"For what are men better than sheep or goats that nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer both for themselves and those who call them friend?"
- Tennyson, The Passing of Arthur
Last week was a doozy of a week. We had something every night of the week, I had crazy days at work, one of the girls dropped Meredith's digi-cam and broke it, we paid some bills and don't have much left over...it was a doozy. And while much of it was the regular stuff that many weeks are made of, there were certain aspects of the week that felt like outright opposition. Now I don't know what you think about that kind of talk, but 'round here, we believe there's a crafty, old sonofabitch who wants to steal, kill, and destroy...or if those three don't seem to work, he works hard to get you to lose heart...which may just be about the worst thing to happen to any of us. Anyway, several times last week, we felt like the accuser had us in the crosshairs...and while we didn't lose heart, we definitely felt it slipping through our fingers.
Fast forward to Sunday morning, as in yesterday. We walk through the heavy wooden doors of our church and the lady greeting the multitudes says to us, "I prayed for you this week." I hadn't even kicked the dust off my boots and she says, "I prayed for you this week." I listened to her greet the folks behind us and she didn't tell anybody else that she'd prayed for them...just us. About half an hour later, we're passing the peace at halftime (we're Anglicans) and one of the older ladies in our congregation walks up and says, "I don't know why, but I prayed for you this week." Now the script says you're supposed to say, "Peace be with you" during that time, but I was really glad she decided to punt the script and give me those words: "I prayed for you this week...don't know why, but I did." That was some of the best peace I'd been passed in a while.
God bless old Alfred Lord Tennyson, reminding us that the work of prayer may just be the most important thing we do in this life. Not publishing books. Not preaching participatory sermons. Not cutting a huge check for the homeless shelter to pay their rent. Not coming up with an answer to my neighbor's question about the origins of God. Not getting a spray-on tan or looking good in my butt jeans. Not getting an acceptance letter in the mail in response to my article submission. Not changing the oil in my car, the filter on my AC, and the light bulbs in the closet. Tennyson says that if we don't lift our hands in prayer for ourselves and one another, then we're no better than the sheep or the goats. We bibley-types tend to consider ourselves the sheep, in the sheep/goat division that Jesus talks about in the testament that's new. Tennyson seems to overlook those categories entirely and say, "Hey, call yourself a sheep, a goat, a shoap, or a geep; if you say you know God and you're not praying for one another, then you're really lost...as in "a blind life within the brain." I think Jesus read that in Tennyson and said, "Wow, Alfred Lord...now that's good."
When the fit was hitting the shan last week, I'm so thankful that two old ladies saw fit to lift holy hands in prayer for the Blases. They didn't know what all was going on, but they did faithfully follow a prompt from the one alongside us and remember our names to the Father, the Father who art in heaven. I don't remember what we sang Sunday morning; probably some songs with the word "praise" and "desperate" in them. I don't remember what the sermon was about; I vaguely recall some familiar phrases were repeated loudly several times and people felt compelled to say "amen" and "yes, Lord." What I do remember was a phrase...wonderful words of life spoken to a family of beggars (that's us); a phrase that lifted an ordinary morning above the routine and filled it with grace: "I prayed for you...don't know why, but I did." Those prayers from two lovely old saints may have been just the thing that kept us from losing heart. And living to type another day.
Untitled poem
It's been two weeks since Jesus exited the tomb;
did he emerge, only to see his shadow, and then retreat,
leaving us with six more weeks of bad weather?
It sure feels that way.
The sure-footed car slips on the ice and a mother and
her babies find themselves upside down.
The tax forms have even more boxes this year
and one mismarked has the power to tip the audit dominoes.
An angry young man turns college green to red,
graduating those too young way too early.
A pregnant mother of three looks down to find blood on the floor;
the growing life, finally accepted and submitted to, now gone.
Come out, come out, wherever you are, Lord.
Bring the sun with you and thaw this never-ending winter.
The old story says it was no shadow, but really you.
That's supposed to signal an early spring...isn't it?
did he emerge, only to see his shadow, and then retreat,
leaving us with six more weeks of bad weather?
It sure feels that way.
The sure-footed car slips on the ice and a mother and
her babies find themselves upside down.
The tax forms have even more boxes this year
and one mismarked has the power to tip the audit dominoes.
An angry young man turns college green to red,
graduating those too young way too early.
A pregnant mother of three looks down to find blood on the floor;
the growing life, finally accepted and submitted to, now gone.
Come out, come out, wherever you are, Lord.
Bring the sun with you and thaw this never-ending winter.
The old story says it was no shadow, but really you.
That's supposed to signal an early spring...isn't it?
Stay Close
I checked on our girls last night before I went to bed. They had finally fallen asleep after several water runs, a quick check to see who got booted off of Dancing With The Stars, and some last minute giggling. My "check" on them is routine; turn off the radio, make sure they're covered up, and switch off the night light.
Our youngest, Abbey, had crawled over in the bed with Sarah (they have twin beds bumped up against each other) and I was going to pull her back over in her bed. When I hunkered down to lift Abbey over, I noticed the girls' arms were intertwined. I followed the arms to the hands and then on to the fingers. My girls, my princesses, my fathers- be-good-to-your-daughters daughters were asleep, holding hands with their fingers interlaced. I backed-up and just looked at them. I went and got Meredith, saying, "Come see this" and we both stood, arm in arm, at the wonder of our girls.
We spent some time last night watching a little, a little mind you, of the coverage of the Virginia Tech shooting. I asked the kids if their teachers had said anything about that at school and they said, "No." I didn't need a day-long symposium on the event, but I did feel like the teachers owed the kids at least a nod to this tragedy.
We didn't make the kids sit still and watch the news report; they came and went as they pleased. But we did answer any questions they had and made some comments at points in the report. We cried at images of lives cut short, a "cold" shooter who may have just been "sad," and shuddered at the reporters' insatiable quest for the answer to "how did you feel?"
Our son, Will, watched intently, but the girls came and went, playing in their rooms for awhile and then returning to the den for a few and then back to playdough and dolls. I wonder if the girls saw and heard more than I realized? In the beauty of their innocence, they could stand just a little and then had to return to the safety of play? Maybe. I don't know for sure. But it sure felt like the final thing they did before surrendering to sleep last night was to lock arms and hold hands, fingers and all. To shrunch up next to each other, as close as possible, and hang on...for they were entering the night, where things are dark and unseen and alma maters become via dolarosas in the twinkling of an eye.
I don't know much about processing the next few days. I'm sure experts will tell us all how to feel, what to look for, etc., etc. But I'd like to offer this suggestion, per my girls: shrunch up next to one another, lock arms and hold hands, fingers and all. The darkness around us is deep...
Our youngest, Abbey, had crawled over in the bed with Sarah (they have twin beds bumped up against each other) and I was going to pull her back over in her bed. When I hunkered down to lift Abbey over, I noticed the girls' arms were intertwined. I followed the arms to the hands and then on to the fingers. My girls, my princesses, my fathers- be-good-to-your-daughters daughters were asleep, holding hands with their fingers interlaced. I backed-up and just looked at them. I went and got Meredith, saying, "Come see this" and we both stood, arm in arm, at the wonder of our girls.
We spent some time last night watching a little, a little mind you, of the coverage of the Virginia Tech shooting. I asked the kids if their teachers had said anything about that at school and they said, "No." I didn't need a day-long symposium on the event, but I did feel like the teachers owed the kids at least a nod to this tragedy.
We didn't make the kids sit still and watch the news report; they came and went as they pleased. But we did answer any questions they had and made some comments at points in the report. We cried at images of lives cut short, a "cold" shooter who may have just been "sad," and shuddered at the reporters' insatiable quest for the answer to "how did you feel?"
Our son, Will, watched intently, but the girls came and went, playing in their rooms for awhile and then returning to the den for a few and then back to playdough and dolls. I wonder if the girls saw and heard more than I realized? In the beauty of their innocence, they could stand just a little and then had to return to the safety of play? Maybe. I don't know for sure. But it sure felt like the final thing they did before surrendering to sleep last night was to lock arms and hold hands, fingers and all. To shrunch up next to each other, as close as possible, and hang on...for they were entering the night, where things are dark and unseen and alma maters become via dolarosas in the twinkling of an eye.
I don't know much about processing the next few days. I'm sure experts will tell us all how to feel, what to look for, etc., etc. But I'd like to offer this suggestion, per my girls: shrunch up next to one another, lock arms and hold hands, fingers and all. The darkness around us is deep...
Communion
Seconds before getting up to join the communion line, my son coughs and draws in a big stream of phlegm. I immediately think about the fact that I always let my family go before me in the line; therefore, I will momentarily drink from the same cup as my coughing, phlegm-drawing son. However, that one-ness in the cup is the unsettling aspect of communion that draws me back week after week; God’s in the cup and so are you and I. I have always maintained a strong stance of open communion; whosoever will, come and jump in the cup.
The scene is from the film Little Children. Please hear me – this film earned its “R.” The neighborhood swimming pool is full of summertime children and their parents. Kids are splashing around, parents are leisurely keeping an eye out from their pool-side tables, and lifeguards are scanning the surface for any problems. And then he walks in. “He” is a pedophile who has just been released from his prison time. His gaunt frame and shifty eyes make you immediately squirm. He puts on a snorkel and fins and enters the water, as summertime children and their parents enjoy the moment. The camera then assumes the man’s view as he eyes lithe, young bodies swimming innocently in the pool. It is a harrowing scene. As an over-protective father-hen of three, it was almost too much to watch. Suddenly, one of the mothers recognizes him from news reports and begins screaming…and the dominoes begin to fall. Parents rush to the water’s edge with panic in their strides. Children see the fear in parents’ eyes and take it on themselves, not knowing exactly what’s happening, but sensing that something is very wrong. In a matter of seconds, the pool is cleared of children and the man is left standing, alone, in the center of the water. He then screams at the people, saying something like, “I just wanted to go swimming.” You don’t believe him…but then you do…but then you don’t again…but then you do…maybe.
Had I been in that scene in that film, you can bet your sweet chalice that I would’ve been right there, frantically pulling my kids out the water. But the disturbing message of this film is that we’re all little children and we’ve all sinned and fallen short of the glory; sometimes it’s overt stuff that makes headlines, but mostly it’s subtle transgressions of the heart that we keep neatly tucked between side-air bags and praise music. I view that scene now as one of communion. It was open to all, but it quickly became “closed” due to the presence of sin. And I thought about the phlegm in the cup I was about to take. And I also thought about the stuff I would leave in the cup – anger, greed, lust, sloth…and I wondered if the folks on the pew behind me realized just what would be swimming in the cup they’d soon take. And I also thought about the many times each week…shucks, each day, that I deny communion to people around me due to who I think they are or possibly what they’ve done. They just want to go swimming in the cup of God’s grace, but I hightail it out of those waters and leave them, alone, standing in the center of the cup.
The blood of Christ, shed for…you. And that “you” is both the singular and the plural. Jesus, forgive me, forgive us, when we withhold the chalice of communion. It is not our blood in the cup; if that were the case, we would be lost indeed. No, it is your bloodstream into which we bring our phlegm and our wrath and our bitterness and our hate. We, all of us, little children, have sinned and we, all of us, little children just want to go swimming. It is a cup full of serpents and doves and you, O Lord. Your grace frightens me, Jesus…
The scene is from the film Little Children. Please hear me – this film earned its “R.” The neighborhood swimming pool is full of summertime children and their parents. Kids are splashing around, parents are leisurely keeping an eye out from their pool-side tables, and lifeguards are scanning the surface for any problems. And then he walks in. “He” is a pedophile who has just been released from his prison time. His gaunt frame and shifty eyes make you immediately squirm. He puts on a snorkel and fins and enters the water, as summertime children and their parents enjoy the moment. The camera then assumes the man’s view as he eyes lithe, young bodies swimming innocently in the pool. It is a harrowing scene. As an over-protective father-hen of three, it was almost too much to watch. Suddenly, one of the mothers recognizes him from news reports and begins screaming…and the dominoes begin to fall. Parents rush to the water’s edge with panic in their strides. Children see the fear in parents’ eyes and take it on themselves, not knowing exactly what’s happening, but sensing that something is very wrong. In a matter of seconds, the pool is cleared of children and the man is left standing, alone, in the center of the water. He then screams at the people, saying something like, “I just wanted to go swimming.” You don’t believe him…but then you do…but then you don’t again…but then you do…maybe.
Had I been in that scene in that film, you can bet your sweet chalice that I would’ve been right there, frantically pulling my kids out the water. But the disturbing message of this film is that we’re all little children and we’ve all sinned and fallen short of the glory; sometimes it’s overt stuff that makes headlines, but mostly it’s subtle transgressions of the heart that we keep neatly tucked between side-air bags and praise music. I view that scene now as one of communion. It was open to all, but it quickly became “closed” due to the presence of sin. And I thought about the phlegm in the cup I was about to take. And I also thought about the stuff I would leave in the cup – anger, greed, lust, sloth…and I wondered if the folks on the pew behind me realized just what would be swimming in the cup they’d soon take. And I also thought about the many times each week…shucks, each day, that I deny communion to people around me due to who I think they are or possibly what they’ve done. They just want to go swimming in the cup of God’s grace, but I hightail it out of those waters and leave them, alone, standing in the center of the cup.
The blood of Christ, shed for…you. And that “you” is both the singular and the plural. Jesus, forgive me, forgive us, when we withhold the chalice of communion. It is not our blood in the cup; if that were the case, we would be lost indeed. No, it is your bloodstream into which we bring our phlegm and our wrath and our bitterness and our hate. We, all of us, little children, have sinned and we, all of us, little children just want to go swimming. It is a cup full of serpents and doves and you, O Lord. Your grace frightens me, Jesus…
Morning Thoughts
I was reading David James Duncan today for my morning devotions. I realize that some might stumble and fall over that one; reading something other than the Bible for devotional purposes. But reading Duncan’s essays always, always, has the effect of making me think of and feel closer to God. That’s the point of a devotion, right? Anyway, he was describing one of his philosophical heroes, Henry Bugbee and his (Bugbee’s) insightful reflections on that gem of a book, A River Runs Through It by Norman Maclean.
Bugbee was speaking of a scene, early in the book and movie, that results in a standoff between young Paul Maclean and this father; the oatmeal scene. Paul is told to eat his oats, just as Scots had been “happily consuming for thousands of years.” But Paul sets his face like flint toward Jerusalem and refuses. Bugbee said the scene was darkly prophetic because it revealed a violence between father and son that would overshadow their relationship. He summed it up this way: For all the love and admirable qualities of the father, it was, one felt, his dogmatic stance that prevented grace from flowing into the son…The father’s greatest strength – his rock-solid faith – somehow became a mere rock, a dead weight, when he tried to will it to his son. A rock-solid faith that somehow became a mere rock…a dead weight.
Maybe that’s where we’ve tripped up. What if we’ve looked at faith as something we could will or give to other people? What if faith is not something I can give away, but rather something you could only catch from me, if you chose? What if our greatest strength, our faith, becomes our greatest weakness when we try and will it into or onto other lives? How many times has the bottom line been that it has to be “this way” or it’s not faith…and the “this way” is all too frequently translated “my” way?
It’s interesting that the one place where Paul Maclean and his father connected was fly-fishing the Blackfoot; grace flowed in this fluid, moving rush of creation. Once they stepped out of that stream, things began to harden and stiffen and become obstacles to grace, love and even life…
Bugbee was speaking of a scene, early in the book and movie, that results in a standoff between young Paul Maclean and this father; the oatmeal scene. Paul is told to eat his oats, just as Scots had been “happily consuming for thousands of years.” But Paul sets his face like flint toward Jerusalem and refuses. Bugbee said the scene was darkly prophetic because it revealed a violence between father and son that would overshadow their relationship. He summed it up this way: For all the love and admirable qualities of the father, it was, one felt, his dogmatic stance that prevented grace from flowing into the son…The father’s greatest strength – his rock-solid faith – somehow became a mere rock, a dead weight, when he tried to will it to his son. A rock-solid faith that somehow became a mere rock…a dead weight.
Maybe that’s where we’ve tripped up. What if we’ve looked at faith as something we could will or give to other people? What if faith is not something I can give away, but rather something you could only catch from me, if you chose? What if our greatest strength, our faith, becomes our greatest weakness when we try and will it into or onto other lives? How many times has the bottom line been that it has to be “this way” or it’s not faith…and the “this way” is all too frequently translated “my” way?
It’s interesting that the one place where Paul Maclean and his father connected was fly-fishing the Blackfoot; grace flowed in this fluid, moving rush of creation. Once they stepped out of that stream, things began to harden and stiffen and become obstacles to grace, love and even life…
Here and There
And he said to them, "Do not be amazed; you are looking for Jesus the Nazarene, who has been crucified. He has risen; He is not here; behold, here is the place where they laid him. But go, tell His disciples and Peter, 'He is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as He told you.'" Mark 16.6-7
So I get up this morning, very early on the first day, and read through the resurrection passages in the gospels. They're beautiful and wild and wooly and amazing and unbelievable. One of the strong things that surfaced for me was this play on the words "here" and "there." Let me see if I can articulate it.
There was a young man (according to Mark's gospel) in the tomb, wearing a white robe, and he told the women that Jesus is not here; "here" is where he was, but not any longer. He then tells them that Jesus will meet them in Galilee; "there" is where they'll see him.
And I began to ask Jesus to show me the "there" today. I know where Jesus has been, where he was - the "here" aspect, but what if Jesus is waiting for me somewhere else today...what if he's waiting "there" to meet with me, speak to me, show me something, caution me about a matter? What if the familiar facets of this day - the "here" - are only remnants of his presence; empty grave clothes and stones rolled away? What if the risen Lord awaits me "there" - wherever "there" is?
Interestingly enough, the women are told that Jesus will meet them in...Galilee. Galilee. That place where everything got started. The shores where disciples heard the piper's music and left their nets to follow. Is the Lord asking me to meet him in some where-it-all-got-started locale this Easter day? I don't know, but I'm sure want to see him, hear him, place my hands in his side...and believe. So, I begin this day as the women did - gripped in trembling and astonishment - because I know Jesus has been "here" but I want to meet him "there." And so I run, full of joy and fear..."Jesus, where is the my Galilee today?" It is still very early on the first day...
So I get up this morning, very early on the first day, and read through the resurrection passages in the gospels. They're beautiful and wild and wooly and amazing and unbelievable. One of the strong things that surfaced for me was this play on the words "here" and "there." Let me see if I can articulate it.
There was a young man (according to Mark's gospel) in the tomb, wearing a white robe, and he told the women that Jesus is not here; "here" is where he was, but not any longer. He then tells them that Jesus will meet them in Galilee; "there" is where they'll see him.
And I began to ask Jesus to show me the "there" today. I know where Jesus has been, where he was - the "here" aspect, but what if Jesus is waiting for me somewhere else today...what if he's waiting "there" to meet with me, speak to me, show me something, caution me about a matter? What if the familiar facets of this day - the "here" - are only remnants of his presence; empty grave clothes and stones rolled away? What if the risen Lord awaits me "there" - wherever "there" is?
Interestingly enough, the women are told that Jesus will meet them in...Galilee. Galilee. That place where everything got started. The shores where disciples heard the piper's music and left their nets to follow. Is the Lord asking me to meet him in some where-it-all-got-started locale this Easter day? I don't know, but I'm sure want to see him, hear him, place my hands in his side...and believe. So, I begin this day as the women did - gripped in trembling and astonishment - because I know Jesus has been "here" but I want to meet him "there." And so I run, full of joy and fear..."Jesus, where is the my Galilee today?" It is still very early on the first day...
Easter Snow Bunnies
We live in Colorado. And while April in many states means 70-80 degree weather and the wildflowers in bloom, around here, at least today, it means…snow. Yep...snow, freezing drizzle, temps in the teens and hazardous driving conditions. My wife spent some time last week trying to assemble some Easter outfits for the kids. Our goal was not to spend any “new” money and not fall into the get-all-gussied-up-for-Easter trap that we feel so characterizes the beloved South.
Meredith found some dresses for the girls, complete with light sweater options in case it was cool and decided on a similar outfit for herself. But the high tomorrow may be 30 degrees, tops. Will and I’ll be o.k. – us guys wear levis and a shirt year ‘round. But we’ve got to shift gears for the ladies in our household. Easter Sunday isn’t going to look or feel like what we planned. Feel a homily comin’ on?
What do you do when resurrection doesn’t look or feel like what you expected? Now there’s literal, Lazarus-come-forth, who-are-you-looking-for…nope, He’s-not-here…lily-blooming…hiding-eggs-in-tall-green-grass resurrection…and then there’s the holy-cow-it’s-snowing-and-twenty degrees…I-can’t-wear-my-flip-flops-to-church resurrections. They just don’t look and feel like they’re supposed to.
A part of me says that the not-quite-what-I-expected resurrections are the real ones after all. Do you remember teary-eyed-Mary-in-the-garden? She mistook Jesus for the gardener: “They took my Master,” she said, “and I don’t know where they put him.” After she said this, she turned away and saw Jesus standing there. But she did not recognize him.
She saw Jesus standing there, but didn’t recognize him. I’m not sure what Mary thought the resurrection would look like, but what happened was totally beyond her recognizable resurrection categories. I pray for you, as I pray for myself, that we would, all of us, experience the risen Christ tomorrow. He’ll be standing right there in our midst, whether you’re in a white washed Protestant building, a shadowy Gothic cathedral, sitting in your den watching CNN with the wife or out on the lake waterskiing with the in-laws. The question is, “Will we recognize him?”
Mary finally recognized Jesus when he called her name…so that’s what my prayer will be; that’ll you and I, all of us, will hear him call our names. And I beg you, as I do myself, that we’ll, all of us, listen carefully. He may call us by a new name tomorrow, a resurrection name, a name we’re not expecting, a name he has just for us to reflect the new life he has for us. I’m going to try and listen real good; I’ll just have to adjust my ear-warmers a little...‘cause it’s gonna be cold tomorrow.
May you live in the present risen-ness of Jesus the Christ.
John
Meredith found some dresses for the girls, complete with light sweater options in case it was cool and decided on a similar outfit for herself. But the high tomorrow may be 30 degrees, tops. Will and I’ll be o.k. – us guys wear levis and a shirt year ‘round. But we’ve got to shift gears for the ladies in our household. Easter Sunday isn’t going to look or feel like what we planned. Feel a homily comin’ on?
What do you do when resurrection doesn’t look or feel like what you expected? Now there’s literal, Lazarus-come-forth, who-are-you-looking-for…nope, He’s-not-here…lily-blooming…hiding-eggs-in-tall-green-grass resurrection…and then there’s the holy-cow-it’s-snowing-and-twenty degrees…I-can’t-wear-my-flip-flops-to-church resurrections. They just don’t look and feel like they’re supposed to.
A part of me says that the not-quite-what-I-expected resurrections are the real ones after all. Do you remember teary-eyed-Mary-in-the-garden? She mistook Jesus for the gardener: “They took my Master,” she said, “and I don’t know where they put him.” After she said this, she turned away and saw Jesus standing there. But she did not recognize him.
She saw Jesus standing there, but didn’t recognize him. I’m not sure what Mary thought the resurrection would look like, but what happened was totally beyond her recognizable resurrection categories. I pray for you, as I pray for myself, that we would, all of us, experience the risen Christ tomorrow. He’ll be standing right there in our midst, whether you’re in a white washed Protestant building, a shadowy Gothic cathedral, sitting in your den watching CNN with the wife or out on the lake waterskiing with the in-laws. The question is, “Will we recognize him?”
Mary finally recognized Jesus when he called her name…so that’s what my prayer will be; that’ll you and I, all of us, will hear him call our names. And I beg you, as I do myself, that we’ll, all of us, listen carefully. He may call us by a new name tomorrow, a resurrection name, a name we’re not expecting, a name he has just for us to reflect the new life he has for us. I’m going to try and listen real good; I’ll just have to adjust my ear-warmers a little...‘cause it’s gonna be cold tomorrow.
May you live in the present risen-ness of Jesus the Christ.
John
Never be without...
So I'm standing in the kitchen this morning, making the coffee, and I notice an envelope on the countertop. It's one of the get-your-video-in-the-mail envelopes from Blockbuster.com or .org or .something. We're signed up for this service (you're probably aware of it) where you get your dvd choices through the mail, instead of having to go to the actual store, etc., etc.
I've opened plenty of those envelopes over the last few months, but this morning, I noticed the heading across it - Never Be Without A Movie. It being morning and all and my attenae being crisply attuned, I immediately thought, What if, sometimes, it's good to be without a movie?
This is the same feeling I have when I come across a church touting a "24/7" ministry of some sort; it's usually a youth/teenage ministry that's trying really hard to be hip and cool and Jesusy. The idea is that you (or I, I guess) need to be on for Jesus, 24/7; no breaks or lags in the life of faith - always on!
In my now 40th year, I would say that living a life of 24/7 anything and never being without a movie may actually be some version of hell itself. Everything's always on and there's always stimulation and there's no down time or rest or...sabbath; yeah, there's the word - Sabbath. The 24/7 approach to life leaves no time for Sabbath. Some days we need to stop and look and listen; not to a movie, but to life. Some moments cry out, "Pay attention! Stop and smell the horse crap." Sorry, I took care of some horses this past weekend and I just love the smell of a feed lot and hay and horses and horse crap. I realize it sounds strange, but I'm 40 now, so I don't care. The point is that there's a lot going on in this life and it's not in front of a video screen and to see it, smell it, touch it, or taste it, you're going to have to stop a moment, or at least pause. And maybe that's where we could begin -pausing.
The psalm-structure has the selah in it; an intentional pause, a catching of your breath. That's what I'm advocating here. Pausing. Slowing down. Tapping the brakes every once in a while. Doing that allows you to stop and smell the horse crap...and possibly even avoid stepping in it.
I've opened plenty of those envelopes over the last few months, but this morning, I noticed the heading across it - Never Be Without A Movie. It being morning and all and my attenae being crisply attuned, I immediately thought, What if, sometimes, it's good to be without a movie?
This is the same feeling I have when I come across a church touting a "24/7" ministry of some sort; it's usually a youth/teenage ministry that's trying really hard to be hip and cool and Jesusy. The idea is that you (or I, I guess) need to be on for Jesus, 24/7; no breaks or lags in the life of faith - always on!
In my now 40th year, I would say that living a life of 24/7 anything and never being without a movie may actually be some version of hell itself. Everything's always on and there's always stimulation and there's no down time or rest or...sabbath; yeah, there's the word - Sabbath. The 24/7 approach to life leaves no time for Sabbath. Some days we need to stop and look and listen; not to a movie, but to life. Some moments cry out, "Pay attention! Stop and smell the horse crap." Sorry, I took care of some horses this past weekend and I just love the smell of a feed lot and hay and horses and horse crap. I realize it sounds strange, but I'm 40 now, so I don't care. The point is that there's a lot going on in this life and it's not in front of a video screen and to see it, smell it, touch it, or taste it, you're going to have to stop a moment, or at least pause. And maybe that's where we could begin -pausing.
The psalm-structure has the selah in it; an intentional pause, a catching of your breath. That's what I'm advocating here. Pausing. Slowing down. Tapping the brakes every once in a while. Doing that allows you to stop and smell the horse crap...and possibly even avoid stepping in it.
The next day...
Yesterday was Palm Sunday, the tipping domino for Holy Week. The next formal get-together, at least for our church, is Thursday for the Maundy Thursday service. Whaddaya do on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday?
In Mark's gospel, the triumphal entry passage is followed by these words: the next day. I'm going to proceed, based on Mark's words, and say that today, the Monday of Holy Week, is the day of the Holy Terror; a.k.a., the cleansing of the Temple.
Jesus entered the temple area and began driving out those who were buying and selling there. He overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those selling doves, and would not allow anyone to carry merchandise through the temple courts. And as he taught them, he said, "Is it not written: 'My house will be called a house of prayer for the nations'? But you have made it a 'den of robbers.'" (Mark 11.15-17)
Jesus was confronting abuses in the temple. The Passover pilgrims had to buy approved animals for sacrifice and have their money changed into the proper currency for the annual temple tax. My, my...things haven't changed much, have they? Weary, passed-over pilgrims bring their stuff to the temple and all too often, the temple keepers stand at the door or the altar and say, That's really not acceptable...You're going to need to be approved or proper before coming any further. Oh, we make a big deal these days about a "come as you are" attitude being present in our churches, but anybody with one eye and horse sense can see that's not the reality. Having the proper theology, the approved political leanings, the proper doctrinal stances on issues, the approved denominational ties, the proper translation of the Bible, the approved attire (I'm not kidding), the proper Lenten reading, the approved...
Holy Terror Monday. What would we do on such a day as this in 2007?
I guess we could all get-together, us passed-over pilgrims, gird up our loins and run to our houses of worship and turn over a bunch of stuff. The only problem is that no one would be there; it's Monday. Or maybe a more wild, frontier move would be to run through our lives, the true houses of worship, and overturn the attitudes of "accepted" and "proper" that still admit or deny entrance in our hearts. To get upset about it, mad even, and let the fire burn, at least for Holy Terror Monday, for there's still alot of buying and selling going on...brother and sisters, this should not be so.
In Mark's gospel, the triumphal entry passage is followed by these words: the next day. I'm going to proceed, based on Mark's words, and say that today, the Monday of Holy Week, is the day of the Holy Terror; a.k.a., the cleansing of the Temple.
Jesus entered the temple area and began driving out those who were buying and selling there. He overturned the tables of the money changers and the benches of those selling doves, and would not allow anyone to carry merchandise through the temple courts. And as he taught them, he said, "Is it not written: 'My house will be called a house of prayer for the nations'? But you have made it a 'den of robbers.'" (Mark 11.15-17)
Jesus was confronting abuses in the temple. The Passover pilgrims had to buy approved animals for sacrifice and have their money changed into the proper currency for the annual temple tax. My, my...things haven't changed much, have they? Weary, passed-over pilgrims bring their stuff to the temple and all too often, the temple keepers stand at the door or the altar and say, That's really not acceptable...You're going to need to be approved or proper before coming any further. Oh, we make a big deal these days about a "come as you are" attitude being present in our churches, but anybody with one eye and horse sense can see that's not the reality. Having the proper theology, the approved political leanings, the proper doctrinal stances on issues, the approved denominational ties, the proper translation of the Bible, the approved attire (I'm not kidding), the proper Lenten reading, the approved...
Holy Terror Monday. What would we do on such a day as this in 2007?
I guess we could all get-together, us passed-over pilgrims, gird up our loins and run to our houses of worship and turn over a bunch of stuff. The only problem is that no one would be there; it's Monday. Or maybe a more wild, frontier move would be to run through our lives, the true houses of worship, and overturn the attitudes of "accepted" and "proper" that still admit or deny entrance in our hearts. To get upset about it, mad even, and let the fire burn, at least for Holy Terror Monday, for there's still alot of buying and selling going on...brother and sisters, this should not be so.
Have Mercy
I talked with a buddy of mine today who is a hospital chaplain. He referred to yesterday as a horrific day, unlike he's had in his twelve or so years at this hospital. I said, Tell me.
The story goes that a grandmother was watching her 15month old granddaughter while the mom was at work or something. They were outside playing and somehow the little girl went beyond the grandmother's view; that sounds crazy, but trust me, it can happen to the most watchful eyes. The girl climbed up between the dual back wheels of a tow truck idling in the yard. And then the truck pulled away. About the time the grandmother heard the screams, she saw the little girl literally being torn asunder. The police brought the grandmother in to the hospital while the family gathered, etc. My friend said she just sat there in shock, devising plans to commit suicide. And in some crazy way, he wished she could.
You know, about the time I have a finger hold on this why do bad things happen, something else bad happens and my finger gives out and it's back down into the muck. April 1st is Palm Sunday; the official beginning of Jesus' passion week. It sounds like that grandmother got a jump on Jesus; I bet her's is going to last more than a week.
I'm going to bet that what happened to that little girl literally is happening to that family figuratively - they're being torn asunder. Can the grandmother ever forgive herself? What about the truck driver? Will the parents ever forgive the gmother for not watching more closely? Did the little girl have brothers or sisters? Was this the baby that the parents had tried to have for years and finally it had come to pass? Will the mother go through some kind of I-should-have-been-at-home guilt? Will the dad clam up in a shell and end up walking away from it all one day soon? Will the dog stand outside the little girl's room and whine for months?
All the king's horses and all the king's men can't put this family together again...but maybe the king can. At least that's what I pray. If this Easter/resurrection thing is more than Cadbury eggs and bunny rabbits, knit 'em back together, Lord. Somehow. Someway. Have mercy. And please help the christians around this family to not say stupid stuff or quote Romans 8; not yet at least. Our hearts tell us that nothing can tear us asunder from your love, but sometimes, the pieces in our hands leave us wondering...
The story goes that a grandmother was watching her 15month old granddaughter while the mom was at work or something. They were outside playing and somehow the little girl went beyond the grandmother's view; that sounds crazy, but trust me, it can happen to the most watchful eyes. The girl climbed up between the dual back wheels of a tow truck idling in the yard. And then the truck pulled away. About the time the grandmother heard the screams, she saw the little girl literally being torn asunder. The police brought the grandmother in to the hospital while the family gathered, etc. My friend said she just sat there in shock, devising plans to commit suicide. And in some crazy way, he wished she could.
You know, about the time I have a finger hold on this why do bad things happen, something else bad happens and my finger gives out and it's back down into the muck. April 1st is Palm Sunday; the official beginning of Jesus' passion week. It sounds like that grandmother got a jump on Jesus; I bet her's is going to last more than a week.
I'm going to bet that what happened to that little girl literally is happening to that family figuratively - they're being torn asunder. Can the grandmother ever forgive herself? What about the truck driver? Will the parents ever forgive the gmother for not watching more closely? Did the little girl have brothers or sisters? Was this the baby that the parents had tried to have for years and finally it had come to pass? Will the mother go through some kind of I-should-have-been-at-home guilt? Will the dad clam up in a shell and end up walking away from it all one day soon? Will the dog stand outside the little girl's room and whine for months?
All the king's horses and all the king's men can't put this family together again...but maybe the king can. At least that's what I pray. If this Easter/resurrection thing is more than Cadbury eggs and bunny rabbits, knit 'em back together, Lord. Somehow. Someway. Have mercy. And please help the christians around this family to not say stupid stuff or quote Romans 8; not yet at least. Our hearts tell us that nothing can tear us asunder from your love, but sometimes, the pieces in our hands leave us wondering...
Happy God
I sat in a church service this morning where the sermon topic was holiness. It was initially presented in a rather disarming way; at least that was the intent. Here is the gist: Whereas holiness is usually defined and felt as something heavy and serious, holiness shouldn't be defined that way; it's NOT something that sucks the joy out of life.
But an interesting thing happened on the way through the message. Although holiness was introduced as something very close to joy, it quickly became joy-less and ended up in the vicinity of that church G. Keillor talks about - The Lady of Perpetual Responsibility. Phrases like, "God isn't as concerned about you being happy as he is about you being holy," surfaced and folks nodded their heads in sheeplike agreement. I wanted to back my rear end into a barbed wire fence and bleat out, "Baaaaaad theology." We dressed holiness in a Vera Wang knockout, got everyone's attention, and then pulled out an old North Face down jacket and bundled her up right quick. We swallow the camel of holiness and strain at happiness gnats. Is there really this monumental difference or is that just a semantical circus ride that preachers like to take?
God wants me to be holy but not necessarily happy? Really? Oh, God wants me to be joyful, but that's not necessarily the same thing as being happy. Really? Oh, I remember: happiness is a fleeting emotion contingent on my situation, while joy is this ever-abiding-deep-under-current-of-assurance. Really? Where does it say that? Or even hint at that? What if God wants me to be holy, which includes being joyful...and happy?
I'd love to hear what you think on this one. I'm sure someone will quickly reply that God said, "Be ye holy as I am holy." And that "happiness" is not in that verse. True. But that line of thinking would indicate that God's not happy. Have you ever thought about that one? If we're to be as He is, what if He's really, really happy? And therefore, wants us to be as well? Sure, He gets frustrated with beauty pageants, rising gas prices and country music blackballing the Dixie Chicks; but for the most part, what if He's happy? And that's included in being holy? And someone else might say, "But you can't do everything you want!" Who said that was the goal? I'm not sure even the most strident hedonist is trying to do "everything they want." I've got a hunch that God wants me and you to be haly or hoppy or haply or something like that. What thinkest thou?
But an interesting thing happened on the way through the message. Although holiness was introduced as something very close to joy, it quickly became joy-less and ended up in the vicinity of that church G. Keillor talks about - The Lady of Perpetual Responsibility. Phrases like, "God isn't as concerned about you being happy as he is about you being holy," surfaced and folks nodded their heads in sheeplike agreement. I wanted to back my rear end into a barbed wire fence and bleat out, "Baaaaaad theology." We dressed holiness in a Vera Wang knockout, got everyone's attention, and then pulled out an old North Face down jacket and bundled her up right quick. We swallow the camel of holiness and strain at happiness gnats. Is there really this monumental difference or is that just a semantical circus ride that preachers like to take?
God wants me to be holy but not necessarily happy? Really? Oh, God wants me to be joyful, but that's not necessarily the same thing as being happy. Really? Oh, I remember: happiness is a fleeting emotion contingent on my situation, while joy is this ever-abiding-deep-under-current-of-assurance. Really? Where does it say that? Or even hint at that? What if God wants me to be holy, which includes being joyful...and happy?
I'd love to hear what you think on this one. I'm sure someone will quickly reply that God said, "Be ye holy as I am holy." And that "happiness" is not in that verse. True. But that line of thinking would indicate that God's not happy. Have you ever thought about that one? If we're to be as He is, what if He's really, really happy? And therefore, wants us to be as well? Sure, He gets frustrated with beauty pageants, rising gas prices and country music blackballing the Dixie Chicks; but for the most part, what if He's happy? And that's included in being holy? And someone else might say, "But you can't do everything you want!" Who said that was the goal? I'm not sure even the most strident hedonist is trying to do "everything they want." I've got a hunch that God wants me and you to be haly or hoppy or haply or something like that. What thinkest thou?
JOY
Is self-hatred still the thing dogging most people, believers or not?
Yes. Absolutely. We say we believe God has forgiven us, but we cannot forgive ourselves. Apparently, we just cannot believe God's forgiveness is that deep and wide. As a result, we don't experience gratitude in our lives, and where there's no gratitude, there's no joy.
The question was mine; the answer came from Brennan Manning. An early birthday gift came this week in the form of dinner with this ragamuffin of a man. I'll tell that story another time, but let's just say, it was cool.
I knew this gal once, a pastor's wife, who used to go around on Sunday mornings singing just be joyful, just be joyful, just be joyful; spiritual disciplines ala Finding Nemo. The truth is that I knew she hated what she was doing and this song was an attempt to make the reality of her life go away and transport her to some joy-filled place. It never worked. Maybe (ala Brennan) she had no joy because she had no gratitude because she couldn't forgive herself for something. Or maybe she couldn't forgive herself for being her. Self-hatred. Sounds insidious, huh?
I turned 40 this week. Evidently 40 is the new 50 - midlife. If so, then I'm committing to joy for the rest of the car-ride. I have no interest in some just-be-joyful-screw-up-my-courage song; no, this feels more like a whistle. Whistlin' the tune of forgiveness and gratitude and joy. If you happen to see a patchworked old Catholic priest shuffling along and a bearded guy in cowboy boots whistlin' a joyful tune, you're invited to come join us. It's a pretty narrow way, this totally-forgiven, gratitude-soaked, joy-strewn path...but there's One up ahead who keeps turning around and winking at us, telling us just a little further. And He's beautiful. And He keeps calling us by name.
Yes. Absolutely. We say we believe God has forgiven us, but we cannot forgive ourselves. Apparently, we just cannot believe God's forgiveness is that deep and wide. As a result, we don't experience gratitude in our lives, and where there's no gratitude, there's no joy.
The question was mine; the answer came from Brennan Manning. An early birthday gift came this week in the form of dinner with this ragamuffin of a man. I'll tell that story another time, but let's just say, it was cool.
I knew this gal once, a pastor's wife, who used to go around on Sunday mornings singing just be joyful, just be joyful, just be joyful; spiritual disciplines ala Finding Nemo. The truth is that I knew she hated what she was doing and this song was an attempt to make the reality of her life go away and transport her to some joy-filled place. It never worked. Maybe (ala Brennan) she had no joy because she had no gratitude because she couldn't forgive herself for something. Or maybe she couldn't forgive herself for being her. Self-hatred. Sounds insidious, huh?
I turned 40 this week. Evidently 40 is the new 50 - midlife. If so, then I'm committing to joy for the rest of the car-ride. I have no interest in some just-be-joyful-screw-up-my-courage song; no, this feels more like a whistle. Whistlin' the tune of forgiveness and gratitude and joy. If you happen to see a patchworked old Catholic priest shuffling along and a bearded guy in cowboy boots whistlin' a joyful tune, you're invited to come join us. It's a pretty narrow way, this totally-forgiven, gratitude-soaked, joy-strewn path...but there's One up ahead who keeps turning around and winking at us, telling us just a little further. And He's beautiful. And He keeps calling us by name.
Cry-Away Home
"Whenever you find tears in your eyes, especially unexpected tears, it is well to pay the closest attention. They are not only telling you something about the secret of who you are, but more often than not God is speaking to you through them of the mystery of where you have come from and is summoning you to where, if your soul is to be saved, you should go next." - Frederick Buechner, Whistling in the Dark
I don't know if you cry or not. I do. My dad does and I believe it's something I inherited from him. I'm thankful for that. I used to try and wipe them away, but now I just let 'em fall. God'll wipe them all away some day; until then, let gravity work it's magic. I'll cry at a good Hallmark commercial for Pete's sake. I've heard folks, over the years, dismiss that as a shallow sentimentalism. And each time I've heard that, I've braced myself, for what always comes next is someone being mean. I came across the quote from Buechner on Monday and quickly tried to recall the last "tears" experience I'd had. Here it is. Make of it what you will.
I took a break from writing Saturday and came upstairs to see what the family was doing. They had started a movie - Flyaway Home. It stars Jeff Daniels and Anna Paquin as an estranged father/daughter combo who join forces to save a flock of geese by guiding them, via aeroplanes, to a refuge on the southern coast. It's not the greatest acting by any stretch and the plot if very predictable. But near the conclusion, I found myself crying.
Paquin's character has to fly the geese in by herself. Daniel's plane crashed and he gives her a "you can do this" speech and sends her off to complete their mission. As Paquin begins to soar with the geese beside her, the music of Mary Chapin Carpenter begins to play. The time sequences slow down considerably and what we're given is a "you can do this" music video of sorts. Chapin's gorgeous voice sings of the miles we all travel, while Paquin and the geese are backdropped by the marshlands at dusk.
Am I supposed to go to the marshlands or invest my life in geese salvation? Oh, I don't know. I don't think that was what was going on. I do know that my children were all around me and they're growing up faster than I'd like. And the old bird's having to let them do some stuff on their own from time to time. I can only go so far with them. But I always believe they can do it. And so far, they have. And allowing the young birds to fly on their own seems to cover a multitude of dad-sins that are committed daily. I can't tell you why that is, I just know it.
Flying away. But flying away home. It makes sense to this old bird. And it makes me cry. Add dusk (my favorite time of the day) and a Mary Chapin Carpenter ballad (another favorite of mine) to that truth and you've got a teary-eyed papa goose on your hands. I can't explain all the aspects of why that is...I just know it.
I don't know if you cry or not. I do. My dad does and I believe it's something I inherited from him. I'm thankful for that. I used to try and wipe them away, but now I just let 'em fall. God'll wipe them all away some day; until then, let gravity work it's magic. I'll cry at a good Hallmark commercial for Pete's sake. I've heard folks, over the years, dismiss that as a shallow sentimentalism. And each time I've heard that, I've braced myself, for what always comes next is someone being mean. I came across the quote from Buechner on Monday and quickly tried to recall the last "tears" experience I'd had. Here it is. Make of it what you will.
I took a break from writing Saturday and came upstairs to see what the family was doing. They had started a movie - Flyaway Home. It stars Jeff Daniels and Anna Paquin as an estranged father/daughter combo who join forces to save a flock of geese by guiding them, via aeroplanes, to a refuge on the southern coast. It's not the greatest acting by any stretch and the plot if very predictable. But near the conclusion, I found myself crying.
Paquin's character has to fly the geese in by herself. Daniel's plane crashed and he gives her a "you can do this" speech and sends her off to complete their mission. As Paquin begins to soar with the geese beside her, the music of Mary Chapin Carpenter begins to play. The time sequences slow down considerably and what we're given is a "you can do this" music video of sorts. Chapin's gorgeous voice sings of the miles we all travel, while Paquin and the geese are backdropped by the marshlands at dusk.
Am I supposed to go to the marshlands or invest my life in geese salvation? Oh, I don't know. I don't think that was what was going on. I do know that my children were all around me and they're growing up faster than I'd like. And the old bird's having to let them do some stuff on their own from time to time. I can only go so far with them. But I always believe they can do it. And so far, they have. And allowing the young birds to fly on their own seems to cover a multitude of dad-sins that are committed daily. I can't tell you why that is, I just know it.
Flying away. But flying away home. It makes sense to this old bird. And it makes me cry. Add dusk (my favorite time of the day) and a Mary Chapin Carpenter ballad (another favorite of mine) to that truth and you've got a teary-eyed papa goose on your hands. I can't explain all the aspects of why that is...I just know it.
Good Trip
I just returned from a national pastors convention. I went this time as an editor for the publishing company I work for; prior to this year, I would have attended as a pastor. Then again, I still have pastoral residue in my bloodstream, so I guess there was some kind of dual citizenship stuff going on. I've always been uncomfortable in those convention-settings; there's usually a lot of posturing going on, people talking about what they're doing, folks worshipping speakers and authors like they're the Lord himself, and a I'm-going-to-let-my-hair-down-but-not-very-far attitude that just hangs in the air. It's probably like most conventions, but it's filled with pastors.
The time there reminded me of the number of things I dislike about that environment. I could list them all here and give you glorious justifications as to why they bug me and hopefully persuade you to join in a bitch-fest. But I'm not going to do that. I'm going tell you two things I was reminded of that I love about that environment.
First off, I love the reality that there are a few out there preaching and speaking and writing about what I consider to be the core of ministry. They've got some name recognition; however, I wonder sometimes if people are really listening or reading what they have to say. These brave souls are sharing about the narrow way without being narrow; it's a beautiful combination. A couple of names or so? Eugene Peterson, Brian McLaren, and Ruth Hayley-Barton. I probably didn't spell Ruth's name correctly, but she's gracious in that regard.
And secondly, I love the way God speaks to me when I attend those kinds of conventions. For some crazy-God-reason, he speaks to me in what's not going on at the convention as much as he's speaking to me in what is going on at the convention. One example. I love boxing. In the hotel room one morning, I was pleased to catch an episode of "Beyond the Glory" - it's an ESPN show about sports stars and their careers. That morning the focus was Sugar Ray Leonard. I love watching Sugar Ray box. Early in his career trajectory, Sugar Ray declared: "I don't have to be number one, I just want to be special." Wow. Thanks, God. I don't have to be number one in this life, but you know what? I do want to be special. Not in some look-at-me way, but in the sense that God created someone named John, a man special in his eyes, and I want to be that man.
The time there reminded me of the number of things I dislike about that environment. I could list them all here and give you glorious justifications as to why they bug me and hopefully persuade you to join in a bitch-fest. But I'm not going to do that. I'm going tell you two things I was reminded of that I love about that environment.
First off, I love the reality that there are a few out there preaching and speaking and writing about what I consider to be the core of ministry. They've got some name recognition; however, I wonder sometimes if people are really listening or reading what they have to say. These brave souls are sharing about the narrow way without being narrow; it's a beautiful combination. A couple of names or so? Eugene Peterson, Brian McLaren, and Ruth Hayley-Barton. I probably didn't spell Ruth's name correctly, but she's gracious in that regard.
And secondly, I love the way God speaks to me when I attend those kinds of conventions. For some crazy-God-reason, he speaks to me in what's not going on at the convention as much as he's speaking to me in what is going on at the convention. One example. I love boxing. In the hotel room one morning, I was pleased to catch an episode of "Beyond the Glory" - it's an ESPN show about sports stars and their careers. That morning the focus was Sugar Ray Leonard. I love watching Sugar Ray box. Early in his career trajectory, Sugar Ray declared: "I don't have to be number one, I just want to be special." Wow. Thanks, God. I don't have to be number one in this life, but you know what? I do want to be special. Not in some look-at-me way, but in the sense that God created someone named John, a man special in his eyes, and I want to be that man.
Plain and Simple
The soundtrack for my morning commute was Pirates of the Caribbean. It's a lusty, swash-buckling, romp of kettle drums and big horns. In no time at all, you're transported to the deck of a ship or astride Shadowfax, engaged in dream-war against orcs and other fundamentalists (I live in Colorado Springs). Hero-music, plain and simple.
And then I was awakened from my day-commute-dreaming to see them: small people with backpacks and pants that are too long, with crazy hair and glorious smiles. Kids in a school-zone, plain and simple. But here are these children, these so fresh from God, crossing busy intersections and who will protect them from traffic and other possible harms? Why, the crossing guards; heroes, plain and simple.
They are evidently retirees. Their gait and posture reflect the years of life lived. This morning they were wrapped in a different kind of armor: down-Michelin-man type coats with small orange watch caps on their noggins. And their swords? Yep - the bold, red octagon of STOP. I watched as these heroes would stride into the fray, wielding their weapons of cease, and the danger would stop long enough for the children, these so fresh from God, to safely pass. These heroes would then return to their corner, awaiting another opportunity to protect the least of these.
I found myself weeping, for here were the pure of heart protecting the children from bigger people riding Vipers and Hummers, talking to no-one-that-important on cell phones or daydreaming of pirates and maidens while they should be paying attention. Here were the real heroes of the morning keeping watch over the ones that Jesus said, Oh, let'em come and they came. While some of us dream of heroics and others pose in heroic stances throughout the day over spreadsheets or in front of screens, these warriors brave the elements, eyes and ears a tip-toe, to ensure the safety of the little ones, so the little ones can continue to laugh and play and run and sing and dance for just a little while longer. Peyton Manning did perform well in the Super Bowl; but nothing like this. I salute you, crossing guards. Heroes, plain and simple. You are doing the work that really counts!
And then I was awakened from my day-commute-dreaming to see them: small people with backpacks and pants that are too long, with crazy hair and glorious smiles. Kids in a school-zone, plain and simple. But here are these children, these so fresh from God, crossing busy intersections and who will protect them from traffic and other possible harms? Why, the crossing guards; heroes, plain and simple.
They are evidently retirees. Their gait and posture reflect the years of life lived. This morning they were wrapped in a different kind of armor: down-Michelin-man type coats with small orange watch caps on their noggins. And their swords? Yep - the bold, red octagon of STOP. I watched as these heroes would stride into the fray, wielding their weapons of cease, and the danger would stop long enough for the children, these so fresh from God, to safely pass. These heroes would then return to their corner, awaiting another opportunity to protect the least of these.
I found myself weeping, for here were the pure of heart protecting the children from bigger people riding Vipers and Hummers, talking to no-one-that-important on cell phones or daydreaming of pirates and maidens while they should be paying attention. Here were the real heroes of the morning keeping watch over the ones that Jesus said, Oh, let'em come and they came. While some of us dream of heroics and others pose in heroic stances throughout the day over spreadsheets or in front of screens, these warriors brave the elements, eyes and ears a tip-toe, to ensure the safety of the little ones, so the little ones can continue to laugh and play and run and sing and dance for just a little while longer. Peyton Manning did perform well in the Super Bowl; but nothing like this. I salute you, crossing guards. Heroes, plain and simple. You are doing the work that really counts!
(there should be a title here...but there's not)
"Satan's seduction of our heart always comes in the form of a story that offers us greater control through knowing good and evil rather than the unknowns of relationship." -The Sacred Romance
I got up to run my three miles this morning and my body said, Let's not; I think I'm in hiberation or something. So I made my way to the button that makes the coffee start dripping and looked up to find my copy of The Sacred Romance. This is a book that I return to periodically; however, it's been a while since I've read it. I had placed a piece of paper, as a bookmark, on page 110, so I took that as a hint and started reading/sniffing for what God desired me to hear this morning.
Do I believe that Satan is trying to seduce our hearts? Yes, I do. And I further agree that it comes in the form of a story; a story offering greater control. The question I ask myself there is control of what? The author of those lines (Brent Curtis) lifts a finger and points at "control through knowing good and evil." A story is offered to me, or maybe chapters or paragraphs or even sentences, that paint the boundaries of this is good and that is evil. But the story God offers me is one of moving beyond those categories and trusting him in that incredibly loaded word "relationship."
Now for some of us, that's enough right there for the brain to freeze up and say, Let's not; go run three miles instead. To talk about NOT trying to know good and evil and then talk about trying TO know God is contradictory at best and blasphemous at worst. But that's focusing on the what and there's a word that proceeds that focus in Brent's sentence - control.
Listen as Curtis continues: "Life is gained by appropriating what we can see with our own eyes...Jesus invites us to thirst. Satan invites us to control through performance of one kind or another."
I'm gonna self-reflect here, so if any of you have clearer insight, then please let me know...or at least, pray for me. I run to keep my heart in good shape. I love doing it and I believe God gains pleasure from seeing me run. But if I'm not careful, I can buy into the storyline that consistent exercise gives me some modicum of control in my life; so the question becomes, "Am I running to keep control or am I running because I love it?" "If I stop running, do I feel...out of control?" That's a fine line somedays and I'm sure they blur often. Or do they? If "running" is a goofy example, then forgive me. But maybe that's where it starts; the seduction of our hearts with the things we deem "good" or "evil" and the supposed control we have over them.
One more and the post is over: "When the adversary is involved, the intensity of feelings provoked by the everyday occurrences of life can be compared to gasoline poured on a fire." Everyday occurrences...like running and traffic and paying bills and interacting with people and helping kids do homework and visits from your mother-in-law. The control voice says to end this post with a take away or wrap-up, some kind of concluding thought. But in this moment, I don't know what to say and I won't be seduced.
I got up to run my three miles this morning and my body said, Let's not; I think I'm in hiberation or something. So I made my way to the button that makes the coffee start dripping and looked up to find my copy of The Sacred Romance. This is a book that I return to periodically; however, it's been a while since I've read it. I had placed a piece of paper, as a bookmark, on page 110, so I took that as a hint and started reading/sniffing for what God desired me to hear this morning.
Do I believe that Satan is trying to seduce our hearts? Yes, I do. And I further agree that it comes in the form of a story; a story offering greater control. The question I ask myself there is control of what? The author of those lines (Brent Curtis) lifts a finger and points at "control through knowing good and evil." A story is offered to me, or maybe chapters or paragraphs or even sentences, that paint the boundaries of this is good and that is evil. But the story God offers me is one of moving beyond those categories and trusting him in that incredibly loaded word "relationship."
Now for some of us, that's enough right there for the brain to freeze up and say, Let's not; go run three miles instead. To talk about NOT trying to know good and evil and then talk about trying TO know God is contradictory at best and blasphemous at worst. But that's focusing on the what and there's a word that proceeds that focus in Brent's sentence - control.
Listen as Curtis continues: "Life is gained by appropriating what we can see with our own eyes...Jesus invites us to thirst. Satan invites us to control through performance of one kind or another."
I'm gonna self-reflect here, so if any of you have clearer insight, then please let me know...or at least, pray for me. I run to keep my heart in good shape. I love doing it and I believe God gains pleasure from seeing me run. But if I'm not careful, I can buy into the storyline that consistent exercise gives me some modicum of control in my life; so the question becomes, "Am I running to keep control or am I running because I love it?" "If I stop running, do I feel...out of control?" That's a fine line somedays and I'm sure they blur often. Or do they? If "running" is a goofy example, then forgive me. But maybe that's where it starts; the seduction of our hearts with the things we deem "good" or "evil" and the supposed control we have over them.
One more and the post is over: "When the adversary is involved, the intensity of feelings provoked by the everyday occurrences of life can be compared to gasoline poured on a fire." Everyday occurrences...like running and traffic and paying bills and interacting with people and helping kids do homework and visits from your mother-in-law. The control voice says to end this post with a take away or wrap-up, some kind of concluding thought. But in this moment, I don't know what to say and I won't be seduced.
Jog the Memory
"From now on, when I form a cloud over the Earth and the rainbow appears in the cloud, I'll remember my covenant between me and you and every living thing, that never again will floodwaters destroy all life. When the rainbow appears in the cloud, I'll see it and remember..." Genesis 9.15-16
It's cold today. As I creptout of the driveway this morning, my '97 Dodge Stratus groaned under the weight of the chill. Take me back to the garage, she said. Sorry, girl - gotta go in today. Snowflakes began to fall; not the big, fluffy jobbers, but tiny flecks of shimmering, light-catching silver like salt from a shaker. I'm paying attention to these flakes when I look up and see...a rainbow. I kid you not. It's probably 12 degrees, fleckled snow is falling, and there's a rainbow in the sky. Hopefully, someone caught it on camera phone and they'll explain tonight on the weather broadcast.
Those verses from Genesis are a little startling because the feel is that God will see the rainbow in the sky and go, Oh yeah. I remember...I promised not to let the floodwaters destroy everything. Now, I'm not calling into question the divine memory, but that is the feel the verses have.
I don't know about you, but my life has been flooded lately; the floodwaters have continued to rise daily and I sent a dove out on a look-see and she came back waterlogged. And it seems like the people around me have had a very floody feel about them as well. I was so thankful to see that rainbow this morning and I'm thankful that God saw it too so he could remember that eternal promise. Remember me, O Lord, by all means when you come into your Kingdom...but also in this kingdom today, here in the riptide of people and the swells of responsibilities and the waves of desire. We'll perish, Lord, without your mercy.
It's cold today. As I creptout of the driveway this morning, my '97 Dodge Stratus groaned under the weight of the chill. Take me back to the garage, she said. Sorry, girl - gotta go in today. Snowflakes began to fall; not the big, fluffy jobbers, but tiny flecks of shimmering, light-catching silver like salt from a shaker. I'm paying attention to these flakes when I look up and see...a rainbow. I kid you not. It's probably 12 degrees, fleckled snow is falling, and there's a rainbow in the sky. Hopefully, someone caught it on camera phone and they'll explain tonight on the weather broadcast.
Those verses from Genesis are a little startling because the feel is that God will see the rainbow in the sky and go, Oh yeah. I remember...I promised not to let the floodwaters destroy everything. Now, I'm not calling into question the divine memory, but that is the feel the verses have.
I don't know about you, but my life has been flooded lately; the floodwaters have continued to rise daily and I sent a dove out on a look-see and she came back waterlogged. And it seems like the people around me have had a very floody feel about them as well. I was so thankful to see that rainbow this morning and I'm thankful that God saw it too so he could remember that eternal promise. Remember me, O Lord, by all means when you come into your Kingdom...but also in this kingdom today, here in the riptide of people and the swells of responsibilities and the waves of desire. We'll perish, Lord, without your mercy.
The Church of the Woeful Countenance
I've had people ask me, from time to time, about starting or planting a church. There's always been a sense of excitement about that conversation for me; however, the flash has always fizzed for one reason or another. Some of it due to my fears, some of due to the particulars of the situation I found myself in, and some of it due to the belief that it just wasn't the right thing to do at the time.
But if I were to start or plant a church, here's a little of that if. These are things I SEE; just one thought today and more will follow. First of all, the name - The Church of the Woeful Countenance. Boy, that'd really bring the folks in, huh? One of my favorite literary characters is Don Quixote. And he is known as the knight of the woeful countenance. There is adventure and danger and folly and romance and insanity and beauty throughout his story; however, there is a woefulness that is always seen on his face. It is not a resigned face, nor a timid face, but a wise face, a face that knows that this life is hard and that courage is needed to dream the impossible dreams. If I were to start a church, I see a group of people with woeful countenances, their faces etched and weathered, eerie and peculiar to most observers. But our visages would be woeful because we're searchers and seekers. I hear some pastors describe their churches as seeker-oriented; the implication being that those churches are somehow not the mature and faithful, but the beginners or something. Hell, we're all seekers are we not? Asking and knocking and seeking and sweeping and searching and turning the blessed room upside down and hopefully finding coins and pearls and beauty along the way, continually searching for the peace on the other side of hope. To say that we're not searchers betrays even the slightest experience with the Text, in which Paul talks about not having arrived, not having it all together, but pressing on toward the mark. And the faces of people like that are woeful; it is a countenance which is not tempted by the siren songs the world sings. Many churches I've pastored or visited (now that I'm out to pasture) have been full of faces plastered with painted on smiles or courage that has been screwed up from the bootstraps. We worship a Savior who was a man of sorrows, well acquainted with grief; yet we long to avoid that like the plague. I'm not talking about starting a church where everyone's face is sad; no, I'm talking about starting a church where everyone's face is eroded with joy. There would still be smiles, but they wouldn't be from ear to ear; no, they'd be from eye to eye, the natural borders of a true smile. There would be weeping-Jeremiahs all over the place, but we wouldn't rush in to wipe away one another's tears; no, we'd let them fall as witnesses to the not-yet reality of our lives, as we await that day when HE will wipe away all tears. And there would be a set-like-flintness to our faces that we learned from our Father, who art in heaven and also decided to walk this earth, that reveals our cries of kyrie elison - Lord, have mercy! for we're riding into hell for heavenly causes, we Don-Quixotes, we knights and princesses of the woeful countenance who have been adopted as sons and daughters, children of the King, and therefore we will not give our hearts to less-wild-lovers (thanks, Eldredge and Curtis). It would begin with a name - The Church of the Woeful Countenance.
But if I were to start or plant a church, here's a little of that if. These are things I SEE; just one thought today and more will follow. First of all, the name - The Church of the Woeful Countenance. Boy, that'd really bring the folks in, huh? One of my favorite literary characters is Don Quixote. And he is known as the knight of the woeful countenance. There is adventure and danger and folly and romance and insanity and beauty throughout his story; however, there is a woefulness that is always seen on his face. It is not a resigned face, nor a timid face, but a wise face, a face that knows that this life is hard and that courage is needed to dream the impossible dreams. If I were to start a church, I see a group of people with woeful countenances, their faces etched and weathered, eerie and peculiar to most observers. But our visages would be woeful because we're searchers and seekers. I hear some pastors describe their churches as seeker-oriented; the implication being that those churches are somehow not the mature and faithful, but the beginners or something. Hell, we're all seekers are we not? Asking and knocking and seeking and sweeping and searching and turning the blessed room upside down and hopefully finding coins and pearls and beauty along the way, continually searching for the peace on the other side of hope. To say that we're not searchers betrays even the slightest experience with the Text, in which Paul talks about not having arrived, not having it all together, but pressing on toward the mark. And the faces of people like that are woeful; it is a countenance which is not tempted by the siren songs the world sings. Many churches I've pastored or visited (now that I'm out to pasture) have been full of faces plastered with painted on smiles or courage that has been screwed up from the bootstraps. We worship a Savior who was a man of sorrows, well acquainted with grief; yet we long to avoid that like the plague. I'm not talking about starting a church where everyone's face is sad; no, I'm talking about starting a church where everyone's face is eroded with joy. There would still be smiles, but they wouldn't be from ear to ear; no, they'd be from eye to eye, the natural borders of a true smile. There would be weeping-Jeremiahs all over the place, but we wouldn't rush in to wipe away one another's tears; no, we'd let them fall as witnesses to the not-yet reality of our lives, as we await that day when HE will wipe away all tears. And there would be a set-like-flintness to our faces that we learned from our Father, who art in heaven and also decided to walk this earth, that reveals our cries of kyrie elison - Lord, have mercy! for we're riding into hell for heavenly causes, we Don-Quixotes, we knights and princesses of the woeful countenance who have been adopted as sons and daughters, children of the King, and therefore we will not give our hearts to less-wild-lovers (thanks, Eldredge and Curtis). It would begin with a name - The Church of the Woeful Countenance.
In the wee, small hours of the morning
Dada, do you like clowns? They were her first words that morning. I was standing in the closet, getting dressed in the early half-light and she was in our bed, again. I was thinking of things - things to be done for the day, things left undone from the previous day, things that might happen in the future. But her words stopped the thing-ing. I bent down beside the bed to greet her eyes. FYI - Abbey has trouble with "th" sometimes and it comes out as "f."
Dada, do you like clowns?
Well, hi. Clowns? Yeah, I like 'em o.k.
I don't. They're scary. That red smile scares me.
Babe, were you dreaming about clowns just now?
I fink so. I don't like clowns.
The questions of my day were along the lines of Can I hit those editorial dates? Is there enough money in the bank? Did I send all my freelance work in this week? I wake with a whole family of questions, what the Bible refers to as legion. She wakes with one. I wake with questions that all have to do with the strategic mind - figuring stuff out, hoping to not forget something, and anxious in case I do. She wakes with simple concerns; not simplistic, mind you, but simple. And simple is good.
She awoke with a question that arose from her ability to dream. And still being a rather small person, she wanted to know what someone larger and trustworthy (Dada) thought about something she'd seen during the night hours.
I love this little girl. She teaches me so much. God, I long to dream. To dream in color, vibrant clown-smile colors. And God I long to awake with questions out of those dreams; better yet, just one question. And Lord, I pray that I'll immediately look to you, someone larger and trustworthy, for guidance. I'm still a rather small person and some of the things that don't scare other people, scare me.
God, do you like clowns?
Well, hi. Yeah, I think so. Do you trust me, John?
I fink so. But sometimes you scare me.
That's o.k.
Dada, do you like clowns?
Well, hi. Clowns? Yeah, I like 'em o.k.
I don't. They're scary. That red smile scares me.
Babe, were you dreaming about clowns just now?
I fink so. I don't like clowns.
The questions of my day were along the lines of Can I hit those editorial dates? Is there enough money in the bank? Did I send all my freelance work in this week? I wake with a whole family of questions, what the Bible refers to as legion. She wakes with one. I wake with questions that all have to do with the strategic mind - figuring stuff out, hoping to not forget something, and anxious in case I do. She wakes with simple concerns; not simplistic, mind you, but simple. And simple is good.
She awoke with a question that arose from her ability to dream. And still being a rather small person, she wanted to know what someone larger and trustworthy (Dada) thought about something she'd seen during the night hours.
I love this little girl. She teaches me so much. God, I long to dream. To dream in color, vibrant clown-smile colors. And God I long to awake with questions out of those dreams; better yet, just one question. And Lord, I pray that I'll immediately look to you, someone larger and trustworthy, for guidance. I'm still a rather small person and some of the things that don't scare other people, scare me.
God, do you like clowns?
Well, hi. Yeah, I think so. Do you trust me, John?
I fink so. But sometimes you scare me.
That's o.k.
Irony
Ludlow lay under the comforter looking at the scrapbooks of his life, his mind enlivened by a mild fever. He had reached the age where his habitually romantic frame of mind had turned to the ironies...
-Legends of the Fall by Jim Harrison
Ah, the ironies. The life you planned on living, the things you dreamed would happen, the times you just knew you'd have. And things turned out differently. The poet David Whyte considers these Ludlow-moments as quite possibly the beginning of our true lives. Up until that moment or time, we're going through life with essentially a naive, childish approach to living. And then things begin to get ironic, twisted somewhat, out of sorts...and they continue on that way. It's at that point, according to Whyte, that we are presented with the opportunity to move into an adult-adult relationship with life. We lose our sense of immunity to the things that all humanity has and will face in existence. We're initiated into the circle of humanity and we can accept the ironies or retreat back into some regretful, childish place of if only.
How would you complete that phrase - if only ? The reality is that whatever the only was didn't happen; something else did. Those biblical sisters, Mary and Martha, experienced that irony when their brother died. They sent word to Jesus that Lazarus was sick unto death and Jesus took his divinely-sweet time getting there. And by that time, their brother had died. The sisters greet the Lord with if only you'd come sooner, Lord. Little did they know that they were on the verge of the beauty of irony. They were about to say, When I was a girl, I believed like a girl, but when Lazarus died and Jesus didn't come and then Lazaurs was alive and Jesus stopped weeping; then I became a woman.
-Legends of the Fall by Jim Harrison
Ah, the ironies. The life you planned on living, the things you dreamed would happen, the times you just knew you'd have. And things turned out differently. The poet David Whyte considers these Ludlow-moments as quite possibly the beginning of our true lives. Up until that moment or time, we're going through life with essentially a naive, childish approach to living. And then things begin to get ironic, twisted somewhat, out of sorts...and they continue on that way. It's at that point, according to Whyte, that we are presented with the opportunity to move into an adult-adult relationship with life. We lose our sense of immunity to the things that all humanity has and will face in existence. We're initiated into the circle of humanity and we can accept the ironies or retreat back into some regretful, childish place of if only.
How would you complete that phrase - if only ? The reality is that whatever the only was didn't happen; something else did. Those biblical sisters, Mary and Martha, experienced that irony when their brother died. They sent word to Jesus that Lazarus was sick unto death and Jesus took his divinely-sweet time getting there. And by that time, their brother had died. The sisters greet the Lord with if only you'd come sooner, Lord. Little did they know that they were on the verge of the beauty of irony. They were about to say, When I was a girl, I believed like a girl, but when Lazarus died and Jesus didn't come and then Lazaurs was alive and Jesus stopped weeping; then I became a woman.
The Story
Maybe nothing is more important than that we keep track, you and I, of these stories of who we are and where we have come from and the people we have met along the way because it is precisely through these stories…that God makes himself known to each of us most powerfully and personally. –F. Buechner
The impasse of wills. Two people convinced of their truth; however, these truths will not make you free. These lower-case truths keep you imprisoned in the icy land of self. She called truce. He agreed. The energy to keep at the conversation had slowly been sucked from them. Now, lifeless shells, they sat in silence for the duration of a show about international terrorists wreaking havoc in the states. Little did they realize the terrorism that had already taken place in their home. Or maybe they did. He was colder than he'd been in weeks.
They followed one another to bed. Lights were offed and children retucked. In bed, she faced the center while he turned out. Goodnights were exchanged as the last light gave way to the dark. He could hear the pipes in the house creak and groan under the weight of the furnace's will to warm. The sounds resembled the sounds within himself as he peered into the night; creaks and groans in his heart. She touched the small of his back with grace and said the word - love. His truth was such that it responded to grace but couldn't face it; love's gaze was too much. He preferred darkness to the light and struggled to stay warm as ice encased him for the night.
To say we can accept God's grace and forgiveness and not accept it from another is complete and utter foolishness. To claim we can bask in the warmth of God's gaze, but prefer the cold dark to the gaze of a willing other is the height of hypocrisy. To say we love God and then hate our brother or sister or husband or wife or friend or child is to be a liar.
The impasse of wills. Two people convinced of their truth; however, these truths will not make you free. These lower-case truths keep you imprisoned in the icy land of self. She called truce. He agreed. The energy to keep at the conversation had slowly been sucked from them. Now, lifeless shells, they sat in silence for the duration of a show about international terrorists wreaking havoc in the states. Little did they realize the terrorism that had already taken place in their home. Or maybe they did. He was colder than he'd been in weeks.
They followed one another to bed. Lights were offed and children retucked. In bed, she faced the center while he turned out. Goodnights were exchanged as the last light gave way to the dark. He could hear the pipes in the house creak and groan under the weight of the furnace's will to warm. The sounds resembled the sounds within himself as he peered into the night; creaks and groans in his heart. She touched the small of his back with grace and said the word - love. His truth was such that it responded to grace but couldn't face it; love's gaze was too much. He preferred darkness to the light and struggled to stay warm as ice encased him for the night.
To say we can accept God's grace and forgiveness and not accept it from another is complete and utter foolishness. To claim we can bask in the warmth of God's gaze, but prefer the cold dark to the gaze of a willing other is the height of hypocrisy. To say we love God and then hate our brother or sister or husband or wife or friend or child is to be a liar.
Man of Confidence
There are days when you rely on another's words; this is such a day. The poem is by James Kavanaugh:
How can I tell you that the man of smiles and confidence is frightened now, trembling from the core,
Uprooted and still pursued by childhood fears that refuse to go away?
I want the world to be my friend and all its people, even as the puppy that first licked and loved me
Like no one else ever has, and the friendly echo that lovingly answered, like no one else ever did.
I want you to know that I am not the man I seem, perhaps I never was, and cannot be.
I wake at night afraid, rise up in the morning, filled with some unassailable dread, wondering where I have gone.
Not daring to ask anyone to relieve me of my distress, lest they know that a man does not know what to do,
Or even how to live.
In the distance, I hear the joy of little children laughing, laughing, laughing, forever laughing,
And I wonder what has happened to me, and if ever I was truly a child.
How can I tell you that the man of smiles and confidence is frightened now, trembling from the core,
Uprooted and still pursued by childhood fears that refuse to go away?
I want the world to be my friend and all its people, even as the puppy that first licked and loved me
Like no one else ever has, and the friendly echo that lovingly answered, like no one else ever did.
I want you to know that I am not the man I seem, perhaps I never was, and cannot be.
I wake at night afraid, rise up in the morning, filled with some unassailable dread, wondering where I have gone.
Not daring to ask anyone to relieve me of my distress, lest they know that a man does not know what to do,
Or even how to live.
In the distance, I hear the joy of little children laughing, laughing, laughing, forever laughing,
And I wonder what has happened to me, and if ever I was truly a child.
The Cost of Discipleshit
Amazing the difference one letter can make, isn't it? I read Bonhoeffer's classic treatment on discipleship in seminary and later again in my early pastoral days. If you haven't read it, you should; not as a burdensome thing, but some books just deserve to be read in this life and that's one of them.
I'm pretty much convinced that if you and I have any intention of being a Christ-follower in this life, then we're going to have to get used to discipleshit. What exactly is that, you ask? One of F. Buechner's books describes Christ as the dung-eater . I can remember reading that and thinking, Yeah, that's pretty much what it is...continually eating the crap of the world and being able to come back for more; all the pain, hurt, agony, abuse, and the list goes on.
Discipleshit is the stuff that you and I encounter daily that stinks, reeks, smells, hurts, burns our eyes and our hearts, kidney-punches us, and just plain makes us want to give up. Call it what it is - shit, dung, crap; all those words which describe the waste of our lives. And the thought that you and I might move beyond that stuff this side of the blessed Jordan river? Well, that's a load of crap or dung or shit. As long as we are here, in-carnated Christ-followers, men and women who are earthbound and not left-behind series bunkered up somewhere - we'll keep stepping and sliding in, being taken aback by, and getting IT thrown at us. The crazy thing is you'll get about as much of that from church-folk as you will raging pagans out there. And you'll probably produce a decent amount yourself. Commit yourself to a local church for any amount of time and guess what'll pop up? Yep, shit. Shucks, commit yourself to anything in this life: wife, husband, kids, relatives, job, pets...sooner or later, something will start smelling.
I don't expect for this phrase to take off in christian publishing or anything; we like it clean and flowery smelling. Any hint of offal and we're scrambling for cleany-wipes and floral sachet fragrance spray. Don't get me wrong here - I hate shit as much as you do. But to be a disciple, a follower of Jesus Christ, means having to deal with it. I remember reading somewhere that the student shouldn't expect more than the teacher...I just can't remember where?
I'm pretty much convinced that if you and I have any intention of being a Christ-follower in this life, then we're going to have to get used to discipleshit. What exactly is that, you ask? One of F. Buechner's books describes Christ as the dung-eater . I can remember reading that and thinking, Yeah, that's pretty much what it is...continually eating the crap of the world and being able to come back for more; all the pain, hurt, agony, abuse, and the list goes on.
Discipleshit is the stuff that you and I encounter daily that stinks, reeks, smells, hurts, burns our eyes and our hearts, kidney-punches us, and just plain makes us want to give up. Call it what it is - shit, dung, crap; all those words which describe the waste of our lives. And the thought that you and I might move beyond that stuff this side of the blessed Jordan river? Well, that's a load of crap or dung or shit. As long as we are here, in-carnated Christ-followers, men and women who are earthbound and not left-behind series bunkered up somewhere - we'll keep stepping and sliding in, being taken aback by, and getting IT thrown at us. The crazy thing is you'll get about as much of that from church-folk as you will raging pagans out there. And you'll probably produce a decent amount yourself. Commit yourself to a local church for any amount of time and guess what'll pop up? Yep, shit. Shucks, commit yourself to anything in this life: wife, husband, kids, relatives, job, pets...sooner or later, something will start smelling.
I don't expect for this phrase to take off in christian publishing or anything; we like it clean and flowery smelling. Any hint of offal and we're scrambling for cleany-wipes and floral sachet fragrance spray. Don't get me wrong here - I hate shit as much as you do. But to be a disciple, a follower of Jesus Christ, means having to deal with it. I remember reading somewhere that the student shouldn't expect more than the teacher...I just can't remember where?
If You Are
Wednesday night is family devotion night for us. Last night's passage to read and discuss was Luke 4: The Temptation of Jesus. Our two oldest read verses of equal length, while our youngest tried to be quiet. It was good - the passage lent itself to talking about things like fasting and temptation; however, most of our time was spent talking about the devil. I realize that sounds strange, but it's true.
One question that was asked was: How did Jesus know it was the devil? The question here arising out of identification (red suit, horns, pitchfork, etc.). Our reponse was, Well, I think Jesus knew; he's pretty smart, ya'know. That seemed to satisfy. We then asked the kids if they knew any other names that the devil is known by? They said, Satan and then couldn't think of anything else. Theologically astute father that I am, I added the descriptor of "deceiver" to the list. We discussed deception and what that means and again, it seemed to satisfy.
But my mind looped back to the original question of identification. How do we know the enemy when he/she/it comes? If the devil is all about deception, then I'm going to have to be a tip-toe to catch this, right?
Our "temptation" discussion with the kids had them giving examples of "watching t.v. shows you guys don't like" to "not cleaning up my room." As I thought about what I would add to that discussion, it became a little more difficult. How am I being tempted on a daily, if not hourly, basis? If the devil has even a smidgen of the power that we say he/she/it does, then the deception thrown at me is not going to be straight down the middle? Or is it? Or will it be different every time? Or is there a theme, if I look at my life, that seems to play out temptation-wise? There are a number of books out there on satan and his/her/its schemes; I'm not convinced those authors really know what they're talking about. Oh, some of it is solid; however, to say we've got the skinny on the deceiver sounds a little like we've been...well, deceived.
The one takeaway for me last night was that all of the deceiver's questions/ploys had to do with the conditional if you are. That's probably a good place to start looking and listening; anything that causes me to if my identity, who I am in Jesus. So...maybe the wisdom in not being deceived lies in being dang sure who Jesus says you are. And that can come via horns and a fork or blue eyes and blue jeans...
One question that was asked was: How did Jesus know it was the devil? The question here arising out of identification (red suit, horns, pitchfork, etc.). Our reponse was, Well, I think Jesus knew; he's pretty smart, ya'know. That seemed to satisfy. We then asked the kids if they knew any other names that the devil is known by? They said, Satan and then couldn't think of anything else. Theologically astute father that I am, I added the descriptor of "deceiver" to the list. We discussed deception and what that means and again, it seemed to satisfy.
But my mind looped back to the original question of identification. How do we know the enemy when he/she/it comes? If the devil is all about deception, then I'm going to have to be a tip-toe to catch this, right?
Our "temptation" discussion with the kids had them giving examples of "watching t.v. shows you guys don't like" to "not cleaning up my room." As I thought about what I would add to that discussion, it became a little more difficult. How am I being tempted on a daily, if not hourly, basis? If the devil has even a smidgen of the power that we say he/she/it does, then the deception thrown at me is not going to be straight down the middle? Or is it? Or will it be different every time? Or is there a theme, if I look at my life, that seems to play out temptation-wise? There are a number of books out there on satan and his/her/its schemes; I'm not convinced those authors really know what they're talking about. Oh, some of it is solid; however, to say we've got the skinny on the deceiver sounds a little like we've been...well, deceived.
The one takeaway for me last night was that all of the deceiver's questions/ploys had to do with the conditional if you are. That's probably a good place to start looking and listening; anything that causes me to if my identity, who I am in Jesus. So...maybe the wisdom in not being deceived lies in being dang sure who Jesus says you are. And that can come via horns and a fork or blue eyes and blue jeans...
One man's death diminishes...
"Now is the day of joy - let us not revenge; now is the day of good will, let us not be mean-spirited. In this day of peace let us not be conquered by anger..." St. Isaac of Nineveh
A seventh-century Nestorian monk from Beth Abhe on the Persian Gulf, Isaac was bishop of Nineveh for only five months before withdrawing to the mountains to live in solitude. He reportedly lost his sight from studying the Scriptures voraciously.
I like this little factiod about the Nestorian monk. He stepped away from a bishop's position in Nineveh to get lost in the mountains; folks probably said he was crazy. That's got the makings of a good John Denver song. And in those mountains, he studied Scripture "voraciously" (great word) - he gorges himself of the words of God to the extent that his physical faculties of sight just peter out. The optic nerves said, "Enough. We can take no more. If you want to see from now on, you'll have to use something else." I wonder if Isaac lost his sight before he wrote those words or after; I'm going to bet on after. I bet that way because it seems that in order to see, really see, we have to lose our original eyes. We have to look with something different than those little white balls stuck in the indentions in our faces. We have to use our hearts.
I believe we can still use those eyeballs, however, in seeing with our hearts. Many have "seen" the hanging of Saddam via the cell phone camera's pictures that made their way to the internet. News agencies have reported the debacle and the White House is apparently reeling again over something that looked like a necessary thing, but now looks like what is was...revenge. I wanted that bastard to die for all those crimes to humanity, all those children lying in the street, gassed by this man's inherent evil...but when I saw him dangling from that rope, something, maybe my real eyes, said, "That's wrong. I've been conquered by anger, I've been mean-spirited, I've been revengeful."
Should Saddam have paid for those crimes in some way, been held accountable for the injustice? Absolutely. But to have paid with his literal life? I just can't see it. I haven't lost my sight from studying the Scriptures voraciously, but I have read 'em. And those Scriptures, those holy words, those utterances from the voice box of God speak of mercy always overcoming justice. That's not very American, I know, but America sometimes doesn't listen or see or ask or seek or knock. I don't know how Saddam should have been punished; I'm not sure what mercy would have looked like. But if Isaac were still alive, still bloodied from falling down mountain passes due to his blindness, still walking around muttering God's words which had become his words due to his voracious appetite - I'm going to bet that Isaac would have cried, "Mercy...'Today the Bountiful impoverished Himself for our sake; so, rich one, invite the poor to your table. Today we received a gift for which we did not ask; so let us give alms to those who implore us and beg. This present day cast open the heavenly door to our prayers; let us open our doors to those who ask our forgiveness.'"
John: But, St. Isaac, I didn't see Saddam ask for forgiveness.
St. Isaac: Really? What did you look with? Those round things in your head? Oh, my son, your blindness is worse than mine.
A seventh-century Nestorian monk from Beth Abhe on the Persian Gulf, Isaac was bishop of Nineveh for only five months before withdrawing to the mountains to live in solitude. He reportedly lost his sight from studying the Scriptures voraciously.
I like this little factiod about the Nestorian monk. He stepped away from a bishop's position in Nineveh to get lost in the mountains; folks probably said he was crazy. That's got the makings of a good John Denver song. And in those mountains, he studied Scripture "voraciously" (great word) - he gorges himself of the words of God to the extent that his physical faculties of sight just peter out. The optic nerves said, "Enough. We can take no more. If you want to see from now on, you'll have to use something else." I wonder if Isaac lost his sight before he wrote those words or after; I'm going to bet on after. I bet that way because it seems that in order to see, really see, we have to lose our original eyes. We have to look with something different than those little white balls stuck in the indentions in our faces. We have to use our hearts.
I believe we can still use those eyeballs, however, in seeing with our hearts. Many have "seen" the hanging of Saddam via the cell phone camera's pictures that made their way to the internet. News agencies have reported the debacle and the White House is apparently reeling again over something that looked like a necessary thing, but now looks like what is was...revenge. I wanted that bastard to die for all those crimes to humanity, all those children lying in the street, gassed by this man's inherent evil...but when I saw him dangling from that rope, something, maybe my real eyes, said, "That's wrong. I've been conquered by anger, I've been mean-spirited, I've been revengeful."
Should Saddam have paid for those crimes in some way, been held accountable for the injustice? Absolutely. But to have paid with his literal life? I just can't see it. I haven't lost my sight from studying the Scriptures voraciously, but I have read 'em. And those Scriptures, those holy words, those utterances from the voice box of God speak of mercy always overcoming justice. That's not very American, I know, but America sometimes doesn't listen or see or ask or seek or knock. I don't know how Saddam should have been punished; I'm not sure what mercy would have looked like. But if Isaac were still alive, still bloodied from falling down mountain passes due to his blindness, still walking around muttering God's words which had become his words due to his voracious appetite - I'm going to bet that Isaac would have cried, "Mercy...'Today the Bountiful impoverished Himself for our sake; so, rich one, invite the poor to your table. Today we received a gift for which we did not ask; so let us give alms to those who implore us and beg. This present day cast open the heavenly door to our prayers; let us open our doors to those who ask our forgiveness.'"
John: But, St. Isaac, I didn't see Saddam ask for forgiveness.
St. Isaac: Really? What did you look with? Those round things in your head? Oh, my son, your blindness is worse than mine.
Sex, Lies, and Christmas Photos
We sent out over 200 Christmas letters this year, complete with a photo. You may have received one. We were thrilled to receive about 140 letters or cards or photos in return; that’s a pretty good return-ratio. We loved going to the mailbox each day with our golden key, opening the tiny door, and allowing the box to give birth to good words and memory. The majority of cards we received this year were of the photo variety. We have them taped around the outline of our fireplace; it looks pretty cool. As I sit and drink coffee or type on this laptop or finish my dinner, I dwell on these pictures, these snapshots of friends old and new. Most all of the photos are imposed on a winter-laden background, with a holiday greeting of some sort across the bottom of the card. We’ve got friends above the holy manger, next to wise men, in the direct line of falling snowflakes, and hemmed in by candy canes. I’ve noticed that each of the photographs presents an individual, a group of kids, or a complete family looking as if everything is right with the world. Everybody has their hair combed, many families are color coordinated, and the children are beaming out a smile; even the “forced” ones are beaming. In all of these photos, the message is clear: We’ve had a great year, our kids are stellar students in school, my wife and I are having phenomenal tantric sex, our stock portfolio is banging on the ceiling, and we’re totally committed to our church or faith group. But that’s not the truth.
The photo of the young lady with her dog is basically the same one we’ve received now for several years. I know for a fact that she would gladly let the dog go chase some squirrels if there were a man, a husband, in the picture. Behind the smile and candy canes lies a heart that beats with desire but as of yet, beats unrealized. She grows older with each Christmas card and more alone. And then there’s the minister’s family, out on a hillside, surrounded by autumn colors at their peak. And as the trees have lost their leaves, so has the minister lost his hair and his youthful figure. The weight of ministry shows in his face and eyes and arms and neck; a heavy burden when God said it would be light. And with three kids literally between he and his wife, the figurative implications of that distance speak volumes. And the church? The question of what it is and why he’s still stumping for it hounds him day and night. The thrill is definitely gone. Now, lest you think me judgmental, just take a look at our photo. It shows a blue/black color coordinated family of five in the snowy mountains of Evergreen, CO, looking fresh and winsome and fully alive. Wanna know the truth? Truth is my wife and I had one of the biggest fights we’ve had in a long time just moments before the shutter fell on that one. Her trust in me was totally in question and my competence as a man completely up for grabs. We had both yelled at the kids for various things and tears had been shed over happy meals. Good God. But when the camera came out and we knew “the Christmas photo” was being taken, we wiped the tears, ratcheted up some affection, pulled out some smiles, shined up our halos and let the Colorado snow cover our multitude of sins. What a bunch of posers, we Blases. But I guess if you had received our photo and our kids were all down on the ground crying, my wife had her back to the camera, and I was giving the lens the swollen middle finger, you’ve have thought…what would you have thought? Would you have been offended? “Well, the nerve; after all, it’s Christmas and there’s enough bad in the world as it is!” Would you have been puzzled? “Is this a joke or what? Oh, I get it - the real card will come tomorrow.” Or would you have been silently relieved? “Look, honey. The Blases had a year just like us. It’s sure good to know we’re not alone.” We spent almost $200 on cards, envelopes, and postage to make sure you think well of us. Sure hope you did. And sorta hope you still do...
The photo of the young lady with her dog is basically the same one we’ve received now for several years. I know for a fact that she would gladly let the dog go chase some squirrels if there were a man, a husband, in the picture. Behind the smile and candy canes lies a heart that beats with desire but as of yet, beats unrealized. She grows older with each Christmas card and more alone. And then there’s the minister’s family, out on a hillside, surrounded by autumn colors at their peak. And as the trees have lost their leaves, so has the minister lost his hair and his youthful figure. The weight of ministry shows in his face and eyes and arms and neck; a heavy burden when God said it would be light. And with three kids literally between he and his wife, the figurative implications of that distance speak volumes. And the church? The question of what it is and why he’s still stumping for it hounds him day and night. The thrill is definitely gone. Now, lest you think me judgmental, just take a look at our photo. It shows a blue/black color coordinated family of five in the snowy mountains of Evergreen, CO, looking fresh and winsome and fully alive. Wanna know the truth? Truth is my wife and I had one of the biggest fights we’ve had in a long time just moments before the shutter fell on that one. Her trust in me was totally in question and my competence as a man completely up for grabs. We had both yelled at the kids for various things and tears had been shed over happy meals. Good God. But when the camera came out and we knew “the Christmas photo” was being taken, we wiped the tears, ratcheted up some affection, pulled out some smiles, shined up our halos and let the Colorado snow cover our multitude of sins. What a bunch of posers, we Blases. But I guess if you had received our photo and our kids were all down on the ground crying, my wife had her back to the camera, and I was giving the lens the swollen middle finger, you’ve have thought…what would you have thought? Would you have been offended? “Well, the nerve; after all, it’s Christmas and there’s enough bad in the world as it is!” Would you have been puzzled? “Is this a joke or what? Oh, I get it - the real card will come tomorrow.” Or would you have been silently relieved? “Look, honey. The Blases had a year just like us. It’s sure good to know we’re not alone.” We spent almost $200 on cards, envelopes, and postage to make sure you think well of us. Sure hope you did. And sorta hope you still do...
Our Dilemma
I received Rick Bass' new collection of short stories for Christmas...its entitled "The Lives of Rocks." In one of the stories, he tells of a great king who ruled a land justly and with compassion. One day, while walking beside the river, he heard the screams of children who had been swept away in the current. The good king immediately jumped in to save the children; he was able to get them to the bank safely, but he could not save himself. The king went over the falls and his body was torn into pieces. In the days and weeks and months that followed, people of the land would find the king's body parts in different places along the river - an arm here, a leg there, fingers swirling in an eddy. The people reverently carried these parts back to the king's son and daughter to be properly mourned and honored. This presented a great dilemma for the heirs; the kingdom in which they lived contained magic strong enough to put the pieces of the king back together and restore him completely to reign again with justice and compassion. However, they could bury the pieces of the great king and begin to reign themselves justly and with compassion, as the new regents of the land, something they were born to do.
As we step into a new year, something that means so many different things for so many different people, I believe that Bass' story holds great meaning for all of us. We can honor the past so much that we forfeit our own destinies. We can continually be working to put the pieces of something back together, hoping it will come to life again and give us safety or security or happiness or whatever. However, in doing so, we fearfully stay in a place of dependency and never lean into the present, much less the future. The past is to be honored and it holds many pieces that must be mourned, grieved, honored, wrestled with, and learned from. But a slavish attachment to the past, as good as it may have been, keeps us son and daughters, princes and princesses, but not kings and queens. I pray for each of you, as I pray for myself, the courage to reverently honor the past, but at some point to bury those things that would keep us from becoming the ones we were created to be. This is not denial or stuffing down emotions or anything like that; this is letting the past be the past and letting today be today and leaning into tomorrow. It is being alive. And that's what the world needs - people who are alive. Amen.
As we step into a new year, something that means so many different things for so many different people, I believe that Bass' story holds great meaning for all of us. We can honor the past so much that we forfeit our own destinies. We can continually be working to put the pieces of something back together, hoping it will come to life again and give us safety or security or happiness or whatever. However, in doing so, we fearfully stay in a place of dependency and never lean into the present, much less the future. The past is to be honored and it holds many pieces that must be mourned, grieved, honored, wrestled with, and learned from. But a slavish attachment to the past, as good as it may have been, keeps us son and daughters, princes and princesses, but not kings and queens. I pray for each of you, as I pray for myself, the courage to reverently honor the past, but at some point to bury those things that would keep us from becoming the ones we were created to be. This is not denial or stuffing down emotions or anything like that; this is letting the past be the past and letting today be today and leaning into tomorrow. It is being alive. And that's what the world needs - people who are alive. Amen.
Being John
I was approached a couple of weeks ago by one of the art directors in our publishing company. He described a poster that he wanted to do that had Jesus de-robing himself of his divinity and looking toward earth with an incarnational gaze. I said, "That sounds cool." And then he said, "I'd like for you to be Jesus in the photo shoot."
I have a full beard and long, hippie hair. I've been growing it out for almost two years now; not really sure what the goal is other than lettin' it grow. I've had folks tell me before that I looked like Jesus, but never have I had an offer to "be" Jesus. I accepted this guy's offer and last Tuesday, I went down to a little photography studio where the magic would happen. One of the assistants put makeup on my face and neck and hands; something called "Texas dirt." I'm a pretty white guy normally; needless to say, this was the best tan I've ever had in my life. Next came the outfit - your standard gauze-like robe with an outer jacket (of sorts) in earthy tans and blacks. And then a crimson royal robe went over the whole thing. I stood on mark while the photographer got the lighting right and then I struck about thirty different poses, trying to get the look the artist had in mind. It was more difficult than I expected; setting aside your divinity, that is. After about an hour, he said he was pleased, paid me twenty-five bucks, and my work there was done.
I've gotten quite a bit of ribbing from my co-workers; people genuflecting at the water fountain, loaves and fish left on my desk, etc. It's cool. But I've been reflecting a little on the experience and this is what I've felt. I really didn't like being Jesus. I know it was only a photo shoot and it was only for an hour or so and it was helping a guy out who needed a messiah-look-alike. But it just felt wrong. It was like I couldn't get my hands right and my right elbow was never really extended correctly and they parted my hair right down the middle, so it turned out kinda like a Barry Gibb Jesus. It just wasn't me. And that's where my thoughts took me - it wasn't me. Jesus doesn't want me to be Jesus; no, Jesus wants me to be John. Jesus did Jesus as no one else could or would. And everything from his divesting of divinity to his howls of anguish on the cross need never be repeated again. Remember - he said, "It is finished!" His birth, life, death and resurrection was to liberate us from the false selves we all seem to love so much and invite us into something called life, real life. His desire is that we live out just who he created us to be. And in my case, that's John. Trying to be Jesus, even in a photo shoot, dances way to close for my taste to opening the door to a messiah complex. And once that door is opened, it's opened. But I feel it's actually a cop-out trying to BE Jesus; it's much easier to try and mimic what he looked like or did on this earth than to try and wrestle with stepping into each experience anew and fresh and trying to be myself, strengthened by his Spirit, in those situations. We parrot some Bible verse or give our interpretation of a new testament reaction in some scenario and believe, "Well, I was Jesus in that moment to those folks." Well...maybe. Maybe what Jesus wanted you or me to be in that scenario was ourselves - that self that he created with specific desires and loves and those specificities were just what that situation called for. But rather than being alive in the creative juices of the Holy Spirit, we deferred to a lowest common denominator faith and stepped outside ourselves, put on a little make-up, donned something nobody wears anymore, and we struck a pose. And that's what they call posing.
I hope you don't think I'm pooh-poohing on striving for Christ-likeness in our lives; that's really not what I'm against. And if that's what's comes across, then I've missed my mark (again). Jesus said, "You (you and me) are the light of the world." Now you can let that go to your head and become Ego-man or woman; or, you can let that go straight to your heart and hear an invitation to be yourself; something no one else can do and no one else was created to do. I saw the finished product on Friday; it looked pretty cheesy. I'm guessing the real Jesus got a chuckle out of it and said something like, "Harder than you thought, huh John?" Yes, Lord, it was. But I did really like my tan.
I have a full beard and long, hippie hair. I've been growing it out for almost two years now; not really sure what the goal is other than lettin' it grow. I've had folks tell me before that I looked like Jesus, but never have I had an offer to "be" Jesus. I accepted this guy's offer and last Tuesday, I went down to a little photography studio where the magic would happen. One of the assistants put makeup on my face and neck and hands; something called "Texas dirt." I'm a pretty white guy normally; needless to say, this was the best tan I've ever had in my life. Next came the outfit - your standard gauze-like robe with an outer jacket (of sorts) in earthy tans and blacks. And then a crimson royal robe went over the whole thing. I stood on mark while the photographer got the lighting right and then I struck about thirty different poses, trying to get the look the artist had in mind. It was more difficult than I expected; setting aside your divinity, that is. After about an hour, he said he was pleased, paid me twenty-five bucks, and my work there was done.
I've gotten quite a bit of ribbing from my co-workers; people genuflecting at the water fountain, loaves and fish left on my desk, etc. It's cool. But I've been reflecting a little on the experience and this is what I've felt. I really didn't like being Jesus. I know it was only a photo shoot and it was only for an hour or so and it was helping a guy out who needed a messiah-look-alike. But it just felt wrong. It was like I couldn't get my hands right and my right elbow was never really extended correctly and they parted my hair right down the middle, so it turned out kinda like a Barry Gibb Jesus. It just wasn't me. And that's where my thoughts took me - it wasn't me. Jesus doesn't want me to be Jesus; no, Jesus wants me to be John. Jesus did Jesus as no one else could or would. And everything from his divesting of divinity to his howls of anguish on the cross need never be repeated again. Remember - he said, "It is finished!" His birth, life, death and resurrection was to liberate us from the false selves we all seem to love so much and invite us into something called life, real life. His desire is that we live out just who he created us to be. And in my case, that's John. Trying to be Jesus, even in a photo shoot, dances way to close for my taste to opening the door to a messiah complex. And once that door is opened, it's opened. But I feel it's actually a cop-out trying to BE Jesus; it's much easier to try and mimic what he looked like or did on this earth than to try and wrestle with stepping into each experience anew and fresh and trying to be myself, strengthened by his Spirit, in those situations. We parrot some Bible verse or give our interpretation of a new testament reaction in some scenario and believe, "Well, I was Jesus in that moment to those folks." Well...maybe. Maybe what Jesus wanted you or me to be in that scenario was ourselves - that self that he created with specific desires and loves and those specificities were just what that situation called for. But rather than being alive in the creative juices of the Holy Spirit, we deferred to a lowest common denominator faith and stepped outside ourselves, put on a little make-up, donned something nobody wears anymore, and we struck a pose. And that's what they call posing.
I hope you don't think I'm pooh-poohing on striving for Christ-likeness in our lives; that's really not what I'm against. And if that's what's comes across, then I've missed my mark (again). Jesus said, "You (you and me) are the light of the world." Now you can let that go to your head and become Ego-man or woman; or, you can let that go straight to your heart and hear an invitation to be yourself; something no one else can do and no one else was created to do. I saw the finished product on Friday; it looked pretty cheesy. I'm guessing the real Jesus got a chuckle out of it and said something like, "Harder than you thought, huh John?" Yes, Lord, it was. But I did really like my tan.
Full
"But when the fullness of the time came, God sent forth His Son..." Gal. 4.4
This verse has been on my mind for about three weeks...just that phrase "the fullness of the time" has kept surfacing, unbidden. The company I work for is having a "write a Christmas devotion" emphasis and I signed up. They sent me the text they wanted one written on - "But when the fullness of the time came..." Strange. Humbling. Divine.
Think about that phrase a minute - "the fullness of the time." I'm not going to proceed by proper steps of scripture interpretation here. You probably don't care, but it's always good to say those things aloud. When time was full, when things had reached an apex of sorts, when everything was filled up to the brim, that's when Jesus came. When there was no more room, God sent forth His Son; in the fullness of the time.
Have you ever had an experience where it felt like you were full? After a dinner this evening at our fav Mexican place, my wife said, "I'm so full; I can't eat anything else." No room, not even any desire for that which one loves; full. I got a memo today describing my schedule tomorrow, it's a big sales blitz thing and the schedule is full; there's no room for any other presentations or last minute changes. It's full. We all know that feeling, that experience of being full. But just when we believe there's no more room, something squeezes in. That's what happened in the Christmas story. He doesn't request permission; he doesn't ask us what our schedules are like - no, He just gets sent forth into that fullness. And into ours. But since everything is full, He's coming in small, under the radar, humbled, incarnated in the muck and ruck of humanity, squeezed from a womb and then squeezed into swaddling clothes and then squeezed between Mary and Joe and the little drummer boy. His entry is strange, backdoor. I know all about the heavenly host appearing to the shepherds on the hillside while the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sang; that was big, no doubt. But the shepherds saw it and no one else and who believes shepherds' tales? Nobody really; maybe their mommas.
We've got a lot of folks carrying on these days about God's bigness and how we've lost a sense of that and how we need to taste again of the grandeur of God and His Omni-titles...Omnipresent, Omniscient, etc. Whew! That makes me tired just typing it. I'm putting my eggs in the basket of small, incarnation, the Big becoming Little, what ole' Lewis called "the grand miracle," a God who is able to wiggle in when everybody's says, "We're full." I don't know if you can make heads or tails of what I've just typed; my eyes are red from a days' reading. But God's wiggling, squeezing, squirming in yet again this season; He's showing us, if we've eyes to see, that full is not an obstacle for Him; in fact, that may be where and when He works best. When He wants to get sent forth, He gets sent forth. And that gives me hope tonight, because I feel like my life is FULL - no room. Maybe I'll post this again after I've fleshed it out a little more...that'll do for now.
This verse has been on my mind for about three weeks...just that phrase "the fullness of the time" has kept surfacing, unbidden. The company I work for is having a "write a Christmas devotion" emphasis and I signed up. They sent me the text they wanted one written on - "But when the fullness of the time came..." Strange. Humbling. Divine.
Think about that phrase a minute - "the fullness of the time." I'm not going to proceed by proper steps of scripture interpretation here. You probably don't care, but it's always good to say those things aloud. When time was full, when things had reached an apex of sorts, when everything was filled up to the brim, that's when Jesus came. When there was no more room, God sent forth His Son; in the fullness of the time.
Have you ever had an experience where it felt like you were full? After a dinner this evening at our fav Mexican place, my wife said, "I'm so full; I can't eat anything else." No room, not even any desire for that which one loves; full. I got a memo today describing my schedule tomorrow, it's a big sales blitz thing and the schedule is full; there's no room for any other presentations or last minute changes. It's full. We all know that feeling, that experience of being full. But just when we believe there's no more room, something squeezes in. That's what happened in the Christmas story. He doesn't request permission; he doesn't ask us what our schedules are like - no, He just gets sent forth into that fullness. And into ours. But since everything is full, He's coming in small, under the radar, humbled, incarnated in the muck and ruck of humanity, squeezed from a womb and then squeezed into swaddling clothes and then squeezed between Mary and Joe and the little drummer boy. His entry is strange, backdoor. I know all about the heavenly host appearing to the shepherds on the hillside while the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sang; that was big, no doubt. But the shepherds saw it and no one else and who believes shepherds' tales? Nobody really; maybe their mommas.
We've got a lot of folks carrying on these days about God's bigness and how we've lost a sense of that and how we need to taste again of the grandeur of God and His Omni-titles...Omnipresent, Omniscient, etc. Whew! That makes me tired just typing it. I'm putting my eggs in the basket of small, incarnation, the Big becoming Little, what ole' Lewis called "the grand miracle," a God who is able to wiggle in when everybody's says, "We're full." I don't know if you can make heads or tails of what I've just typed; my eyes are red from a days' reading. But God's wiggling, squeezing, squirming in yet again this season; He's showing us, if we've eyes to see, that full is not an obstacle for Him; in fact, that may be where and when He works best. When He wants to get sent forth, He gets sent forth. And that gives me hope tonight, because I feel like my life is FULL - no room. Maybe I'll post this again after I've fleshed it out a little more...that'll do for now.
Come Let Me Hold You
Just before the Thanksgiving break, my son's best friend moved away. His dad got a job out East and so the family loaded up the truck and moved to Kentucky. And my son watched them drive away. Brandon and Will have been good buds for over a year now. They were both in the accelerated classes at school, so the friendship had a competitive edge to it. Brandon would come over to our house after school and I'd walk by Will's room and hear them arguing like an old married couple. Neither wanted to give in or admit defeat or any of those other "uncle" phrases. The first few times I experienced this, I reprimanded them and told them to be "nice." Yeah, that was a dad-strike-out; they looked at me like a calf looks at a new gate. That was the way they communicated with each other; competitive, iron sharpening iron stuff. "Nice" was not a category for them; it was a hoot to watch. Best friends.
Will has had a hard week so far. We didn't really know what was going on. He's just been moody and easily upset (redundant, I know). Last night, we were working on multiplication tables and there was a problem he didn't remember how to do. I asked if he was listening to the teacher - "yes, dad." I asked if somebody was talking and he couldn't hear - "no, dad." I asked if he couldn't see the board for some reason - "I could see it fine, dad." I asked if the person sitting next to him was bothering him or cracking jokes..."I was sitting by myself, dad." Oh.
Grief does crummy things to you, huh? Your best friend moves away and all of a sudden, you're alone. The guy who's sat beside you for over a year at school is not in his chair anymore; a vacancy exists in the room and in your heart. The friend you competed with in EVERYTHING conceded and had to go with his family; he conceded and you still lost. That's hard enough for me to comprehend, let alone a nine year old boy. My son is grieving and it's breaking my heart. I can't bring Brandon back. I can't arrange for a new friend to emerge to take his place. We walk through a vale of tears on this earth and the only way through it, is through it. It is a lesson we learn and live. And it makes us stumble and bumble and forget how to do partial product multiplication problems and it causes us to sit by ourselves and be moody and easily upset and redundant. And sad.
There's a beautiful country song that goes something like this: "How can I help you, to say goodbye? It's o.k. to hurt, it's o.k. to cry. Come let me hold you, and I will try. How can I help you, to say goodbye?" Will, it's o.k to hurt and cry and forget your math stuff; but let me hold you, buddy. We'll hurt and cry together. I'll try and help you say goodbye. But it ain't easy. My innocent firstborn, you are beginning to learn of the longing...
Will has had a hard week so far. We didn't really know what was going on. He's just been moody and easily upset (redundant, I know). Last night, we were working on multiplication tables and there was a problem he didn't remember how to do. I asked if he was listening to the teacher - "yes, dad." I asked if somebody was talking and he couldn't hear - "no, dad." I asked if he couldn't see the board for some reason - "I could see it fine, dad." I asked if the person sitting next to him was bothering him or cracking jokes..."I was sitting by myself, dad." Oh.
Grief does crummy things to you, huh? Your best friend moves away and all of a sudden, you're alone. The guy who's sat beside you for over a year at school is not in his chair anymore; a vacancy exists in the room and in your heart. The friend you competed with in EVERYTHING conceded and had to go with his family; he conceded and you still lost. That's hard enough for me to comprehend, let alone a nine year old boy. My son is grieving and it's breaking my heart. I can't bring Brandon back. I can't arrange for a new friend to emerge to take his place. We walk through a vale of tears on this earth and the only way through it, is through it. It is a lesson we learn and live. And it makes us stumble and bumble and forget how to do partial product multiplication problems and it causes us to sit by ourselves and be moody and easily upset and redundant. And sad.
There's a beautiful country song that goes something like this: "How can I help you, to say goodbye? It's o.k. to hurt, it's o.k. to cry. Come let me hold you, and I will try. How can I help you, to say goodbye?" Will, it's o.k to hurt and cry and forget your math stuff; but let me hold you, buddy. We'll hurt and cry together. I'll try and help you say goodbye. But it ain't easy. My innocent firstborn, you are beginning to learn of the longing...
I'm open; just don't ask me to text message anyone...
"Fully functioning people are organized, disciplined, and able to get what they want out of life. Organization is out of the question for me; there are too many things going on, and they change so quickly I cannot keep up. The very idea of discipline makes me feel guilty...And as for getting what I want out of life, what I want most is love, and love comes only as a gift. All I can 'do' is be willingly, actively open to receiving the gift."
-Gerald May
I so resemble the statement above. I started a new job a couple of weeks ago; I'm already behind. I'm trying my best to keep dates and meetings on a calendar, but I've already been late a few times. Several around me have those neat little palm organizers that buzz when a meeting is five minutes out or play a nifty ring-tune when they have an incoming call; I've got post-it notes on my car's dashboard and notes "penned" on my hand. Charlie Brown in a land of Lucys. But what I want most out of this life is love and I agree with Dr. May - "love comes only as a gift." So, I'm just trying to be "willingly, actively open."
And you know what? I feel staying "willingly, actively open" may be more difficult than being on time for meetings. It may very well be more challenging than inputting your information into a palm organizer. And the chances are very good that opening yourself to the love you need is infinitely harder than sending out an e-mail message to a group of people while taking a conference call and stirring a latte. All those things go far in the land of efficiency; I'm just not sure they take you very far into the land of love. Don't get me wrong - I'm trying to be more efficient and even figured out my voice mail the other day; but I don't want to bend the knee entirely to that god. And not bowing to that idol puts you on a particular path - the path of pain. Charlie Brown experiences it every time Lucy pulls that football away at the last second and he screams, "AAAAUUUUUGGGGGHHHHH!" But he comes back, every time, and tries it again. Ole' Chuck stays "willingly, actively open" because what he wants most out of life is love. And that's what we love about Charlie Brown. And Gerald May. And Jesus. With arms wide open, as the boys from Creed sing. That's a vulnerable position; but it's the only position that allows you to receive something. Guarding your heart can quickly turn into hiding your heart; a very efficient stance, but one that's shut off from love. I pray on each of you (all three people who read this blog) that your holy-days are "willingly, actively open." There are gifts to be given and received this season. But you gotta have your heart open.
-Gerald May
I so resemble the statement above. I started a new job a couple of weeks ago; I'm already behind. I'm trying my best to keep dates and meetings on a calendar, but I've already been late a few times. Several around me have those neat little palm organizers that buzz when a meeting is five minutes out or play a nifty ring-tune when they have an incoming call; I've got post-it notes on my car's dashboard and notes "penned" on my hand. Charlie Brown in a land of Lucys. But what I want most out of this life is love and I agree with Dr. May - "love comes only as a gift." So, I'm just trying to be "willingly, actively open."
And you know what? I feel staying "willingly, actively open" may be more difficult than being on time for meetings. It may very well be more challenging than inputting your information into a palm organizer. And the chances are very good that opening yourself to the love you need is infinitely harder than sending out an e-mail message to a group of people while taking a conference call and stirring a latte. All those things go far in the land of efficiency; I'm just not sure they take you very far into the land of love. Don't get me wrong - I'm trying to be more efficient and even figured out my voice mail the other day; but I don't want to bend the knee entirely to that god. And not bowing to that idol puts you on a particular path - the path of pain. Charlie Brown experiences it every time Lucy pulls that football away at the last second and he screams, "AAAAUUUUUGGGGGHHHHH!" But he comes back, every time, and tries it again. Ole' Chuck stays "willingly, actively open" because what he wants most out of life is love. And that's what we love about Charlie Brown. And Gerald May. And Jesus. With arms wide open, as the boys from Creed sing. That's a vulnerable position; but it's the only position that allows you to receive something. Guarding your heart can quickly turn into hiding your heart; a very efficient stance, but one that's shut off from love. I pray on each of you (all three people who read this blog) that your holy-days are "willingly, actively open." There are gifts to be given and received this season. But you gotta have your heart open.
Haggard
Unless you've been living under a rock or on another planet, you've heard the news about Pastor Ted Haggard and New Life Church here in Colorado Springs. It's actually old news; the election hoo-hah has buried the story for now. Oh, it'll surface when the papers need a story, but for the most part, we've moved on...Ted Haggard will begin a process of restoration, guided by a couple of megachurch pastors who evidently know alot about restoration (I hope) and New Life Church will have a new leader christened by the first of the year to guide the church into the future.
I've kept some clippings from the newspapers during those days. I have the text of the letters from Ted Haggard and Mrs. Haggard - letters read to their church this last Sunday. The text is important in this story, but its the images that I've found most substantive. I found it interesting that the photo the paper chose of Ted presents the square jaw and white teeth of a megachurch pastor and national evangelical leader. The photo of Ted's wife is nothing like that; her picture fits her married name - haggard. She presents the eyes of woman steeling herself against winds that are blowing with hurricane force and her mouth looks like that of a little girl about to cry. There were a couple of pictures of their sons in different editions; one son in a group of church members presenting the confidence of his father and two other sons in the backseat of a pickup with looks that resembled those of the disciples when the soldiers came to get Jesus in the garden. These Haggard family pictures, all of them, made me cry.
However, there was one that stopped me in my tracks and made me mad. It was that of the group of pastors who read the apology letters this last Sunday at New Life Church. They were/are men who have had some type of accountability relationship with Ted Haggard over the years. The front and center man in this particular photo is a very successful pastor from down south. He is standing in front of one of those Plexiglas pulpits and his arms are outstretched in a pose I've seen used in statues of Christ - hands extended, inviting or welcoming people. He's wearing one of those fashionable microphones that fit over your ear and run down your cheekline. His hair is coiffed and it appears he's got on several layers of makeup. His suit is tailored with four or five buttons down the front and his shirt and tie are the stuff of GQ spreads. And I thought, "damn." This whole story is about not being able to let the dirt show, not feeling safe enough or brave enough to take off the cuff links and let the demons fly. The pressure to maintain the image of success and flash and suave-vey and confidence and blessed assurance was so great, so huge, that Haggard kept his flesh and blood at bay for years. And instead of an observable humility this past Sunday, that church was led by the gatekeepers of the imago mega. I realize you can be a horse's ass in Levis and a t-shirt, but I saw nothing "new life" about that scene; it was the same "old life' and same "image-laden" leaders who put all their eggs in the baskets of words and looks. I would have ponied-up a C-note if that old boy from down south would've shown up in sackcloth and ashes, weeping like Jeremiah the prophet and scaring a lot more people than he comforted. I'd of stood up and said "amen" if those guys would've said, "You know, enough with this image stuff; we're all bastards here and maybe it's time that you heard that message from us, your leaders, and maybe it's time you know that Ted H. ain't the only pastor who wrestles with demons and loses. Maybe it's time we get off this Americanized-fast-track-to-God-train and stop trying so hard to hold each other accountable and maybe try a little harder to hold each other close, even when the smell is the sulfurized rank of sin." I haven't walked an aisle in years, but a message like that from the polished boys and I would've released the chair and made my way down front humming "ye who are weary come home, with my pocketbook open to give to an orphange or something."
Ole' James Dobson pulled out of the restoration team today; he said he was just too busy. My guess is that James knew the dirt was dirty with Ted and getting closer to him would probably result in more frequent trips to the dry cleaners. He was raised with the notion that you're known by the company you keep and he didn't want to keep that kind of company. Keep it clean, keep it coiffed, keep it button-downed and clear as Plexiglas. Forgive us, Father, for we know what we do and keep on doing it; know what we see and keep on supporting it; know what we hear and keep on listening. We just don't know ourselves.
I've kept some clippings from the newspapers during those days. I have the text of the letters from Ted Haggard and Mrs. Haggard - letters read to their church this last Sunday. The text is important in this story, but its the images that I've found most substantive. I found it interesting that the photo the paper chose of Ted presents the square jaw and white teeth of a megachurch pastor and national evangelical leader. The photo of Ted's wife is nothing like that; her picture fits her married name - haggard. She presents the eyes of woman steeling herself against winds that are blowing with hurricane force and her mouth looks like that of a little girl about to cry. There were a couple of pictures of their sons in different editions; one son in a group of church members presenting the confidence of his father and two other sons in the backseat of a pickup with looks that resembled those of the disciples when the soldiers came to get Jesus in the garden. These Haggard family pictures, all of them, made me cry.
However, there was one that stopped me in my tracks and made me mad. It was that of the group of pastors who read the apology letters this last Sunday at New Life Church. They were/are men who have had some type of accountability relationship with Ted Haggard over the years. The front and center man in this particular photo is a very successful pastor from down south. He is standing in front of one of those Plexiglas pulpits and his arms are outstretched in a pose I've seen used in statues of Christ - hands extended, inviting or welcoming people. He's wearing one of those fashionable microphones that fit over your ear and run down your cheekline. His hair is coiffed and it appears he's got on several layers of makeup. His suit is tailored with four or five buttons down the front and his shirt and tie are the stuff of GQ spreads. And I thought, "damn." This whole story is about not being able to let the dirt show, not feeling safe enough or brave enough to take off the cuff links and let the demons fly. The pressure to maintain the image of success and flash and suave-vey and confidence and blessed assurance was so great, so huge, that Haggard kept his flesh and blood at bay for years. And instead of an observable humility this past Sunday, that church was led by the gatekeepers of the imago mega. I realize you can be a horse's ass in Levis and a t-shirt, but I saw nothing "new life" about that scene; it was the same "old life' and same "image-laden" leaders who put all their eggs in the baskets of words and looks. I would have ponied-up a C-note if that old boy from down south would've shown up in sackcloth and ashes, weeping like Jeremiah the prophet and scaring a lot more people than he comforted. I'd of stood up and said "amen" if those guys would've said, "You know, enough with this image stuff; we're all bastards here and maybe it's time that you heard that message from us, your leaders, and maybe it's time you know that Ted H. ain't the only pastor who wrestles with demons and loses. Maybe it's time we get off this Americanized-fast-track-to-God-train and stop trying so hard to hold each other accountable and maybe try a little harder to hold each other close, even when the smell is the sulfurized rank of sin." I haven't walked an aisle in years, but a message like that from the polished boys and I would've released the chair and made my way down front humming "ye who are weary come home, with my pocketbook open to give to an orphange or something."
Ole' James Dobson pulled out of the restoration team today; he said he was just too busy. My guess is that James knew the dirt was dirty with Ted and getting closer to him would probably result in more frequent trips to the dry cleaners. He was raised with the notion that you're known by the company you keep and he didn't want to keep that kind of company. Keep it clean, keep it coiffed, keep it button-downed and clear as Plexiglas. Forgive us, Father, for we know what we do and keep on doing it; know what we see and keep on supporting it; know what we hear and keep on listening. We just don't know ourselves.
(read at my father's twenty-years as pastor celebration)
If I choose not to become attached to nouns – a person, place, or thing – then…my heart cannot be broken because I never risked giving it away.
– Terry Tempest Williams
Over the span of their lives in ministry, my parents have intentionally chosen to become attached to nouns – people, places, and things. And for the past twenty years, they’ve become attached to you – a town called Nashville with a Main Street and the Scrappers and the Tastee Freeze and Fourth of July celebrations and Christmas musicals complete with camels and donkeys and Vacation Bible School one more time and Night’s Out for Ladies and a drama group who took the show on the road and a church campus that has extended its boundaries over the years. They’ve become attached to some dreams, some of which have come true - owning their own home complete with a bluebird feeder in the backyard and the occasional gift of a visitation of ducks during the breakfast hour. Some dreams came but faded - mornings and evenings of donning boots and a hat and feeding a horse and handling tack and being humbled by the achingly beautiful smell of a barn and the realization that God does indeed know the desires of our hearts. They’ve sat with you as pacemakers were installed in your parents because mom or dad was moving too slow and they’ve prayed with you over sons and daughters because the kids were moving way too fast. They’ve guided you in getting some of those sons and daughters successfully down the aisle into holy matrimony and they’ve stood beside you when what God hath joined together, man or woman or something, put asunder. They’ve held your hands as you’ve put parents, friends, and children in the ground and said though tears, “dust to dust” and they’ve hugged your necks as the very next Sunday saw the dedication of a newborn baby and you said through tears, “It is not a slight thing when those so fresh from God love us.” They rejoiced with you when prodigals came home and they wept with you, and sometimes wept at a distance, when the prodigal never came to his or her senses and still remains in the far country.
They have chosen to risk giving their hearts away and they have known great joy. But they have also known great heartbreak. They have seen with their eyes and touched with their hands the pain that comes with being attached to nouns. And by the mercies of God, they keep choosing to stay attached.
The temptation over the years in ministry – well, how about…in life - is to stop becoming attached, to shut your heart down, to close the windows to your soul and say, “No more nouns! It hurts too much!” But the example my parents have lived out is that of risky business - staying openhearted. Now be careful and don’t romanticize it or superspiritualize it; it’s not easy (some call it the battle) and it will test your faith in both God and man. To live with an open heart will present many days when you’ll be convinced that nobody cares and, in the words of Annie Dillard, that even “God doesn’t give a hoot.” But it is the way of the Christ-life; it is the path that is walked with the rhythm of three steps - faith, hope and love – and the greatest of these is LOVE. For you see, there was a moment in the mind of the divine when God said, “I will become attached to nouns – I’ll become flesh and blood and bone and sinew and hair and spit; I’ll attach myself to the dusty streets of a place known as Palestine and not stray far from her borders; I’ll even attach myself to a group of people probably best described as gypsies, tramps and thieves. I will give away my heart and know great joy, but in the giving I know that it will also be broken and betrayed and forsaken…and I will one day allow myself to become attached to another noun, a tree, and I will willingly let them bleed me of the blood that will cover the sins of the world. For God so loved this world, that He became attached to nouns…That’s really what my parents have done these twenty years – they’ve loved you. And you have loved them back.
The gospels record the Lord saying, “If you want to show me how much you love me, then love other people.” I’m gonna’ roll the dice this morning and bet that the same applies to honor – “If you want to show me honor, then show it to other people.” And so we honor God today by honoring two people for what the world would diagnose as attachment disorder; however, we know that giving away your heart is really the way of the cross. And the way of the cross gets us all where we really want to be - “it is sweet to know, as I onward go, the way of the cross leads…HOME.”
– Terry Tempest Williams
Over the span of their lives in ministry, my parents have intentionally chosen to become attached to nouns – people, places, and things. And for the past twenty years, they’ve become attached to you – a town called Nashville with a Main Street and the Scrappers and the Tastee Freeze and Fourth of July celebrations and Christmas musicals complete with camels and donkeys and Vacation Bible School one more time and Night’s Out for Ladies and a drama group who took the show on the road and a church campus that has extended its boundaries over the years. They’ve become attached to some dreams, some of which have come true - owning their own home complete with a bluebird feeder in the backyard and the occasional gift of a visitation of ducks during the breakfast hour. Some dreams came but faded - mornings and evenings of donning boots and a hat and feeding a horse and handling tack and being humbled by the achingly beautiful smell of a barn and the realization that God does indeed know the desires of our hearts. They’ve sat with you as pacemakers were installed in your parents because mom or dad was moving too slow and they’ve prayed with you over sons and daughters because the kids were moving way too fast. They’ve guided you in getting some of those sons and daughters successfully down the aisle into holy matrimony and they’ve stood beside you when what God hath joined together, man or woman or something, put asunder. They’ve held your hands as you’ve put parents, friends, and children in the ground and said though tears, “dust to dust” and they’ve hugged your necks as the very next Sunday saw the dedication of a newborn baby and you said through tears, “It is not a slight thing when those so fresh from God love us.” They rejoiced with you when prodigals came home and they wept with you, and sometimes wept at a distance, when the prodigal never came to his or her senses and still remains in the far country.
They have chosen to risk giving their hearts away and they have known great joy. But they have also known great heartbreak. They have seen with their eyes and touched with their hands the pain that comes with being attached to nouns. And by the mercies of God, they keep choosing to stay attached.
The temptation over the years in ministry – well, how about…in life - is to stop becoming attached, to shut your heart down, to close the windows to your soul and say, “No more nouns! It hurts too much!” But the example my parents have lived out is that of risky business - staying openhearted. Now be careful and don’t romanticize it or superspiritualize it; it’s not easy (some call it the battle) and it will test your faith in both God and man. To live with an open heart will present many days when you’ll be convinced that nobody cares and, in the words of Annie Dillard, that even “God doesn’t give a hoot.” But it is the way of the Christ-life; it is the path that is walked with the rhythm of three steps - faith, hope and love – and the greatest of these is LOVE. For you see, there was a moment in the mind of the divine when God said, “I will become attached to nouns – I’ll become flesh and blood and bone and sinew and hair and spit; I’ll attach myself to the dusty streets of a place known as Palestine and not stray far from her borders; I’ll even attach myself to a group of people probably best described as gypsies, tramps and thieves. I will give away my heart and know great joy, but in the giving I know that it will also be broken and betrayed and forsaken…and I will one day allow myself to become attached to another noun, a tree, and I will willingly let them bleed me of the blood that will cover the sins of the world. For God so loved this world, that He became attached to nouns…That’s really what my parents have done these twenty years – they’ve loved you. And you have loved them back.
The gospels record the Lord saying, “If you want to show me how much you love me, then love other people.” I’m gonna’ roll the dice this morning and bet that the same applies to honor – “If you want to show me honor, then show it to other people.” And so we honor God today by honoring two people for what the world would diagnose as attachment disorder; however, we know that giving away your heart is really the way of the cross. And the way of the cross gets us all where we really want to be - “it is sweet to know, as I onward go, the way of the cross leads…HOME.”
Let It Be
"We should...show that we are still capable of understanding (and practicing) the concept of honor: loving a thing the way it is, and trying, for once, not to change it." - Rick Bass
Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be prolonged in the land which the LORD
your God gives you. Ex. 20.12.
This coming weekend, my family and I will travel back to Nashville, Arkansas. My dad has been the pastor of a Baptist church in this small town for twenty years - something rather uncommon these days. They've asked me to preach or speak or something next Sunday morning..."we want it to be evangelistic, but also honoring to your dad and mom." I told a good friend about this invitation and his response was: "this sounds like something you could really screw up, John." Thanks. My hope is to honor them (my parents) but not eulogize them; I'm not ready for that yet. But there is much about their (and it has been a tag-team effort) ministry that I don't agree with and don't want to emulate. So how do I do that?...honor them, that is?
And then I came across this quote by Rick Bass. Ah, the truth that often lies in the Bass. You'd probably say, "Well, gosh...that's pretty simple...and you went to graduate school?" Yeah, I did, but that doesn't mean much, huh? My parents' ministry is their ministry. Oh, sure - they'll say it's been God's and to some degree, it has been. However, it has had their personal stamp on it (like all ministries do). My challenge, this coming Sunday and throughout my life, is to love them for who they are - not who I want them to be or who I wish they were, but to honor/love them as they are. I've tried to have "change" conversations with them before; they never really go very far. Oh, the conversation is great and the interchange and dialogue are more than worth the effort, but the "change" never happens; we're both pretty stuck in our ways. Or maybe we're stuck in ourselves, which is not a bad place to be stuck in at all. In fact, it's where God has stuck me/us, so that's where He wants us; maybe the challenge is to submit to being stuck for awhile...and letting it be.
And if I can honor my parents that way, it's probably a good approach to my wife, my kids, my friends, co-workers, fellow church people, managers, in-laws, etc. Letting them be...not trying to change them, just let them be. And honoring what's there in that flesh and blood creation crafted by the very hands of God. And not trying to figure out some way to change him or her or them, because my benchmark for change is...guess who? Yep - me. I'd like my parents to do ministry the way I think it should be done. I'd love my wife to approach a problem that way I would approach it. I'd be tinkled pink if my kids would be interested in the things I'm interested in...yada, yada, yada, a whole lotta dis-honoring going on. I'm a damn fool.
And if that's how to honor another, then how about honoring yourself? "Love your neighbor as yourself." What if my challenge is to honor who I am and what I love and what I can't stand and how I spend free time and what I spend money on and what time of the day is my favorite and which movies I absolutely cherish and what memories stay with me like they were yesterday - what if I'm to honor all those things and not try to change them? Now I'm not talking about letting personal hygiene go out the door and blowing up to 400 lbs. and never paying my bills; no, I'm talking about being myself and letting others be themselves and letting it be what it is, which sometimes is not so great, but sometimes borders on being "good." Maybe we would live long upon this earth if we weren't so anxiety-ridden about our spouses or our parents or our neighbors or our pastor or our boss at work. Sam Keen said that stress is a sign that you're trying to live someone else's life. I would add "trying to CHANGE someone else's life" to Mr. Keen's astute observation. My life is much better off when I let God be God; my wife be Meredith; my kids be Will, Sarah and Abbey; my parents be David and Ann; my friends be Rich and Mark and Mo and Steve; my pastor be Ken...and myself be John.
Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be prolonged in the land which the LORD
your God gives you. Ex. 20.12.
This coming weekend, my family and I will travel back to Nashville, Arkansas. My dad has been the pastor of a Baptist church in this small town for twenty years - something rather uncommon these days. They've asked me to preach or speak or something next Sunday morning..."we want it to be evangelistic, but also honoring to your dad and mom." I told a good friend about this invitation and his response was: "this sounds like something you could really screw up, John." Thanks. My hope is to honor them (my parents) but not eulogize them; I'm not ready for that yet. But there is much about their (and it has been a tag-team effort) ministry that I don't agree with and don't want to emulate. So how do I do that?...honor them, that is?
And then I came across this quote by Rick Bass. Ah, the truth that often lies in the Bass. You'd probably say, "Well, gosh...that's pretty simple...and you went to graduate school?" Yeah, I did, but that doesn't mean much, huh? My parents' ministry is their ministry. Oh, sure - they'll say it's been God's and to some degree, it has been. However, it has had their personal stamp on it (like all ministries do). My challenge, this coming Sunday and throughout my life, is to love them for who they are - not who I want them to be or who I wish they were, but to honor/love them as they are. I've tried to have "change" conversations with them before; they never really go very far. Oh, the conversation is great and the interchange and dialogue are more than worth the effort, but the "change" never happens; we're both pretty stuck in our ways. Or maybe we're stuck in ourselves, which is not a bad place to be stuck in at all. In fact, it's where God has stuck me/us, so that's where He wants us; maybe the challenge is to submit to being stuck for awhile...and letting it be.
And if I can honor my parents that way, it's probably a good approach to my wife, my kids, my friends, co-workers, fellow church people, managers, in-laws, etc. Letting them be...not trying to change them, just let them be. And honoring what's there in that flesh and blood creation crafted by the very hands of God. And not trying to figure out some way to change him or her or them, because my benchmark for change is...guess who? Yep - me. I'd like my parents to do ministry the way I think it should be done. I'd love my wife to approach a problem that way I would approach it. I'd be tinkled pink if my kids would be interested in the things I'm interested in...yada, yada, yada, a whole lotta dis-honoring going on. I'm a damn fool.
And if that's how to honor another, then how about honoring yourself? "Love your neighbor as yourself." What if my challenge is to honor who I am and what I love and what I can't stand and how I spend free time and what I spend money on and what time of the day is my favorite and which movies I absolutely cherish and what memories stay with me like they were yesterday - what if I'm to honor all those things and not try to change them? Now I'm not talking about letting personal hygiene go out the door and blowing up to 400 lbs. and never paying my bills; no, I'm talking about being myself and letting others be themselves and letting it be what it is, which sometimes is not so great, but sometimes borders on being "good." Maybe we would live long upon this earth if we weren't so anxiety-ridden about our spouses or our parents or our neighbors or our pastor or our boss at work. Sam Keen said that stress is a sign that you're trying to live someone else's life. I would add "trying to CHANGE someone else's life" to Mr. Keen's astute observation. My life is much better off when I let God be God; my wife be Meredith; my kids be Will, Sarah and Abbey; my parents be David and Ann; my friends be Rich and Mark and Mo and Steve; my pastor be Ken...and myself be John.
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way from Church
My two girls and I were coming back home from church around noon today. I noticed the traffic slowing a little and then saw some flashing lights - uh, oh; I assumed an accident. But to my surprise, we kept moving, inching, creeping. And then I saw them. Hundreds of single headlights, bookended by black soled boots. And then I heard them. Hundreds of wwhhhaaahhhh - Harleys, Hondas, Suzukis, and even a Victory. We had just turned onto the street that was an approved route for the Toys for Tots benefit ride. Traffic then stopped completely and we sat and watched at least 500 cyclists zoom by. We hit the button and the windows came down. "Settle in, girls; there's a few motorcycles gonna pass."
And we watched rider after rider after riders bike by with stuffed animals or boxes wrapped in Christmas paper strapped to windshields or backrests. You just have to smile when everything about the particular rider is black, from leathers to gas tank paint, and then there's Elmo, glistening in his redness, strapped to the front. I like these riders. There's always been an attraction for me to the motorcycle culture. Something about it just screams, "Freedom!" From silver-flecked goatees to proud mamas perched on the back, everyone I saw today was smiling, happy to be riding and giving to a worthy cause. But they were doing it on their terms.
I suddenly noticed that we were stopped directly across from a church parking lot. And evidently church had just let out, but no one could exit the lot due to the stream of bikes motoring by. Those folks were backed up all the way back to the building, which sits a distance off the road. I wondered if they were having Christ-like thoughts as these angels rode by? Or were they put-out because they couldn't get out and get to wherever? Two grade school girls suddenly emerged from one of the stuck-in-the-lot-church-vehicles; they were dressed in white shoes with laced socks and dresses to complete the ensemble. But evidently, the lure of black and the sound of the road were too much for these young souls. They hopped out and began waving and shouting at the riders; the riders began honking back. I'd like to think that if a bike had stopped for a moment that the young girls would've shot off and hopped on and taken off, yelling back to momma "it's for a good cause," while kicking off their laced socks and letting the wind blow through their evangelical toes. And maybe there were others in those SUVs and Subaru wagons who were having thoughts of envy, longing to strap their legs round those engines and let it ride. I know I was.
I was sitting in a minivan, wearing a button-down shirt, telling the girls to "stay buckled up" while simultaneously wishing I was in line with the angels, balancing a hawg with Tigger doing a bouncy, trouncy, fun, fun, fun, fun, fun on my back. We sat still for almost fifteen minutes, watching the parade and dreaming, picking out the bikes we'd have if we could and discussing our favorite gas tank colors. I wasn't sure why I ended up at church this morning. Probably due to habit. Maybe something will emerge later in the week, but by the end of the service, I was wishing I hadn't gone. The drive home was taking on one of those regretful commutes; I was a more than a quart low on hope. And then I saw them. And heard them. Redemption drew nigh as half a thousand doo-ragged brothers and sisters rode by preaching freedom and displaying generosity. Forgive us, Lord, for we know not why we do what we do. Thank you for your messengers, astride chrome and flames, telling us to repent for the Kingdom is near. Oh, Lord, I want to be in that number...
And we watched rider after rider after riders bike by with stuffed animals or boxes wrapped in Christmas paper strapped to windshields or backrests. You just have to smile when everything about the particular rider is black, from leathers to gas tank paint, and then there's Elmo, glistening in his redness, strapped to the front. I like these riders. There's always been an attraction for me to the motorcycle culture. Something about it just screams, "Freedom!" From silver-flecked goatees to proud mamas perched on the back, everyone I saw today was smiling, happy to be riding and giving to a worthy cause. But they were doing it on their terms.
I suddenly noticed that we were stopped directly across from a church parking lot. And evidently church had just let out, but no one could exit the lot due to the stream of bikes motoring by. Those folks were backed up all the way back to the building, which sits a distance off the road. I wondered if they were having Christ-like thoughts as these angels rode by? Or were they put-out because they couldn't get out and get to wherever? Two grade school girls suddenly emerged from one of the stuck-in-the-lot-church-vehicles; they were dressed in white shoes with laced socks and dresses to complete the ensemble. But evidently, the lure of black and the sound of the road were too much for these young souls. They hopped out and began waving and shouting at the riders; the riders began honking back. I'd like to think that if a bike had stopped for a moment that the young girls would've shot off and hopped on and taken off, yelling back to momma "it's for a good cause," while kicking off their laced socks and letting the wind blow through their evangelical toes. And maybe there were others in those SUVs and Subaru wagons who were having thoughts of envy, longing to strap their legs round those engines and let it ride. I know I was.
I was sitting in a minivan, wearing a button-down shirt, telling the girls to "stay buckled up" while simultaneously wishing I was in line with the angels, balancing a hawg with Tigger doing a bouncy, trouncy, fun, fun, fun, fun, fun on my back. We sat still for almost fifteen minutes, watching the parade and dreaming, picking out the bikes we'd have if we could and discussing our favorite gas tank colors. I wasn't sure why I ended up at church this morning. Probably due to habit. Maybe something will emerge later in the week, but by the end of the service, I was wishing I hadn't gone. The drive home was taking on one of those regretful commutes; I was a more than a quart low on hope. And then I saw them. And heard them. Redemption drew nigh as half a thousand doo-ragged brothers and sisters rode by preaching freedom and displaying generosity. Forgive us, Lord, for we know not why we do what we do. Thank you for your messengers, astride chrome and flames, telling us to repent for the Kingdom is near. Oh, Lord, I want to be in that number...
Maybe. Maybe Not.
"And Lord, thank you that there's a chance that Dad's check will come tomorrow. In Jesus' name, Amen."
I've been waiting on a check for some writing work I've done. During this time, I promised my son a new video game when I got paid. He's doing really well in school and reading some difficult books; I'm very proud of him and want to bless him in that way. I had hoped the check would come Friday afternoon, we'd go out to eat as a family and celebrate, and stop in and get his video game on the way home. That's the t.v. version; real life didn't pan out that way. The disappointment was thick when I walked in the door - "no, it didn't come, Dad." "I'm so sorry, Will. Believe me, I'm as disappointed as you, buddy."
I felt our family needed some fresh air, so we did find enough to go out and get something to eat to numb the pain. I asked Will to pray over our Mexican food and he agreed. The quote above was how he finished his picante petition. We managed to avert a total evening disaster and ended up enjoying one another and some enchiladas. But I appreciated his prayer of honesty - thanks that there's a "chance" it'll come tomorrow. His faith was still afloat, verbalized in the word "chance." And isn't that what faith is anyway? Sure, I know the Hebrew definition - unseen...hoped for. For some folks, the word "chance" conjures up gambling or rolling the dice; they'd never use that word in conjunction with the word "faith." But why? There's a chance my check would come today, there's a chance our friend's mother will survive her cancer surgery, there's a chance I may have a steady job soon, there's a chance...And I have faith in every one of those scenarios, but I know they may not turn out as I'd prefer. I fear most of us (I'll take the spot at the head of the line) live with a "chancey faith" in real life; however, we talk and preach about faith in a t.v. version. Do I trust God's heart for me and my son and the fact that I want to bless him with a video game, not to mention groceries for the rest of us? I do.
But my check didn't come today...we took a chance, hoped for the best, prayed for it alongside chips and salsa, and it didn't happen. What'll we do now? Keep on faith-ing it, chancing it? We can talk all we want about knowing "the rest of the story" and go through life as a bunch of smiley Paul Harveys...I think we're gamblers; gambling on God and Jesus and the Bible and miracles that happened God-only-knows-how-long-ago and communion and forgiveness of sin and the kingdom and the power and the glory, amen. The fact that the word "chance" rarely dances with the word "faith" may reveal how scared we really are; we're terrified. We truly work out our salvation with FEAR and TREMBLING.
There's a chance it'll come Monday...
I've been waiting on a check for some writing work I've done. During this time, I promised my son a new video game when I got paid. He's doing really well in school and reading some difficult books; I'm very proud of him and want to bless him in that way. I had hoped the check would come Friday afternoon, we'd go out to eat as a family and celebrate, and stop in and get his video game on the way home. That's the t.v. version; real life didn't pan out that way. The disappointment was thick when I walked in the door - "no, it didn't come, Dad." "I'm so sorry, Will. Believe me, I'm as disappointed as you, buddy."
I felt our family needed some fresh air, so we did find enough to go out and get something to eat to numb the pain. I asked Will to pray over our Mexican food and he agreed. The quote above was how he finished his picante petition. We managed to avert a total evening disaster and ended up enjoying one another and some enchiladas. But I appreciated his prayer of honesty - thanks that there's a "chance" it'll come tomorrow. His faith was still afloat, verbalized in the word "chance." And isn't that what faith is anyway? Sure, I know the Hebrew definition - unseen...hoped for. For some folks, the word "chance" conjures up gambling or rolling the dice; they'd never use that word in conjunction with the word "faith." But why? There's a chance my check would come today, there's a chance our friend's mother will survive her cancer surgery, there's a chance I may have a steady job soon, there's a chance...And I have faith in every one of those scenarios, but I know they may not turn out as I'd prefer. I fear most of us (I'll take the spot at the head of the line) live with a "chancey faith" in real life; however, we talk and preach about faith in a t.v. version. Do I trust God's heart for me and my son and the fact that I want to bless him with a video game, not to mention groceries for the rest of us? I do.
But my check didn't come today...we took a chance, hoped for the best, prayed for it alongside chips and salsa, and it didn't happen. What'll we do now? Keep on faith-ing it, chancing it? We can talk all we want about knowing "the rest of the story" and go through life as a bunch of smiley Paul Harveys...I think we're gamblers; gambling on God and Jesus and the Bible and miracles that happened God-only-knows-how-long-ago and communion and forgiveness of sin and the kingdom and the power and the glory, amen. The fact that the word "chance" rarely dances with the word "faith" may reveal how scared we really are; we're terrified. We truly work out our salvation with FEAR and TREMBLING.
There's a chance it'll come Monday...
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