"The great risk is not that we will fail to qualify to be reunited with God. The risk is that we will somehow fail to understand why we are here." - Robert Benson
I have felt that statement for many years, but never was it articulated until I read Benson's book "Between the Dreaming and the Coming True." Why am I here? What is it that God is wanting to show me while I'm here? I feel like the usual approach we take is "What is it that God wants me to DO?" There's always a heavy emphasis on doing/action. That's fine and I believe there is some merit to that perspective. However, what if it's not such much what he wants me to DO as what he wants me to SEE/EXPERIENCE/LEARN?
I was blessed the other evening to be able to attend a lecture series led by the poet David Whyte. If you're not familiar with Whyte's work, acquaint thyself. A constant thread through his poetry and prose writing is the art of paying attention - what you'd expect from a poet. But Whyte speaks of it in a way that is so compelling, so empowering, so imperative. He bangs the drum of paying attention because if we do not, we may miss the reason why we are here. And that's a risk David Whyte does not want to take. And his earnest plea is that you and I won't take that risk either. Being alert, paying attention, looking and asking and seeking and knocking - all of these phrases describe the life rhythms of someone who wants to understand why he or she is here. But talk about a narrow road - I mean, how many people do you know, including yourself, that you would describe as someone who pays attention? Someone who is alert?
The church of my youth has done a dis-service here because the emphasis was always on something that needed to be done (accepting Christ) and then you were going to heaven; you'd be reunited one day with God. And once you had this (salvation) you could not lose it. There were other churches in my youth that stressed the possibility of losing said salvation; so, you always had to be on your guard, lest you lose it. But maybe there's a middle road here that both groups missed? Maybe it is vitally important to take Christ's hand, a hand that will one day lead you into re-union. This is not something you can lose, like car keys or an eraser; it is something assured. But what Christ wants to do in this life is take a brush to the canvas of salvation, fill it in with colors and shading, textures and subtle nuances of light. He wants to complete what he started; but if I'm not paying attention, being alert, staying on guard, then I'll enter that re-union one day quite possibly a few shades shy. He wanted to add some magenta to my life, but I was basically asleep, so I'll enter heaven magenta-less. An aspect of my life would have been marvelous with a little cornflower blue, but I had my head in the sand. Oh, I'll still be there, just not as colorful. I know - the theological ice gets pretty thin there; what, is God not omnipotent? Will his plans or desires not come to pass? They're all decent questions, but they're just decent enough to keep me worried about finding some set of answers or resting on my salvific laurels rather than living into my magenta-ness; fully embracing my cornflower blue. If nothing else, this perspective involves me in the story; I'm not some passive telephone pole who's just hanging around until the bell rings. No, I have some part to play in this drama; I matter, I contribute...I hope.
LOST
I've been trying to listen this week...you know, listen for what God may be saying or doing in and around my life. The word that I've consistently heard has been "lost." My wife and I love the television series LOST and have been catching up on season 2 by way of dvd. The show is wonderfully written and keeps the thread of lost-ness alive in each episode. It is a vice, I know, but all nice and no vice makes John a dullard.
I received a phone call from an old friend on Wednesday morning. She was a church member from bygone days and wanted to update me on her husband. They've had significant problems over the years, but in her description, she clearly said, "John, he's lost." And she wasn't using the word in the traditional church "lost or saved, in or out" manner. He has distanced himself from her, church, old friends and he's essentially existing in a separate reality.
Then I was working on a fundraising letter for a church that thinks too highly of itself, and I was flipping through Scripture for some fundraising verses (Lord, have mercy) and I happened to flip to Luke 15 - the lost chapter. It's filled with three parables, all dealing with something lost being found - sheep, a coin, and a son. Now I have no need to try and wrap all this up in some kind of blog-sermon bow-tie; here is what I'm feeling and you can take and make and shake and bake yourself.
The beauty of the LOST t.v. show is that the characters on the mysterious island are continually being found. Oh, they're still lost in a literal sense, but their souls are being found as they interact and experience one another. They are being found together. And although there are individual, personal moments, the overall story line continues to bang the gong of community - the only place where we can really be found. As to my old church friend, he's evidently trying to find himself apart from anyone else. Now I've no problem with him stepping away from church or religion as he's known it, but he's stepped into a vacuum of me, myself and I. And I fear he's really lost. Maybe he'll have one of those eureka moments out there somewhere, but I'm not sure. It's the error of the Ansel Adams photographs - no people, just nature. And as for Luke 15, each parable has a "together" aspect to it; someone searches for the lost sheep and then everybody celebrates, the woman finds the coin and the whole house parties, the prodigal returns and finds himself found in the arms of the father and the smell of steak on the grill.
Maybe (what a beautiful word) the only hope of us being found is being found together, with one another. Yes, some valleys must be crossed alone, but there's always a coming back to the camp or returning from the far country. And if we stick together, we might discover along the way that we're not as lost as we thought we were. If we can just stay together. And there's the rub. Sheep wander, coins fall between the cushions, and we're all prodigals in some sense. Many days, our tendency is to isolate ourselves; we're convinced nobody knows de truble I seen. But how arrogant is that? Ole' sweet, syrupy Robert Fulghum said all he needed to know he learned in kindergarten - one of those lessons being: holds hands when you're crossing the street, a.k.a., stay together. Losing our grip on one another and existing alone somehow, somewhere is truly the definition of lost; quite possibly just a stone's throw away from the definition of hell.
I received a phone call from an old friend on Wednesday morning. She was a church member from bygone days and wanted to update me on her husband. They've had significant problems over the years, but in her description, she clearly said, "John, he's lost." And she wasn't using the word in the traditional church "lost or saved, in or out" manner. He has distanced himself from her, church, old friends and he's essentially existing in a separate reality.
Then I was working on a fundraising letter for a church that thinks too highly of itself, and I was flipping through Scripture for some fundraising verses (Lord, have mercy) and I happened to flip to Luke 15 - the lost chapter. It's filled with three parables, all dealing with something lost being found - sheep, a coin, and a son. Now I have no need to try and wrap all this up in some kind of blog-sermon bow-tie; here is what I'm feeling and you can take and make and shake and bake yourself.
The beauty of the LOST t.v. show is that the characters on the mysterious island are continually being found. Oh, they're still lost in a literal sense, but their souls are being found as they interact and experience one another. They are being found together. And although there are individual, personal moments, the overall story line continues to bang the gong of community - the only place where we can really be found. As to my old church friend, he's evidently trying to find himself apart from anyone else. Now I've no problem with him stepping away from church or religion as he's known it, but he's stepped into a vacuum of me, myself and I. And I fear he's really lost. Maybe he'll have one of those eureka moments out there somewhere, but I'm not sure. It's the error of the Ansel Adams photographs - no people, just nature. And as for Luke 15, each parable has a "together" aspect to it; someone searches for the lost sheep and then everybody celebrates, the woman finds the coin and the whole house parties, the prodigal returns and finds himself found in the arms of the father and the smell of steak on the grill.
Maybe (what a beautiful word) the only hope of us being found is being found together, with one another. Yes, some valleys must be crossed alone, but there's always a coming back to the camp or returning from the far country. And if we stick together, we might discover along the way that we're not as lost as we thought we were. If we can just stay together. And there's the rub. Sheep wander, coins fall between the cushions, and we're all prodigals in some sense. Many days, our tendency is to isolate ourselves; we're convinced nobody knows de truble I seen. But how arrogant is that? Ole' sweet, syrupy Robert Fulghum said all he needed to know he learned in kindergarten - one of those lessons being: holds hands when you're crossing the street, a.k.a., stay together. Losing our grip on one another and existing alone somehow, somewhere is truly the definition of lost; quite possibly just a stone's throw away from the definition of hell.
Where were you?
I've been pondering all weekend the events of 9/11. By way of newspaper articles and news reports on t.v., I've remembered where I was when the world stopped turnin', that September day. Almost all of the words I've heard concerning that time five years ago have indicated that "we are a people changed forever." I agree. And one of the consistent questions over the weekend has been, "Are we safer five years later?" The predominant answer has been "no."
But I had totally forgotten where I was two years ago, on that September day, when my world stopped turnin'; my wife reminded me. I was resigning from a church. A friend and I had co-pastored for a year, hoping to really create something different ministry-wise. But then the towers began to fall and to try and preserve the friendship and avoid some falling debris, I left. My friend continued on there, but me and my family woke up the next day to ground zero - internal injuries (heart), no job, no insurance, no idea as to what in the world we would do, where we were. Or who we might be.
Now, two years later, we are a changed people. I am a changed man. Forever. Are we safer? Better off? I don't know. There have been days when I would quickly say, "yes" - I are alive, free, living out some dreams, loosed from some shackles that had bound me for years, I can see a horizon now that I could not before. And some days I would say, "no" - I grieve for the man I was and what I did and who I knew; in fact, I still look for him sometimes in crowds. All I can do now is light candles for that man and pray and remember. Because the reality (the only place spiritual change occurs) is that the towers fell and lives were lost, ended. And there were outside forces working against me, but I also had a hand in it - if not two. There is nothing to go back to because there is nothing there; it's gone. Rebuild? No. A memorial feels to be the only appropriate response. And so I remember; I must remember. And (apologies to Alan Jackson) I have been and I am reminded that I'm just a thinker of simple thoughts, I'm not a real political man. I watch LOST on dvd but I still don't know if I could tell you the difference between Iraq and Iran. But I know Jesus and I pray to God and I remember it from when I was young - faith, hope and love and some good things He's given. And the greatest is love.
Am I a changed man? Yes. Humbled. Hopefully forever. Safer? That's a category that doesn't exist for me anymore, at least not in pre 9/11 terms. The world felt like it stopped turnin, but it didn't. For here I am, two years later; a survivor, a witness.
But I had totally forgotten where I was two years ago, on that September day, when my world stopped turnin'; my wife reminded me. I was resigning from a church. A friend and I had co-pastored for a year, hoping to really create something different ministry-wise. But then the towers began to fall and to try and preserve the friendship and avoid some falling debris, I left. My friend continued on there, but me and my family woke up the next day to ground zero - internal injuries (heart), no job, no insurance, no idea as to what in the world we would do, where we were. Or who we might be.
Now, two years later, we are a changed people. I am a changed man. Forever. Are we safer? Better off? I don't know. There have been days when I would quickly say, "yes" - I are alive, free, living out some dreams, loosed from some shackles that had bound me for years, I can see a horizon now that I could not before. And some days I would say, "no" - I grieve for the man I was and what I did and who I knew; in fact, I still look for him sometimes in crowds. All I can do now is light candles for that man and pray and remember. Because the reality (the only place spiritual change occurs) is that the towers fell and lives were lost, ended. And there were outside forces working against me, but I also had a hand in it - if not two. There is nothing to go back to because there is nothing there; it's gone. Rebuild? No. A memorial feels to be the only appropriate response. And so I remember; I must remember. And (apologies to Alan Jackson) I have been and I am reminded that I'm just a thinker of simple thoughts, I'm not a real political man. I watch LOST on dvd but I still don't know if I could tell you the difference between Iraq and Iran. But I know Jesus and I pray to God and I remember it from when I was young - faith, hope and love and some good things He's given. And the greatest is love.
Am I a changed man? Yes. Humbled. Hopefully forever. Safer? That's a category that doesn't exist for me anymore, at least not in pre 9/11 terms. The world felt like it stopped turnin, but it didn't. For here I am, two years later; a survivor, a witness.
A glass darkly
The righteous cry, and the LORD hears them and delivers them from all their troubles. Psalm 34.17
My youngest daughter began vomiting Monday morning around 8 o'clock. At 8pm, she was still vomiting, unable to keep anything down. We debated between taking her to the ER and trying to ride out the night, hoping it would stop. We prayed and opted to wait and see if things got better. We went to bed and nothing stopped; in fact, it seemed to grow worse. Probably twice an hour, every hour, my four year old little girl would begin to cough up hell itself, we'd sit her up, and her body would heave in painful contractions until the episode would fade. We had been praying for her all day long and had amped up our efforts when night fell. "God, please see us. See Abbey. Make the vomiting stop, LORD. She cannot take much more of this; if not already, she'll be severely dehydrated soon. God, give it to me, pass it over to my stomach and my throat and my lungs. She is so small. We are crying out to you, O God. Deliver her from this..." We prayed this and more at least twice an hour, every hour, all night long. And nothing changed. No deliverance, no nothing. We took her to the hospital the next morning and sure enough, she was severely dehydrated and required an overnight stay and several bags of IV fluid. I must confess that I was really not on speaking terms with God that morning. The righteous cried and prayed and prayed and cried and... a singular petition and nothing happened - no earthquake, whirlwind or even a whisper from a still, small voice. No clouds by day or fire by night. No baskets left over. Nothing. There was no deliverance from trouble; just more trouble.
I relieved my wife around one o'clock the next day. I sat in what a hospital calls a "chair" and read while Abbey slept and a clear tube refilled her tanks. I was reading Buechner talk about listening to your life and how if you want to hear God speaking, you should listen to your life and what's going on and what you're feeling or thinking or doing. I said, "O.k. Fine. Here we go." I listened to the life I had lived the past 48 hours. I listened and watched while the tears of a mother ran down her cheeks like fast rain. I listened and heard the silence of my youngest daughter, who normally has no use for the discipline of silence. I listened and felt the one eye open/one eye shut mode of sleeping that we had participated in all night long. I listened and saw a brother and sister hold back their sister's long, auburn hair so it wouldn't get in "it."
"Well, maybe you weren't praying hard enough?" - That's bullshit. We knocked, knocked, knocked on heaven's door.
"Well, is there any unconfessed sin in your life; stuff that might clog up the communication lines?" What, so God won't move unless the line is clear? If that were the prerequisite, nothing would ever happen.
"Well, maybe it was a faith test...you know, God won't put more on you than you can handle." It sure didn't look like Abbey was able to handle it; in fact, it seemed to handle her. And am I to believe that God would allow pain to accompany her in order to teach me some lesson?
"Could it be a lack of faith?" On whose part? Abbey's? Mine? So if I wasn't such a faithless mouse, my little girl wouldn't have had to suffer?
"Well, I'm sure someone, somewhere was suffering more." You know, I think that's one of the most worthless collection of nouns and verbs in our current lingo. You can only play the people-are-starving-in-China, so-eat-your-beans card so many times; eventually the bluff gets called. When my daughter was vomiting her head off the other night, I never once thought - hmmn, at least this is not the Holocaust or 9/11 or...
"It must've been God's will..." Please, don't get me started.
Why do bad vomiting episodes happen to good little four year olds? I don't know. I'm open to the response the disciples got when they asked Jesus why a man was born blind: "so that the glory of God might be revealed." But if I recall the story correctly, the blind man received his sight. He was delivered. Me, I'm still blind, not knowing what in the hell went on those few days. We asked for bread and felt like we got stones and serpents. Some weeks don't make a lick of sense.
My youngest daughter began vomiting Monday morning around 8 o'clock. At 8pm, she was still vomiting, unable to keep anything down. We debated between taking her to the ER and trying to ride out the night, hoping it would stop. We prayed and opted to wait and see if things got better. We went to bed and nothing stopped; in fact, it seemed to grow worse. Probably twice an hour, every hour, my four year old little girl would begin to cough up hell itself, we'd sit her up, and her body would heave in painful contractions until the episode would fade. We had been praying for her all day long and had amped up our efforts when night fell. "God, please see us. See Abbey. Make the vomiting stop, LORD. She cannot take much more of this; if not already, she'll be severely dehydrated soon. God, give it to me, pass it over to my stomach and my throat and my lungs. She is so small. We are crying out to you, O God. Deliver her from this..." We prayed this and more at least twice an hour, every hour, all night long. And nothing changed. No deliverance, no nothing. We took her to the hospital the next morning and sure enough, she was severely dehydrated and required an overnight stay and several bags of IV fluid. I must confess that I was really not on speaking terms with God that morning. The righteous cried and prayed and prayed and cried and... a singular petition and nothing happened - no earthquake, whirlwind or even a whisper from a still, small voice. No clouds by day or fire by night. No baskets left over. Nothing. There was no deliverance from trouble; just more trouble.
I relieved my wife around one o'clock the next day. I sat in what a hospital calls a "chair" and read while Abbey slept and a clear tube refilled her tanks. I was reading Buechner talk about listening to your life and how if you want to hear God speaking, you should listen to your life and what's going on and what you're feeling or thinking or doing. I said, "O.k. Fine. Here we go." I listened to the life I had lived the past 48 hours. I listened and watched while the tears of a mother ran down her cheeks like fast rain. I listened and heard the silence of my youngest daughter, who normally has no use for the discipline of silence. I listened and felt the one eye open/one eye shut mode of sleeping that we had participated in all night long. I listened and saw a brother and sister hold back their sister's long, auburn hair so it wouldn't get in "it."
"Well, maybe you weren't praying hard enough?" - That's bullshit. We knocked, knocked, knocked on heaven's door.
"Well, is there any unconfessed sin in your life; stuff that might clog up the communication lines?" What, so God won't move unless the line is clear? If that were the prerequisite, nothing would ever happen.
"Well, maybe it was a faith test...you know, God won't put more on you than you can handle." It sure didn't look like Abbey was able to handle it; in fact, it seemed to handle her. And am I to believe that God would allow pain to accompany her in order to teach me some lesson?
"Could it be a lack of faith?" On whose part? Abbey's? Mine? So if I wasn't such a faithless mouse, my little girl wouldn't have had to suffer?
"Well, I'm sure someone, somewhere was suffering more." You know, I think that's one of the most worthless collection of nouns and verbs in our current lingo. You can only play the people-are-starving-in-China, so-eat-your-beans card so many times; eventually the bluff gets called. When my daughter was vomiting her head off the other night, I never once thought - hmmn, at least this is not the Holocaust or 9/11 or...
"It must've been God's will..." Please, don't get me started.
Why do bad vomiting episodes happen to good little four year olds? I don't know. I'm open to the response the disciples got when they asked Jesus why a man was born blind: "so that the glory of God might be revealed." But if I recall the story correctly, the blind man received his sight. He was delivered. Me, I'm still blind, not knowing what in the hell went on those few days. We asked for bread and felt like we got stones and serpents. Some weeks don't make a lick of sense.
Peace Like A River
I checked the clock - it read 1:30am. The kids were all sleeping in their own beds - just cause to give God a big shout-out. Meredith was wrapped up like a taco in clean sheets and a comforter with a 40 degree wind tickling the curtains in the bedroom. And I was propped up on a pillow, participating in anticipatory grief. You know, that sadness that comes when you know something is coming and you don't really want it to come.
A few months ago, a good-hearted man placed a copy of Leif Enger's "Peace Like A River" in my hand and said, "Take. Read." Well, it was a little more elaborately handed off, but that was the essence of the exchange. I struck up a conversation with a lady at a writer's conference about three years ago now who had Enger's book in her hands; she couldn't say enough about it. I've seen it since then in book stores, used and new. There was always a draw, but always a, "No. Not yet." Hard to describe those things, unless you live with an awareness of an Infinitely, Tender Hand which holds our lives. In the fullness of my time, the book found its way to my hands. I began reading it and was instantly wooed by the aching beauty of the language and the landscape. And I finished it last night.
There are all kinds of writing out there these days, from the technical and tedious to the syrupy and banal. And then there are those stories that surface in these days of fear that reorient us to that which is noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, and praiseworthy. And when they are finished, at least for the first time, there is a tangible grief that overtakes you, or at least it does me. It's 1:40 am on a Saturday night and I'm propped up in bed with tears streaming down my cheeks, grieving at the beauty I'm participating in and also at the fact that there are only a few more pages until the story ends. Can't we just go a few more chapters, Enger? Please, tell me more about Rube and Swede and Davy and Jeremiah and...but a story has an ending and it must follow its course to the last sentence. And so I said, "Uncle," and kept reading the last few pages. I won't say more about the book other than, "Go. Buy. Haggle. Steal even. And read." If you steal, don't tell me about it.
But that experience has followed me like a lost puppy throughout my life; the experience of beauty, fleeting beauty. Noble things which don't last but a season, pure and lovely people who touch my life for a time and then go, admirable and excellent work that endures for a time and then passes, and praiseworthy breezes which tickle my curtains but eventually turn to snow and rain. Why would the apostle Paul tell us to dwell on those things when they are so fleeting? Well, I'm not Paul and I don't play him on t.v., but I feel down deep in my guts that when Paul wrote those words at 1:40am on a Saturday night in Palestine, that he had tears streaming down his cheeks. For he knew all too well of the quickly passing nature of the pure and lovely, the noble and excellent colors of autumn that quickly drop from the trees and float down the stream. It was that knowledge that kept him pressing ahead to the goal in front of him - the goal of lasting beauty, unfleeting nobility, and everlasting life. And so he said, "Think about such things. Dwell on them. Ponder them. For in them, you'll discover that which will keep you moving, keep you getting out of bed each morning, keep you doing the do and paying the bills and brushing your teeth and so on."
There will come a day..."Is it fair to say that country is more real than ours? That its stone is harder, its water more drenching - that the weather itself is alert and not just background? Can you endure a witness to its tactile presence? We attained a pass where the stream sang louder than ever, for it swelled with depth and energy the farther it rose. Dad reached it first; I saw him mount a shelf of spraysoaked stone and stand waiting for me, backlit, silverlined, as though the sky had a sun after all and it was just beyond this mountain. But it wasn't a sun. It was a city. Joining Dad on the rock, I saw it, at a farther distance than any yet conceived; still it threw light and warmth our sun could only covet. And unlike the sun, you could look straight into it - in fact, you wished to, you had to - and the longer you looked, the more you saw. Turrets! I exclaimed. I couldn't wait to get there, you see. Then Dad pointed to the plains below, at movement I took at first to be rivers - winding, flowing, light coming off them. They came from all directions, streaming toward the city, and dust rose in places along their banks. They're people, Dad said..." There will be peace, my friends...peace like river. Amen.
A few months ago, a good-hearted man placed a copy of Leif Enger's "Peace Like A River" in my hand and said, "Take. Read." Well, it was a little more elaborately handed off, but that was the essence of the exchange. I struck up a conversation with a lady at a writer's conference about three years ago now who had Enger's book in her hands; she couldn't say enough about it. I've seen it since then in book stores, used and new. There was always a draw, but always a, "No. Not yet." Hard to describe those things, unless you live with an awareness of an Infinitely, Tender Hand which holds our lives. In the fullness of my time, the book found its way to my hands. I began reading it and was instantly wooed by the aching beauty of the language and the landscape. And I finished it last night.
There are all kinds of writing out there these days, from the technical and tedious to the syrupy and banal. And then there are those stories that surface in these days of fear that reorient us to that which is noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, and praiseworthy. And when they are finished, at least for the first time, there is a tangible grief that overtakes you, or at least it does me. It's 1:40 am on a Saturday night and I'm propped up in bed with tears streaming down my cheeks, grieving at the beauty I'm participating in and also at the fact that there are only a few more pages until the story ends. Can't we just go a few more chapters, Enger? Please, tell me more about Rube and Swede and Davy and Jeremiah and...but a story has an ending and it must follow its course to the last sentence. And so I said, "Uncle," and kept reading the last few pages. I won't say more about the book other than, "Go. Buy. Haggle. Steal even. And read." If you steal, don't tell me about it.
But that experience has followed me like a lost puppy throughout my life; the experience of beauty, fleeting beauty. Noble things which don't last but a season, pure and lovely people who touch my life for a time and then go, admirable and excellent work that endures for a time and then passes, and praiseworthy breezes which tickle my curtains but eventually turn to snow and rain. Why would the apostle Paul tell us to dwell on those things when they are so fleeting? Well, I'm not Paul and I don't play him on t.v., but I feel down deep in my guts that when Paul wrote those words at 1:40am on a Saturday night in Palestine, that he had tears streaming down his cheeks. For he knew all too well of the quickly passing nature of the pure and lovely, the noble and excellent colors of autumn that quickly drop from the trees and float down the stream. It was that knowledge that kept him pressing ahead to the goal in front of him - the goal of lasting beauty, unfleeting nobility, and everlasting life. And so he said, "Think about such things. Dwell on them. Ponder them. For in them, you'll discover that which will keep you moving, keep you getting out of bed each morning, keep you doing the do and paying the bills and brushing your teeth and so on."
There will come a day..."Is it fair to say that country is more real than ours? That its stone is harder, its water more drenching - that the weather itself is alert and not just background? Can you endure a witness to its tactile presence? We attained a pass where the stream sang louder than ever, for it swelled with depth and energy the farther it rose. Dad reached it first; I saw him mount a shelf of spraysoaked stone and stand waiting for me, backlit, silverlined, as though the sky had a sun after all and it was just beyond this mountain. But it wasn't a sun. It was a city. Joining Dad on the rock, I saw it, at a farther distance than any yet conceived; still it threw light and warmth our sun could only covet. And unlike the sun, you could look straight into it - in fact, you wished to, you had to - and the longer you looked, the more you saw. Turrets! I exclaimed. I couldn't wait to get there, you see. Then Dad pointed to the plains below, at movement I took at first to be rivers - winding, flowing, light coming off them. They came from all directions, streaming toward the city, and dust rose in places along their banks. They're people, Dad said..." There will be peace, my friends...peace like river. Amen.
Deep Thoughts
My youngest daughter, Abbey, looked at me this afternoon and said, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" She's four. I said, "Yes" and winked at her; she winked back and returned to what she was thinking about. I don't know what that was. But I wish I did. What was she thinking about in that moment? What was going on behind those saddle-brown eyes with falling auburn hair in them? I've been home quite a bit lately; I have some writing deadlines and so many days have found me in the basement, in front of a keyboard, from sunstart to sunfinish. She's four, so she's been home as well. She's come down to check on me quite a bit lately; she doesn't stay long, just a little while. Although I hear her coming down the stairs, she is convinced she's sneaking up on me and greets me with a "boo" and I do my best startle and she always says, "It's me - Abbey." Many days she wants to go to a "dot-com" and print off coloring pages from a My Little Pony or Curious George website. She's a four-year old persistent widow and so we usually sit and wait for my printer to start its heaving, eventually coughing up pictures for her to color. I've noticed the last few visits that she has put her hand on my arm while persistently presenting her widow's case. I wonder what she's thinking about? I hope she's thinking that her dad is so happy when she sneaks down the stairs to startle him. That he's so relieved that it's her - Abbey, whose name means "father's joy." I hope she's thinking that it's a good thing for her to put her hand on my arm and reassure her dad that his work these days in not in vain, although somedays he feels like a loser, driving his family in a metaphorical covered wagon across uncertain terrain in search of his dreams to be a writer. I pray she's thinking that asking me for coloring pages will help me to keep some childlikeness in my afternoons that frequently border on the serious and anxious. I hope she's thinking, "Hey, I'll stand close enough to dad so he can smell my hair. He helped me wash it last night and that'll make him remember the true work of his hands these days - fathering. He's got plenty of time to be a writer, but his days of fathering are numbered. I'm four, but not for long." And maybe that was what she was thinking about this afternoon when she asked me if I knew what she was thinking about. "I'm growing up daddy, fast." Today it's dot-coms and "boo" and the man with the yellow hat, but tomorrow it'll be girlfriends and boys and talking on the phone until 2am and saying, "Aw, dad" when I stop and smell her hair, hair that once took two to wash but now takes one. I don't know if that's what you're thinking or not, Abbey. But it's what I'm thinking. Thank you, dear one, for your hand on my arm. Thank you, pumpkin, for startling me daily into what really counts. Thank you, one so fresh from God, for reminding me that you do get to participate in coloring your life's pages. And bless you, my child, for letting me help you wash you hair, if just for a little while longer. That's what I'm thinking about.
Home
"I have an idea that some men are born out of their due place. Accident has cast them amid strangers in their birthplace, and the leafy lanes they have known from childhood or the populous streets in which they have played, remain but a place of passage. They may spend their whole lives aliens among their kindred and remain aloof among the only scenes they have ever known. Perhaps it is this sense of strangeness that sends men far and wide in the search for something permanent, to which they may attach themselves. Perhaps some deep-rooted atavism urges the wanderer back to lands which his ancestors left in the dim beginnings of history. Sometimes a man hits upon a place to which he mysteriously feels that he belongs. Here is the home he sought, and he will settle amid scenes that he has never seen before, among men he has never known, as though they were familiar to him from his birth. Here at last he finds rest." - W. Somerset Maugham
This may be my favorite quote of all time. I first found it in an edition of Glimmer Train - a literary mag I was able to afford for about a year. The quote now rests above a picture on my desk; a picture of a best friend and me in the Grand Canyon. Two broad-shouldered, deep-chested men with bird legs and astigmatisms standing beside the frigid water that runs through the bowels of the Grand. Two spectacled, unshaven guys with hands cocked on their hips, as if declaring to any who would listen, "We are here. Let the record show that we are here." Browned from the sun, we look young. And at rest. After hiking down from the north rim a descent worthy of something Dante might have envisioned, we appear to be at rest. How can this be? Was there some deep-rooted atavism that urged us to the Grand Canyon that blessed October? Why was this a place to which we felt we mysteriously belonged? These were scenes never seen before, a landscape we had never known; yet, they were as familiar to us as if we'd been here all along. Maybe this was home and we were at last, at rest. I do know that my friend and I often feel like aliens with a sense of strangeness that flows in our veins, aloof to the snapshots we usually pose for. I had the same experience, however, when the same friend and I climbed the last few golden stairs of Pikes Peak. We walked into the snack bar/gift shop on top of that mountain with salt crystals in our eyebrows, more dehydrated than we cared to admit, trying to stay erect on our birdlegs and yet we were at rest. I do feel that there are places that are more "home" than others, places we visit along the way and are refreshed. I also feel that there are people that are "home" for us, people that are closer than blood relatives. These are people that we mysteriously feel we belong to, like maybe we were brothers or sisters or something and a crazy chain of events took place at our birth and we were separated and farmed out to different families - born out of due place. And we spend our whole lives searching for that lost sibling who has the other half of the silver pendant we wear around our necks. And when we finally find them and spend time in their presence, we're home, at rest. Regardless of the descent or ascent we've just made, being with them brings rest, peace, wholeness, harmony, home. Maybe these people are our witnesses - they are they ones who stand by us and declare, "We are here. Let the record show that we are here." And maybe it is only those who can witness to the person we really are that can offer something along the lines of "home." The perennial question: Who are your people? Your great cloud of witnesses? I don't think the word "great" refers to numbers here, but to gifts of perception.
This may be my favorite quote of all time. I first found it in an edition of Glimmer Train - a literary mag I was able to afford for about a year. The quote now rests above a picture on my desk; a picture of a best friend and me in the Grand Canyon. Two broad-shouldered, deep-chested men with bird legs and astigmatisms standing beside the frigid water that runs through the bowels of the Grand. Two spectacled, unshaven guys with hands cocked on their hips, as if declaring to any who would listen, "We are here. Let the record show that we are here." Browned from the sun, we look young. And at rest. After hiking down from the north rim a descent worthy of something Dante might have envisioned, we appear to be at rest. How can this be? Was there some deep-rooted atavism that urged us to the Grand Canyon that blessed October? Why was this a place to which we felt we mysteriously belonged? These were scenes never seen before, a landscape we had never known; yet, they were as familiar to us as if we'd been here all along. Maybe this was home and we were at last, at rest. I do know that my friend and I often feel like aliens with a sense of strangeness that flows in our veins, aloof to the snapshots we usually pose for. I had the same experience, however, when the same friend and I climbed the last few golden stairs of Pikes Peak. We walked into the snack bar/gift shop on top of that mountain with salt crystals in our eyebrows, more dehydrated than we cared to admit, trying to stay erect on our birdlegs and yet we were at rest. I do feel that there are places that are more "home" than others, places we visit along the way and are refreshed. I also feel that there are people that are "home" for us, people that are closer than blood relatives. These are people that we mysteriously feel we belong to, like maybe we were brothers or sisters or something and a crazy chain of events took place at our birth and we were separated and farmed out to different families - born out of due place. And we spend our whole lives searching for that lost sibling who has the other half of the silver pendant we wear around our necks. And when we finally find them and spend time in their presence, we're home, at rest. Regardless of the descent or ascent we've just made, being with them brings rest, peace, wholeness, harmony, home. Maybe these people are our witnesses - they are they ones who stand by us and declare, "We are here. Let the record show that we are here." And maybe it is only those who can witness to the person we really are that can offer something along the lines of "home." The perennial question: Who are your people? Your great cloud of witnesses? I don't think the word "great" refers to numbers here, but to gifts of perception.
What the bleep do we know?
"Because nothing true can be said about God from a posture of defense." - Gilead by Marilynne Robinson
"Facts often have little to do with the truth." - Carolyn Forche
My driver's license tells you that my weight is 180 pounds and my height is 6'1". It also tells you that I live on such and such a street in such and such a town with a five-digit zip code. My primary vehicle is a minivan. My credit report tells you that I dinged a check in the spring and my checking account testifies to the way God still feeds my multitude on loaves and fish. I'm also writing a book right now, hopefully finishing it up in September. All factual, all verifiable, all something you could call and check out. But facts often have little to do with the truth. The truth is that I'm 6'1" in my cowboy boots and my weight is something I never, ever think about. The truth is that while I reside in a house on such and such a street, I tend to live in the past. I heard the theme from St. Elmo's Fire this afternoon on the easy listening station and it took me back to a rainy afternoon in jr. high, working on a science fair project at our little, round kitchen table, and I could smell the pine through the screen on the back door and my brother was playing in his room, while my mother prepared supper and dad was on his way home and all was right with the world as I knew it. And I wept for the boyhood God graced me with and prayed for something as beautiful for my own children. And while I occasionally drive a minivan, the truth is I hate it. I'd love to be driving a pickup truck with hay in the floorboards and old work gloves in the seat and four different hubcaps on the tires and toothpicks, new and used, in the little holder in the door and being able to glance in the rearview mirror and see my kids standing up in the bed and holler through the open window, "Hey, sit down or I'm gonna stop this truck." The truth is that my credit report and checking account are reflective of where I am in life right now - following stars and geese and God. And none of that path seems to include regular paychecks these days. The truth is I'm not writing a book; I'm laboring under a deadline. I agreed to write a book on Christian denominations in America and the money was right, but it's killing me because it's full of facts and facts often have little to do with the truth. I wonder what the real truth is about God? We know the facts, but do we know the truth? Does he really enjoy all those angels flying around all the time? Or does he occasionally say, "Hey, sit down or I'm gonna stop this truck?" Does he really live in heaven or does he tend to live in the past, remembering that blessed night in Bethlehem when the magic worked like never before? Or how about his first friends, Adam and Eve, and how they strolled in the cool of the day, probably enjoying some easy listening music and the smell of pines and feeling that all in the world was right? Or maybe he lives in the future and dreams of how it's gonna be, like ole' George always tells Lenny about in Of Mice and Men? Is he really a Democrat or Republican or does he never, ever think about that at all? And while the facts on his credit report might reveal delinquent moments by Visa's standards, the truth is that he continually rolls the dice on fools like me and stars and geese. And sometimes we shine and fly and sometimes we fall. Or just walk around honking, looking and feeling lost. And maybe the truth is that Christian denominations in America are killing him too; maybe literally, because facts often have so little to do with the truth.
"Facts often have little to do with the truth." - Carolyn Forche
My driver's license tells you that my weight is 180 pounds and my height is 6'1". It also tells you that I live on such and such a street in such and such a town with a five-digit zip code. My primary vehicle is a minivan. My credit report tells you that I dinged a check in the spring and my checking account testifies to the way God still feeds my multitude on loaves and fish. I'm also writing a book right now, hopefully finishing it up in September. All factual, all verifiable, all something you could call and check out. But facts often have little to do with the truth. The truth is that I'm 6'1" in my cowboy boots and my weight is something I never, ever think about. The truth is that while I reside in a house on such and such a street, I tend to live in the past. I heard the theme from St. Elmo's Fire this afternoon on the easy listening station and it took me back to a rainy afternoon in jr. high, working on a science fair project at our little, round kitchen table, and I could smell the pine through the screen on the back door and my brother was playing in his room, while my mother prepared supper and dad was on his way home and all was right with the world as I knew it. And I wept for the boyhood God graced me with and prayed for something as beautiful for my own children. And while I occasionally drive a minivan, the truth is I hate it. I'd love to be driving a pickup truck with hay in the floorboards and old work gloves in the seat and four different hubcaps on the tires and toothpicks, new and used, in the little holder in the door and being able to glance in the rearview mirror and see my kids standing up in the bed and holler through the open window, "Hey, sit down or I'm gonna stop this truck." The truth is that my credit report and checking account are reflective of where I am in life right now - following stars and geese and God. And none of that path seems to include regular paychecks these days. The truth is I'm not writing a book; I'm laboring under a deadline. I agreed to write a book on Christian denominations in America and the money was right, but it's killing me because it's full of facts and facts often have little to do with the truth. I wonder what the real truth is about God? We know the facts, but do we know the truth? Does he really enjoy all those angels flying around all the time? Or does he occasionally say, "Hey, sit down or I'm gonna stop this truck?" Does he really live in heaven or does he tend to live in the past, remembering that blessed night in Bethlehem when the magic worked like never before? Or how about his first friends, Adam and Eve, and how they strolled in the cool of the day, probably enjoying some easy listening music and the smell of pines and feeling that all in the world was right? Or maybe he lives in the future and dreams of how it's gonna be, like ole' George always tells Lenny about in Of Mice and Men? Is he really a Democrat or Republican or does he never, ever think about that at all? And while the facts on his credit report might reveal delinquent moments by Visa's standards, the truth is that he continually rolls the dice on fools like me and stars and geese. And sometimes we shine and fly and sometimes we fall. Or just walk around honking, looking and feeling lost. And maybe the truth is that Christian denominations in America are killing him too; maybe literally, because facts often have so little to do with the truth.
Holding Hands with Annie and Sy
Annie Dillard: "Write as if you were dying."
Sy Safransky: "At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?"
John Blase: "What would you blog if you knew you would die tonight?"
If this is the night that the river calls my name (thanks, Barry Lopez, for that wonderful phrase), then...goodness, this is just a little scary. If this is the night that the river calls my name, then I say to my wife: "You're stronger than you think, baby. And you're much more beautiful than you believe. Go through the books in my smallest bookcase - there's probably some cash hiding in some of them; but more importantly, my heart is in them. Maybe, just maybe you could begin to understand the man I am. And love again. Continue to shuck off the husk you so despise. You are diamond."
To my kids, I say: "Do what you love. Will, you love video games, so play 'em. Play 'em until you get the equivalent of lumberjack whitefinger. And know you are my firstborn, my might and strength. Make your sons and daughters copy pages out of Jonathan Livingston Seagull, just like I made you. And fly high, my son. Sarah, you are Anne of Green Gables incarnate and my sunshine. Follow that beautiful heart of yours wherever it takes you and stand your ground until some man who has the strength to woo you comes along and then love him. Abbey Tennyson, you are your father's joy. Always have been. You're named after Edward Abbey, who was a grade A crank; live up to your name, pumpkin. Give 'em hell. And you're also named after Alfred Lord Tennyson. Give 'em beauty. Spend time with Idylls of the King - 'more things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.'"
To everyone else: "This world is a beautiful place and worth dying for. It's also full of beautiful people and worth living for. However it plays out, don't be afraid. I believe the mercy of God will trump the judgment card. I will see each of you again. The world was made to be free in."
I could write so much more...maybe Annie and Sy know that and they're advice is meant to propel you into a worthy novel or poem or something. There is much to say that will not enrage by its triviality. And I am dying. But please, God - not tonight. I've so much more to write...
Sy Safransky: "At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?"
John Blase: "What would you blog if you knew you would die tonight?"
If this is the night that the river calls my name (thanks, Barry Lopez, for that wonderful phrase), then...goodness, this is just a little scary. If this is the night that the river calls my name, then I say to my wife: "You're stronger than you think, baby. And you're much more beautiful than you believe. Go through the books in my smallest bookcase - there's probably some cash hiding in some of them; but more importantly, my heart is in them. Maybe, just maybe you could begin to understand the man I am. And love again. Continue to shuck off the husk you so despise. You are diamond."
To my kids, I say: "Do what you love. Will, you love video games, so play 'em. Play 'em until you get the equivalent of lumberjack whitefinger. And know you are my firstborn, my might and strength. Make your sons and daughters copy pages out of Jonathan Livingston Seagull, just like I made you. And fly high, my son. Sarah, you are Anne of Green Gables incarnate and my sunshine. Follow that beautiful heart of yours wherever it takes you and stand your ground until some man who has the strength to woo you comes along and then love him. Abbey Tennyson, you are your father's joy. Always have been. You're named after Edward Abbey, who was a grade A crank; live up to your name, pumpkin. Give 'em hell. And you're also named after Alfred Lord Tennyson. Give 'em beauty. Spend time with Idylls of the King - 'more things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.'"
To everyone else: "This world is a beautiful place and worth dying for. It's also full of beautiful people and worth living for. However it plays out, don't be afraid. I believe the mercy of God will trump the judgment card. I will see each of you again. The world was made to be free in."
I could write so much more...maybe Annie and Sy know that and they're advice is meant to propel you into a worthy novel or poem or something. There is much to say that will not enrage by its triviality. And I am dying. But please, God - not tonight. I've so much more to write...
Unless You Become As A Little Child...
Our kids start back to school tomorrow. We met their teachers this afternoon - both of them "new faculty" this year. These ladies had their rooms "a tip-toe" with instructions on the board for open house day. Directives were listed such as place your Kleenex boxes on the back counter, put your trapper keeper in the desk (recognized by your name taped to the top), and go out in the hall and find your new locker (again, located by your name taped to the door). There were popsicles in the cafeteria once you'd completed your home room welcome list and you could eat them while perusing displays of various kinds - boy scouts, girl scouts, running club, and the table filled with mascoted t-shirts, sweatshirts and caps.
Our kids did everything they needed to do and then moved to something they "wanted" to do. True, they wanted a popsicle, but that was a part of the afternoon's agenda to begin with. What did they want to do? Go see their teachers from last year. Not their old room or faithful desk; no, just the teacher. We found the ladies of last year and the kids received hugs and questions about their summer and blessings for the new year. But I found that desire interesting. The start of the new was not complete without giving a nod to the old. While the future lay before them, they "wanted" to honor the past, touch it and be hugged by it. Maybe they were needing to re-member themselves for the new year? Maybe while they were summer, they thought and acted like summer, but now that they are school, they were needing to put aside their summerish ways? And the desired way to do that was to look into the eyes of one who guided them while autumn leaves fell, winter winds howled, and springtime flowers bloomed. Sentiment usually gets a bad rap in our day and time. Sappy love songs or a longing for the good old days is thought of as shallow emotionalism at best and a hindrance to progress at worst. But the word actually means "a refined sensibility" - a refined way of making sense of things. And my kids have a feel for that already at ages eight and nine. They probably couldn't articulate it - probably wouldn't want to - but they know it deep within the marrow of their elementary bones. Maybe they didn't fall too far from this old oak, full of sentimental sap...My kids get an A+ for the day. Good job, guys.
Our kids did everything they needed to do and then moved to something they "wanted" to do. True, they wanted a popsicle, but that was a part of the afternoon's agenda to begin with. What did they want to do? Go see their teachers from last year. Not their old room or faithful desk; no, just the teacher. We found the ladies of last year and the kids received hugs and questions about their summer and blessings for the new year. But I found that desire interesting. The start of the new was not complete without giving a nod to the old. While the future lay before them, they "wanted" to honor the past, touch it and be hugged by it. Maybe they were needing to re-member themselves for the new year? Maybe while they were summer, they thought and acted like summer, but now that they are school, they were needing to put aside their summerish ways? And the desired way to do that was to look into the eyes of one who guided them while autumn leaves fell, winter winds howled, and springtime flowers bloomed. Sentiment usually gets a bad rap in our day and time. Sappy love songs or a longing for the good old days is thought of as shallow emotionalism at best and a hindrance to progress at worst. But the word actually means "a refined sensibility" - a refined way of making sense of things. And my kids have a feel for that already at ages eight and nine. They probably couldn't articulate it - probably wouldn't want to - but they know it deep within the marrow of their elementary bones. Maybe they didn't fall too far from this old oak, full of sentimental sap...My kids get an A+ for the day. Good job, guys.
El Bastardo
"...God is love. We always assumed that these three words were spoken directly to the four of us in our family and had no reference to the world outside, which my brother and I soon discovered was full of bastards, the number increasing rapidly the farther one gets from Missoula, Montana." Norman Maclean - A River Runs Through It
I was working yesterday on the equivalent of the shipping docks for this company. Employees routinely walk through the docks, taking a moment's breather from customers. A guy walked through yesterday and said, "Man, there's a jerk in the footwear department and he's wearing a Jesus t-shirt. And James (named changed to protect the guilty) is about to punch him in the face." James is a fellow employee - smart, fast (a runner), and a cynic when it comes to matters of faith. He knows I used to preach a little and we joke every once in a while about church, etc. I took a moment and peeked into the footwear department to get a glimpse of the situation. Sure enough, some guy wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with big, bold "Jesus Disaster Relief Unit" on it was throwing his weight around about shoes; yeah, shoes. I listened long enough to be reminded that the farther one gets from heaven, be that defined as Missoula, Montana or somewhere over Jordan's stormy banks, the number of bastards does increase rapidly. And many of them have the outward trappings of knowing who Jesus is. They're wearing t-shirts with his name on them, driving cars with little fish on the back, or building homes and churches farther and farther away from a downtown area. Little did disaster relief guy know, but the person helping him select a pair of shoes has an extremely skeptical heart when it comes to anything religious and this could have been an opportunity for James to have experienced Jesus, via a person, in an inviting way. But rather than being someone who provided relief in a disaster, he was creating one by adding yet another layer of hide to a smart, fast, cynical-calloused heart. Stupid bastard with a Jesus t-shirt on. What was he thinking? Obviously, he was not. He thought the moment was all about buying shoes. It wasn't. Bastard.
I got pretty riled up seeing this disaster unfold and started to approach the guy (I was in plain clothes for the day; he wouldn't have known I was an employee) and tell him just what a bastard he is. And then I remembered Will Campbell's gospel-in-a-nutshell: "We're all bastards, but God loves us anyway." My working-on-the-docks moxie subsided a little and I backed up, a humbled bastard myself. Maclean and Campbell are right - God is love...and we're all bastards. And the more aware of that we can be, the better. That goes for the people who have fish decals on their vans and the smart, fast, cynics out there. And the stupid bastards working on the docks. But I can't join hands in the love circle and sing kum-ba-yah too quickly here, for I still believe that the onus is on those of us who claim to know this Jesus. We, in some way, are reflecting who Jesus is or at least we should be. Or what's the point? We've got to have our wits about us and remember that the day is not about a shoe purchase. It's a disaster out there, in here, and we need some relief - some "good news." Rome is burning. Soldiers are dying. Glaciers are melting. Marriages are crumbling. Fourth graders are doing crystal meth. You can't take Gatorade on the airplane. And James is getter faster, but more cynical. And we're griping about shoes. Stupid bastards.
I was working yesterday on the equivalent of the shipping docks for this company. Employees routinely walk through the docks, taking a moment's breather from customers. A guy walked through yesterday and said, "Man, there's a jerk in the footwear department and he's wearing a Jesus t-shirt. And James (named changed to protect the guilty) is about to punch him in the face." James is a fellow employee - smart, fast (a runner), and a cynic when it comes to matters of faith. He knows I used to preach a little and we joke every once in a while about church, etc. I took a moment and peeked into the footwear department to get a glimpse of the situation. Sure enough, some guy wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with big, bold "Jesus Disaster Relief Unit" on it was throwing his weight around about shoes; yeah, shoes. I listened long enough to be reminded that the farther one gets from heaven, be that defined as Missoula, Montana or somewhere over Jordan's stormy banks, the number of bastards does increase rapidly. And many of them have the outward trappings of knowing who Jesus is. They're wearing t-shirts with his name on them, driving cars with little fish on the back, or building homes and churches farther and farther away from a downtown area. Little did disaster relief guy know, but the person helping him select a pair of shoes has an extremely skeptical heart when it comes to anything religious and this could have been an opportunity for James to have experienced Jesus, via a person, in an inviting way. But rather than being someone who provided relief in a disaster, he was creating one by adding yet another layer of hide to a smart, fast, cynical-calloused heart. Stupid bastard with a Jesus t-shirt on. What was he thinking? Obviously, he was not. He thought the moment was all about buying shoes. It wasn't. Bastard.
I got pretty riled up seeing this disaster unfold and started to approach the guy (I was in plain clothes for the day; he wouldn't have known I was an employee) and tell him just what a bastard he is. And then I remembered Will Campbell's gospel-in-a-nutshell: "We're all bastards, but God loves us anyway." My working-on-the-docks moxie subsided a little and I backed up, a humbled bastard myself. Maclean and Campbell are right - God is love...and we're all bastards. And the more aware of that we can be, the better. That goes for the people who have fish decals on their vans and the smart, fast, cynics out there. And the stupid bastards working on the docks. But I can't join hands in the love circle and sing kum-ba-yah too quickly here, for I still believe that the onus is on those of us who claim to know this Jesus. We, in some way, are reflecting who Jesus is or at least we should be. Or what's the point? We've got to have our wits about us and remember that the day is not about a shoe purchase. It's a disaster out there, in here, and we need some relief - some "good news." Rome is burning. Soldiers are dying. Glaciers are melting. Marriages are crumbling. Fourth graders are doing crystal meth. You can't take Gatorade on the airplane. And James is getter faster, but more cynical. And we're griping about shoes. Stupid bastards.
Two phrases have attached themselves to my brain this morning. One from the Book of Common Prayer reading for the day - "the oppressor" - as in "he shall crush the oppressor" and "deliver me...from the oppressor." The other from a dear friend - "so little of what we do requires immediate attention, except self-care." Oppression. Just saying the word is difficult. You have to form the "O" by dropping your jaw, causing a lowering of your facial expression, making a smile impossible. And then the "ppression" is something that comes out sounding like Gollum's "ppressiouss" from Lord of the Rings; there's a devilish "ssss" to the word.
So much seems oppressive in our lives. There's outright, literal oppression in places like Iraq or New Orleans, we've got gas prices above $3 a gallon while oil companies are making $1300 a second, now there are liquid bomb scares which stir the pot of anxiety and fear yet again, fighting (what a descriptive word) traffic morning and evening...and then the paper says that the fashions for the fall will be the styles of the 80's...oppression, indeed. All these things which seem, at least, to need or cry out for immediate attention...but maybe the real need is self-care. No, not some Gollum-in-the-cave-by-himself stuff, but rather an attentiveness to our own hearts and souls that are being "crushed" daily or held captive by the oppressor. I remember Buechner talking about a time when his daughter was quite sick. He was desperately trying to help her, when others intervened and told him he couldn't help her without first helping himself. When the plane's in trouble, you put the oxygen mask on yourself first - then you can help your child. Love your neighbor as yourself. That phrase is so easily spoken and so carelessly lived. And at the risk of sounding simple, I believe that the path to self-care is hinged on one little word - "no." Having the courage to say "no" to people, places and things which cry out for our immediate attention; people who seem to be always in crisis mode, places that seem to always have one more thing on the list, things that always seem to need me and no one else will do...no, no, no, no, no. Or at least, "not right now" - "not today" - "not until I take care of myself first" - then I can honestly speak into your life or see your situation clearly. Being a "yes-man" gets me promotions and the applause of those around me; being a "no-man' generates looks of condescension or ventings of outright anger. But the plane feels like it's going down...reach for the mask first...and then "see" what's really necessary. All things are possible, but not all are profitable. Save us, O Lord from the oppressor which seeks to crush us. Teach us to say, "No."
So much seems oppressive in our lives. There's outright, literal oppression in places like Iraq or New Orleans, we've got gas prices above $3 a gallon while oil companies are making $1300 a second, now there are liquid bomb scares which stir the pot of anxiety and fear yet again, fighting (what a descriptive word) traffic morning and evening...and then the paper says that the fashions for the fall will be the styles of the 80's...oppression, indeed. All these things which seem, at least, to need or cry out for immediate attention...but maybe the real need is self-care. No, not some Gollum-in-the-cave-by-himself stuff, but rather an attentiveness to our own hearts and souls that are being "crushed" daily or held captive by the oppressor. I remember Buechner talking about a time when his daughter was quite sick. He was desperately trying to help her, when others intervened and told him he couldn't help her without first helping himself. When the plane's in trouble, you put the oxygen mask on yourself first - then you can help your child. Love your neighbor as yourself. That phrase is so easily spoken and so carelessly lived. And at the risk of sounding simple, I believe that the path to self-care is hinged on one little word - "no." Having the courage to say "no" to people, places and things which cry out for our immediate attention; people who seem to be always in crisis mode, places that seem to always have one more thing on the list, things that always seem to need me and no one else will do...no, no, no, no, no. Or at least, "not right now" - "not today" - "not until I take care of myself first" - then I can honestly speak into your life or see your situation clearly. Being a "yes-man" gets me promotions and the applause of those around me; being a "no-man' generates looks of condescension or ventings of outright anger. But the plane feels like it's going down...reach for the mask first...and then "see" what's really necessary. All things are possible, but not all are profitable. Save us, O Lord from the oppressor which seeks to crush us. Teach us to say, "No."
A Prayer on My Parents' 43rd Anniversary
"and it is so bright now, you can hardly bear it as it fills the door, this immense glacier of light coming on, and still you do not know who you are, but here it is, try to remember, it is all beginning." -B.H. Fairchild
My dad and mom were visiting this week. They are gradually walking into old age; slowly, but noticeably since we see them only about every six months. One morning at breakfast, my dad asked me if I dream. His question had all the trappings of pastoral interest, but clearly revealed the truth - he dreams and he wanted to talk about it. He told us that he dreams all the time - rich, vibrant color dreams - full of images, people, smells. This one in particular contained a barn where his Sunday suits were all hanging. He was trying in some sense to arrange them. A flood had come through and washed all the stalls clean, but the dung was now in the middle of the barn. Someone was outside, honking a car horn, telling him to "come on." He was hurrying to arrange them, trying to get out to the car...and then he woke up. He tried to go back into his dream, but could not.
My dad takes a sip of coffee and says he dreams almost every night. He wakes up and wants to tell them to someone, talk about them. The obvious person would be my mother; however, she said she doesn't want to hear them. Actually, he said that and she said, "They take too long to tell, David." And I felt my father's heart drip silent blood in a marriage where his wife won't listen to his dreams. Maybe she never has. I am only beginning to see the true people my parents are - not the ideals they were in childhood. They left out this morning, headed back to Arkansas, driving seventeen god-awful hours back across Kansas and Oklahoma. It is their anniversary; forty-three years of marriage. Were there days in the initial love/lust frenzy when she would listen to his dreams? Did he have the courage to tell her those dreams? Or are they just now beginning to surface, an "immense glacier of light coming on"? Or maybe he did tell her and they scared her; showed her that she really had no idea who this young, preacher farmboy was that she promised till death do them part? Did she ever tell him her dreams? This morning she said, "I don't dream that much." Questions I cannot answer, but maybe I have some idea - maybe I can try to remember...he's dreaming of barns and swept out stalls and the beautiful smell of cow shit that can make your heart weep if you're a person of the land and she's outside, honking the car horn, saying, "David, you're taking too long...come on." Happy anniversary, dad and mom. Drive safely in the keep of God's angels and sleep well tonight...it is all beginning. I love you.
My dad and mom were visiting this week. They are gradually walking into old age; slowly, but noticeably since we see them only about every six months. One morning at breakfast, my dad asked me if I dream. His question had all the trappings of pastoral interest, but clearly revealed the truth - he dreams and he wanted to talk about it. He told us that he dreams all the time - rich, vibrant color dreams - full of images, people, smells. This one in particular contained a barn where his Sunday suits were all hanging. He was trying in some sense to arrange them. A flood had come through and washed all the stalls clean, but the dung was now in the middle of the barn. Someone was outside, honking a car horn, telling him to "come on." He was hurrying to arrange them, trying to get out to the car...and then he woke up. He tried to go back into his dream, but could not.
My dad takes a sip of coffee and says he dreams almost every night. He wakes up and wants to tell them to someone, talk about them. The obvious person would be my mother; however, she said she doesn't want to hear them. Actually, he said that and she said, "They take too long to tell, David." And I felt my father's heart drip silent blood in a marriage where his wife won't listen to his dreams. Maybe she never has. I am only beginning to see the true people my parents are - not the ideals they were in childhood. They left out this morning, headed back to Arkansas, driving seventeen god-awful hours back across Kansas and Oklahoma. It is their anniversary; forty-three years of marriage. Were there days in the initial love/lust frenzy when she would listen to his dreams? Did he have the courage to tell her those dreams? Or are they just now beginning to surface, an "immense glacier of light coming on"? Or maybe he did tell her and they scared her; showed her that she really had no idea who this young, preacher farmboy was that she promised till death do them part? Did she ever tell him her dreams? This morning she said, "I don't dream that much." Questions I cannot answer, but maybe I have some idea - maybe I can try to remember...he's dreaming of barns and swept out stalls and the beautiful smell of cow shit that can make your heart weep if you're a person of the land and she's outside, honking the car horn, saying, "David, you're taking too long...come on." Happy anniversary, dad and mom. Drive safely in the keep of God's angels and sleep well tonight...it is all beginning. I love you.
Man Movement
The Men's Movement. That phrase does nothing for some, but for others it conjures up images of men running naked through the forest, beating drums, and getting in touch with their wild side. Names like Bly, Keen, Kipnis, Lee, Rohr and Eldredge might be thrown around. And the sentiment might surface that says, "That stuff's over and done. Finis." I've read the works of the aforementioned authors, I've been to a few of their conferences, and have run naked through the forest and other locales with adequate tree cover. And it ain't over folks. But it is different now, because what was started or was viewed as a "men's" movement has settled to the level of a "man's movement." Don't get me wrong - the plural aspect is still vitally needed, but you can't be plural all the time, you don't have the freedom to run naked with your brothers every weekend, you can't always get a wildman on the phone when you need some encouragement. Sometimes, you've got to go singular. Sometimes, you've got to arouse the wildman within yourself and beat the drum and adamantly answer, "Yes," when asked, "Did you really run naked through a forest with trees falling if there were no other men there to see you and hear the trees?"
I had the opportunity to "move" twice the last couple of days and by the grace of the One who keeps this world, I did. My wife and I were blessed to have a night away on Tuesday. My parents were in town and offered to keep the kids and no sooner had those words dropped from their lips than I scribbled our cell number on a post-it and the minivan blew out of the driveway. FFFRRREEEDDDOOOMMM! But real men know that freedom is always opposed - always. We found a beautiful B&B in the mountains and arranged to stay for the night. As we prepared for an evening together, my wife got a migraine-ish headache. No, not the "no-sex-tonight-bucko" thing; this was something that really floored her. Her desire was to have some time to read, we were going to sit out under the stars, drink some vino and do the sex-tonight-bucko thing. But she got really sick. As I saw my wife totally knocked out, I felt helpless, like a little boy who didn't know what to do. She said, "Please pray for me." And I moved. I prayed for and over her. And guess what? Nothing. Not a damn thing. In fact, it seemed to intensify. She lay there for a few more minutes, in tears at the prospect of losing sacred time to this, this... opposition. We've got three kids under the age of nine - we just don't get away that much for overnighters. And I moved. "I think we should pray again, Mer." She agreed. I prayed a second time, asking this Jesus who's always supposed to hear us when we pray, to SHOW US THE MONEY - BE OUR AMBASSADOR OF QUAN! (yes, I like Jerry McGuire). And guess what? In a matter of moments, everything cleared. She was able to lift her head off the pillow and resume life. I don't know if that's ever happened to me or us before. But I believe it did because of a man movement.
Later the next morning, the second "B" in B&B was enjoyed with the only other couple staying at the inn. Turns out that he's a Mennonite pastor and she's a Mennonite pastor's wife. But she had on a blouse that showed cleavage and used the word "pissed" at the "B" table; no floor length skirts and bonnets here. My wife was immediately drawn to her for she emitted a very real and earthy spirituality for a pastor's wife; something seldom seen, but sorely needed. Like many pastors, Mennonite or not, Mr. enjoyed talking and really directing the conversation. I could sense that it would be a wonderful thing if the two ladies could talk uninterrupted; it would be a gift for my wife's heart. So, I moved. I threw out a few hand-tied "church" flies and the Mennonite trout rose and grabbed 'em. In nothing flat, I had the pastor telling me everything about his church, how many folks they have, what his leadership style is, etc., etc. I nodded at the appropriate times and said, "Hhmmnn" on occasion, asked for clarification several times, and maintained eye contact throughout. And all the while, I was very aware that my wife and the pissy-cleavaged Mennonite pastor's wife were having a heart-felt conversation, even sharing some tears together. And I believe it happened because of a man movement.
To take full credit for those movements would be what's called hubris. But flying too close to the sun always melts your wings and you fall into a forest and have to run naked back to the house banging your drum against waist-high foliage. But I can take some credit, for I believe the Spirit offered me the opportunity and the corresponding courage and unlike so many other times, this time I moved. Twice. And I'd swear the Father said, "Well done." Take a man moving in the mountains of Colorado and add it to a man moving in the urban hum of Chicago, join it with a man moving through the fog of Seattle coupled with a man moving even in the stifling heat of Arkansas and guess what you have? A men's movement. No, it ain't over; it's just gettin' moving.
I had the opportunity to "move" twice the last couple of days and by the grace of the One who keeps this world, I did. My wife and I were blessed to have a night away on Tuesday. My parents were in town and offered to keep the kids and no sooner had those words dropped from their lips than I scribbled our cell number on a post-it and the minivan blew out of the driveway. FFFRRREEEDDDOOOMMM! But real men know that freedom is always opposed - always. We found a beautiful B&B in the mountains and arranged to stay for the night. As we prepared for an evening together, my wife got a migraine-ish headache. No, not the "no-sex-tonight-bucko" thing; this was something that really floored her. Her desire was to have some time to read, we were going to sit out under the stars, drink some vino and do the sex-tonight-bucko thing. But she got really sick. As I saw my wife totally knocked out, I felt helpless, like a little boy who didn't know what to do. She said, "Please pray for me." And I moved. I prayed for and over her. And guess what? Nothing. Not a damn thing. In fact, it seemed to intensify. She lay there for a few more minutes, in tears at the prospect of losing sacred time to this, this... opposition. We've got three kids under the age of nine - we just don't get away that much for overnighters. And I moved. "I think we should pray again, Mer." She agreed. I prayed a second time, asking this Jesus who's always supposed to hear us when we pray, to SHOW US THE MONEY - BE OUR AMBASSADOR OF QUAN! (yes, I like Jerry McGuire). And guess what? In a matter of moments, everything cleared. She was able to lift her head off the pillow and resume life. I don't know if that's ever happened to me or us before. But I believe it did because of a man movement.
Later the next morning, the second "B" in B&B was enjoyed with the only other couple staying at the inn. Turns out that he's a Mennonite pastor and she's a Mennonite pastor's wife. But she had on a blouse that showed cleavage and used the word "pissed" at the "B" table; no floor length skirts and bonnets here. My wife was immediately drawn to her for she emitted a very real and earthy spirituality for a pastor's wife; something seldom seen, but sorely needed. Like many pastors, Mennonite or not, Mr. enjoyed talking and really directing the conversation. I could sense that it would be a wonderful thing if the two ladies could talk uninterrupted; it would be a gift for my wife's heart. So, I moved. I threw out a few hand-tied "church" flies and the Mennonite trout rose and grabbed 'em. In nothing flat, I had the pastor telling me everything about his church, how many folks they have, what his leadership style is, etc., etc. I nodded at the appropriate times and said, "Hhmmnn" on occasion, asked for clarification several times, and maintained eye contact throughout. And all the while, I was very aware that my wife and the pissy-cleavaged Mennonite pastor's wife were having a heart-felt conversation, even sharing some tears together. And I believe it happened because of a man movement.
To take full credit for those movements would be what's called hubris. But flying too close to the sun always melts your wings and you fall into a forest and have to run naked back to the house banging your drum against waist-high foliage. But I can take some credit, for I believe the Spirit offered me the opportunity and the corresponding courage and unlike so many other times, this time I moved. Twice. And I'd swear the Father said, "Well done." Take a man moving in the mountains of Colorado and add it to a man moving in the urban hum of Chicago, join it with a man moving through the fog of Seattle coupled with a man moving even in the stifling heat of Arkansas and guess what you have? A men's movement. No, it ain't over; it's just gettin' moving.
Maybe
"Even a devastated place is sacred. If we know what it once was, we may begin to understand what its possibilities are." - Emmet Gowin
I'm thinking of this quote in relation to people; people who are, have been, and will be "devastated." If we know what they once were, we may begin to understand what their possibilities are. And what were we all once? Children - that sacred region of the soul called childhood. There are those who pooh-pooh on looking back and trying to see into their lives as a child. Unfortunately, many of these people are Christians. They take the apostle Paul's words literally: "Forgetting what lies behind, and reaching forward to what lies ahead" (Phil. 3.13). But I don't believe that's how Paul intended his words to be taken. Forgetting what was back then may just be the quickest way to losing what might possibly be ahead. This literal rendering of Paul's words seems to place a prime value on being grown-up, having put away childish things, having moved on. But I'm afraid that taking this stance causes a literal rendering in the heart, for Jesus said something about becoming like a little child and if you couldn't...well, the kingdom might just be a pipe dream. In taking the childish out to the curb, we may have unknowingly included the childlike. Or maybe we did it knowingly, trying to press on. But we've lost it and now we don't know where we put it. We're devastated, hope-less, unable to look for possibilities. We may be older, but we're not wiser.
What was I as a child? Or at least younger than I am now? What was my wife as a little girl? What were my parents as kids, growing up in the depression? What was my boss as a dark-haired boy? There are people in my life right now that I'd consider devastated. Even me. How do I understand my childhood without tons of expensive therapy and lots of getaway weekends where I sit and ponder my inner boy and books and tapes and seminars leading me down a reverse yellow brick road back to Kansas? Maybe I don't need all that, maybe. Maybe one of the many gifts of having children is being able to see first hand how a child's heart beats and if I'm attentive to that, maybe, just maybe, it can help me remember that sacred place in my life as well. I'm not advocating using my children in some manipulative way so that I can achieve something. I'm advocating paying attention to these precious ones, so fresh from God. And in the process, maybe I can remember what I once was and reach forward to what I might be. Any maybe I can relate to other people in this way as well - my wife, parents, friends, employers, bastards in traffic, etc. What were we once? You know, back when...when the world still had dew on it? Let the little children come, for as such is the kingdom of heaven.
I'm thinking of this quote in relation to people; people who are, have been, and will be "devastated." If we know what they once were, we may begin to understand what their possibilities are. And what were we all once? Children - that sacred region of the soul called childhood. There are those who pooh-pooh on looking back and trying to see into their lives as a child. Unfortunately, many of these people are Christians. They take the apostle Paul's words literally: "Forgetting what lies behind, and reaching forward to what lies ahead" (Phil. 3.13). But I don't believe that's how Paul intended his words to be taken. Forgetting what was back then may just be the quickest way to losing what might possibly be ahead. This literal rendering of Paul's words seems to place a prime value on being grown-up, having put away childish things, having moved on. But I'm afraid that taking this stance causes a literal rendering in the heart, for Jesus said something about becoming like a little child and if you couldn't...well, the kingdom might just be a pipe dream. In taking the childish out to the curb, we may have unknowingly included the childlike. Or maybe we did it knowingly, trying to press on. But we've lost it and now we don't know where we put it. We're devastated, hope-less, unable to look for possibilities. We may be older, but we're not wiser.
What was I as a child? Or at least younger than I am now? What was my wife as a little girl? What were my parents as kids, growing up in the depression? What was my boss as a dark-haired boy? There are people in my life right now that I'd consider devastated. Even me. How do I understand my childhood without tons of expensive therapy and lots of getaway weekends where I sit and ponder my inner boy and books and tapes and seminars leading me down a reverse yellow brick road back to Kansas? Maybe I don't need all that, maybe. Maybe one of the many gifts of having children is being able to see first hand how a child's heart beats and if I'm attentive to that, maybe, just maybe, it can help me remember that sacred place in my life as well. I'm not advocating using my children in some manipulative way so that I can achieve something. I'm advocating paying attention to these precious ones, so fresh from God. And in the process, maybe I can remember what I once was and reach forward to what I might be. Any maybe I can relate to other people in this way as well - my wife, parents, friends, employers, bastards in traffic, etc. What were we once? You know, back when...when the world still had dew on it? Let the little children come, for as such is the kingdom of heaven.
Sabbath
Sunday morning comin' down. I promised myself that today would be a Sabbath. Really. Last week, I worked all day Sunday; writing, mowing. Started the week on Monday so damn tired I could hardly make it. Lived most of the week half-assed. And I believe it was all because I didn't rest on Sunday. I've tried to do Sabbaths on other weekdays, back when I was a pastor. But there's something about Sunday that I believe is special; it's intended to be the day of rest - Tuesdays just aren't the same.
So I'm going to rest today. I'm going in to church for awhile, reconnect with folks and God. Communion is very significant to me these days; I try not to miss it. The sermon might be mediocre, but I can dream while he's preaching. This afternoon? Well, maybe a little writing, just because I'm so far behind in a project, but I won't sit all afternoon long, looking at a screen, while my heart grows weary. I won't. I can't. Maybe I can take a nap this afternoon. Napping - what a forgotten art. One of my most favorite men in the world takes a nap every day after lunch - every day. He's one of the most productive souls on the planet. People know not to bother him between 12:30 and 1pm; he's napping. Sabbathing, I guess; even on Tuesdays.
The line from the movie I watched (half-watched) last night was, "Life in every breath." That's how I want to live today, savoring life in everything from my cup of coffee (I'm on number two now) to the lean-in to take communion wine to the roughhousing with my kids this afternoon to the holding of hands around the dinner table while we say grace to the now I lay me down to sleep at day's end. Life in every breath. Hard? Goodness, yes. Worth it? Goodness, yes. I think I'll go read the paper before showering up for the day. See what's going on in the world, see if somebody, somewhere out there is savoring life in every breath. Maybe there's one. Just one. I think Abraham Heschel, or however you spell his last name, said something about the Sabbath being a sanctuary in time. He's the guy who wrote the book on why bad things happen to good people. Maybe it's because they don't Sabbath; they don't rest enough. Maybe these good people, like me, wind up starting many Mondays half-assed and the fraction goes down as the week goes on. By Friday, we're one-eighth-assed; can't do much good with that, huh? We just keep dipping from the well, assured it will never run dry. But it does. Sabbaths are days to get your ass filled back up or your heart or your soul or maybe I'm talking about the same thing, just different names. It's a safe place to get your fraction back up to 1 again; a "whole" number. That's what I want today - to be filled back up, made whole, or at least get close to 3/4 or 7/8 or something. Taking life in every breath is probably the way to fill back up. If you took it in every breath, why hell, you might go beyond 1 - you might start a Monday with 1 and 4/5 or 2 and 1/3. That'd be starting your week out at a trot. Yes, I'm going to Sabbath today. Don't call me; I'm not going to answer the phone. And if you see me breathing funny, it's because I'm trying to take in life, in every breath, in every step. Live fully alive. Forgive me, Father, for breaking the commandment to keep the Sabbath. You knew I needed it.
So I'm going to rest today. I'm going in to church for awhile, reconnect with folks and God. Communion is very significant to me these days; I try not to miss it. The sermon might be mediocre, but I can dream while he's preaching. This afternoon? Well, maybe a little writing, just because I'm so far behind in a project, but I won't sit all afternoon long, looking at a screen, while my heart grows weary. I won't. I can't. Maybe I can take a nap this afternoon. Napping - what a forgotten art. One of my most favorite men in the world takes a nap every day after lunch - every day. He's one of the most productive souls on the planet. People know not to bother him between 12:30 and 1pm; he's napping. Sabbathing, I guess; even on Tuesdays.
The line from the movie I watched (half-watched) last night was, "Life in every breath." That's how I want to live today, savoring life in everything from my cup of coffee (I'm on number two now) to the lean-in to take communion wine to the roughhousing with my kids this afternoon to the holding of hands around the dinner table while we say grace to the now I lay me down to sleep at day's end. Life in every breath. Hard? Goodness, yes. Worth it? Goodness, yes. I think I'll go read the paper before showering up for the day. See what's going on in the world, see if somebody, somewhere out there is savoring life in every breath. Maybe there's one. Just one. I think Abraham Heschel, or however you spell his last name, said something about the Sabbath being a sanctuary in time. He's the guy who wrote the book on why bad things happen to good people. Maybe it's because they don't Sabbath; they don't rest enough. Maybe these good people, like me, wind up starting many Mondays half-assed and the fraction goes down as the week goes on. By Friday, we're one-eighth-assed; can't do much good with that, huh? We just keep dipping from the well, assured it will never run dry. But it does. Sabbaths are days to get your ass filled back up or your heart or your soul or maybe I'm talking about the same thing, just different names. It's a safe place to get your fraction back up to 1 again; a "whole" number. That's what I want today - to be filled back up, made whole, or at least get close to 3/4 or 7/8 or something. Taking life in every breath is probably the way to fill back up. If you took it in every breath, why hell, you might go beyond 1 - you might start a Monday with 1 and 4/5 or 2 and 1/3. That'd be starting your week out at a trot. Yes, I'm going to Sabbath today. Don't call me; I'm not going to answer the phone. And if you see me breathing funny, it's because I'm trying to take in life, in every breath, in every step. Live fully alive. Forgive me, Father, for breaking the commandment to keep the Sabbath. You knew I needed it.
To Church or Not To Church
These are tense days for me in regard to the church. I was given two books recently that describe this tension; their titles do, at least. The first is Loving the Church by Larry McKain. The second is Leaving the Church by Barbara Brown Taylor. Larry is a Nazarene pastor, now involved in helping people, well, love the church via a non-profit focused on pastors, churches, denominations, etc. Barbara was an Episcopal priest who finally said, "Enough" and now lives on a farm in Georgia and teaches at a nearby college. Larry's book was given to me because I've been contracted to write weekly devotional thoughts based on his book for his non-prof's website. Barbara's was given to me by a trusted friend who knows that I'm struggling with the thought of pursuing ordination in the Anglican church; in other words, getting back on the horse in a certain kind of pasture. I dismounted a few years ago...but that's another blog.
Larry's premise is based on the scriptural exchange between the Lord and Saul on the exit ramp to Damascus. Saul is asked why he's persecuting the Lord. And we know that Saul was persecuting the church at that time. So the connection between the two is made: Lord = church. Therefore, to love the Lord is to love the church. Problem: the earthly church is full of idiots and power-mongers and folks who spend way too much time reading the book of Revelation. Larry's response: Don't say you love the Lord and not try, at least, to love the church. That's the only hope we have. The church will always be a goofy place, but that's who Christ died to save. Don't say you love God, whom you have not seen, and not love the church, whom you can see. Fair enough and scriptural.
Barbara's experience is based on years of pastoring, preaching and counseling. Some would dismiss her immediately because she's a she and "women are not to be pastoring anyway," they'd dismiss. That's unfortunate, because doing so would cause you to miss a very moving and human document, full of genuine love for the church; but alas, finally having to leave a certain definition of the church. Here's two of many "keeper" quotes:
"I wanted out of the belief business and back into the beholding business. I wanted to recover the kind of faith that has nothing to do with being sure what I believe and everything to do with trusting God to catch me though I am not sure of anything."
"What if people were invited to come tell what they already know of God instead of to learn what they were supposed to believe? What if they were blessed for what they are doing in the world instead of being chastened for not doing more at church? What if church felt more like a way station than a destination? What if the church's job were to move people out the door instead of trying to keep them in, by convincing them that God needed them more in the world than in the church?"
I read Larry's. I resonated with Barbara's. But is there a middle here, some kind of loving the church without leaving the church scenario? Or is it either/or? I've heard Larry's viewpoint before; what some would think groundbreaking has been around for years. I've read Barbara's heart before; in fact, I could probably have written most of her book. But I don't want to vote too quickly. Two books given to me with two different perspectives, both focused on one word - CHURCH. And I feel that's where the rub is: How do you define church? Stayed tuned for the next episode, same blog page, same web address.
Larry's premise is based on the scriptural exchange between the Lord and Saul on the exit ramp to Damascus. Saul is asked why he's persecuting the Lord. And we know that Saul was persecuting the church at that time. So the connection between the two is made: Lord = church. Therefore, to love the Lord is to love the church. Problem: the earthly church is full of idiots and power-mongers and folks who spend way too much time reading the book of Revelation. Larry's response: Don't say you love the Lord and not try, at least, to love the church. That's the only hope we have. The church will always be a goofy place, but that's who Christ died to save. Don't say you love God, whom you have not seen, and not love the church, whom you can see. Fair enough and scriptural.
Barbara's experience is based on years of pastoring, preaching and counseling. Some would dismiss her immediately because she's a she and "women are not to be pastoring anyway," they'd dismiss. That's unfortunate, because doing so would cause you to miss a very moving and human document, full of genuine love for the church; but alas, finally having to leave a certain definition of the church. Here's two of many "keeper" quotes:
"I wanted out of the belief business and back into the beholding business. I wanted to recover the kind of faith that has nothing to do with being sure what I believe and everything to do with trusting God to catch me though I am not sure of anything."
"What if people were invited to come tell what they already know of God instead of to learn what they were supposed to believe? What if they were blessed for what they are doing in the world instead of being chastened for not doing more at church? What if church felt more like a way station than a destination? What if the church's job were to move people out the door instead of trying to keep them in, by convincing them that God needed them more in the world than in the church?"
I read Larry's. I resonated with Barbara's. But is there a middle here, some kind of loving the church without leaving the church scenario? Or is it either/or? I've heard Larry's viewpoint before; what some would think groundbreaking has been around for years. I've read Barbara's heart before; in fact, I could probably have written most of her book. But I don't want to vote too quickly. Two books given to me with two different perspectives, both focused on one word - CHURCH. And I feel that's where the rub is: How do you define church? Stayed tuned for the next episode, same blog page, same web address.
All In A Song
Twenty-fifth day of the month, morning reading, "LIFE" section sidebar of the Denver Post:
TOP TUNES - Here are top song downloads last week (billboard.com):
1. Promiscuous, Nelly Furtado and Timbaland
2. Crazy, Gnarls Barkley
3. Hips Don't Lie, Shakira with Wyclef Jean
4. Ain't No Other Man, Christina Aguilera
Twenty-fifth day of the month, morning reading, The Book of Common Prayer:
"Your statutes have been like songs to me wherever I have lived as a stranger." Ps.119.54
The core of Psalm 119 is LIFE - life that comes from God and God's decrees, commandments, statutes and words - or as the Psalmist calls them, "songs." The songs are what keeps the life alive, keeps the rhythm and beat going. I wonder what would happen if I downloaded the spirit of Psalm 119 into the top song downloads from last week...
I don't know who Nelly Furtado is or even what a Timbaland is, but my download would speak to promiscuity and the ripples it causes. The life that God sings is a song about faithfulness, fidelity, commitment. Something along the lines of Dolly Parton singing, "Eeeyyyeee, will always love you." Promiscuity might be fun for a night or a weekend, but we're talking about something that can carry you for LIFE, the long haul, all four verses of the songs. And promiscuity runs out. Quick. And maybe Gnarls Barkley has a substantive message in "Crazy" (I'll try and listen sometime - maybe); but maybe he doesn't. I say "he" because I'm not sure how to gender ole' Gnarls; the name sounds like an angry dog. But maybe Gnarls would think my download crazy, that promiscuity is full of life and faithfulness is old and stale and boring. But if the people or places that I've pledged faithfulness to have become stale and boring, then it's a red flag that I've lost my sense of WONDER - definitely a "crazy" way to try and live life. Patsy Cline sang about being "crazy" for the long haul, in an over the river and through the woods kind of way; and she didn't gnarl or bark at all. Shakira is no doubt telling me "Hips Don't Lie" whilst shakiring her own; I don't know what Wyclef Jean is doing. Maybe she's there to say, "Amen. Hip it sister." But if you're taking your LIFE cues from someone's hips and the truthfulness or lack of in those hips, then your gaze has fallen a little low. Better listen to Peter Gabriel sing "In Your Eyes" and focus on the windows of the soul and the truth that is always there. I've seen some pretty lying hips before, promising the universe; but the eyes attached to those hips knew the offer was empty, devoid of LIFE. I'm fairly sure I saw Christina Aguilera on a magazine cover once in some buckskin lingerie, looking like Pocahontas in heat. She sure was surrounded by a whole bunch of other men to be singing "Ain't No Other Man." I'd say the guy believing that one is a first class sucker. The song title is one that promises fidelity; however, this is one of those times when Shakira knows of what she sings - hips don't lie and Christina's are giving us the kind of "Crazy" Orwellian double-speak that our culture seems to believe is LIFE. At least according to billboard.com. I'm not sure Tammy always did it, but when the Why-nette sang, "Stand By Your Man" I believed her; still do. For better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health - words of promise, not promiscuity. Words that are really CRAZY if you really think about them. Words that stand by the hips when they don't shake anymore, the breasts when they sag, the tire when it inflates beyond the recommended psi, the hair when it grays, and the knees when they give out. Words from the mouth that match the ways of the body, being as faithful in your buckskin as you are in your vocals. There's only one letter's difference between LIFE and LIE. Oh, be careful little pods what you load...
TOP TUNES - Here are top song downloads last week (billboard.com):
1. Promiscuous, Nelly Furtado and Timbaland
2. Crazy, Gnarls Barkley
3. Hips Don't Lie, Shakira with Wyclef Jean
4. Ain't No Other Man, Christina Aguilera
Twenty-fifth day of the month, morning reading, The Book of Common Prayer:
"Your statutes have been like songs to me wherever I have lived as a stranger." Ps.119.54
The core of Psalm 119 is LIFE - life that comes from God and God's decrees, commandments, statutes and words - or as the Psalmist calls them, "songs." The songs are what keeps the life alive, keeps the rhythm and beat going. I wonder what would happen if I downloaded the spirit of Psalm 119 into the top song downloads from last week...
I don't know who Nelly Furtado is or even what a Timbaland is, but my download would speak to promiscuity and the ripples it causes. The life that God sings is a song about faithfulness, fidelity, commitment. Something along the lines of Dolly Parton singing, "Eeeyyyeee, will always love you." Promiscuity might be fun for a night or a weekend, but we're talking about something that can carry you for LIFE, the long haul, all four verses of the songs. And promiscuity runs out. Quick. And maybe Gnarls Barkley has a substantive message in "Crazy" (I'll try and listen sometime - maybe); but maybe he doesn't. I say "he" because I'm not sure how to gender ole' Gnarls; the name sounds like an angry dog. But maybe Gnarls would think my download crazy, that promiscuity is full of life and faithfulness is old and stale and boring. But if the people or places that I've pledged faithfulness to have become stale and boring, then it's a red flag that I've lost my sense of WONDER - definitely a "crazy" way to try and live life. Patsy Cline sang about being "crazy" for the long haul, in an over the river and through the woods kind of way; and she didn't gnarl or bark at all. Shakira is no doubt telling me "Hips Don't Lie" whilst shakiring her own; I don't know what Wyclef Jean is doing. Maybe she's there to say, "Amen. Hip it sister." But if you're taking your LIFE cues from someone's hips and the truthfulness or lack of in those hips, then your gaze has fallen a little low. Better listen to Peter Gabriel sing "In Your Eyes" and focus on the windows of the soul and the truth that is always there. I've seen some pretty lying hips before, promising the universe; but the eyes attached to those hips knew the offer was empty, devoid of LIFE. I'm fairly sure I saw Christina Aguilera on a magazine cover once in some buckskin lingerie, looking like Pocahontas in heat. She sure was surrounded by a whole bunch of other men to be singing "Ain't No Other Man." I'd say the guy believing that one is a first class sucker. The song title is one that promises fidelity; however, this is one of those times when Shakira knows of what she sings - hips don't lie and Christina's are giving us the kind of "Crazy" Orwellian double-speak that our culture seems to believe is LIFE. At least according to billboard.com. I'm not sure Tammy always did it, but when the Why-nette sang, "Stand By Your Man" I believed her; still do. For better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health - words of promise, not promiscuity. Words that are really CRAZY if you really think about them. Words that stand by the hips when they don't shake anymore, the breasts when they sag, the tire when it inflates beyond the recommended psi, the hair when it grays, and the knees when they give out. Words from the mouth that match the ways of the body, being as faithful in your buckskin as you are in your vocals. There's only one letter's difference between LIFE and LIE. Oh, be careful little pods what you load...
Somewhere In Time
Well, we got in to see the dentist this week and he successfully pulled my son's tooth. The dental assistant was very compassionate and sensitive and Will (premedicated this time) did fantastic. After the extraction, he remained on the dental chair for a few moments breathing pure oxygen, instead of the extraction mix. I could tell he was really woozy. The assistant informed me that I might have to carry him out - "happens all the time" she said. Mr. Dentist said, "O.k. See you guys next time" and Will began getting up out of the chair; however, what was slowly getting up began rapidly going down. I moved in to stabilize him and swooped him up in my arms and carried him out to the van. He's almost too big for me to carry - almost; I will not go gentle in that mediocre night of my son growing up. As I held him in my arms, his head was on my shoulder and his eyes were shut. And I was suddenly lost in memory...
About thirty years ago, in a small East Texas town, a dad and his son were in the doctor's office. The son was scheduled for a shot that day, probably tetanus or something, for those were days of barefeet and glass and rusty nails. The shot was given and ample time for the son to regain his legs was taken. The sun was unveiled that afternoon, bright and hot. Dad held the door open for me and I stepped out into the bright and then everything went dark. The only sensation was that of falling, rapidly. I remember coming to in the arms of my dad as he carried me, almost too big for him, back to the car and safely home. Although I don't remember seeing it, I do remember feeling swooped up into my dad's arms; arms of strength and safety and compassion and determination. I imagine his arms raged as well against the dying of the light of my boyhood; against a son becoming more than his dad could handle. But on that hot afternoon in Naples, Texas, my dad was my hero. I put my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes, safe.
Little did I know that moment in time would revisit me; different details, same love. How I wished that walk to the van the other afternoon would've lasted; why couldn't that distance have been miles instead of moments? Too fast, too soon. But for that moment, I was his hero and he was my boy, head on my shoulder, eyes closed, and safe. Me? I kept my eyes open, trying to take in as much of the light of that moment as I fatherly could. Rage, rage, against the dying of the light...
About thirty years ago, in a small East Texas town, a dad and his son were in the doctor's office. The son was scheduled for a shot that day, probably tetanus or something, for those were days of barefeet and glass and rusty nails. The shot was given and ample time for the son to regain his legs was taken. The sun was unveiled that afternoon, bright and hot. Dad held the door open for me and I stepped out into the bright and then everything went dark. The only sensation was that of falling, rapidly. I remember coming to in the arms of my dad as he carried me, almost too big for him, back to the car and safely home. Although I don't remember seeing it, I do remember feeling swooped up into my dad's arms; arms of strength and safety and compassion and determination. I imagine his arms raged as well against the dying of the light of my boyhood; against a son becoming more than his dad could handle. But on that hot afternoon in Naples, Texas, my dad was my hero. I put my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes, safe.
Little did I know that moment in time would revisit me; different details, same love. How I wished that walk to the van the other afternoon would've lasted; why couldn't that distance have been miles instead of moments? Too fast, too soon. But for that moment, I was his hero and he was my boy, head on my shoulder, eyes closed, and safe. Me? I kept my eyes open, trying to take in as much of the light of that moment as I fatherly could. Rage, rage, against the dying of the light...
Rhythm
My wrist-alarm went off this morning at 5:01. I snoozed for 10 minutes, just letting the morning "simmer" a little (a tip from Sam Keen). Then it's off to the kitchen while the children and wife are still snuggled in bed. Sit down at the kitchen table for some water and energy bar and thank God for the chance to try again. The energy bar is heavy stuff, filled with some Melaluca-super-duper vitamins and minerals and such; it's takes two glasses of water to get it down. Then it's off to the holy of holies for some sit-down, devotional time. Nothing base about that; it's something as regular as the rising of the sun. The Mela-bar needs about fifteen minutes to settle in, so I've got time to sit and think. I rise lighter, happier. I think I'm tired. Change clothes, like some long-haired Mister Rogers, replacing bedtime boxers for wicking t-shirt, running shorts and socks, and trail shoes. Downstairs to the treadmill this morning (I run trails on the weekends). I approach the NordicTrac 2000, step on, adjust the settings, and begin the slow warm-up. I love running. Today is speed day. I run three times a week, one day for strength (hills), one day for speed (all out fast), and one day outside on the trail for distance. I figure this gives me a rounded workout for the ole' heart. Each run is followed up by some weights, Bowflex, or dips and chin-ups on one of those power-tower doohickeys. Keeping exercise at three days a week is a limiting-discipline for me. I could do it everyday and used to; but there are other things to do these days, other people to care for, other things more important than big biceps or cannonball calves or six-minute miles. Thank God.
I feel strong this morning. I bet I could run for hours. My breathing assumes a rhythm that my body recognizes (hey, we do this three times a week) and the sweat begins to form. Before long, my body is running by itself. The rhythm has been established and the legs, heart and arms are doing the work. My mind is thinking about books I want to write, editors I hope I can find, and publishers with the brass to publish what is most dear to me. I consider that prayer. My eyes aren't closed (fairly dangerous on a treadmill) and my head's not bowed, but I'm bringing to the surface the people, places and things I love and I lift those thoughts to the Grace that keeps this world. I run/pray a little for my friends seeking adoption. I pray/run for my wife and three kids. I run for a man who's about to jump into the unknown, leaving his job and life as he has known life. I run and run and run. See John run. See John pray. See John run for strength, speed and distance. See John pray for hope, faith and love. I bet I could pray for hours...I think it was that Chariots of Fire guy who said he felt God's pleasure when he ran. Yeah. I know what he meant.
I feel strong this morning. I bet I could run for hours. My breathing assumes a rhythm that my body recognizes (hey, we do this three times a week) and the sweat begins to form. Before long, my body is running by itself. The rhythm has been established and the legs, heart and arms are doing the work. My mind is thinking about books I want to write, editors I hope I can find, and publishers with the brass to publish what is most dear to me. I consider that prayer. My eyes aren't closed (fairly dangerous on a treadmill) and my head's not bowed, but I'm bringing to the surface the people, places and things I love and I lift those thoughts to the Grace that keeps this world. I run/pray a little for my friends seeking adoption. I pray/run for my wife and three kids. I run for a man who's about to jump into the unknown, leaving his job and life as he has known life. I run and run and run. See John run. See John pray. See John run for strength, speed and distance. See John pray for hope, faith and love. I bet I could pray for hours...I think it was that Chariots of Fire guy who said he felt God's pleasure when he ran. Yeah. I know what he meant.
The Beast Within
My son was to have a tooth pulled yesterday. We scheduled it on a day when I was off because his mom doesn't do well with the dentist scene. We showed up and the assistant told us that it would be about a twenty minute wait - they were running behind. We looked at each other and said, "O.k. We'll wait." Well, we did - for almost forty-five. Will went through every kids magazine in the racks, I read (literally) an issue of National Geographic Traveler, and we listened as some dad seated next to us read the entire text of "Beauty and the Beast" (complete with voices and sound effects) to his daughter who was also WAITING to see the dentist. I'm all for "story" but by the time the beast became a man, I was about ready to send that dad to the Magic Kingdom for some one on one with the lost boys.
I could feel my son's anxiety growing exponentially after about thirty minutes. He was trying to be brave; he really was. The assistant finally came and escorted us into the room of extraction. I experienced her as really chatty, almost too chatty, almost like the tea cup from Beauty and the Beast. The dentist was going to use gas for the major sedative and so the assistant got the mask ready to put on Will. Well, I could see real quick that the mask was the straw that broke the waiting camel's back - he went ballistic on her. It was a new-fangled mask with two tiny tubes through which the gas was vented; the kicker was that the two tiny tubes were inserted into the two tiny nostrils of my anxious son. He began to cry and I moved in to try and comfort him, but the truth is that he was finished, through, stick-a-fork-in-me done. The assistant began a chatty assault on Will, trying to tap into his male sense of pride, but the spell was cast and my son had become a beast. My responses to her moved from initial pity to downright anger as she just kept yappin' - you know that nervous, chatty crap that people do when they realize their impotence in the moment? Well, the spell began to meander over to ole' dad. I began to feel like David Banner and instead of a Disney-esque beast, I sensed my eyes turning green and I swear my jeans were getting tight around my thighs (If I've lost you there, I referring to the Incredible Hulk). I wanted to grab my son out of the chair, fling my now-ripped-to-shreds-t-shirt at the dental ASSistant, run back through the waiting room, growl at Disney dad and tell him to grow a pair, and violently burst through the adobe fire exit. I could've run through side-streets with Will on my shoulders, cursing at Escalades and knocking down every political campaign sign I could. We would then have somehow made it home, where I would have put him on the front steps and retreated to the backyard where the reverse transformation would've taken place. And my family would've discovered me, shirtless, clinging to the fence, wondering what had happened.
But that's the fairy tale. The reality is we dried our tears - we tamed males, made an appointment to try again, and politely left through the front door. We got in the van and...well, how do you try and soothe a weepy beast? I allowed myself to become the beauty. If you've read Bly, I went copper instead of being iron. "It's o.k, bud. That would've freaked me out, too. We'll try again. It'll be o.k. I love you." Slowly, ever so slowly, on the drive home, the beast began to turn back into a boy - laughing, farting, and glad to be with dad. He stepped back into boy-dom and he's good, on the exterior. But there seemed to be some residual shame to that experience. And an overall feeling of femininity. I wonder...what if my son would have seen his dad go beastly? Conjure up the ole iron John and let him roar, if just for a few seconds, at how shitty the whole episode had been handled. Not start whacking off heads with the broadsword, but just raise it and let it glisten in the noonday sun. Chances are the "tea cup" would have runneth over and we'd have been asked to leave, toothache and all. Mr. Disney would've wet his pants and scooped up Tinkerbell and got the hell out of Dodge. But maybe my son and I could have felt strong together. And maybe the spell of the tooth would have lost it's power for a moment - maybe for good. Or maybe I would've scared the scooby-doo out of my son; revealed to him a dark side he's probably never seen before, but loves to see in comic book heroes. As it was, we left limpish, trying to reassure each other that next time would be different - that we'll be stronger, braver, wilder. I hope we can. I hope I can. After all, who wants to live happily ever after? I just want to live full-blooded and awake, right here, right now. But we gotta' get that tooth out...
I could feel my son's anxiety growing exponentially after about thirty minutes. He was trying to be brave; he really was. The assistant finally came and escorted us into the room of extraction. I experienced her as really chatty, almost too chatty, almost like the tea cup from Beauty and the Beast. The dentist was going to use gas for the major sedative and so the assistant got the mask ready to put on Will. Well, I could see real quick that the mask was the straw that broke the waiting camel's back - he went ballistic on her. It was a new-fangled mask with two tiny tubes through which the gas was vented; the kicker was that the two tiny tubes were inserted into the two tiny nostrils of my anxious son. He began to cry and I moved in to try and comfort him, but the truth is that he was finished, through, stick-a-fork-in-me done. The assistant began a chatty assault on Will, trying to tap into his male sense of pride, but the spell was cast and my son had become a beast. My responses to her moved from initial pity to downright anger as she just kept yappin' - you know that nervous, chatty crap that people do when they realize their impotence in the moment? Well, the spell began to meander over to ole' dad. I began to feel like David Banner and instead of a Disney-esque beast, I sensed my eyes turning green and I swear my jeans were getting tight around my thighs (If I've lost you there, I referring to the Incredible Hulk). I wanted to grab my son out of the chair, fling my now-ripped-to-shreds-t-shirt at the dental ASSistant, run back through the waiting room, growl at Disney dad and tell him to grow a pair, and violently burst through the adobe fire exit. I could've run through side-streets with Will on my shoulders, cursing at Escalades and knocking down every political campaign sign I could. We would then have somehow made it home, where I would have put him on the front steps and retreated to the backyard where the reverse transformation would've taken place. And my family would've discovered me, shirtless, clinging to the fence, wondering what had happened.
But that's the fairy tale. The reality is we dried our tears - we tamed males, made an appointment to try again, and politely left through the front door. We got in the van and...well, how do you try and soothe a weepy beast? I allowed myself to become the beauty. If you've read Bly, I went copper instead of being iron. "It's o.k, bud. That would've freaked me out, too. We'll try again. It'll be o.k. I love you." Slowly, ever so slowly, on the drive home, the beast began to turn back into a boy - laughing, farting, and glad to be with dad. He stepped back into boy-dom and he's good, on the exterior. But there seemed to be some residual shame to that experience. And an overall feeling of femininity. I wonder...what if my son would have seen his dad go beastly? Conjure up the ole iron John and let him roar, if just for a few seconds, at how shitty the whole episode had been handled. Not start whacking off heads with the broadsword, but just raise it and let it glisten in the noonday sun. Chances are the "tea cup" would have runneth over and we'd have been asked to leave, toothache and all. Mr. Disney would've wet his pants and scooped up Tinkerbell and got the hell out of Dodge. But maybe my son and I could have felt strong together. And maybe the spell of the tooth would have lost it's power for a moment - maybe for good. Or maybe I would've scared the scooby-doo out of my son; revealed to him a dark side he's probably never seen before, but loves to see in comic book heroes. As it was, we left limpish, trying to reassure each other that next time would be different - that we'll be stronger, braver, wilder. I hope we can. I hope I can. After all, who wants to live happily ever after? I just want to live full-blooded and awake, right here, right now. But we gotta' get that tooth out...
Perchance to Dream
The "said author" from the last post was Eugene Peterson. Peterson translated the Bible into contemporary English about fifteen years ago in the form of The Message Bible. It's good stuff - it really is. He's also written several books that I've truly enjoyed, many of them dealing with issues specific to being a pastor. You may not be a pastor (probably just cause to say, "Hallelujah!"), but you may have a pastor or know of one or make fun of one on t.v. or something.
Mr. Peterson addressed a large audience that morning and ended the time with some q&a. I posed a question about pastors being poets and artists and wondered if he felt there was an openness to that on the part of most pastors/preachers, etc. He agreed with me that pastors should be poets, but felt like there was NOT an openness to that. And unfortunately, he felt, after many years of advocating just such a mind/heart-set, that he had not made much of an impact on pastors. As we adjourned to lunch a few minutes later, I asked him what's the best thing a pastor can be doing. His answer - "Read poetry and read novels." Of all the things this learn-ed man of 75 years could have said, but he chose the answer, "Read poetry and read novels."
Now you may be wondering, or you may not but you know a pastor who might wonder, or you may make fun of a pastor who might be wondering, "Why read poetry and novels?" Allow Peterson to speak again: "Because they teach you the language of intimacy. Most everything else is either informational or motivational; nothing wrong necessarily with those, but they are NOT the language of faith." I'm considering starting a school for pastors, or maybe a weekend retreat for preachers, where we do nothing BUT read poetry and novels. But I'm afraid most pastors might consider it a waste of time. Come to think of it, most people who have a pastor or make fun of pastors, would probably consider that a waste of time - and there's the rub. But what a dream - gathering pastors from all over the lower 48 in a lodge somewhere with huge, open decks and lots of windows and giving them headlamps and travel mugs full of Henry's Blend and passing out copies of Peace Like a River or Gilead or Plainsong or The River Why or Of Mice and Men or big bundles of Rumi, Rilke or Bly or Oliver or Keats or Whyte or Levertov. When these pastors would ask what the agenda (common word among pastors) was for the weekend, I'd say, "Just go read. Take a break and then read some more. Get some sleep and read yet again." After they'd read a little, for most pastors are fairly passive at the first, they'd probably say, "How is this going to benefit me and growing my church (another common phrase among pastors)?" And I'd say, "Well, if you read Gilead, like I told you to, then you would have come across this passage: 'This is an important thing, which I have told many people and which my father told me, and which his father told him. When you encounter another person, when you have dealings with anyone at all, it is as if a question is being put to you. So you must think, What is the Lord asking of me in this moment, in this situation?' Or maybe a little further down the page you should have read this: 'Calvin says somewhere that each of us is an actor on a stage and God is the audience. That metaphor has always interested me, because it makes us artists of our own behavior, and the reaction of God to us might be thought of as aesthetic rather than morally judgmental in the ordinary sense.'"
Most of them would probably say, "What do I do with that stuff?" And I'd begin to cry. But there might be four or three or two - or maybe just one who would begin to cry as well and as he left, he'd pick up all the copies of Gilead that the others had left on the floor, and he'd take those copies back to his congregation and they'd spend Sunday nights reading aloud to each other and learning about intimacy and themselves and God. And after they finished Gilead, he'd pull out Oliver and they'd wrestle with the angel of poetry and not let go until it has blessed them, for they didn't "want to end up simply having visited this world." And that might be a pastor you might like to have. You wouldn't make fun of him though because you'd know he was a real pastor. And that's a rare thing.
Whatcha' Need
I had the privilege of meeting an admired author yesterday. I've wanted to meet him for some time and he was in town for some meetings. A friend I know invited me to an intimate luncheon, of which said author was the guest. It was really a pleasure. He was exactly how I imagined him - quiet, listening, wise and gracious. I asked him a few questions and he readily answered them, complete with smiles and eye contact. I tried hard not to weigh down the moment with author envy or any of the other common sins of us wanna-bees. I went into the day really believing that my lunch experience would be all about this gentleman; however, it wasn't...
Our lunch table arrangement was less than desirable. The U-shape of the tables left me about four people removed from the author, sitting beside an editor I had met once before. Out of person-seated-next-to-you-courtesy, we began talking about books, writing, faith and melancholy. And what began as courtesy quickly transformed into delight. Said editor is quiet, listening, wise and as I quickly discovered, gracious. He doesn't have the name recognition of the author, but interestingly enough, he edited many of the author's books. I ended up lobbing a few questions at the author just to justify my presence at the luncheon; my real desire was to keep talking with this editor. Funny, isn't it? You wait for something for a long time, and then discover it's not about that thing but something else. I think brother Mick articulated it best: "You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need."
The trick is being able to realize this in the moment and be graced by an editor or who or whatever else the moment is really about. I could have spent the rest of the day ticked off because I got a crappy seat by an editor, for Pete's sake. But thanks to the Grace that keeps this world, my heart happened to be open that afternoon - open enough to see what...or who was right beside me. I think brother Merton articulated this best: "My chief care...my one desire and my one joy should be to know: 'Here is the thing that God has willed for me. In this His love is found, and in accepting this I can give back His love to Him and give myself with it to Him.'"
Our lunch table arrangement was less than desirable. The U-shape of the tables left me about four people removed from the author, sitting beside an editor I had met once before. Out of person-seated-next-to-you-courtesy, we began talking about books, writing, faith and melancholy. And what began as courtesy quickly transformed into delight. Said editor is quiet, listening, wise and as I quickly discovered, gracious. He doesn't have the name recognition of the author, but interestingly enough, he edited many of the author's books. I ended up lobbing a few questions at the author just to justify my presence at the luncheon; my real desire was to keep talking with this editor. Funny, isn't it? You wait for something for a long time, and then discover it's not about that thing but something else. I think brother Mick articulated it best: "You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need."
The trick is being able to realize this in the moment and be graced by an editor or who or whatever else the moment is really about. I could have spent the rest of the day ticked off because I got a crappy seat by an editor, for Pete's sake. But thanks to the Grace that keeps this world, my heart happened to be open that afternoon - open enough to see what...or who was right beside me. I think brother Merton articulated this best: "My chief care...my one desire and my one joy should be to know: 'Here is the thing that God has willed for me. In this His love is found, and in accepting this I can give back His love to Him and give myself with it to Him.'"
Yeti Sighting
Our family just returned from a week of recreating ourselves in Estes Park, CO. It is easily one of our favorite spots in the state. This is a photo of my son, Will, and the oft-elusive mountain Yeti (me). Much is captured in this photo: our smiles (common fare when we're in the mountains), beautiful backdrops (this one is Sprague Lake in Rocky Mtn. Natl. Park), shorts and fleece (warm days and nipply nights), and being close to family (the Yeti sprang from behind a Ponderosa Pine and grabbed Will, eliciting a smile from a 9-year old boy that's worth it's weight in gold). We had a good week and hope to live there some day...seriously.
There's nothing like coming over the rise and seeing Estes Park sitting quietly down in the valley, with Longs Peak before you and the Stanley Hotel (remember The Shining?) off to your left. Or peeking out before sunrise and seeing elk grazing beside your minivan. Or eating ice cream cones every evening after dinner for four days straight; not small, mannerly cones mind you, but large, mountainous scoops of chocolate in a sugar cone that drip all over your fingers so you have to wipe them on your shirt or pants. Or leisurely simmering in the morning with a cup of Seattle's Best and the novel Gilead (two thumbs way up) and wool socks. Or hiking with three kids a mile and a half route up to Alberta Falls and hopefully helping them to see that to experience beauty, sometimes you've got to hike for it or fight for it or suck it up, buttercup. Or buying your wife a turquoise cross for your 16th wedding anniversary and seeing her wear it around her neck and truly realizing her love affair with this western place of rock and snow and turquoise and moose. And Yeti.
Million-Dollar Question
I was given a tract today at work; some guy just handed it to me as he passed. I guess he thought I looked reprobate or something. Although I hope not, you may have seen this one - it is in the form of a million dollar bill, plenty of zeros and Ronald Reagan's picture on it. Flip it over and the backside has these words around the perimeter: "The million dollar question: Will you go to Heaven? Here's a quick test. Have you ever told a lie, stolen anything, or used God's name in vain? Jesus said, 'Whoever looks at a woman to lust for her has already committed adultery with her in his heart'...Please repent (turn from sin) today and trust Jesus, and God will grant you everlasting life. Then read your Bible daily and obey it.'"
It was funny because after I read the million dollar question and the million dollar answer, I immediately went and devoured two Wisconsin brats baptized in hot mustard, fudged the truth to a co-worker, and had a lustful thought. Or two.
I wonder...is that really the million dollar question? "Will you go to Heaven?" David Whyte has a poem that begins with these lines: "I don't care if there is one god or many gods; I want to know if you belong or if you feel abandoned." ****You could get bogged down in that first phrase about one god or many gods...but I'd lobby hard against that one - you'd miss the forest... The question that follows is priceless; in my opinion, quite possibly worth a million dollars or more: Do you belong or do you feel abandoned? Do you belong? Or do you feel abandoned?
The poet is pushing us to look at a deeper question, one that cannot be printed around the perimeter of a gospel tract, but rather one that hides in the shadows of our hearts: Do you belong or do you feel abandoned? Is there a gut-level sense of belonging to this dark and bloody planet, welcomed by its grace and beauty, or do I live my life as one completely abandoned by all there is, adrift on a sea, always unmoored. Do I live with a feeling of being needed by this world, that somehow I matter to the humus I walk on, that my life counts, or I've a role to play in God's drama? Or am I a stranger to all that is; in Goethe's words, "a troubled guest"? Will I die one day (hopefully headed to heaven) with grief printed around the perimeter of my soul because this world is a place of breathtaking beauty or will I breathe my last lamenting the fact that "I had only visited" (Mary Oliver)?
I don't have a problem with the answers to the man's tract; but I do believe he's asking the wrong questions. And asking the wrong questions in this life will keep you "moving" (GO to heaven), but they won't allow you to stay for awhile, otherwise known as "belonging." Tract-man handed me his answers and "moved on" - I guess someone could say, "John, you were touched by an angel." Then again, I may have been handed a nicely apportioned tract from a well-meaning man who feels abandoned in this world; therefore, he has nothing to look forward to but the next - "brushed by a stranger." I wished he would've stayed awhile, sat down and visited with me, incarnated himself, belonged to the moment. I would've shared my brats and my shortcomings. But he didn't and I believe that kind of living is taking the Lord's name in vain. Maybe someday he'll repent (turn from sin), shed his shoes and realize he's on holy ground. But then again, maybe he'll just keep moving, handing out tracts, repeating the answers...and that'll be a goddamn shame. Do you belong? Or do you feel abandoned?
The Thin Blue Bird
I was listening to the poet David Whyte the other day talking of how thin the line is sometimes between this world and the next. The nuances of his talk hinted at just how quickly things can change...
I was helping my mother-in-law today in our yard. She is a gardener extraordinaire, whilst I am better suited for a patio home. Anyway, we were moving rocks - not smooth, river stones, but big, mountainous stones with heft and spiders living underneath them. I had muscled three of them on my own from the backyard to the front, keeping them close to my body, utilizing lifting skills I learned working as a grunt years ago at UPS. We debated on bringing the fourth around, something about landscaping being done in odd groupings instead of even. I insisted, feeling the pump of blood in my arms from the previous three and loving that feeling. This fourth stone was evidently the mother of the other three - rocker mater. I shifted it around, cleaning off all the spiders, and tried to lift it. Pretty damn heavy; too heavy, in fact, for the trek around to the front yard. I borrowed my kids' red wagon and got that momma up in the bed and began the pull to the flowerbed. All was well until I lifted it out (still all was well) and placed it beside the other three. In a split second of a nanosecond, the rocker mater shifted slightly and my middle finger, the "bird" got caught between a rock and a harder place. I pulled it out quicker than a duck on a junebug - but I had crossed that thin line between this world and the next, if only for a moment, and the rest of my day was changed. The bird turned every hue of blue in the 64 Crayola box and then began to swell and bleed. I had to sit down because I feared I might faint. That would have been a helluva sight - long haired hippy man asleep in the flower bed with his size 12 boots sticking out, looking like the dead Witch of the West, while the little Oz people (my kids) look on in wonder saying, "Mom, Dad's sticking the bad finger at us and saying badder words."
The rest of my day was one finger off. From typing (God save me from "d's") to buttoning Levis (where are those pull-on velour pants?) - I realized just how quickly things can change. How fingers can become swollen birds in the twinkling of an eye and a kid can step off a curb and be hit by a car. How a doctor can say, "Six months - tops" and a pink slip in your job-box is like a stake through the heart. Life going well, arms pumped full of blood, and the rocks beneath us, or in our hands, shift, and life is different; maybe for a day or maybe for a lifetime. The line is thin, but our pride tells us it's not. I will nurse my bird for a few months; there's no way he can fly anytime soon. In the meantime, I'll probably bump it on everything from wine corks to dipsticks. But when I grimace I will be reminded of the thin places, the clefts in the rock, where the soul and spiders hideth.
I was helping my mother-in-law today in our yard. She is a gardener extraordinaire, whilst I am better suited for a patio home. Anyway, we were moving rocks - not smooth, river stones, but big, mountainous stones with heft and spiders living underneath them. I had muscled three of them on my own from the backyard to the front, keeping them close to my body, utilizing lifting skills I learned working as a grunt years ago at UPS. We debated on bringing the fourth around, something about landscaping being done in odd groupings instead of even. I insisted, feeling the pump of blood in my arms from the previous three and loving that feeling. This fourth stone was evidently the mother of the other three - rocker mater. I shifted it around, cleaning off all the spiders, and tried to lift it. Pretty damn heavy; too heavy, in fact, for the trek around to the front yard. I borrowed my kids' red wagon and got that momma up in the bed and began the pull to the flowerbed. All was well until I lifted it out (still all was well) and placed it beside the other three. In a split second of a nanosecond, the rocker mater shifted slightly and my middle finger, the "bird" got caught between a rock and a harder place. I pulled it out quicker than a duck on a junebug - but I had crossed that thin line between this world and the next, if only for a moment, and the rest of my day was changed. The bird turned every hue of blue in the 64 Crayola box and then began to swell and bleed. I had to sit down because I feared I might faint. That would have been a helluva sight - long haired hippy man asleep in the flower bed with his size 12 boots sticking out, looking like the dead Witch of the West, while the little Oz people (my kids) look on in wonder saying, "Mom, Dad's sticking the bad finger at us and saying badder words."
The rest of my day was one finger off. From typing (God save me from "d's") to buttoning Levis (where are those pull-on velour pants?) - I realized just how quickly things can change. How fingers can become swollen birds in the twinkling of an eye and a kid can step off a curb and be hit by a car. How a doctor can say, "Six months - tops" and a pink slip in your job-box is like a stake through the heart. Life going well, arms pumped full of blood, and the rocks beneath us, or in our hands, shift, and life is different; maybe for a day or maybe for a lifetime. The line is thin, but our pride tells us it's not. I will nurse my bird for a few months; there's no way he can fly anytime soon. In the meantime, I'll probably bump it on everything from wine corks to dipsticks. But when I grimace I will be reminded of the thin places, the clefts in the rock, where the soul and spiders hideth.
Taste and see
"The Spirit of God whets our appetite by giving us a taste of what's ahead. He puts a little of heaven in our hearts so that we'll never settle for less." 2 Cor. 5.5
This is a verse from one of the Anglican readings for this coming Sunday. I've been asked to preach, so it's on my mind. Then again, it may be on the tip of my tongue. Or the palms of my hands. Possibly the balls of my feet. Maybe that'll make a little more sense if we keep going. The entire passage has an emphasis on the life yet to come - heaven, glory, over Jordan, Colorado, whatever you want to call it, o.k? And the surface reading seems to be that this life is a crapshoot and the good stuff is yet to come; however, first we've got to endure this vale of tears. I've no problem with that - I believe there's much truth there. But, if God is whetting our appetite by giving us a taste of what's ahead and He's putting a little of heaven in our hearts, where is that taking place? [Cut to the chase] I believe those heavenly appetizers are being served to us right here on earth in the realm of blood and bone and sinew and muscle and spit and pee and earwax. I mean, where else could it be happening? Some might answer, "Well, in the spirit." Forgive me, but I don't know what that means. That sounds very ethereal, quite other-worldly and just a little Gnostic; Gnostic, as in, secretive, as in, you have to have the secret handshake or know the secret DaVinci code to get in the "spirit."
So, maybe the challenge is for us to continually be attentive to the world inside and around us, because that's where these foretastes are occurring; in other words, via our senses. There's a wonderful phrase in the story of the prodigal son that the entire story turns on - "When he came to his senses..." What if that means not only his thoughts or reason, but it equally means his sight, smell, taste, hearing, and so on. Maybe being heavenly-minded means being earthly attentive? Not numbed to our senses, as many of us usually are, but truly awake and alive to what we're seeing or hearing or tasting. One writer referred to what we usually do as "unconscious Christianity" - not fully present. So many believers or people of faith I've met over the years are so uncomfortable with their bodies that the senses are totally shut down or cinched up tight in a girdle of some sort - spiritual, I'm sure. But what if God is trying to show us images, sing us songs or feed us meals of what's to come, but we continually miss them? The New Testament definition of "sin" is missing the mark - could the negation of the body and her senses be sinful? We usually think of it the other way around...More later.
This is a verse from one of the Anglican readings for this coming Sunday. I've been asked to preach, so it's on my mind. Then again, it may be on the tip of my tongue. Or the palms of my hands. Possibly the balls of my feet. Maybe that'll make a little more sense if we keep going. The entire passage has an emphasis on the life yet to come - heaven, glory, over Jordan, Colorado, whatever you want to call it, o.k? And the surface reading seems to be that this life is a crapshoot and the good stuff is yet to come; however, first we've got to endure this vale of tears. I've no problem with that - I believe there's much truth there. But, if God is whetting our appetite by giving us a taste of what's ahead and He's putting a little of heaven in our hearts, where is that taking place? [Cut to the chase] I believe those heavenly appetizers are being served to us right here on earth in the realm of blood and bone and sinew and muscle and spit and pee and earwax. I mean, where else could it be happening? Some might answer, "Well, in the spirit." Forgive me, but I don't know what that means. That sounds very ethereal, quite other-worldly and just a little Gnostic; Gnostic, as in, secretive, as in, you have to have the secret handshake or know the secret DaVinci code to get in the "spirit."
So, maybe the challenge is for us to continually be attentive to the world inside and around us, because that's where these foretastes are occurring; in other words, via our senses. There's a wonderful phrase in the story of the prodigal son that the entire story turns on - "When he came to his senses..." What if that means not only his thoughts or reason, but it equally means his sight, smell, taste, hearing, and so on. Maybe being heavenly-minded means being earthly attentive? Not numbed to our senses, as many of us usually are, but truly awake and alive to what we're seeing or hearing or tasting. One writer referred to what we usually do as "unconscious Christianity" - not fully present. So many believers or people of faith I've met over the years are so uncomfortable with their bodies that the senses are totally shut down or cinched up tight in a girdle of some sort - spiritual, I'm sure. But what if God is trying to show us images, sing us songs or feed us meals of what's to come, but we continually miss them? The New Testament definition of "sin" is missing the mark - could the negation of the body and her senses be sinful? We usually think of it the other way around...More later.
Amazin' Grace
Bewildered in our timely dwelling place,
Where we arrive by work, we stay by grace. - Wendell Berry
How much grace can one receive? - Father Murray
Two of my favorite poets; thanks, boys. The question of grace, posed most eloquently by Father Murray and hinted at by Mr. Berry. I pondered the question this morning while driving to propose some work to a publisher. The backdrop for my commute was Josh Groban music and the Front Range of the Rockies, Pikes Peak style to be specific; two elements of grace in their own right. How much can one receive? To ask some would bring a reply of, "What grace? Not much in my life." That's fair. But I cannot answer that way. My reply would be, "Grace? How do I receive thee? Let me count the ways." Where do I begin?
I feel grace is like manna - enough for the day and then you begin again. So I'll begin with today. This meeting with a publisher I had is, on some level, the culmination of almost two years of writing and editing and editing and writing. I wished it would've happened sooner, but grace sometimes seems shy; like it needs to be wooed or something. Our meeting was good - lots of affirmation and encouragement and hope-full talk of today and tomorrow. I left with gratitude, thinking, "How much grace can one receive?"
About five minutes from home, my cell phone rang; it was my daughter. She had good news - euangelion! After months of trying and falling and scraping and skinning, she rode the length of our street on her bike. I had tried to help her for months, but to no avail. My wife held her seat once today, gave her a push, and whala! Truly, in the fullness of time. I got home and we proceeded out to the road, where I watched my little girl ride like she'd been doing it for years. The smile on her face was almost as big as mine. My family just stood there on the curb, with the hot Colorado wind in our faces, watching a blond on a bike doing figure eights and I thought, "How much grace can one receive?"
How much can one receive? I guess it depends on how open your hands are. Or your eyes and ears. It may even depend on how much you're willing to commit to something, e.g., work (Berry's quote above). Not that grace is a result of our efforts or work, but being able to receive grace is often times, in my experience, the result of stepping into a job or a marriage or a friendship. Or getting back up on the bike. Or writing yet another cheezy column for some low-paying gig. But you open yourself to it and it creates space; space for grace. Spaceum et graceum or whateverthehell the Latin is. And it seems like grace is always there, just waiting to be asked to dance. But it won't force itself on us - it needs an opening or an invitation. How much grace can one receive? How open can one be to people, places and things? How willing can one be to write in obscurity for a season? How courageous can one be and get back up on the bike? How loving can one be to someone who always wounds with words or silence? How strong can one be in the face of the false self? Lotsa space, lotsa grace. That's enough for today. There'll be fresh grace on the ground in the morning. But you may have to stoop down to pick it up.
Where we arrive by work, we stay by grace. - Wendell Berry
How much grace can one receive? - Father Murray
Two of my favorite poets; thanks, boys. The question of grace, posed most eloquently by Father Murray and hinted at by Mr. Berry. I pondered the question this morning while driving to propose some work to a publisher. The backdrop for my commute was Josh Groban music and the Front Range of the Rockies, Pikes Peak style to be specific; two elements of grace in their own right. How much can one receive? To ask some would bring a reply of, "What grace? Not much in my life." That's fair. But I cannot answer that way. My reply would be, "Grace? How do I receive thee? Let me count the ways." Where do I begin?
I feel grace is like manna - enough for the day and then you begin again. So I'll begin with today. This meeting with a publisher I had is, on some level, the culmination of almost two years of writing and editing and editing and writing. I wished it would've happened sooner, but grace sometimes seems shy; like it needs to be wooed or something. Our meeting was good - lots of affirmation and encouragement and hope-full talk of today and tomorrow. I left with gratitude, thinking, "How much grace can one receive?"
About five minutes from home, my cell phone rang; it was my daughter. She had good news - euangelion! After months of trying and falling and scraping and skinning, she rode the length of our street on her bike. I had tried to help her for months, but to no avail. My wife held her seat once today, gave her a push, and whala! Truly, in the fullness of time. I got home and we proceeded out to the road, where I watched my little girl ride like she'd been doing it for years. The smile on her face was almost as big as mine. My family just stood there on the curb, with the hot Colorado wind in our faces, watching a blond on a bike doing figure eights and I thought, "How much grace can one receive?"
How much can one receive? I guess it depends on how open your hands are. Or your eyes and ears. It may even depend on how much you're willing to commit to something, e.g., work (Berry's quote above). Not that grace is a result of our efforts or work, but being able to receive grace is often times, in my experience, the result of stepping into a job or a marriage or a friendship. Or getting back up on the bike. Or writing yet another cheezy column for some low-paying gig. But you open yourself to it and it creates space; space for grace. Spaceum et graceum or whateverthehell the Latin is. And it seems like grace is always there, just waiting to be asked to dance. But it won't force itself on us - it needs an opening or an invitation. How much grace can one receive? How open can one be to people, places and things? How willing can one be to write in obscurity for a season? How courageous can one be and get back up on the bike? How loving can one be to someone who always wounds with words or silence? How strong can one be in the face of the false self? Lotsa space, lotsa grace. That's enough for today. There'll be fresh grace on the ground in the morning. But you may have to stoop down to pick it up.
Beauty via rabbitears
The children were nestled, all snug in their beds. The sandman had sprinkled his dust on the wife and she was out for the count. And that left me, awake, tired, but not ready to slip into the rhythms of darkness just yet. I turned on the television and the PBS channel was the first to greet me. We do not have cable, so I adjusted the rabbitears and sat back down. A presentation was on that I had seen bits and pieces of, but never the entire show; it was a concert - Celtic Woman. Four young women sing hauntingly beautiful songs for a captive audience in Dublin; and then there's one young fiddle player. There's a lush orchestra supporting them, backup singers, and a video screen with screensaver type images that correspond to the music. It is simply spellbinding. And I was taken captive by its magic.
I knew I was tired. I hadn't slept much the night before and my emotions were quite close to the surface. Nothing wrong with that, mind you - it's just where I was. Within minutes I found myself weeping and smiling and being so grateful that I had randomly landed on this channel. Random; helluva word, huh? Yeah, I don't believe it either. I watched as these young women, physically striking in their beauty, sang individually and as a group for the crowd - songs such as "You Lift Me Up," "Nella Fantasia" and "Orinoco Flow." The traditional Celtic instruments were all there, especially the fiddle. The songs were about love and sorrow and longing and death and earth and sky and blood and hopes and dreams. I watched as the crowd, young and old, sat on the edge of their seats, singing along when they knew the words and nodding along when they didn't; they knew, as I did, that we were in the presence of beauty. Maybe there's another word to describe the experience, but I'll stick with beauty. A vein was opened up in my heart, mind, soul and strength and beauty was transfused in. And I felt alive.
When I think about what I could have watched last night instead: the early news - sorry, no beauty there; some show hosted by Donald Trump - yeah, faggitaboudit; a couple of canned laughter ridden sitcoms - how mindless can it get? Now this is no plug for public broadcasting, but it is a plea for beauty. When the scriptures tell us to fill our minds with beauty (Phillipians 4.8ff), what do we usually think about? More scripture? Thomas Kinkaid paintings (that's probably not how you spell his name; I guess I'd know if I had any of his stuff)? Happy thoughts? What do you think about or dwell on? The number of people watching Celtic Woman last night probably paled in comparison to the numbers watching reruns of Friends, the 10pm news, and that Trump show. But the way to life is narrow, Jesus said; you're probably not going to be able to fit many people on it at once. Last night there was room enough for some Celtic women, a captive audience, and me. And a fiddle player. And if you think all these Celtic women were paper-thin magazine models and that's all this post is about- faggitaboudit!
The Merman Stump
About a year ago, my wife read Sue Monk Kidd's The Mermaid Chair. She really enjoyed it and felt like I would too. I checked it out on one of those 7-day limit bestseller deals at the library. Seven days came and went without ever sitting in the mermaid chair. However, I saw it at the library the other day and thought I'd give it another shot - no 7-day limit on me this time. I was a little put off at first - I kept thinking, "God, I could write this." But then I realized that no, I'm not sure I could write this, at least not right now. Kidd's book is fiction and the heroine of her novel awakes one day in a dark wood and takes a road less traveled and ends up falling in love with a monk. Yeah, some road. She finds herself awakening after years of a good marriage to a good man in a good place. But some great things, like passion, desire, hopes and dreams got buried in all of that good. And she realizes that's bad.
I'm about halfway through the book. A little like I'm about halfway through my life. I'm 39 - I hope to live to be 78 and still be a presence in a room; but that may not happen. I did awake a few years ago in a dark wood - sorta. And I did take a road less traveled - at least in terms of the roads my family has traditionally taken. I didn't fall in love with a monk. But I may have become one - sorta. And I have realized that a life full of good can get in the way of great; that hopes and dreams and passions can get lost over the years. And that's bad. But, you say, what about the new dreams that have been birthed or the new passions that have been kindled while being or doing good? You know, here on the backside of thirty, I believe you are born with hopes and dreams and passions specific to you and no one else. And over the years those stay the same. Oh, they nuance on you sometimes and may end up being a little different color, but those core dreams keep breaking the surface. Like some mermaid that keeps swimming alongside your boat, cresting at just the right times and cutting those nautical eyes at you and beckoning you to follow her into the depths of the channel less traveled. Those little sea-shell tops are quite a number.
I'll finish Kidd's book; hopefully this week. And I'll finish my life - someday. I hope at the end of her book to close the back cover and smile, content at having read a great book. And I hope to one day die content at having lived a great life. Not one that got interviews on the Today show or left millions to school libraries, mind you. But one that believed in mermaids. And followed them. And became a merman - sorta.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)