begins screaming…and the dominoes begin to fall. Parents rush to the water’s edge with panic in their strides. Children see the fear in parents’ eyes and take it on themselves, not knowing exactly what’s happening, but sensing that something is very wrong. In a matter of seconds, the pool is cleared of children and the man is left standing, alone, in the center of the water. He then screams at the people, saying something like, “I just wanted to go swimming.” You don’t believe him…but then you do…but then you don’t again…but then you do…maybe.
Had I been in that scene in that film, you can bet your sweet chalice that I would’ve been right there, frantically pulling my kids out the water. But the disturbing message of this film is that we’re all little children and we’ve all sinned and fallen short of the glory; sometimes it’s overt stuff that makes headlines, but mostly it’s subtle transgressions of the heart that we keep neatly tucked between side-air bags and praise music. I view that scene now as one of communion. It was open to all, but it quickly became “closed” due to the presence of sin. And I thought about the phlegm in the cup I was about to take. And I also thought about the stuff I would leave in the cup – anger, greed, lust, sloth…and I wondered if the folks on the pew behind me realized just what would be swimming in the cup they’d soon take. And I also thought about the many times each week…shucks, each day, that I deny communion to people around me due to who I think they are or possibly what they’ve done. They just want to go swimming in the cup of God’s grace, but I hightail it out of those waters and leave them, alone, standing in the center of the cup.
The blood of Christ, shed for…you. And that “you” is both the singular and the plural. Jesus, forgive me, forgive us, when we withhold the chalice of communion. It is not our blood in the cup; if that were the case, we would be lost indeed. No, it is your bloodstream into which we bring our phlegm and our wrath and our bitterness and our hate. We, all of us, little children, have sinned and we, all of us, little children just want to go swimming. It is a cup full of serpents and doves and you, O Lord. Your grace frightens me, Jesus…
The scene is from the film Little Children. Please hear me – this film earned its “R.” The neighborhood swimming pool is full of summertime children and their parents. Kids are splashing around, parents are leisurely keeping an eye out from their pool-side tables, and lifeguards are scanning the surface for any problems. And then he walks in. “He” is a pedophile who has just been released from his prison time. His gaunt frame and shifty eyes make you immediately squirm. He puts on a snorkel and fins and enters the water, as summertime children and their parents enjoy the moment. The camera then assumes the man’s view as he eyes lithe, young bodies swimming innocently in the pool. It is a harrowing scene. As an over-protective father-hen of three, it was almost too much to watch. Suddenly, one of the mothers recognizes him from news reports and begins screaming…and the dominoes begin to fall. Parents rush to the water’s edge with panic in their strides. Children see the fear in parents’ eyes and take it on themselves, not knowing exactly what’s happening, but sensing that something is very wrong. In a matter of seconds, the pool is cleared of children and the man is left standing, alone, in the center of the water. He then screams at the people, saying something like, “I just wanted to go swimming.” You don’t believe him…but then you do…but then you don’t again…but then you do…maybe.
Had I been in that scene in that film, you can bet your sweet chalice that I would’ve been right there, frantically pulling my kids out the water. But the disturbing message of this film is that we’re all little children and we’ve all sinned and fallen short of the glory; sometimes it’s overt stuff that makes headlines, but mostly it’s subtle transgressions of the heart that we keep neatly tucked between side-air bags and praise music. I view that scene now as one of communion. It was open to all, but it quickly became “closed” due to the presence of sin. And I thought about the phlegm in the cup I was about to take. And I also thought about the stuff I would leave in the cup – anger, greed, lust, sloth…and I wondered if the folks on the pew behind me realized just what would be swimming in the cup they’d soon take. And I also thought about the many times each week…shucks, each day, that I deny communion to people around me due to who I think they are or possibly what they’ve done. They just want to go swimming in the cup of God’s grace, but I hightail it out of those waters and leave them, alone, standing in the center of the cup.
The blood of Christ, shed for…you. And that “you” is both the singular and the plural. Jesus, forgive me, forgive us, when we withhold the chalice of communion. It is not our blood in the cup; if that were the case, we would be lost indeed. No, it is your bloodstream into which we bring our phlegm and our wrath and our bitterness and our hate. We, all of us, little children, have sinned and we, all of us, little children just want to go swimming. It is a cup full of serpents and doves and you, O Lord. Your grace frightens me, Jesus…
Morning Thoughts
I was reading David James Duncan today for my morning devotions. I realize that some might stumble and fall over that one; reading something other than the Bible for devotional purposes. But reading Duncan’s essays always, always, has the effect of making me think of and feel closer to God. That’s the point of a devotion, right? Anyway, he was describing one of his philosophical heroes, Henry Bugbee and his (Bugbee’s) insightful reflections on that gem of a book, A River Runs Through It by Norman Maclean.
Bugbee was speaking of a scene, early in the book and movie, that results in a standoff between young Paul Maclean and this father; the oatmeal scene. Paul is told to eat his oats, just as Scots had been “happily consuming for thousands of years.” But Paul sets his face like flint toward Jerusalem and refuses. Bugbee said the scene was darkly prophetic because it revealed a violence between father and son that would overshadow their relationship. He summed it up this way: For all the love and admirable qualities of the father, it was, one felt, his dogmatic stance that prevented grace from flowing into the son…The father’s greatest strength – his rock-solid faith – somehow became a mere rock, a dead weight, when he tried to will it to his son. A rock-solid faith that somehow became a mere rock…a dead weight.
Maybe that’s where we’ve tripped up. What if we’ve looked at faith as something we could will or give to other people? What if faith is not something I can give away, but rather something you could only catch from me, if you chose? What if our greatest strength, our faith, becomes our greatest weakness when we try and will it into or onto other lives? How many times has the bottom line been that it has to be “this way” or it’s not faith…and the “this way” is all too frequently translated “my” way?
It’s interesting that the one place where Paul Maclean and his father connected was fly-fishing the Blackfoot; grace flowed in this fluid, moving rush of creation. Once they stepped out of that stream, things began to harden and stiffen and become obstacles to grace, love and even life…
Bugbee was speaking of a scene, early in the book and movie, that results in a standoff between young Paul Maclean and this father; the oatmeal scene. Paul is told to eat his oats, just as Scots had been “happily consuming for thousands of years.” But Paul sets his face like flint toward Jerusalem and refuses. Bugbee said the scene was darkly prophetic because it revealed a violence between father and son that would overshadow their relationship. He summed it up this way: For all the love and admirable qualities of the father, it was, one felt, his dogmatic stance that prevented grace from flowing into the son…The father’s greatest strength – his rock-solid faith – somehow became a mere rock, a dead weight, when he tried to will it to his son. A rock-solid faith that somehow became a mere rock…a dead weight.
Maybe that’s where we’ve tripped up. What if we’ve looked at faith as something we could will or give to other people? What if faith is not something I can give away, but rather something you could only catch from me, if you chose? What if our greatest strength, our faith, becomes our greatest weakness when we try and will it into or onto other lives? How many times has the bottom line been that it has to be “this way” or it’s not faith…and the “this way” is all too frequently translated “my” way?
It’s interesting that the one place where Paul Maclean and his father connected was fly-fishing the Blackfoot; grace flowed in this fluid, moving rush of creation. Once they stepped out of that stream, things began to harden and stiffen and become obstacles to grace, love and even life…
Here and There
And he said to them, "Do not be amazed; you are looking for Jesus the Nazarene, who has been crucified. He has risen; He is not here; behold, here is the place where they laid him. But go, tell His disciples and Peter, 'He is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as He told you.'" Mark 16.6-7
So I get up this morning, very early on the first day, and read through the resurrection passages in the gospels. They're beautiful and wild and wooly and amazing and unbelievable. One of the strong things that surfaced for me was this play on the words "here" and "there." Let me see if I can articulate it.
There was a young man (according to Mark's gospel) in the tomb, wearing a white robe, and he told the women that Jesus is not here; "here" is where he was, but not any longer. He then tells them that Jesus will meet them in Galilee; "there" is where they'll see him.
And I began to ask Jesus to show me the "there" today. I know where Jesus has been, where he was - the "here" aspect, but what if Jesus is waiting for me somewhere else today...what if he's waiting "there" to meet with me, speak to me, show me something, caution me about a matter? What if the familiar facets of this day - the "here" - are only remnants of his presence; empty grave clothes and stones rolled away? What if the risen Lord awaits me "there" - wherever "there" is?
Interestingly enough, the women are told that Jesus will meet them in...Galilee. Galilee. That place where everything got started. The shores where disciples heard the piper's music and left their nets to follow. Is the Lord asking me to meet him in some where-it-all-got-started locale this Easter day? I don't know, but I'm sure want to see him, hear him, place my hands in his side...and believe. So, I begin this day as the women did - gripped in trembling and astonishment - because I know Jesus has been "here" but I want to meet him "there." And so I run, full of joy and fear..."Jesus, where is the my Galilee today?" It is still very early on the first day...
So I get up this morning, very early on the first day, and read through the resurrection passages in the gospels. They're beautiful and wild and wooly and amazing and unbelievable. One of the strong things that surfaced for me was this play on the words "here" and "there." Let me see if I can articulate it.
There was a young man (according to Mark's gospel) in the tomb, wearing a white robe, and he told the women that Jesus is not here; "here" is where he was, but not any longer. He then tells them that Jesus will meet them in Galilee; "there" is where they'll see him.
And I began to ask Jesus to show me the "there" today. I know where Jesus has been, where he was - the "here" aspect, but what if Jesus is waiting for me somewhere else today...what if he's waiting "there" to meet with me, speak to me, show me something, caution me about a matter? What if the familiar facets of this day - the "here" - are only remnants of his presence; empty grave clothes and stones rolled away? What if the risen Lord awaits me "there" - wherever "there" is?
Interestingly enough, the women are told that Jesus will meet them in...Galilee. Galilee. That place where everything got started. The shores where disciples heard the piper's music and left their nets to follow. Is the Lord asking me to meet him in some where-it-all-got-started locale this Easter day? I don't know, but I'm sure want to see him, hear him, place my hands in his side...and believe. So, I begin this day as the women did - gripped in trembling and astonishment - because I know Jesus has been "here" but I want to meet him "there." And so I run, full of joy and fear..."Jesus, where is the my Galilee today?" It is still very early on the first day...
Easter Snow Bunnies
We live in Colorado. And while April in many states means 70-80 degree weather and the wildflowers in bloom, around here, at least today, it means…snow. Yep...snow, freezing drizzle, temps in the teens and hazardous driving conditions. My wife spent some time last week trying to assemble some Easter outfits for the kids. Our goal was not to spend any “new” money and not fall into the get-all-gussied-up-for-Easter trap that we feel so characterizes the beloved South.
Meredith found some dresses for the girls, complete with light sweater options in case it was cool and decided on a similar outfit for herself. But the high tomorrow may be 30 degrees, tops. Will and I’ll be o.k. – us guys wear levis and a shirt year ‘round. But we’ve got to shift gears for the ladies in our household. Easter Sunday isn’t going to look or feel like what we planned. Feel a homily comin’ on?
What do you do when resurrection doesn’t look or feel like what you expected? Now there’s literal, Lazarus-come-forth, who-are-you-looking-for…nope, He’s-not-here…lily-blooming…hiding-eggs-in-tall-green-grass resurrection…and then there’s the holy-cow-it’s-snowing-and-twenty degrees…I-can’t-wear-my-flip-flops-to-church resurrections. They just don’t look and feel like they’re supposed to.
A part of me says that the not-quite-what-I-expected resurrections are the real ones after all. Do you remember teary-eyed-Mary-in-the-garden? She mistook Jesus for the gardener: “They took my Master,” she said, “and I don’t know where they put him.” After she said this, she turned away and saw Jesus standing there. But she did not recognize him.
She saw Jesus standing there, but didn’t recognize him. I’m not sure what Mary thought the resurrection would look like, but what happened was totally beyond her recognizable resurrection categories. I pray for you, as I pray for myself, that we would, all of us, experience the risen Christ tomorrow. He’ll be standing right there in our midst, whether you’re in a white washed Protestant building, a shadowy Gothic cathedral, sitting in your den watching CNN with the wife or out on the lake waterskiing with the in-laws. The question is, “Will we recognize him?”
Mary finally recognized Jesus when he called her name…so that’s what my prayer will be; that’ll you and I, all of us, will hear him call our names. And I beg you, as I do myself, that we’ll, all of us, listen carefully. He may call us by a new name tomorrow, a resurrection name, a name we’re not expecting, a name he has just for us to reflect the new life he has for us. I’m going to try and listen real good; I’ll just have to adjust my ear-warmers a little...‘cause it’s gonna be cold tomorrow.
May you live in the present risen-ness of Jesus the Christ.
John
Meredith found some dresses for the girls, complete with light sweater options in case it was cool and decided on a similar outfit for herself. But the high tomorrow may be 30 degrees, tops. Will and I’ll be o.k. – us guys wear levis and a shirt year ‘round. But we’ve got to shift gears for the ladies in our household. Easter Sunday isn’t going to look or feel like what we planned. Feel a homily comin’ on?
What do you do when resurrection doesn’t look or feel like what you expected? Now there’s literal, Lazarus-come-forth, who-are-you-looking-for…nope, He’s-not-here…lily-blooming…hiding-eggs-in-tall-green-grass resurrection…and then there’s the holy-cow-it’s-snowing-and-twenty degrees…I-can’t-wear-my-flip-flops-to-church resurrections. They just don’t look and feel like they’re supposed to.
A part of me says that the not-quite-what-I-expected resurrections are the real ones after all. Do you remember teary-eyed-Mary-in-the-garden? She mistook Jesus for the gardener: “They took my Master,” she said, “and I don’t know where they put him.” After she said this, she turned away and saw Jesus standing there. But she did not recognize him.
She saw Jesus standing there, but didn’t recognize him. I’m not sure what Mary thought the resurrection would look like, but what happened was totally beyond her recognizable resurrection categories. I pray for you, as I pray for myself, that we would, all of us, experience the risen Christ tomorrow. He’ll be standing right there in our midst, whether you’re in a white washed Protestant building, a shadowy Gothic cathedral, sitting in your den watching CNN with the wife or out on the lake waterskiing with the in-laws. The question is, “Will we recognize him?”
Mary finally recognized Jesus when he called her name…so that’s what my prayer will be; that’ll you and I, all of us, will hear him call our names. And I beg you, as I do myself, that we’ll, all of us, listen carefully. He may call us by a new name tomorrow, a resurrection name, a name we’re not expecting, a name he has just for us to reflect the new life he has for us. I’m going to try and listen real good; I’ll just have to adjust my ear-warmers a little...‘cause it’s gonna be cold tomorrow.
May you live in the present risen-ness of Jesus the Christ.
John
Never be without...
So I'm standing in the kitchen this morning, making the coffee, and I notice an envelope on the countertop. It's one of the get-your-video-in-the-mail envelopes from Blockbuster.com or .org or .something. We're signed up for this service (you're probably aware of it) where you get your dvd choices through the mail, instead of having to go to the actual store, etc., etc.
I've opened plenty of those envelopes over the last few months, but this morning, I noticed the heading across it - Never Be Without A Movie. It being morning and all and my attenae being crisply attuned, I immediately thought, What if, sometimes, it's good to be without a movie?
This is the same feeling I have when I come across a church touting a "24/7" ministry of some sort; it's usually a youth/teenage ministry that's trying really hard to be hip and cool and Jesusy. The idea is that you (or I, I guess) need to be on for Jesus, 24/7; no breaks or lags in the life of faith - always on!
In my now 40th year, I would say that living a life of 24/7 anything and never being without a movie may actually be some version of hell itself. Everything's always on and there's always stimulation and there's no down time or rest or...sabbath; yeah, there's the word - Sabbath. The 24/7 approach to life leaves no time for Sabbath. Some days we need to stop and look and listen; not to a movie, but to life. Some moments cry out, "Pay attention! Stop and smell the horse crap." Sorry, I took care of some horses this past weekend and I just love the smell of a feed lot and hay and horses and horse crap. I realize it sounds strange, but I'm 40 now, so I don't care. The point is that there's a lot going on in this life and it's not in front of a video screen and to see it, smell it, touch it, or taste it, you're going to have to stop a moment, or at least pause. And maybe that's where we could begin -pausing.
The psalm-structure has the selah in it; an intentional pause, a catching of your breath. That's what I'm advocating here. Pausing. Slowing down. Tapping the brakes every once in a while. Doing that allows you to stop and smell the horse crap...and possibly even avoid stepping in it.
I've opened plenty of those envelopes over the last few months, but this morning, I noticed the heading across it - Never Be Without A Movie. It being morning and all and my attenae being crisply attuned, I immediately thought, What if, sometimes, it's good to be without a movie?
This is the same feeling I have when I come across a church touting a "24/7" ministry of some sort; it's usually a youth/teenage ministry that's trying really hard to be hip and cool and Jesusy. The idea is that you (or I, I guess) need to be on for Jesus, 24/7; no breaks or lags in the life of faith - always on!
In my now 40th year, I would say that living a life of 24/7 anything and never being without a movie may actually be some version of hell itself. Everything's always on and there's always stimulation and there's no down time or rest or...sabbath; yeah, there's the word - Sabbath. The 24/7 approach to life leaves no time for Sabbath. Some days we need to stop and look and listen; not to a movie, but to life. Some moments cry out, "Pay attention! Stop and smell the horse crap." Sorry, I took care of some horses this past weekend and I just love the smell of a feed lot and hay and horses and horse crap. I realize it sounds strange, but I'm 40 now, so I don't care. The point is that there's a lot going on in this life and it's not in front of a video screen and to see it, smell it, touch it, or taste it, you're going to have to stop a moment, or at least pause. And maybe that's where we could begin -pausing.
The psalm-structure has the selah in it; an intentional pause, a catching of your breath. That's what I'm advocating here. Pausing. Slowing down. Tapping the brakes every once in a while. Doing that allows you to stop and smell the horse crap...and possibly even avoid stepping in it.
The next day...
Yesterday was Palm Sunday, the tipping domino for Holy Week. The next formal get-together, at least for our church, is Thursday for the Maundy Thursday service. Whaddaya do on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday?
In Mark's gospel, the triumphal entry passage is followed by these words: the next day. I'm going to proceed, based on Mark's words, and say that today, the Monday of Holy Week, is the day of the Holy Terror; a.k.a., the cleansing of the Temple.
Jesus entered the temple area and began driving out those who were buying and selling there. He overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those selling doves, and would not allow anyone to carry merchandise through the temple courts. And as he taught them, he said, "Is it not written: 'My house will be called a house of prayer for the nations'? But you have made it a 'den of robbers.'" (Mark 11.15-17)
Jesus was confronting abuses in the temple. The Passover pilgrims had to buy approved animals for sacrifice and have their money changed into the proper currency for the annual temple tax. My, my...things haven't changed much, have they? Weary, passed-over pilgrims bring their stuff to the temple and all too often, the temple keepers stand at the door or the altar and say, That's really not acceptable...You're going to need to be approved or proper before coming any further. Oh, we make a big deal these days about a "come as you are" attitude being present in our churches, but anybody with one eye and horse sense can see that's not the reality. Having the proper theology, the approved political leanings, the proper doctrinal stances on issues, the approved denominational ties, the proper translation of the Bible, the approved attire (I'm not kidding), the proper Lenten reading, the approved...
Holy Terror Monday. What would we do on such a day as this in 2007?
I guess we could all get-together, us passed-over pilgrims, gird up our loins and run to our houses of worship and turn over a bunch of stuff. The only problem is that no one would be there; it's Monday. Or maybe a more wild, frontier move would be to run through our lives, the true houses of worship, and overturn the attitudes of "accepted" and "proper" that still admit or deny entrance in our hearts. To get upset about it, mad even, and let the fire burn, at least for Holy Terror Monday, for there's still alot of buying and selling going on...brother and sisters, this should not be so.
In Mark's gospel, the triumphal entry passage is followed by these words: the next day. I'm going to proceed, based on Mark's words, and say that today, the Monday of Holy Week, is the day of the Holy Terror; a.k.a., the cleansing of the Temple.
Jesus entered the temple area and began driving out those who were buying and selling there. He overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those selling doves, and would not allow anyone to carry merchandise through the temple courts. And as he taught them, he said, "Is it not written: 'My house will be called a house of prayer for the nations'? But you have made it a 'den of robbers.'" (Mark 11.15-17)
Jesus was confronting abuses in the temple. The Passover pilgrims had to buy approved animals for sacrifice and have their money changed into the proper currency for the annual temple tax. My, my...things haven't changed much, have they? Weary, passed-over pilgrims bring their stuff to the temple and all too often, the temple keepers stand at the door or the altar and say, That's really not acceptable...You're going to need to be approved or proper before coming any further. Oh, we make a big deal these days about a "come as you are" attitude being present in our churches, but anybody with one eye and horse sense can see that's not the reality. Having the proper theology, the approved political leanings, the proper doctrinal stances on issues, the approved denominational ties, the proper translation of the Bible, the approved attire (I'm not kidding), the proper Lenten reading, the approved...
Holy Terror Monday. What would we do on such a day as this in 2007?
I guess we could all get-together, us passed-over pilgrims, gird up our loins and run to our houses of worship and turn over a bunch of stuff. The only problem is that no one would be there; it's Monday. Or maybe a more wild, frontier move would be to run through our lives, the true houses of worship, and overturn the attitudes of "accepted" and "proper" that still admit or deny entrance in our hearts. To get upset about it, mad even, and let the fire burn, at least for Holy Terror Monday, for there's still alot of buying and selling going on...brother and sisters, this should not be so.
Have Mercy
I talked with a buddy of mine today who is a hospital chaplain. He referred to yesterday as a horrific day, unlike he's had in his twelve or so years at this hospital. I said, Tell me.
The story goes that a grandmother was watching her 15month old granddaughter while the mom was at work or something. They were outside playing and somehow the little girl went beyond the grandmother's view; that sounds crazy, but trust me, it can happen to the most watchful eyes. The girl climbed up between the dual back wheels of a tow truck idling in the yard. And then the truck pulled away. About the time the grandmother heard the screams, she saw the little girl literally being torn asunder. The police brought the grandmother in to the hospital while the family gathered, etc. My friend said she just sat there in shock, devising plans to commit suicide. And in some crazy way, he wished she could.
You know, about the time I have a finger hold on this why do bad things happen, something else bad happens and my finger gives out and it's back down into the muck. April 1st is Palm Sunday; the official beginning of Jesus' passion week. It sounds like that grandmother got a jump on Jesus; I bet her's is going to last more than a week.
I'm going to bet that what happened to that little girl literally is happening to that family figuratively - they're being torn asunder. Can the grandmother ever forgive herself? What about the truck driver? Will the parents ever forgive the gmother for not watching more closely? Did the little girl have brothers or sisters? Was this the baby that the parents had tried to have for years and finally it had come to pass? Will the mother go through some kind of I-should-have-been-at-home guilt? Will the dad clam up in a shell and end up walking away from it all one day soon? Will the dog stand outside the little girl's room and whine for months?
All the king's horses and all the king's men can't put this family together again...but maybe the king can. At least that's what I pray. If this Easter/resurrection thing is more than Cadbury eggs and bunny rabbits, knit 'em back together, Lord. Somehow. Someway. Have mercy. And please help the christians around this family to not say stupid stuff or quote Romans 8; not yet at least. Our hearts tell us that nothing can tear us asunder from your love, but sometimes, the pieces in our hands leave us wondering...
The story goes that a grandmother was watching her 15month old granddaughter while the mom was at work or something. They were outside playing and somehow the little girl went beyond the grandmother's view; that sounds crazy, but trust me, it can happen to the most watchful eyes. The girl climbed up between the dual back wheels of a tow truck idling in the yard. And then the truck pulled away. About the time the grandmother heard the screams, she saw the little girl literally being torn asunder. The police brought the grandmother in to the hospital while the family gathered, etc. My friend said she just sat there in shock, devising plans to commit suicide. And in some crazy way, he wished she could.
You know, about the time I have a finger hold on this why do bad things happen, something else bad happens and my finger gives out and it's back down into the muck. April 1st is Palm Sunday; the official beginning of Jesus' passion week. It sounds like that grandmother got a jump on Jesus; I bet her's is going to last more than a week.
I'm going to bet that what happened to that little girl literally is happening to that family figuratively - they're being torn asunder. Can the grandmother ever forgive herself? What about the truck driver? Will the parents ever forgive the gmother for not watching more closely? Did the little girl have brothers or sisters? Was this the baby that the parents had tried to have for years and finally it had come to pass? Will the mother go through some kind of I-should-have-been-at-home guilt? Will the dad clam up in a shell and end up walking away from it all one day soon? Will the dog stand outside the little girl's room and whine for months?
All the king's horses and all the king's men can't put this family together again...but maybe the king can. At least that's what I pray. If this Easter/resurrection thing is more than Cadbury eggs and bunny rabbits, knit 'em back together, Lord. Somehow. Someway. Have mercy. And please help the christians around this family to not say stupid stuff or quote Romans 8; not yet at least. Our hearts tell us that nothing can tear us asunder from your love, but sometimes, the pieces in our hands leave us wondering...
Happy God
I sat in a church service this morning where the sermon topic was holiness. It was initially presented in a rather disarming way; at least that was the intent. Here is the gist: Whereas holiness is usually defined and felt as something heavy and serious, holiness shouldn't be defined that way; it's NOT something that sucks the joy out of life.
But an interesting thing happened on the way through the message. Although holiness was introduced as something very close to joy, it quickly became joy-less and ended up in the vicinity of that church G. Keillor talks about - The Lady of Perpetual Responsibility. Phrases like, "God isn't as concerned about you being happy as he is about you being holy," surfaced and folks nodded their heads in sheeplike agreement. I wanted to back my rear end into a barbed wire fence and bleat out, "Baaaaaad theology." We dressed holiness in a Vera Wang knockout, got everyone's attention, and then pulled out an old North Face down jacket and bundled her up right quick. We swallow the camel of holiness and strain at happiness gnats. Is there really this monumental difference or is that just a semantical circus ride that preachers like to take?
God wants me to be holy but not necessarily happy? Really? Oh, God wants me to be joyful, but that's not necessarily the same thing as being happy. Really? Oh, I remember: happiness is a fleeting emotion contingent on my situation, while joy is this ever-abiding-deep-under-current-of-assurance. Really? Where does it say that? Or even hint at that? What if God wants me to be holy, which includes being joyful...and happy?
I'd love to hear what you think on this one. I'm sure someone will quickly reply that God said, "Be ye holy as I am holy." And that "happiness" is not in that verse. True. But that line of thinking would indicate that God's not happy. Have you ever thought about that one? If we're to be as He is, what if He's really, really happy? And therefore, wants us to be as well? Sure, He gets frustrated with beauty pageants, rising gas prices and country music blackballing the Dixie Chicks; but for the most part, what if He's happy? And that's included in being holy? And someone else might say, "But you can't do everything you want!" Who said that was the goal? I'm not sure even the most strident hedonist is trying to do "everything they want." I've got a hunch that God wants me and you to be haly or hoppy or haply or something like that. What thinkest thou?
But an interesting thing happened on the way through the message. Although holiness was introduced as something very close to joy, it quickly became joy-less and ended up in the vicinity of that church G. Keillor talks about - The Lady of Perpetual Responsibility. Phrases like, "God isn't as concerned about you being happy as he is about you being holy," surfaced and folks nodded their heads in sheeplike agreement. I wanted to back my rear end into a barbed wire fence and bleat out, "Baaaaaad theology." We dressed holiness in a Vera Wang knockout, got everyone's attention, and then pulled out an old North Face down jacket and bundled her up right quick. We swallow the camel of holiness and strain at happiness gnats. Is there really this monumental difference or is that just a semantical circus ride that preachers like to take?
God wants me to be holy but not necessarily happy? Really? Oh, God wants me to be joyful, but that's not necessarily the same thing as being happy. Really? Oh, I remember: happiness is a fleeting emotion contingent on my situation, while joy is this ever-abiding-deep-under-current-of-assurance. Really? Where does it say that? Or even hint at that? What if God wants me to be holy, which includes being joyful...and happy?
I'd love to hear what you think on this one. I'm sure someone will quickly reply that God said, "Be ye holy as I am holy." And that "happiness" is not in that verse. True. But that line of thinking would indicate that God's not happy. Have you ever thought about that one? If we're to be as He is, what if He's really, really happy? And therefore, wants us to be as well? Sure, He gets frustrated with beauty pageants, rising gas prices and country music blackballing the Dixie Chicks; but for the most part, what if He's happy? And that's included in being holy? And someone else might say, "But you can't do everything you want!" Who said that was the goal? I'm not sure even the most strident hedonist is trying to do "everything they want." I've got a hunch that God wants me and you to be haly or hoppy or haply or something like that. What thinkest thou?
JOY
Is self-hatred still the thing dogging most people, believers or not?
Yes. Absolutely. We say we believe God has forgiven us, but we cannot forgive ourselves. Apparently, we just cannot believe God's forgiveness is that deep and wide. As a result, we don't experience gratitude in our lives, and where there's no gratitude, there's no joy.
The question was mine; the answer came from Brennan Manning. An early birthday gift came this week in the form of dinner with this ragamuffin of a man. I'll tell that story another time, but let's just say, it was cool.
I knew this gal once, a pastor's wife, who used to go around on Sunday mornings singing just be joyful, just be joyful, just be joyful; spiritual disciplines ala Finding Nemo. The truth is that I knew she hated what she was doing and this song was an attempt to make the reality of her life go away and transport her to some joy-filled place. It never worked. Maybe (ala Brennan) she had no joy because she had no gratitude because she couldn't forgive herself for something. Or maybe she couldn't forgive herself for being her. Self-hatred. Sounds insidious, huh?
I turned 40 this week. Evidently 40 is the new 50 - midlife. If so, then I'm committing to joy for the rest of the car-ride. I have no interest in some just-be-joyful-screw-up-my-courage song; no, this feels more like a whistle. Whistlin' the tune of forgiveness and gratitude and joy. If you happen to see a patchworked old Catholic priest shuffling along and a bearded guy in cowboy boots whistlin' a joyful tune, you're invited to come join us. It's a pretty narrow way, this totally-forgiven, gratitude-soaked, joy-strewn path...but there's One up ahead who keeps turning around and winking at us, telling us just a little further. And He's beautiful. And He keeps calling us by name.
Yes. Absolutely. We say we believe God has forgiven us, but we cannot forgive ourselves. Apparently, we just cannot believe God's forgiveness is that deep and wide. As a result, we don't experience gratitude in our lives, and where there's no gratitude, there's no joy.
The question was mine; the answer came from Brennan Manning. An early birthday gift came this week in the form of dinner with this ragamuffin of a man. I'll tell that story another time, but let's just say, it was cool.
I knew this gal once, a pastor's wife, who used to go around on Sunday mornings singing just be joyful, just be joyful, just be joyful; spiritual disciplines ala Finding Nemo. The truth is that I knew she hated what she was doing and this song was an attempt to make the reality of her life go away and transport her to some joy-filled place. It never worked. Maybe (ala Brennan) she had no joy because she had no gratitude because she couldn't forgive herself for something. Or maybe she couldn't forgive herself for being her. Self-hatred. Sounds insidious, huh?
I turned 40 this week. Evidently 40 is the new 50 - midlife. If so, then I'm committing to joy for the rest of the car-ride. I have no interest in some just-be-joyful-screw-up-my-courage song; no, this feels more like a whistle. Whistlin' the tune of forgiveness and gratitude and joy. If you happen to see a patchworked old Catholic priest shuffling along and a bearded guy in cowboy boots whistlin' a joyful tune, you're invited to come join us. It's a pretty narrow way, this totally-forgiven, gratitude-soaked, joy-strewn path...but there's One up ahead who keeps turning around and winking at us, telling us just a little further. And He's beautiful. And He keeps calling us by name.
Cry-Away Home
"Whenever you find tears in your eyes, especially unexpected tears, it is well to pay the closest attention. They are not only telling you something about the secret of who you are, but more often than not God is speaking to you through them of the mystery of where you have come from and is summoning you to where, if your soul is to be saved, you should go next." - Frederick Buechner, Whistling in the Dark
I don't know if you cry or not. I do. My dad does and I believe it's something I inherited from him. I'm thankful for that. I used to try and wipe them away, but now I just let 'em fall. God'll wipe them all away some day; until then, let gravity work it's magic. I'll cry at a good Hallmark commercial for Pete's sake. I've heard folks, over the years, dismiss that as a shallow sentimentalism. And each time I've heard that, I've braced myself, for what always comes next is someone being mean. I came across the quote from Buechner on Monday and quickly tried to recall the last "tears" experience I'd had. Here it is. Make of it what you will.
I took a break from writing Saturday and came upstairs to see what the family was doing. They had started a movie - Flyaway Home. It stars Jeff Daniels and Anna Paquin as an estranged father/daughter combo who join forces to save a flock of geese by guiding them, via aeroplanes, to a refuge on the southern coast. It's not the greatest acting by any stretch and the plot if very predictable. But near the conclusion, I found myself crying.
Paquin's character has to fly the geese in by herself. Daniel's plane crashed and he gives her a "you can do this" speech and sends her off to complete their mission. As Paquin begins to soar with the geese beside her, the music of Mary Chapin Carpenter begins to play. The time sequences slow down considerably and what we're given is a "you can do this" music video of sorts. Chapin's gorgeous voice sings of the miles we all travel, while Paquin and the geese are backdropped by the marshlands at dusk.
Am I supposed to go to the marshlands or invest my life in geese salvation? Oh, I don't know. I don't think that was what was going on. I do know that my children were all around me and they're growing up faster than I'd like. And the old bird's having to let them do some stuff on their own from time to time. I can only go so far with them. But I always believe they can do it. And so far, they have. And allowing the young birds to fly on their own seems to cover a multitude of dad-sins that are committed daily. I can't tell you why that is, I just know it.
Flying away. But flying away home. It makes sense to this old bird. And it makes me cry. Add dusk (my favorite time of the day) and a Mary Chapin Carpenter ballad (another favorite of mine) to that truth and you've got a teary-eyed papa goose on your hands. I can't explain all the aspects of why that is...I just know it.
I don't know if you cry or not. I do. My dad does and I believe it's something I inherited from him. I'm thankful for that. I used to try and wipe them away, but now I just let 'em fall. God'll wipe them all away some day; until then, let gravity work it's magic. I'll cry at a good Hallmark commercial for Pete's sake. I've heard folks, over the years, dismiss that as a shallow sentimentalism. And each time I've heard that, I've braced myself, for what always comes next is someone being mean. I came across the quote from Buechner on Monday and quickly tried to recall the last "tears" experience I'd had. Here it is. Make of it what you will.
I took a break from writing Saturday and came upstairs to see what the family was doing. They had started a movie - Flyaway Home. It stars Jeff Daniels and Anna Paquin as an estranged father/daughter combo who join forces to save a flock of geese by guiding them, via aeroplanes, to a refuge on the southern coast. It's not the greatest acting by any stretch and the plot if very predictable. But near the conclusion, I found myself crying.
Paquin's character has to fly the geese in by herself. Daniel's plane crashed and he gives her a "you can do this" speech and sends her off to complete their mission. As Paquin begins to soar with the geese beside her, the music of Mary Chapin Carpenter begins to play. The time sequences slow down considerably and what we're given is a "you can do this" music video of sorts. Chapin's gorgeous voice sings of the miles we all travel, while Paquin and the geese are backdropped by the marshlands at dusk.
Am I supposed to go to the marshlands or invest my life in geese salvation? Oh, I don't know. I don't think that was what was going on. I do know that my children were all around me and they're growing up faster than I'd like. And the old bird's having to let them do some stuff on their own from time to time. I can only go so far with them. But I always believe they can do it. And so far, they have. And allowing the young birds to fly on their own seems to cover a multitude of dad-sins that are committed daily. I can't tell you why that is, I just know it.
Flying away. But flying away home. It makes sense to this old bird. And it makes me cry. Add dusk (my favorite time of the day) and a Mary Chapin Carpenter ballad (another favorite of mine) to that truth and you've got a teary-eyed papa goose on your hands. I can't explain all the aspects of why that is...I just know it.
Good Trip
I just returned from a national pastors convention. I went this time as an editor for the publishing company I work for; prior to this year, I would have attended as a pastor. Then again, I still have pastoral residue in my bloodstream, so I guess there was some kind of dual citizenship stuff going on. I've always been uncomfortable in those convention-settings; there's usually a lot of posturing going on, people talking about what they're doing, folks worshipping speakers and authors like they're the Lord himself, and a I'm-going-to-let-my-hair-down-but-not-very-far attitude that just hangs in the air. It's probably like most conventions, but it's filled with pastors.
The time there reminded me of the number of things I dislike about that environment. I could list them all here and give you glorious justifications as to why they bug me and hopefully persuade you to join in a bitch-fest. But I'm not going to do that. I'm going tell you two things I was reminded of that I love about that environment.
First off, I love the reality that there are a few out there preaching and speaking and writing about what I consider to be the core of ministry. They've got some name recognition; however, I wonder sometimes if people are really listening or reading what they have to say. These brave souls are sharing about the narrow way without being narrow; it's a beautiful combination. A couple of names or so? Eugene Peterson, Brian McLaren, and Ruth Hayley-Barton. I probably didn't spell Ruth's name correctly, but she's gracious in that regard.
And secondly, I love the way God speaks to me when I attend those kinds of conventions. For some crazy-God-reason, he speaks to me in what's not going on at the convention as much as he's speaking to me in what is going on at the convention. One example. I love boxing. In the hotel room one morning, I was pleased to catch an episode of "Beyond the Glory" - it's an ESPN show about sports stars and their careers. That morning the focus was Sugar Ray Leonard. I love watching Sugar Ray box. Early in his career trajectory, Sugar Ray declared: "I don't have to be number one, I just want to be special." Wow. Thanks, God. I don't have to be number one in this life, but you know what? I do want to be special. Not in some look-at-me way, but in the sense that God created someone named John, a man special in his eyes, and I want to be that man.
The time there reminded me of the number of things I dislike about that environment. I could list them all here and give you glorious justifications as to why they bug me and hopefully persuade you to join in a bitch-fest. But I'm not going to do that. I'm going tell you two things I was reminded of that I love about that environment.
First off, I love the reality that there are a few out there preaching and speaking and writing about what I consider to be the core of ministry. They've got some name recognition; however, I wonder sometimes if people are really listening or reading what they have to say. These brave souls are sharing about the narrow way without being narrow; it's a beautiful combination. A couple of names or so? Eugene Peterson, Brian McLaren, and Ruth Hayley-Barton. I probably didn't spell Ruth's name correctly, but she's gracious in that regard.
And secondly, I love the way God speaks to me when I attend those kinds of conventions. For some crazy-God-reason, he speaks to me in what's not going on at the convention as much as he's speaking to me in what is going on at the convention. One example. I love boxing. In the hotel room one morning, I was pleased to catch an episode of "Beyond the Glory" - it's an ESPN show about sports stars and their careers. That morning the focus was Sugar Ray Leonard. I love watching Sugar Ray box. Early in his career trajectory, Sugar Ray declared: "I don't have to be number one, I just want to be special." Wow. Thanks, God. I don't have to be number one in this life, but you know what? I do want to be special. Not in some look-at-me way, but in the sense that God created someone named John, a man special in his eyes, and I want to be that man.
Plain and Simple
The soundtrack for my morning commute was Pirates of the Caribbean. It's a lusty, swash-buckling, romp of kettle drums and big horns. In no time at all, you're transported to the deck of a ship or astride Shadowfax, engaged in dream-war against orcs and other fundamentalists (I live in Colorado Springs). Hero-music, plain and simple.
And then I was awakened from my day-commute-dreaming to see them: small people with backpacks and pants that are too long, with crazy hair and glorious smiles. Kids in a school-zone, plain and simple. But here are these children, these so fresh from God, crossing busy intersections and who will protect them from traffic and other possible harms? Why, the crossing guards; heroes, plain and simple.
They are evidently retirees. Their gait and posture reflect the years of life lived. This morning they were wrapped in a different kind of armor: down-Michelin-man type coats with small orange watch caps on their noggins. And their swords? Yep - the bold, red octagon of STOP. I watched as these heroes would stride into the fray, wielding their weapons of cease, and the danger would stop long enough for the children, these so fresh from God, to safely pass. These heroes would then return to their corner, awaiting another opportunity to protect the least of these.
I found myself weeping, for here were the pure of heart protecting the children from bigger people riding Vipers and Hummers, talking to no-one-that-important on cell phones or daydreaming of pirates and maidens while they should be paying attention. Here were the real heroes of the morning keeping watch over the ones that Jesus said, Oh, let'em come and they came. While some of us dream of heroics and others pose in heroic stances throughout the day over spreadsheets or in front of screens, these warriors brave the elements, eyes and ears a tip-toe, to ensure the safety of the little ones, so the little ones can continue to laugh and play and run and sing and dance for just a little while longer. Peyton Manning did perform well in the Super Bowl; but nothing like this. I salute you, crossing guards. Heroes, plain and simple. You are doing the work that really counts!
And then I was awakened from my day-commute-dreaming to see them: small people with backpacks and pants that are too long, with crazy hair and glorious smiles. Kids in a school-zone, plain and simple. But here are these children, these so fresh from God, crossing busy intersections and who will protect them from traffic and other possible harms? Why, the crossing guards; heroes, plain and simple.
They are evidently retirees. Their gait and posture reflect the years of life lived. This morning they were wrapped in a different kind of armor: down-Michelin-man type coats with small orange watch caps on their noggins. And their swords? Yep - the bold, red octagon of STOP. I watched as these heroes would stride into the fray, wielding their weapons of cease, and the danger would stop long enough for the children, these so fresh from God, to safely pass. These heroes would then return to their corner, awaiting another opportunity to protect the least of these.
I found myself weeping, for here were the pure of heart protecting the children from bigger people riding Vipers and Hummers, talking to no-one-that-important on cell phones or daydreaming of pirates and maidens while they should be paying attention. Here were the real heroes of the morning keeping watch over the ones that Jesus said, Oh, let'em come and they came. While some of us dream of heroics and others pose in heroic stances throughout the day over spreadsheets or in front of screens, these warriors brave the elements, eyes and ears a tip-toe, to ensure the safety of the little ones, so the little ones can continue to laugh and play and run and sing and dance for just a little while longer. Peyton Manning did perform well in the Super Bowl; but nothing like this. I salute you, crossing guards. Heroes, plain and simple. You are doing the work that really counts!
(there should be a title here...but there's not)
"Satan's seduction of our heart always comes in the form of a story that offers us greater control through knowing good and evil rather than the unknowns of relationship." -The Sacred Romance
I got up to run my three miles this morning and my body said, Let's not; I think I'm in hiberation or something. So I made my way to the button that makes the coffee start dripping and looked up to find my copy of The Sacred Romance. This is a book that I return to periodically; however, it's been a while since I've read it. I had placed a piece of paper, as a bookmark, on page 110, so I took that as a hint and started reading/sniffing for what God desired me to hear this morning.
Do I believe that Satan is trying to seduce our hearts? Yes, I do. And I further agree that it comes in the form of a story; a story offering greater control. The question I ask myself there is control of what? The author of those lines (Brent Curtis) lifts a finger and points at "control through knowing good and evil." A story is offered to me, or maybe chapters or paragraphs or even sentences, that paint the boundaries of this is good and that is evil. But the story God offers me is one of moving beyond those categories and trusting him in that incredibly loaded word "relationship."
Now for some of us, that's enough right there for the brain to freeze up and say, Let's not; go run three miles instead. To talk about NOT trying to know good and evil and then talk about trying TO know God is contradictory at best and blasphemous at worst. But that's focusing on the what and there's a word that proceeds that focus in Brent's sentence - control.
Listen as Curtis continues: "Life is gained by appropriating what we can see with our own eyes...Jesus invites us to thirst. Satan invites us to control through performance of one kind or another."
I'm gonna self-reflect here, so if any of you have clearer insight, then please let me know...or at least, pray for me. I run to keep my heart in good shape. I love doing it and I believe God gains pleasure from seeing me run. But if I'm not careful, I can buy into the storyline that consistent exercise gives me some modicum of control in my life; so the question becomes, "Am I running to keep control or am I running because I love it?" "If I stop running, do I feel...out of control?" That's a fine line somedays and I'm sure they blur often. Or do they? If "running" is a goofy example, then forgive me. But maybe that's where it starts; the seduction of our hearts with the things we deem "good" or "evil" and the supposed control we have over them.
One more and the post is over: "When the adversary is involved, the intensity of feelings provoked by the everyday occurrences of life can be compared to gasoline poured on a fire." Everyday occurrences...like running and traffic and paying bills and interacting with people and helping kids do homework and visits from your mother-in-law. The control voice says to end this post with a take away or wrap-up, some kind of concluding thought. But in this moment, I don't know what to say and I won't be seduced.
I got up to run my three miles this morning and my body said, Let's not; I think I'm in hiberation or something. So I made my way to the button that makes the coffee start dripping and looked up to find my copy of The Sacred Romance. This is a book that I return to periodically; however, it's been a while since I've read it. I had placed a piece of paper, as a bookmark, on page 110, so I took that as a hint and started reading/sniffing for what God desired me to hear this morning.
Do I believe that Satan is trying to seduce our hearts? Yes, I do. And I further agree that it comes in the form of a story; a story offering greater control. The question I ask myself there is control of what? The author of those lines (Brent Curtis) lifts a finger and points at "control through knowing good and evil." A story is offered to me, or maybe chapters or paragraphs or even sentences, that paint the boundaries of this is good and that is evil. But the story God offers me is one of moving beyond those categories and trusting him in that incredibly loaded word "relationship."
Now for some of us, that's enough right there for the brain to freeze up and say, Let's not; go run three miles instead. To talk about NOT trying to know good and evil and then talk about trying TO know God is contradictory at best and blasphemous at worst. But that's focusing on the what and there's a word that proceeds that focus in Brent's sentence - control.
Listen as Curtis continues: "Life is gained by appropriating what we can see with our own eyes...Jesus invites us to thirst. Satan invites us to control through performance of one kind or another."
I'm gonna self-reflect here, so if any of you have clearer insight, then please let me know...or at least, pray for me. I run to keep my heart in good shape. I love doing it and I believe God gains pleasure from seeing me run. But if I'm not careful, I can buy into the storyline that consistent exercise gives me some modicum of control in my life; so the question becomes, "Am I running to keep control or am I running because I love it?" "If I stop running, do I feel...out of control?" That's a fine line somedays and I'm sure they blur often. Or do they? If "running" is a goofy example, then forgive me. But maybe that's where it starts; the seduction of our hearts with the things we deem "good" or "evil" and the supposed control we have over them.
One more and the post is over: "When the adversary is involved, the intensity of feelings provoked by the everyday occurrences of life can be compared to gasoline poured on a fire." Everyday occurrences...like running and traffic and paying bills and interacting with people and helping kids do homework and visits from your mother-in-law. The control voice says to end this post with a take away or wrap-up, some kind of concluding thought. But in this moment, I don't know what to say and I won't be seduced.
Jog the Memory
"From now on, when I form a cloud over the Earth and the rainbow appears in the cloud, I'll remember my covenant between me and you and every living thing, that never again will floodwaters destroy all life. When the rainbow appears in the cloud, I'll see it and remember..." Genesis 9.15-16
It's cold today. As I creptout of the driveway this morning, my '97 Dodge Stratus groaned under the weight of the chill. Take me back to the garage, she said. Sorry, girl - gotta go in today. Snowflakes began to fall; not the big, fluffy jobbers, but tiny flecks of shimmering, light-catching silver like salt from a shaker. I'm paying attention to these flakes when I look up and see...a rainbow. I kid you not. It's probably 12 degrees, fleckled snow is falling, and there's a rainbow in the sky. Hopefully, someone caught it on camera phone and they'll explain tonight on the weather broadcast.
Those verses from Genesis are a little startling because the feel is that God will see the rainbow in the sky and go, Oh yeah. I remember...I promised not to let the floodwaters destroy everything. Now, I'm not calling into question the divine memory, but that is the feel the verses have.
I don't know about you, but my life has been flooded lately; the floodwaters have continued to rise daily and I sent a dove out on a look-see and she came back waterlogged. And it seems like the people around me have had a very floody feel about them as well. I was so thankful to see that rainbow this morning and I'm thankful that God saw it too so he could remember that eternal promise. Remember me, O Lord, by all means when you come into your Kingdom...but also in this kingdom today, here in the riptide of people and the swells of responsibilities and the waves of desire. We'll perish, Lord, without your mercy.
It's cold today. As I creptout of the driveway this morning, my '97 Dodge Stratus groaned under the weight of the chill. Take me back to the garage, she said. Sorry, girl - gotta go in today. Snowflakes began to fall; not the big, fluffy jobbers, but tiny flecks of shimmering, light-catching silver like salt from a shaker. I'm paying attention to these flakes when I look up and see...a rainbow. I kid you not. It's probably 12 degrees, fleckled snow is falling, and there's a rainbow in the sky. Hopefully, someone caught it on camera phone and they'll explain tonight on the weather broadcast.
Those verses from Genesis are a little startling because the feel is that God will see the rainbow in the sky and go, Oh yeah. I remember...I promised not to let the floodwaters destroy everything. Now, I'm not calling into question the divine memory, but that is the feel the verses have.
I don't know about you, but my life has been flooded lately; the floodwaters have continued to rise daily and I sent a dove out on a look-see and she came back waterlogged. And it seems like the people around me have had a very floody feel about them as well. I was so thankful to see that rainbow this morning and I'm thankful that God saw it too so he could remember that eternal promise. Remember me, O Lord, by all means when you come into your Kingdom...but also in this kingdom today, here in the riptide of people and the swells of responsibilities and the waves of desire. We'll perish, Lord, without your mercy.
The Church of the Woeful Countenance
I've had people ask me, from time to time, about starting or planting a church. There's always been a sense of excitement about that conversation for me; however, the flash has always fizzed for one reason or another. Some of it due to my fears, some of due to the particulars of the situation I found myself in, and some of it due to the belief that it just wasn't the right thing to do at the time.
But if I were to start or plant a church, here's a little of that if. These are things I SEE; just one thought today and more will follow. First of all, the name - The Church of the Woeful Countenance. Boy, that'd really bring the folks in, huh? One of my favorite literary characters is Don Quixote. And he is known as the knight of the woeful countenance. There is adventure and danger and folly and romance and insanity and beauty throughout his story; however, there is a woefulness that is always seen on his face. It is not a resigned face, nor a timid face, but a wise face, a face that knows that this life is hard and that courage is needed to dream the impossible dreams. If I were to start a church, I see a group of people with woeful countenances, their faces etched and weathered, eerie and peculiar to most observers. But our visages would be woeful because we're searchers and seekers. I hear some pastors describe their churches as seeker-oriented; the implication being that those churches are somehow not the mature and faithful, but the beginners or something. Hell, we're all seekers are we not? Asking and knocking and seeking and sweeping and searching and turning the blessed room upside down and hopefully finding coins and pearls and beauty along the way, continually searching for the peace on the other side of hope. To say that we're not searchers betrays even the slightest experience with the Text, in which Paul talks about not having arrived, not having it all together, but pressing on toward the mark. And the faces of people like that are woeful; it is a countenance which is not tempted by the siren songs the world sings. Many churches I've pastored or visited (now that I'm out to pasture) have been full of faces plastered with painted on smiles or courage that has been screwed up from the bootstraps. We worship a Savior who was a man of sorrows, well acquainted with grief; yet we long to avoid that like the plague. I'm not talking about starting a church where everyone's face is sad; no, I'm talking about starting a church where everyone's face is eroded with joy. There would still be smiles, but they wouldn't be from ear to ear; no, they'd be from eye to eye, the natural borders of a true smile. There would be weeping-Jeremiahs all over the place, but we wouldn't rush in to wipe away one another's tears; no, we'd let them fall as witnesses to the not-yet reality of our lives, as we await that day when HE will wipe away all tears. And there would be a set-like-flintness to our faces that we learned from our Father, who art in heaven and also decided to walk this earth, that reveals our cries of kyrie elison - Lord, have mercy! for we're riding into hell for heavenly causes, we Don-Quixotes, we knights and princesses of the woeful countenance who have been adopted as sons and daughters, children of the King, and therefore we will not give our hearts to less-wild-lovers (thanks, Eldredge and Curtis). It would begin with a name - The Church of the Woeful Countenance.
But if I were to start or plant a church, here's a little of that if. These are things I SEE; just one thought today and more will follow. First of all, the name - The Church of the Woeful Countenance. Boy, that'd really bring the folks in, huh? One of my favorite literary characters is Don Quixote. And he is known as the knight of the woeful countenance. There is adventure and danger and folly and romance and insanity and beauty throughout his story; however, there is a woefulness that is always seen on his face. It is not a resigned face, nor a timid face, but a wise face, a face that knows that this life is hard and that courage is needed to dream the impossible dreams. If I were to start a church, I see a group of people with woeful countenances, their faces etched and weathered, eerie and peculiar to most observers. But our visages would be woeful because we're searchers and seekers. I hear some pastors describe their churches as seeker-oriented; the implication being that those churches are somehow not the mature and faithful, but the beginners or something. Hell, we're all seekers are we not? Asking and knocking and seeking and sweeping and searching and turning the blessed room upside down and hopefully finding coins and pearls and beauty along the way, continually searching for the peace on the other side of hope. To say that we're not searchers betrays even the slightest experience with the Text, in which Paul talks about not having arrived, not having it all together, but pressing on toward the mark. And the faces of people like that are woeful; it is a countenance which is not tempted by the siren songs the world sings. Many churches I've pastored or visited (now that I'm out to pasture) have been full of faces plastered with painted on smiles or courage that has been screwed up from the bootstraps. We worship a Savior who was a man of sorrows, well acquainted with grief; yet we long to avoid that like the plague. I'm not talking about starting a church where everyone's face is sad; no, I'm talking about starting a church where everyone's face is eroded with joy. There would still be smiles, but they wouldn't be from ear to ear; no, they'd be from eye to eye, the natural borders of a true smile. There would be weeping-Jeremiahs all over the place, but we wouldn't rush in to wipe away one another's tears; no, we'd let them fall as witnesses to the not-yet reality of our lives, as we await that day when HE will wipe away all tears. And there would be a set-like-flintness to our faces that we learned from our Father, who art in heaven and also decided to walk this earth, that reveals our cries of kyrie elison - Lord, have mercy! for we're riding into hell for heavenly causes, we Don-Quixotes, we knights and princesses of the woeful countenance who have been adopted as sons and daughters, children of the King, and therefore we will not give our hearts to less-wild-lovers (thanks, Eldredge and Curtis). It would begin with a name - The Church of the Woeful Countenance.
In the wee, small hours of the morning
Dada, do you like clowns? They were her first words that morning. I was standing in the closet, getting dressed in the early half-light and she was in our bed, again. I was thinking of things - things to be done for the day, things left undone from the previous day, things that might happen in the future. But her words stopped the thing-ing. I bent down beside the bed to greet her eyes. FYI - Abbey has trouble with "th" sometimes and it comes out as "f."
Dada, do you like clowns?
Well, hi. Clowns? Yeah, I like 'em o.k.
I don't. They're scary. That red smile scares me.
Babe, were you dreaming about clowns just now?
I fink so. I don't like clowns.
The questions of my day were along the lines of Can I hit those editorial dates? Is there enough money in the bank? Did I send all my freelance work in this week? I wake with a whole family of questions, what the Bible refers to as legion. She wakes with one. I wake with questions that all have to do with the strategic mind - figuring stuff out, hoping to not forget something, and anxious in case I do. She wakes with simple concerns; not simplistic, mind you, but simple. And simple is good.
She awoke with a question that arose from her ability to dream. And still being a rather small person, she wanted to know what someone larger and trustworthy (Dada) thought about something she'd seen during the night hours.
I love this little girl. She teaches me so much. God, I long to dream. To dream in color, vibrant clown-smile colors. And God I long to awake with questions out of those dreams; better yet, just one question. And Lord, I pray that I'll immediately look to you, someone larger and trustworthy, for guidance. I'm still a rather small person and some of the things that don't scare other people, scare me.
God, do you like clowns?
Well, hi. Yeah, I think so. Do you trust me, John?
I fink so. But sometimes you scare me.
That's o.k.
Dada, do you like clowns?
Well, hi. Clowns? Yeah, I like 'em o.k.
I don't. They're scary. That red smile scares me.
Babe, were you dreaming about clowns just now?
I fink so. I don't like clowns.
The questions of my day were along the lines of Can I hit those editorial dates? Is there enough money in the bank? Did I send all my freelance work in this week? I wake with a whole family of questions, what the Bible refers to as legion. She wakes with one. I wake with questions that all have to do with the strategic mind - figuring stuff out, hoping to not forget something, and anxious in case I do. She wakes with simple concerns; not simplistic, mind you, but simple. And simple is good.
She awoke with a question that arose from her ability to dream. And still being a rather small person, she wanted to know what someone larger and trustworthy (Dada) thought about something she'd seen during the night hours.
I love this little girl. She teaches me so much. God, I long to dream. To dream in color, vibrant clown-smile colors. And God I long to awake with questions out of those dreams; better yet, just one question. And Lord, I pray that I'll immediately look to you, someone larger and trustworthy, for guidance. I'm still a rather small person and some of the things that don't scare other people, scare me.
God, do you like clowns?
Well, hi. Yeah, I think so. Do you trust me, John?
I fink so. But sometimes you scare me.
That's o.k.
Irony
Ludlow lay under the comforter looking at the scrapbooks of his life, his mind enlivened by a mild fever. He had reached the age where his habitually romantic frame of mind had turned to the ironies...
-Legends of the Fall by Jim Harrison
Ah, the ironies. The life you planned on living, the things you dreamed would happen, the times you just knew you'd have. And things turned out differently. The poet David Whyte considers these Ludlow-moments as quite possibly the beginning of our true lives. Up until that moment or time, we're going through life with essentially a naive, childish approach to living. And then things begin to get ironic, twisted somewhat, out of sorts...and they continue on that way. It's at that point, according to Whyte, that we are presented with the opportunity to move into an adult-adult relationship with life. We lose our sense of immunity to the things that all humanity has and will face in existence. We're initiated into the circle of humanity and we can accept the ironies or retreat back into some regretful, childish place of if only.
How would you complete that phrase - if only ? The reality is that whatever the only was didn't happen; something else did. Those biblical sisters, Mary and Martha, experienced that irony when their brother died. They sent word to Jesus that Lazarus was sick unto death and Jesus took his divinely-sweet time getting there. And by that time, their brother had died. The sisters greet the Lord with if only you'd come sooner, Lord. Little did they know that they were on the verge of the beauty of irony. They were about to say, When I was a girl, I believed like a girl, but when Lazarus died and Jesus didn't come and then Lazaurs was alive and Jesus stopped weeping; then I became a woman.
-Legends of the Fall by Jim Harrison
Ah, the ironies. The life you planned on living, the things you dreamed would happen, the times you just knew you'd have. And things turned out differently. The poet David Whyte considers these Ludlow-moments as quite possibly the beginning of our true lives. Up until that moment or time, we're going through life with essentially a naive, childish approach to living. And then things begin to get ironic, twisted somewhat, out of sorts...and they continue on that way. It's at that point, according to Whyte, that we are presented with the opportunity to move into an adult-adult relationship with life. We lose our sense of immunity to the things that all humanity has and will face in existence. We're initiated into the circle of humanity and we can accept the ironies or retreat back into some regretful, childish place of if only.
How would you complete that phrase - if only ? The reality is that whatever the only was didn't happen; something else did. Those biblical sisters, Mary and Martha, experienced that irony when their brother died. They sent word to Jesus that Lazarus was sick unto death and Jesus took his divinely-sweet time getting there. And by that time, their brother had died. The sisters greet the Lord with if only you'd come sooner, Lord. Little did they know that they were on the verge of the beauty of irony. They were about to say, When I was a girl, I believed like a girl, but when Lazarus died and Jesus didn't come and then Lazaurs was alive and Jesus stopped weeping; then I became a woman.
The Story
Maybe nothing is more important than that we keep track, you and I, of these stories of who we are and where we have come from and the people we have met along the way because it is precisely through these stories…that God makes himself known to each of us most powerfully and personally. –F. Buechner
The impasse of wills. Two people convinced of their truth; however, these truths will not make you free. These lower-case truths keep you imprisoned in the icy land of self. She called truce. He agreed. The energy to keep at the conversation had slowly been sucked from them. Now, lifeless shells, they sat in silence for the duration of a show about international terrorists wreaking havoc in the states. Little did they realize the terrorism that had already taken place in their home. Or maybe they did. He was colder than he'd been in weeks.
They followed one another to bed. Lights were offed and children retucked. In bed, she faced the center while he turned out. Goodnights were exchanged as the last light gave way to the dark. He could hear the pipes in the house creak and groan under the weight of the furnace's will to warm. The sounds resembled the sounds within himself as he peered into the night; creaks and groans in his heart. She touched the small of his back with grace and said the word - love. His truth was such that it responded to grace but couldn't face it; love's gaze was too much. He preferred darkness to the light and struggled to stay warm as ice encased him for the night.
To say we can accept God's grace and forgiveness and not accept it from another is complete and utter foolishness. To claim we can bask in the warmth of God's gaze, but prefer the cold dark to the gaze of a willing other is the height of hypocrisy. To say we love God and then hate our brother or sister or husband or wife or friend or child is to be a liar.
The impasse of wills. Two people convinced of their truth; however, these truths will not make you free. These lower-case truths keep you imprisoned in the icy land of self. She called truce. He agreed. The energy to keep at the conversation had slowly been sucked from them. Now, lifeless shells, they sat in silence for the duration of a show about international terrorists wreaking havoc in the states. Little did they realize the terrorism that had already taken place in their home. Or maybe they did. He was colder than he'd been in weeks.
They followed one another to bed. Lights were offed and children retucked. In bed, she faced the center while he turned out. Goodnights were exchanged as the last light gave way to the dark. He could hear the pipes in the house creak and groan under the weight of the furnace's will to warm. The sounds resembled the sounds within himself as he peered into the night; creaks and groans in his heart. She touched the small of his back with grace and said the word - love. His truth was such that it responded to grace but couldn't face it; love's gaze was too much. He preferred darkness to the light and struggled to stay warm as ice encased him for the night.
To say we can accept God's grace and forgiveness and not accept it from another is complete and utter foolishness. To claim we can bask in the warmth of God's gaze, but prefer the cold dark to the gaze of a willing other is the height of hypocrisy. To say we love God and then hate our brother or sister or husband or wife or friend or child is to be a liar.
Man of Confidence
There are days when you rely on another's words; this is such a day. The poem is by James Kavanaugh:
How can I tell you that the man of smiles and confidence is frightened now, trembling from the core,
Uprooted and still pursued by childhood fears that refuse to go away?
I want the world to be my friend and all its people, even as the puppy that first licked and loved me
Like no one else ever has, and the friendly echo that lovingly answered, like no one else ever did.
I want you to know that I am not the man I seem, perhaps I never was, and cannot be.
I wake at night afraid, rise up in the morning, filled with some unassailable dread, wondering where I have gone.
Not daring to ask anyone to relieve me of my distress, lest they know that a man does not know what to do,
Or even how to live.
In the distance, I hear the joy of little children laughing, laughing, laughing, forever laughing,
And I wonder what has happened to me, and if ever I was truly a child.
How can I tell you that the man of smiles and confidence is frightened now, trembling from the core,
Uprooted and still pursued by childhood fears that refuse to go away?
I want the world to be my friend and all its people, even as the puppy that first licked and loved me
Like no one else ever has, and the friendly echo that lovingly answered, like no one else ever did.
I want you to know that I am not the man I seem, perhaps I never was, and cannot be.
I wake at night afraid, rise up in the morning, filled with some unassailable dread, wondering where I have gone.
Not daring to ask anyone to relieve me of my distress, lest they know that a man does not know what to do,
Or even how to live.
In the distance, I hear the joy of little children laughing, laughing, laughing, forever laughing,
And I wonder what has happened to me, and if ever I was truly a child.
The Cost of Discipleshit
Amazing the difference one letter can make, isn't it? I read Bonhoeffer's classic treatment on discipleship in seminary and later again in my early pastoral days. If you haven't read it, you should; not as a burdensome thing, but some books just deserve to be read in this life and that's one of them.
I'm pretty much convinced that if you and I have any intention of being a Christ-follower in this life, then we're going to have to get used to discipleshit. What exactly is that, you ask? One of F. Buechner's books describes Christ as the dung-eater . I can remember reading that and thinking, Yeah, that's pretty much what it is...continually eating the crap of the world and being able to come back for more; all the pain, hurt, agony, abuse, and the list goes on.
Discipleshit is the stuff that you and I encounter daily that stinks, reeks, smells, hurts, burns our eyes and our hearts, kidney-punches us, and just plain makes us want to give up. Call it what it is - shit, dung, crap; all those words which describe the waste of our lives. And the thought that you and I might move beyond that stuff this side of the blessed Jordan river? Well, that's a load of crap or dung or shit. As long as we are here, in-carnated Christ-followers, men and women who are earthbound and not left-behind series bunkered up somewhere - we'll keep stepping and sliding in, being taken aback by, and getting IT thrown at us. The crazy thing is you'll get about as much of that from church-folk as you will raging pagans out there. And you'll probably produce a decent amount yourself. Commit yourself to a local church for any amount of time and guess what'll pop up? Yep, shit. Shucks, commit yourself to anything in this life: wife, husband, kids, relatives, job, pets...sooner or later, something will start smelling.
I don't expect for this phrase to take off in christian publishing or anything; we like it clean and flowery smelling. Any hint of offal and we're scrambling for cleany-wipes and floral sachet fragrance spray. Don't get me wrong here - I hate shit as much as you do. But to be a disciple, a follower of Jesus Christ, means having to deal with it. I remember reading somewhere that the student shouldn't expect more than the teacher...I just can't remember where?
I'm pretty much convinced that if you and I have any intention of being a Christ-follower in this life, then we're going to have to get used to discipleshit. What exactly is that, you ask? One of F. Buechner's books describes Christ as the dung-eater . I can remember reading that and thinking, Yeah, that's pretty much what it is...continually eating the crap of the world and being able to come back for more; all the pain, hurt, agony, abuse, and the list goes on.
Discipleshit is the stuff that you and I encounter daily that stinks, reeks, smells, hurts, burns our eyes and our hearts, kidney-punches us, and just plain makes us want to give up. Call it what it is - shit, dung, crap; all those words which describe the waste of our lives. And the thought that you and I might move beyond that stuff this side of the blessed Jordan river? Well, that's a load of crap or dung or shit. As long as we are here, in-carnated Christ-followers, men and women who are earthbound and not left-behind series bunkered up somewhere - we'll keep stepping and sliding in, being taken aback by, and getting IT thrown at us. The crazy thing is you'll get about as much of that from church-folk as you will raging pagans out there. And you'll probably produce a decent amount yourself. Commit yourself to a local church for any amount of time and guess what'll pop up? Yep, shit. Shucks, commit yourself to anything in this life: wife, husband, kids, relatives, job, pets...sooner or later, something will start smelling.
I don't expect for this phrase to take off in christian publishing or anything; we like it clean and flowery smelling. Any hint of offal and we're scrambling for cleany-wipes and floral sachet fragrance spray. Don't get me wrong here - I hate shit as much as you do. But to be a disciple, a follower of Jesus Christ, means having to deal with it. I remember reading somewhere that the student shouldn't expect more than the teacher...I just can't remember where?
If You Are
Wednesday night is family devotion night for us. Last night's passage to read and discuss was Luke 4: The Temptation of Jesus. Our two oldest read verses of equal length, while our youngest tried to be quiet. It was good - the passage lent itself to talking about things like fasting and temptation; however, most of our time was spent talking about the devil. I realize that sounds strange, but it's true.
One question that was asked was: How did Jesus know it was the devil? The question here arising out of identification (red suit, horns, pitchfork, etc.). Our reponse was, Well, I think Jesus knew; he's pretty smart, ya'know. That seemed to satisfy. We then asked the kids if they knew any other names that the devil is known by? They said, Satan and then couldn't think of anything else. Theologically astute father that I am, I added the descriptor of "deceiver" to the list. We discussed deception and what that means and again, it seemed to satisfy.
But my mind looped back to the original question of identification. How do we know the enemy when he/she/it comes? If the devil is all about deception, then I'm going to have to be a tip-toe to catch this, right?
Our "temptation" discussion with the kids had them giving examples of "watching t.v. shows you guys don't like" to "not cleaning up my room." As I thought about what I would add to that discussion, it became a little more difficult. How am I being tempted on a daily, if not hourly, basis? If the devil has even a smidgen of the power that we say he/she/it does, then the deception thrown at me is not going to be straight down the middle? Or is it? Or will it be different every time? Or is there a theme, if I look at my life, that seems to play out temptation-wise? There are a number of books out there on satan and his/her/its schemes; I'm not convinced those authors really know what they're talking about. Oh, some of it is solid; however, to say we've got the skinny on the deceiver sounds a little like we've been...well, deceived.
The one takeaway for me last night was that all of the deceiver's questions/ploys had to do with the conditional if you are. That's probably a good place to start looking and listening; anything that causes me to if my identity, who I am in Jesus. So...maybe the wisdom in not being deceived lies in being dang sure who Jesus says you are. And that can come via horns and a fork or blue eyes and blue jeans...
One question that was asked was: How did Jesus know it was the devil? The question here arising out of identification (red suit, horns, pitchfork, etc.). Our reponse was, Well, I think Jesus knew; he's pretty smart, ya'know. That seemed to satisfy. We then asked the kids if they knew any other names that the devil is known by? They said, Satan and then couldn't think of anything else. Theologically astute father that I am, I added the descriptor of "deceiver" to the list. We discussed deception and what that means and again, it seemed to satisfy.
But my mind looped back to the original question of identification. How do we know the enemy when he/she/it comes? If the devil is all about deception, then I'm going to have to be a tip-toe to catch this, right?
Our "temptation" discussion with the kids had them giving examples of "watching t.v. shows you guys don't like" to "not cleaning up my room." As I thought about what I would add to that discussion, it became a little more difficult. How am I being tempted on a daily, if not hourly, basis? If the devil has even a smidgen of the power that we say he/she/it does, then the deception thrown at me is not going to be straight down the middle? Or is it? Or will it be different every time? Or is there a theme, if I look at my life, that seems to play out temptation-wise? There are a number of books out there on satan and his/her/its schemes; I'm not convinced those authors really know what they're talking about. Oh, some of it is solid; however, to say we've got the skinny on the deceiver sounds a little like we've been...well, deceived.
The one takeaway for me last night was that all of the deceiver's questions/ploys had to do with the conditional if you are. That's probably a good place to start looking and listening; anything that causes me to if my identity, who I am in Jesus. So...maybe the wisdom in not being deceived lies in being dang sure who Jesus says you are. And that can come via horns and a fork or blue eyes and blue jeans...
One man's death diminishes...
"Now is the day of joy - let us not revenge; now is the day of good will, let us not be mean-spirited. In this day of peace let us not be conquered by anger..." St. Isaac of Nineveh
A seventh-century Nestorian monk from Beth Abhe on the Persian Gulf, Isaac was bishop of Nineveh for only five months before withdrawing to the mountains to live in solitude. He reportedly lost his sight from studying the Scriptures voraciously.
I like this little factiod about the Nestorian monk. He stepped away from a bishop's position in Nineveh to get lost in the mountains; folks probably said he was crazy. That's got the makings of a good John Denver song. And in those mountains, he studied Scripture "voraciously" (great word) - he gorges himself of the words of God to the extent that his physical faculties of sight just peter out. The optic nerves said, "Enough. We can take no more. If you want to see from now on, you'll have to use something else." I wonder if Isaac lost his sight before he wrote those words or after; I'm going to bet on after. I bet that way because it seems that in order to see, really see, we have to lose our original eyes. We have to look with something different than those little white balls stuck in the indentions in our faces. We have to use our hearts.
I believe we can still use those eyeballs, however, in seeing with our hearts. Many have "seen" the hanging of Saddam via the cell phone camera's pictures that made their way to the internet. News agencies have reported the debacle and the White House is apparently reeling again over something that looked like a necessary thing, but now looks like what is was...revenge. I wanted that bastard to die for all those crimes to humanity, all those children lying in the street, gassed by this man's inherent evil...but when I saw him dangling from that rope, something, maybe my real eyes, said, "That's wrong. I've been conquered by anger, I've been mean-spirited, I've been revengeful."
Should Saddam have paid for those crimes in some way, been held accountable for the injustice? Absolutely. But to have paid with his literal life? I just can't see it. I haven't lost my sight from studying the Scriptures voraciously, but I have read 'em. And those Scriptures, those holy words, those utterances from the voice box of God speak of mercy always overcoming justice. That's not very American, I know, but America sometimes doesn't listen or see or ask or seek or knock. I don't know how Saddam should have been punished; I'm not sure what mercy would have looked like. But if Isaac were still alive, still bloodied from falling down mountain passes due to his blindness, still walking around muttering God's words which had become his words due to his voracious appetite - I'm going to bet that Isaac would have cried, "Mercy...'Today the Bountiful impoverished Himself for our sake; so, rich one, invite the poor to your table. Today we received a gift for which we did not ask; so let us give alms to those who implore us and beg. This present day cast open the heavenly door to our prayers; let us open our doors to those who ask our forgiveness.'"
John: But, St. Isaac, I didn't see Saddam ask for forgiveness.
St. Isaac: Really? What did you look with? Those round things in your head? Oh, my son, your blindness is worse than mine.
A seventh-century Nestorian monk from Beth Abhe on the Persian Gulf, Isaac was bishop of Nineveh for only five months before withdrawing to the mountains to live in solitude. He reportedly lost his sight from studying the Scriptures voraciously.
I like this little factiod about the Nestorian monk. He stepped away from a bishop's position in Nineveh to get lost in the mountains; folks probably said he was crazy. That's got the makings of a good John Denver song. And in those mountains, he studied Scripture "voraciously" (great word) - he gorges himself of the words of God to the extent that his physical faculties of sight just peter out. The optic nerves said, "Enough. We can take no more. If you want to see from now on, you'll have to use something else." I wonder if Isaac lost his sight before he wrote those words or after; I'm going to bet on after. I bet that way because it seems that in order to see, really see, we have to lose our original eyes. We have to look with something different than those little white balls stuck in the indentions in our faces. We have to use our hearts.
I believe we can still use those eyeballs, however, in seeing with our hearts. Many have "seen" the hanging of Saddam via the cell phone camera's pictures that made their way to the internet. News agencies have reported the debacle and the White House is apparently reeling again over something that looked like a necessary thing, but now looks like what is was...revenge. I wanted that bastard to die for all those crimes to humanity, all those children lying in the street, gassed by this man's inherent evil...but when I saw him dangling from that rope, something, maybe my real eyes, said, "That's wrong. I've been conquered by anger, I've been mean-spirited, I've been revengeful."
Should Saddam have paid for those crimes in some way, been held accountable for the injustice? Absolutely. But to have paid with his literal life? I just can't see it. I haven't lost my sight from studying the Scriptures voraciously, but I have read 'em. And those Scriptures, those holy words, those utterances from the voice box of God speak of mercy always overcoming justice. That's not very American, I know, but America sometimes doesn't listen or see or ask or seek or knock. I don't know how Saddam should have been punished; I'm not sure what mercy would have looked like. But if Isaac were still alive, still bloodied from falling down mountain passes due to his blindness, still walking around muttering God's words which had become his words due to his voracious appetite - I'm going to bet that Isaac would have cried, "Mercy...'Today the Bountiful impoverished Himself for our sake; so, rich one, invite the poor to your table. Today we received a gift for which we did not ask; so let us give alms to those who implore us and beg. This present day cast open the heavenly door to our prayers; let us open our doors to those who ask our forgiveness.'"
John: But, St. Isaac, I didn't see Saddam ask for forgiveness.
St. Isaac: Really? What did you look with? Those round things in your head? Oh, my son, your blindness is worse than mine.
Sex, Lies, and Christmas Photos
We sent out over 200 Christmas letters this year, complete with a photo. You may have received one. We were thrilled to receive about 140 letters or cards or photos in return; that’s a pretty good return-ratio. We loved going to the mailbox each day with our golden key, opening the tiny door, and allowing the box to give birth to good words and memory. The majority of cards we received this year were of the photo variety. We have them taped around the outline of our fireplace; it looks pretty cool. As I sit and drink coffee or type on this laptop or finish my dinner, I dwell on these pictures, these snapshots of friends old and new. Most all of the photos are imposed on a winter-laden background, with a holiday greeting of some sort across the bottom of the card. We’ve got friends above the holy manger, next to wise men, in the direct line of falling snowflakes, and hemmed in by candy canes. I’ve noticed that each of the photographs presents an individual, a group of kids, or a complete family looking as if everything is right with the world. Everybody has their hair combed, many families are color coordinated, and the children are beaming out a smile; even the “forced” ones are beaming. In all of these photos, the message is clear: We’ve had a great year, our kids are stellar students in school, my wife and I are having phenomenal tantric sex, our stock portfolio is banging on the ceiling, and we’re totally committed to our church or faith group. But that’s not the truth.
The photo of the young lady with her dog is basically the same one we’ve received now for several years. I know for a fact that she would gladly let the dog go chase some squirrels if there were a man, a husband, in the picture. Behind the smile and candy canes lies a heart that beats with desire but as of yet, beats unrealized. She grows older with each Christmas card and more alone. And then there’s the minister’s family, out on a hillside, surrounded by autumn colors at their peak. And as the trees have lost their leaves, so has the minister lost his hair and his youthful figure. The weight of ministry shows in his face and eyes and arms and neck; a heavy burden when God said it would be light. And with three kids literally between he and his wife, the figurative implications of that distance speak volumes. And the church? The question of what it is and why he’s still stumping for it hounds him day and night. The thrill is definitely gone. Now, lest you think me judgmental, just take a look at our photo. It shows a blue/black color coordinated family of five in the snowy mountains of Evergreen, CO, looking fresh and winsome and fully alive. Wanna know the truth? Truth is my wife and I had one of the biggest fights we’ve had in a long time just moments before the shutter fell on that one. Her trust in me was totally in question and my competence as a man completely up for grabs. We had both yelled at the kids for various things and tears had been shed over happy meals. Good God. But when the camera came out and we knew “the Christmas photo” was being taken, we wiped the tears, ratcheted up some affection, pulled out some smiles, shined up our halos and let the Colorado snow cover our multitude of sins. What a bunch of posers, we Blases. But I guess if you had received our photo and our kids were all down on the ground crying, my wife had her back to the camera, and I was giving the lens the swollen middle finger, you’ve have thought…what would you have thought? Would you have been offended? “Well, the nerve; after all, it’s Christmas and there’s enough bad in the world as it is!” Would you have been puzzled? “Is this a joke or what? Oh, I get it - the real card will come tomorrow.” Or would you have been silently relieved? “Look, honey. The Blases had a year just like us. It’s sure good to know we’re not alone.” We spent almost $200 on cards, envelopes, and postage to make sure you think well of us. Sure hope you did. And sorta hope you still do...
The photo of the young lady with her dog is basically the same one we’ve received now for several years. I know for a fact that she would gladly let the dog go chase some squirrels if there were a man, a husband, in the picture. Behind the smile and candy canes lies a heart that beats with desire but as of yet, beats unrealized. She grows older with each Christmas card and more alone. And then there’s the minister’s family, out on a hillside, surrounded by autumn colors at their peak. And as the trees have lost their leaves, so has the minister lost his hair and his youthful figure. The weight of ministry shows in his face and eyes and arms and neck; a heavy burden when God said it would be light. And with three kids literally between he and his wife, the figurative implications of that distance speak volumes. And the church? The question of what it is and why he’s still stumping for it hounds him day and night. The thrill is definitely gone. Now, lest you think me judgmental, just take a look at our photo. It shows a blue/black color coordinated family of five in the snowy mountains of Evergreen, CO, looking fresh and winsome and fully alive. Wanna know the truth? Truth is my wife and I had one of the biggest fights we’ve had in a long time just moments before the shutter fell on that one. Her trust in me was totally in question and my competence as a man completely up for grabs. We had both yelled at the kids for various things and tears had been shed over happy meals. Good God. But when the camera came out and we knew “the Christmas photo” was being taken, we wiped the tears, ratcheted up some affection, pulled out some smiles, shined up our halos and let the Colorado snow cover our multitude of sins. What a bunch of posers, we Blases. But I guess if you had received our photo and our kids were all down on the ground crying, my wife had her back to the camera, and I was giving the lens the swollen middle finger, you’ve have thought…what would you have thought? Would you have been offended? “Well, the nerve; after all, it’s Christmas and there’s enough bad in the world as it is!” Would you have been puzzled? “Is this a joke or what? Oh, I get it - the real card will come tomorrow.” Or would you have been silently relieved? “Look, honey. The Blases had a year just like us. It’s sure good to know we’re not alone.” We spent almost $200 on cards, envelopes, and postage to make sure you think well of us. Sure hope you did. And sorta hope you still do...
Our Dilemma
I received Rick Bass' new collection of short stories for Christmas...its entitled "The Lives of Rocks." In one of the stories, he tells of a great king who ruled a land justly and with compassion. One day, while walking beside the river, he heard the screams of children who had been swept away in the current. The good king immediately jumped in to save the children; he was able to get them to the bank safely, but he could not save himself. The king went over the falls and his body was torn into pieces. In the days and weeks and months that followed, people of the land would find the king's body parts in different places along the river - an arm here, a leg there, fingers swirling in an eddy. The people reverently carried these parts back to the king's son and daughter to be properly mourned and honored. This presented a great dilemma for the heirs; the kingdom in which they lived contained magic strong enough to put the pieces of the king back together and restore him completely to reign again with justice and compassion. However, they could bury the pieces of the great king and begin to reign themselves justly and with compassion, as the new regents of the land, something they were born to do.
As we step into a new year, something that means so many different things for so many different people, I believe that Bass' story holds great meaning for all of us. We can honor the past so much that we forfeit our own destinies. We can continually be working to put the pieces of something back together, hoping it will come to life again and give us safety or security or happiness or whatever. However, in doing so, we fearfully stay in a place of dependency and never lean into the present, much less the future. The past is to be honored and it holds many pieces that must be mourned, grieved, honored, wrestled with, and learned from. But a slavish attachment to the past, as good as it may have been, keeps us son and daughters, princes and princesses, but not kings and queens. I pray for each of you, as I pray for myself, the courage to reverently honor the past, but at some point to bury those things that would keep us from becoming the ones we were created to be. This is not denial or stuffing down emotions or anything like that; this is letting the past be the past and letting today be today and leaning into tomorrow. It is being alive. And that's what the world needs - people who are alive. Amen.
As we step into a new year, something that means so many different things for so many different people, I believe that Bass' story holds great meaning for all of us. We can honor the past so much that we forfeit our own destinies. We can continually be working to put the pieces of something back together, hoping it will come to life again and give us safety or security or happiness or whatever. However, in doing so, we fearfully stay in a place of dependency and never lean into the present, much less the future. The past is to be honored and it holds many pieces that must be mourned, grieved, honored, wrestled with, and learned from. But a slavish attachment to the past, as good as it may have been, keeps us son and daughters, princes and princesses, but not kings and queens. I pray for each of you, as I pray for myself, the courage to reverently honor the past, but at some point to bury those things that would keep us from becoming the ones we were created to be. This is not denial or stuffing down emotions or anything like that; this is letting the past be the past and letting today be today and leaning into tomorrow. It is being alive. And that's what the world needs - people who are alive. Amen.
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